“I tried to hold her, but she slipped,” the girl’s twin told them. “Is she… is she dead?” Emily saw no movement. The fallen girl was completely still. She moved her hand, laying it on the girl’s chest and waited, hoping to see a sudden breath erupt like you sometimes see in the movies. The blood from the back of Fen’s head continued to pool, and Emily realized that even if Fen were alive, she’d need a hospital, a brain surgeon or something, anything more than what they could possibly have had in the food court.
“What should we do?” she asked, whispering. “Should we just leave her here and get help?”
“I’m not sure,” Peter answered, kneeling down and pressing his fingers against Fen’s neck. His hands were like those of a football player, big, thick, and next to Fen’s slender neck; they looked giant. “Not sure if I’m doing this right, but I think I’m feeling something.” Emily rested her hand on his, pulling it away.
“Here let me try,” she said. Her hand was shaking, but it steadied when she touched Fen’s neck. No thumb and just a soft touch, she recalled, hunting for a pulse. Fen’s skin was warm, and didn’t feel dry and papery like the others had: dead.
Peter and Jin waited for her to say something. They stayed quiet and still, leaving only the song of falling debris to tick along in a solo chorus.
A bump.
Emily’s heart leaped: encouraged.
A second bump. Faint. Nearly missed.
Unsure, Emily thought it could have been her own heartbeat. She lightly readjusted her fingers. Another bump came, and then another.
“Fen’s alive! Her pulse is really weak though, but I can feel it!” Emily brushed back Fen’s hair, clearing the girl’s eyes.
Jin shrieked, and she took off without another word, running to the stairs, her shoes clapping on the floor. In the empty mall, the sound waned but never quite disappeared. They heard her coming down the stairs, and then running toward them, her shoes clapping louder, until joining them next to her fallen sister.
“Can you help me take her to the food court?” Jin asked, huffing her words as she tried to catch her breath. “We’re light—really light.” Jin motioned to her own body, implying that they should carry her sister.
“Should we move her?” Peter asked.
“I don’t think we can just leave her here,” Emily answered but was still uncertain. She glanced at the bloody crown and noticed the blood coming from Fen’s head had slowed. If there was any time left, it wasn’t much.
“Or maybe…” he began, but abruptly stopped. Peter raced away from them. He disappeared into a linen store, returning a moment later with a blocky plastic package containing a comforter. “Help me get her on here and we’ll drag her. Should slide on this floor like ice.”
Laying out the comforter, Jin was right, her sister weighed next to nothing. Rolling Fen to one side first, they pushed the blanket beneath her tiny frame. And doing the same on her other side let them pull the blanket through, creating a stretcher for the girl. They needed to hurry.
By the time the food court was in sight, Fen had started to show gray in her face and hands. Emily pressed her fingers on the girl’s wrist, hunting for a pulse, but only felt the cold. Still not papery dead though. The change in coloring was easy to see with Fen’s sister standing next to her. Identical, but their color had become grossly distant.
“Who’s that?” Justin’s tiny voice asked from behind them. Relieved, Emily let out a slight moan, turning to find her little brother. He approached, along with two other boys. “Is she dead, too?”
“NO! She’s not dead,” Jin snapped at him. She darted doubtful eyes from Emily to Peter, before settling them on her gray sister. “She’s hurt is all.”
“Well, she looks dead,” one of the boys blurted. “She looks like the others do… the ones in the back.” Emily realized that the boys must have been in the back where she and Peter put Mr. Rainer’s body. Justin would have never gone before. Not alone, anyway. But the mall was a large place, and as Peter had shown her, there was more to it than what she’d ever seen.
“Oh my! What happened?” Ms. Parks asked, her silver hair bouncing when she moved around the blanket. Emily’s old teacher was as round and jiggly as she remembered her being. “Quick, help me take her to the back.”
