by Wood, Rick
She retreated to her bedroom, to her pillow, and took the knife from beneath it. She kept the door to her room open but hid behind it.
Thuds rose up the stairs and paused at the top of it. Its sniffing was even louder than its panting breath. It sniffed harder and harder, enjoying the potent smell of a fresh young lady.
Her fingers flexed around the handle of the knife.
She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds, imagining its corresponding movements.
It shambled forward in sudden bursts of heavy steps. It paused outside Boy’s room and she had to remind herself she’d taken the handle off and he’d blocked the door; as long as the Waster didn’t know Boy was in there, he was fine.
It moved on and came closer.
She could smell its body odour, the stench of which was in such stark contrast to the fresh lavender sheets she had been sleeping in only minutes ago.
It stepped into her room and she watched its silhouette from the crack between the door and the wall.
She lifted the knife, waiting for the opportune moment.
It sniffed—one large intake of ecstasy. It held its breath, enjoying the sumptuous scent, and stepped forward.
Cia launched herself across, lunging the knife toward it.
She scraped the side of its neck, causing it to stumble but little else.
Knowing its strength outdid hers, its power, its killer instincts, all being superior, she did not let up—she pushed the knife forward once more, stabbing its throat, which seemed to make it stumble.
But it’s never easy to cut someone’s throat. It isn’t like the movies her dad never let her watch where you give one strike and blood bursts everywhere; especially with the small muscles of her bony arms. It takes more attempts, and more strength.
So she struck more.
Again and again and again until she no longer blinked at the blood splatters flashing against her face.
Until the Waster was an empty body with multiple wounds to its throat.
She didn’t wait to see if sprung back up or check to see if it had a pulse. She ran from the room to the hallway, checking the door to Boy’s room was still immovable.
Her next thoughts were to Graham.
The kind old man willing to help Boy.
The man she could relate to.
She burst down the stairs, and into the street, entering the chaos outside.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cia recalled the flash of a memory. Years ago, when the creatures rose, and the streets were full of screaming. When no one knew what to do and everyone was running and screaming and helpless. A painting of chaos.
They were so unprepared for this.
Everyone was screaming—which would only attract the Wasters more. In fact, from her experience of Wasters, they would find this all the more arousing.
No one fought them.
No one even tried.
Well, they’d asked her to be a warrior.
And this was what they’d asked her to be a warrior for; because she was the only one here who knew how to survive.
She ignored the frenzied scene, neglected the anarchy, and made her way to Graham’s house. Something had already battered the door down.
As she entered, she heard a gunshot.
She sprinted up the stairs and skidded into a room where Graham quickly turned the barrel of his gun toward her.
“It’s me!” she shouted.
Graham abruptly stopped and lowered the gun to his side. Across the room was a dead Waster with half its face missing.
“Are you all right?” Graham asked.
“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m fine.”
“Boy?”
“He’s safe. He’s locked in a wardrobe; they can’t get to him.”
“Good. Let’s hide.”
Graham began limping down the corridor.
Why was he limping?
She noticed blood trailing from his leg.
Cia didn’t follow.
“Are you coming?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t be a fool,” Graham said.
“They brought me here to be a warrior.”
“There are no warriors. They will kill you.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
Graham smiled gracefully. “Not at all. Because they are Wasters.”
She looked at his leg, of which he was putting less and less pressure on.
“Get a bandage around that,” she said. “But first, tell me how to use your gun.”
“Cia, I don’t think–”
“You’ve been out there, and you’ve been in here. You know how defenceless these people are. They will kill everyone then they search for the hidden survivors including–”
She stopped herself from saying Boy. She couldn’t admit to him being in potential danger again.
“I’ll come with you,” Graham decided.
“Look at your leg. You’ll slow me down. Just give me the gun and show me how to load it.”
It was a simple hunting weapon, one that took four bullets at a time. He told her the gun’s name, but she didn’t both to remember it. It wasn’t information that mattered. She’d always relied on knives and hands, as guns could run out of ammunition where knives couldn’t; now, however, was a good time for a crash course.
He handed it to her and shut himself in the bathroom. It was heavier than she expected, but she lifted it and carried it all the same.
She tried to shoot at a Waster as soon as she left the house, but the bullet went into the sky as the kickback hurt her shoulder.
The sound distracted the Waster, and it came hurtling toward her.
She tried to shoot it again, but the same thing happened. She discarded the gun into Graham’s house, shut the door, and readied her knife.
She ducked its attempt to grab her and swung the knife upwards, slicing it beneath the chin. She swung again, forcing the knife further in. It took a lot of strength to pull it back out again, but when she did, the Waster seemed to fall into a pool of its own blood.
Another Waster chased a woman who held her toddler across her chest.