Emily stepped away, handing the corner of the blanket over to Ms. Parks. Blistery pink skin and burns with coin sized welts riddled the older woman's hands. Emily cringed at the sight. A wrapping of loose white tape mended the deeper openings, but the ends hung free, wagging back and forth as Ms. Parks moved to help with Fen. The sight added little confidence. Certainly Fen would need more than some white medical tape. But she couldn’t be concerned for Fen; she needed Justin, probably more than he needed her.
“Come over here you,” Emily demanded, but pushed up a smile for her little brother to see. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“No you haven’t!” Justin answered sharply. “You’ve been carrying people. Dead people. I saw you.”
“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” was all that she could think to say. But what bothered her was how easily he’d mentioned dead people, as though this—all of this—was somehow normal. She sighed, listening to him give her attitude, but at the same time, she felt thankful just to hear her brother’s voice. That’s what her father called it: attitude. Justin was hurting. And it wasn’t just his words. She could see it in the way he was fidgeting too. “Come here.” Emily knelt down and opened her arms. Justin peered over to the other boys, curious to see their reaction, maybe even looking for their approval, but then he left them behind and raced into her arms. The tugging in her heart, the pulling to be near him grew stronger, and she hugged him back until she thought she’d squeezed all the air out of him.
“Daddy never came,” Justin sobbed. Emily thought about her father and nodded, but couldn’t say a word. I’ll cry if I do. Was there anything she could say? How do I tell him that they’re dead? Leave it alone? Would he forget them? “He promised he’d come, but he never did.” She listened, but a million other questions flooded her mind.
“I know, Justin. And I know he wanted to be here with us.”
“Em… if Daddy doesn’t come, then who’s gonna take care of us now?”
She lost her words and pulled her brother close to her. Warm tears cut into her cheeks. Whatever her father had done had been hiding in her thoughts since she’d woken up. Having Justin in her arms pulled the horror from the shadows, and now she’d become afraid—they were alone.
9
Emily hardly noticed the people gathering while Justin sobbed into her shirt. She ran a hand through his hair, trying to comfort him. A maternal instinct clicked inside, an unavoidable sense that made her nervous for him—for them—protective and guarding.
Those gathering would surely take interest in knowing the truth behind what had happened to the world. She could only hope that Justin said nothing to anyone about their father’s work. Emily stood up, holding onto her little brother’s hand.
“Come on, let’s go,” Peter said, his warm hand cradling the small of her back. With a gentle nudge, he encouraged her to follow him. “Bring Justin, too. Hey there little man.” Justin’s upturned face revealed a toothy smile beneath the shine on his wet cheeks.
“You sure?” she asked, wondering if the discussion might include anything that would be better left unheard. “On second thought… Justin, how about you and your friends get something to eat?” Her little brother’s face went rigid, caution wavered in his gaze.
“You’ll be here?” he asked. Their father had given him reason to question her—question anyone. But she understood and knelt down to talk to him face to face.
“Of course I will,” she answered him, but unlike their father, she made no promises. She wouldn’t do that. “Grown-ups just need to talk. And if I’m not right here, then I’m won’t be far. That’s what grown-ups do.”
“But… but Em, you’re not growed-up,” her brother’s voice wa
s quiet yet sincere. Peter chuckled and ruffled Justin’s hair.
“I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” Peter said, assuring Justin of their secret. “We’ll be right here little man.” Justin loosened his grip, but then stopped. He held onto Emily’s fingers, hesitant, until she reassured him that it would be okay.
Justin let go, turning to run. “Wait,” Emily said, grabbing him, she squeezed. “Now you can go.” Justin darted off to where the other boys stood, lifting his feet in sneakers that weren’t his.
An older woman hugged her two boys, encouraging them to go to the children. One of the boys objected, wrapping tendril arms around his mother’s leg. She bent over, whispered into his ear, and gently peeled his arms from around her. The boy half-nodded, uncertain and disappointed, but then ran off with his older brother.
A balding man joined the small group too. He picked gingerly at a gauze bandage on his head. Blooms of yellow and red spots oozed through the white material. More patchy gauze covered the burns on his arms, the same red and yellow leaking through. The sight of him made her skin itch.
Cautiously appearing from behind the man, she saw a little girl peer out. Round blue eyes searched up and down, but then quickly dipped, and turned away. Emily sought out the mother, but then stopped when she saw the faded photograph clutched in the girl’s hands. Emily felt a sudden twinge. A painful reminder. She knew the look—had felt that look. The girl’s father began to search too, looking around blankly—maybe out of habit—his expression sorrowful. Time stands still when the pain is bad, and watching them search for a mother that wasn’t coming, her heart could have died a thousand times in that moment.
The little girl kicked her toe at the floor and looked awkwardly at the group of children. Fair skin, ghostly white and pale beyond words, her hair was a familiar color. But her pretty red locks were badly tangled with stringy pigtails that hung lopsided and uneven. Even her shirt was out of sorts, having been put on inside out. Twirling a curl of her own red hair, Emily decided that she’d try and help the girl if she could—maybe get her some nicer clothes and certainly brush away the tangles in her hair.
The little girl’s father knelt down and tried to straighten the girl’s shirt and then moved to the pigtails. The girl winced, shooing him away, having had enough of his help. He raised his brow, unsure of what to do. And with a sheepish grin, he gave up on the pigtails and kissed his daughter.
She tucked the photograph into her pocket, missing once, but then safely put it away before saying hello to Justin. Emily saw that her brother had been watching the father and daughter too. He glanced once to Emily and then back to the girl. Her voice sounded soft and shy, as did his. And to Emily, the sight was adorable; maybe even a little hopeful.
The children were gathering in much the same way as the adults, only they weren’t going to discuss stacking the dead like wood, or talk about explosions or a poisonous cloud. Their talks would be of fantasy and adventure and fun; at least that is what she hoped it would be.
Peter tugged on her arm, leading her toward the group. The sight at the center of the mall made her gasp. In front of her was what she could only describe as a zombie fashion show. She held in her reaction, pressing her fingers to her mouth.
Emily tugged on the new shirt that Peter picked out for her. And like her, everyone wore new clothes. A procession of the most fashionably dressed—and, by the way, recently made homeless—vagrants marched by them. Emily held back a laugh when seeing the price tags swinging from the newly pressed pleats and flashy bright colors. A few shirts even held onto the blocky plastic security tags that threatened to vomit a mess of blue dye.
But while the show looked fanciful and pretty, there was also a sense of anguish. The images were powerful and the feeling unmistakable. The survivors walked with slumped shoulders and wagging arms, surrendered to their loss. What’s more, there was little if anything said. Dull eyes and blank features, speaking only when spoken to, answering with just a faint nod, or altogether ignoring one another. Emily could feel the tragedy, see it on their faces, see it in the way they dragged the remains of their spirit.
Something familiar caught her attention. Nearly hidden away in the recesses of a dark corner, Emily saw Ms. Quigly standing and watching the same macabre parade. That’s impossible! Her heart jumped. Emily shook her head. Ms. Quigly died on our front stoop, didn’t she? Emily rushed ahead of Peter, eager to see her neighbor. But what would Ms. Quigly say to her… after all, they’d refused to let her into their house. Instead, they’d listened to the old woman screaming, clawing at their door, and then choking as she melted to death.
That can’t be Ms. Quigly, Emily demanded. And as she got closer, she realized that what she saw was nothing more than a small decorative tree: a fake leafy tree used to dress up the drabber areas of the mall. The disappointment felt heavy, but there was relief too; relief from not having to face the guilt of leaving Ms. Quigly outside to die. Maybe the faces of those that had died would always be there; hidden in the shadows of her world. Emily shuddered at the thought. And then without thinking, she reached behind her to take Peter’s hand. The guilt that came with Ms. Quigly’s death shrank away—just a little—when she felt his touch.