Cia gave chase but couldn’t keep up.
“Hey!” she shouted, and caught its attention, allowing the woman to escape.
But she also caught the attention of another Waster behind her, and another to her side.
“Shit,” she muttered.
She did not know how to get out of this one.
But, as soon as the worries came, a stream of bullets bombarded the Waster’s heads and bodies and they each fell down dead.
Behind her was Ryker, along with a few of the guys who went hunting earlier, and a few others she hadn’t met, all with their guns.
“Come on,” Ryker said, and she followed, feeling useless now they were all here with their semi-automatics.
She ended up trailing behind and checking on the victims. It didn’t take long before their guns had disposed of the rest of the Wasters.
Cia waited for the chaos the gunshots would attract, for the stampeding Thoral or screeching Maskete or hissing Lisker to burst into the community.
Just an eerie silence responded.
“Everyone spread out and check there’s none left.”
They all went off on their own, taking their allocated areas of the town and checking every home, every building, every street, ensuring there were no more Wasters lurking anywhere.
By the time they reconvened, Cia was burning with questions.
“I need answers,” she told Ryker.
“Right now we need to–”
“You do whatever you need to do. You obviously will not tell me. I’m going to see Arnold.”
He went to stop her, but the wail of a man on the floor caught his attention. The doctors and nurses came onto the scene, seeking reassurance that it was safe for them to attend to the victims.
Cia left them behind and marched to Arnold’s lavish office. The place where Arnold was safe and secu
re, one of the few buildings with no decorations of violence, hidden away from any pain—as a true politician would be.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cia kicked the door, expecting it to burst open.
It did not.
So she battered and hammered and pushed and shoved and shouted—but the door would not buckle.
Ryker appeared behind her.
“He’s not going to let you in while you try to barge it down,” Ryker said. “He’ll think you’re a Waster.”
She ignored him.
She pulled on the handle and kicked and shoved at it, shouting obscenely about how Arnold better open up.
Ryker stepped forward.
“Allow me,” he said, and tapped lightly on the door.
A few footsteps came from behind it, and it cautiously opened.
“Ryker?” said Arnold.
“Cia has some questions she wants to–”
Cia knocked the door open, ignoring the pain it caused her shoulder. She entered the office and stood in the centre, looking around at the lavish architecture, the pristine surfaces, the expensive booze.
“So this is where you are?” Cia asked.
Arnold glanced at Ryker and they exchanged a look, as if something unsaid passed between them, and the secrecy only infuriated Cia more. Then Arnold turned to her and smiled warmly, which infuriated her once again.
“Please, sit,” he said, indicating the leather sofa behind her.
“I’d rather stand,” she said.
“As you wish.”
Arnold walked over to his desk, brushed a few invisible specs off the edge, and leant against it. Ryker walked in, past Cia, and to the window where he looked out, then leant against the windowsill.
Cia looked between them. Both of them looked to her expectantly, as if she was the one who needed to give answers.
“Your people are dying,” Cia said. “Being slaughtered by Wasters. And you’re up here with a locked door and a whiskey to accompany the entertainment.”
“I assure you I am most regretful that–”
“Fuck off,” Cia snapped. “Don’t talk to me like a politician. All politicians are dead. I saw them die.”
“You saw what?” Ryker interrupted, and Cia realised she had said too much. She had forgotten that she had things to hide too.
“I imagine,” Arnold said, ignoring the outburst, “that you assume I should be down there, dying with them, yes?”
“Fighting with them,” Cia corrected.
“And I cannot fight, so I would die. That’s what you want?”
“You seem to rationalise a lot of things with this theory that because other people suffer it doesn’t mean you should. It’s nice; it means you can forget about everyone else.”
“I do not forget about everyone else,” Arnold said, a touch of anger flinching his smile. “I bought this town to save as many as I could, and I damn well did that. I did my part, young lady.”
“Young lady?”
Cia felt her fingernails digging into her palm.
Young lady?
It caused her the biggest rush of aggression yet. To insinuate that because she was young, and because she was a lady, it allowed him to condescend to her…
He had no idea who she was and what she was capable of.
“If you have questions,” Ryker stepped in. “Then why don’t you just ask them?”
“Fine. Why did no one kill the Maskete earlier?”
“Because Arnold told us not to,” Ryker interjected, despite Cia looking at Arnold and vehemently addressing her questions to him.
“Okay. Why did the Maskete not kill us?”
“Because it didn’t want to.”
“Then why did the Wasters attack?”
Ryker shrugged. “Jealousy.”
“Jealousy?”
“Exactly.”
“Jealous of what?”
“Us.”
“Why?”