A large man, wearing a plaid shirt—the green and black checkered fabric barely fitting around his belly—stood and looked over those that had gathered. He sized up the group, before turning to approach a bench near the front. Emily knew that this must be the Mr. Halcomb Peter had mentioned. For his age and size, the man was surprisingly nimble, leaping onto the bench in a single bound. Hanging his hands from a thick leather belt around his middle, Mr. Halcomb stood, waiting while the group settled. The mall felt warmer, muggier, and she could see beads of sweat on his forehead and a ring of grime circling the folds in his neck. In a well-rehearsed swing, Mr. Halcomb wiped the sweat before starting.
In the tight gathering, the smell of sweat was strong, and she supposed it would be something that they’d have to get used to. She figured the pharmacy shelves carrying antiperspirant would clear soon enough. Right-Guard and Lady Speed Stick for everyone. It was the other smells that concerned her more.
“That’s Mr. Halcomb, but he just wants us to call him Charlie,” Peter said. And as if he’d heard them, Mr. Halcomb looked to their direction and offered a warm smile.
“Did we all make it through that shake?” he asked, reaching every person at least once with a quick nod. “Hope so, and hopefully we won’t have another one of those.”
“Brought one girl in, Jin or Fen I think her name is,” Peter spoke up. “She’s bad off. Fell from the second floor, and hit her head.” Mr. Halcomb lowered his shoulders, disappointed.
“How bad?” he asked, and then searched the faces for Ms. Parks.
“What was that?” a voice interrupted from the back of the group. “Didn’t quite feel like an earthquake to me.”
“Wasn’t any earthquake,” another voice cracked. “That was an aftershock.”
“An aftershock… from what?”
“From an explosion!”
A reserved awe sounded from the group. Mr. Halcomb lifted his finger to say something.
“Well, what the hell around here is big enough to do that?”
Emily felt a rush of anxiety, fearful of what was coming. Nervous, a heaviness settled in her legs, planting her feet to the concrete floor.
“It was that damn machine!” Standing, a man addressed the group. A much older man, his lips shook as he spoke, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d survived at all. Tall, his skin was sallow and hung loosely from his skinny frame like sheets from a clothesline.
“Jeter, that machine is miles away,” Mr. Halcomb rebutted. Emily caught the old man’s name but didn’t recognize it.
“You don’t have to tell me that. I know it’s miles away,” Jeter snapped, his voice gravelly and his tone crass. “I live near it. Monstrous big that machine—Empire State Building big. Sits on the edge of the ocean, half-in and half
-out like a beached whale with nowhere to go—they say it ain’t done being built, but I know it’s running! I can hear it. And I’ve seen things, too.”
As if to emphasize this last point, another explosion rocked the mall: a deafening boom. Arms lifted, covering their ears. The sound pierced the air and expanded like thunder in a springtime storm. Emily instinctively ducked down and tried to take cover. Screams lifted from the crowd, and Mr. Halcomb fell from the bench, landing on his knees with one hand above his head. The explosive sound rolled over the mall, eventually becoming thin and distant as it traveled away. Peter reached for Emily’s arm, and she found herself huddling closer to him, leaning into him. Another rumble lasted a few seconds: smaller and more isolated than the first. And in her mind, she imagined one of the service stations being left unattended, gas spilling everywhere, and a random spark causing the underground tanks to throw-up a huge ball of fire like the kind that she’d seen on television.
When the last of the rumbles passed, Emily realized that she’d closed her eyes. The rustle of people and chairs moving filled her ears. Folks climbed back to their seats. Emily put back the space between her and Peter, but she heard him say not yet, and leaned closer to her. Her heart bumped, and she opened her eyes, finding his: protective and cautious. And like before, with the last explosion, another scattering of dust and debris drifted down. The crowd regrouped, and a small chatter broke out, growing into a steady mumble. Mr. Halcomb crawled up from the floor: an outstretched hand helping him find his way back to the bench. His eyes were huge, hard lines creasing his forehead as he searched up and down and all around him.
Fallen: Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 1 (Caustic) Page 7