“Because they don’t like that the creatures let us–”
“Enough!” Arnold interrupted. “Go to bed. We have a clean-up crew who will sort out the street and the bodies. When you wake up, this will all be done.”
“And forgotten about? Like everyone else who died?”
“Grow up,” Arnold said, his patience beginning to subside, Cia just starting to see the man behind the words.
“What are they jealous of?” Cia asked defiantly.
No one said anything.
“Tell me what they are jealous of.”
“Us,” Arnold said resolutely. “Because the creatures let us live.”
“Why do they let you live? They are mindless animals with no conscious knowledge of who they should or shouldn’t kill.”
“You think you know them better than us?” Arnold surmised. “Well, you have just demonstrated with your lack of knowledge about these creatures how little you actually know. You know of their killing, you know of being chased, of having to hide—you do not know of the other side to the creatures. The side that does have conscious knowledge. The side where they are not mindless animals.”
“Are you saying they are intelligent beings?”
“It would be foolish not to think that.”
“And so why do they decide not to attack us? And why don’t the Wasters like that?”
Arnold stood. Sighed. Moved to the chair behind his desk and sat. Removed a cigar from his draw and smelt it.
“Ryker,” he said, not looking up at Cia. “Please escort Cia back to her house. I will not be answering any more questions tonight.”
Ryker walked up to Cia.
“You put a fucking hand on me and I’ll rip it off,” she snapped.
“You have a lot of gumption,” Arnold concluded. “But if you do not acquiesce to Ryker’s request for you to remove yourself from my chambers, then we have more people who will remove you and your child from the town completely. Which I do not want to do. I like you, Cia. But it is time to go, so do so.”
With a final glare, she reminded herself she needed to think of Boy, and she allowed Ryker to escort her out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
By the time Cia had returned, Boy was asleep. She’d used a crowbar Ryker had graciously agreed to acquire for her to lever open his bedroom door, then retrieved him from the wardrobe. She had momentarily awoken him to guide him to bed, where she had left him.
She would speak to someone the next day about getting a new door put in.
For now, she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing she would sleep.
They had a clean-up crew, as Arnold had said. When she woke up the bodies would be gone, and the blood would be cleaned. People would go about their normal business like nothing happened.
It was no better than the sanctity.
Except these people hadn’t excluded her like the sanctity had. They had taken her in. Given her and Boy a home.
Should she respect that?
Eventually, her eyes closed, and she left this world for another where her problems were far away in the distance.
Then she heard it.
A groan of the floorboard outside in the hallway.
A creak of her bedroom door opening.
That same sniff of the Waster, trying to find her. She hid herself beneath the covers, not wanting to fight anymore, wanting to bury herself away like Boy did and pretend that it wasn’t happening.
If she shut it out, drowned out the sniffing and the creeping, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t really there.
But she could smell it getting closer.
Creeping forward.
Until she could make out its vile figure through the duvet, a silhouette standing over her, reaching out its hand, its long, sharp, yellow fingernails ready to scrape across her neck.
It would feed on her.
It would tear her apart.
It would fuck her entrails.
Because that’s what it was. A disgusting, foul beast, incapable of human emotion, because it had sacr
ificed what it once was to be a slave.
It was once a man. With a wife, kids, maybe even a dog.
A job.
Parents.
Friends.
Now was a mindless cannibalistic beast.
It peeled back her duvet. A gunk of saliva dropped onto her forehead and bled down her cheek.
She couldn’t hide.
She had to fight.
She shoved the duvet down, swiped the knife from beneath her pillow and held it out to its neck.
Her eyes opened, and she awoke.
She was perspiring so hard beads of sweat dripped into her eye and stung until she blinked it out.
She was holding her knife.
Panting.
But no one was there.
Sunshine came through the window. It was morning.
Outside she could already hear the regular hustle and bustle of civilians carrying out their jobs.
She was alone.
There was no Waster.
There never was.
NOW
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I did it again, she says.
History has repeated itself, she gasps.
How could I have let myself… she muses.
But no one hears her.
Because she says nothing. With no one around to hear them, the words do not exist.
At this precise moment, nothing exists but her.
She looks up to Arnold’s window, to the chambers, expecting him to be looking down at her.
But no one looks down at her.
All the people are below her, but none of them look up at her either.
Saying that, most of the eyes that remain are open. Their deaths were so quick or painful or graphic they didn’t even have a chance to close them. They were forced to watch as the creature removed every part of them.
She wonders whether they understood what was happening, whether they felt the pain or if their minds and bodies were just numb by then.
Then she realises it didn’t matter.
She is alone and never has she felt it more.
Not when she killed her dad.
Not when she killed Dalton.
And now, when there is no one by her side.
Not even Boy.
She has no one to protect, and no one to save her.
