by Logan Keys
“That looked painful.”
I nod, then fall over to the side. The transition always exhausts me.
“How’s our girl?” she asks when I can manage to get up.
Daisy sits on my bed, one foot tucked beneath, the other swinging. Whenever she visits, she asks the same question.
I check my neighbor’s cell, “Smiling today,” then press my face against the enclosure that’s been my home—my prison—for over a year now.
Daisy’s wispy in the reflection from behind, almost see-through. Her auburn hair is stringy, and her green eyes are red-rimmed like she’d turned, though probably because I imagine that’s what happened when she disappeared.
“Is she pretty, do you think?” she asks. “And I’m not a ghost,” Daisy says reading my thoughts. “I’m the result of your psyche folding in on itself. Big difference. Huge.”
I cringe at the estimation. Being crazy is like being dead. Do you even know it?
“She’s strong,” I say, still looking at my neighbor in her bed. “That’s good. A girl should be strong before pretty, anyway, don’t you think? Especially now.” I frown, wondering if it’s rude to tell a girl, even a pretend one, that another is pretty. “I can say that right, Dai? You won’t get jealous.”
“Not any more than you’re expecting.”
“Right.”
“But she is pretty.”
“I agree,” I say, and Daisy asks, “How are you, Tommy?”
“Old.”
She laughs.
“I feel old, anyway. My bones ache.”
“Growing pains.”
Now, I’m the one who’s laughing.
“Well you are eighteen,” she says. “That’s practically ancient.”
“I am eighteen and so are you … or would be if …”
“No need to be shy with me, Thomas Ripley Hatter. Our guilt is shared.” She rises in a weird, floating way, then presses her face next to mine at the window. My nose leaves smudges. Hers does, too. For now. But later I’ll look and they will be gone. “If I was alive, you mean,” Daisy says. “Eighteen and legal. An adult finally.”
I sigh and use the glass to cool my head. “And we’d be married.” With my eyes closed, I venture places I never go. “I loved you. You know that, right?”
When I open my eyes again, Daisy’s vanished. On the glass where the smudge had been, are instead, fading words she’s left behind: Happy Birthday.
Chapter Two
Tommy
The alarm begins to sound; third time the blaring’s screamed this week. Camp Bodega seems to have a plethora of stiffs this month.
I turn to find a man standing on the other side of the glass. I look over at Marilyn. Not her real name, but the sleeping beauty is like an old pal, and after so much time alone, I’d had to name her.
With a stranger at the bubble, I feel protective.
She’s still peacefully asleep on her back, not a muscle moved. Same as always.
“Don’t get up, Princess. I’ll get the door.”
I approach the side where the man waits, facing away from me. He’s just standing there. Bald head, grey smock, a prisoner, like us. I envy him his freedom. Weirdly, I want to demand he trade places with me. Demand isn’t the word. Enforce.
Why’s he here?
When he turns, I find out.
His face is bloody, dripping onto his smock.
A stiff. On the loose.
I’ve not seen any since the fight on the California beach. A battle I’d lost.
I’m not particularly brave up against the undead, but this room is a fortress. Still, they’re scary no matter how many times you’ve seen ’em. Besides the eating part, it’s kind of their strength: being the terrifying creatures where our future’s sunk within.
His milky eyes track me side to side when I take to pacing. It’s unnerving.
He watches me like I’m a hot dog spinning on those things they used to have in gas stations.
Bloody hands smack the glass and I jump back. Feeling like a little girl, I flip him off. The action’s a bit more macho after the squeal that may or may not have passed through my lips.
He smears red all over the window, then gnaws at it, teeth clacking. With a hand to his nose, a hissing begins as he smells his last victim.
I’m rooted to this spot in fascination.
With one finger, he points into the red, and slowly he moves it down then off to the side.
And again.
For a moment, he seems to lose interest in his finger painting, like a child checking to see if mother’s realized a bucket of paint’s missing from the cabinet. With stops and starts, he draws another line next to the first.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think a zombie just wrote an “H” on my window.
My brain wars with itself. How’s this possible?
Tommy, you fool. Chill. It’s not.
Just a zombie being a zombie, doing little zombie things. Like spelling an “E” … now. When the thing starts in on the next line, I know, without a doubt, this is happening—it’s trying to communicate. Adrenaline shifts my focus into hyper.
With deep breaths, I fight claustrophobia.
Small space, big guy. Small space, big guy. The stiff spins around, growling into the empty hallway like a dog, hackles raised, just before the guards rush in.
They take him out quickly, but more undead come in from behind. The doors remain wide open, shining light I’ve not seen in a lifetime. Natural beams blind me after so long in their absence.
When I can see again, zombies have flooded the area, overpowering the guards.
An outbreak.
They don’t seem to like the taste of the Authority’s watchdogs; they leave the guards’ bodies mangled, quitting them after they’re dead, instead of eating them. Unusual. After a few moments, one of the helmets rises, and he stands, his insides hanging out.
“Hey, man. Hey!” I point at the door. “Open my door!” As if he can understand me as one of the other things.
But the last one had spelled out half-a-word on my window, so … worth a try.
He ignores me, walking on, dragging his guts. He trips on his entrails, foot squishing them, making me gag.
“Great.”
Time passes, and the alarms stay on.
“That’s new,” I say, wishing Daisy would join me.
This is the liveliest time we’ve had here on our little vacation. She’d bring levity to the situation—make a joke about fast food, or say something about how a zombie that can spell is a zombie you should train as a pet.
For being part of my own brain, though, she sure is elusive.
A sucking noise radiates through the thick glass, followed by a pop before the power dies. “That’s new, too.”
After a few moments of blackness, I move over to Marilyn’s side, worried that her machines have quit. Even though they look dead, her chest is rising all by itself. “Okay. A day full of new.”
With an ounce of hope, I tap on the divider.
Then the thunk I’d heard earlier becomes clear. Power controls the locks.
My door. The air seal had popped.
I’m free.
Chapter Three
Tommy
It only takes seconds to digest this new information before I jump, head-first, like a diver when the starting gun’s gone off.
I prove myself right when the door swings open and I fly through. It’s almost unreal, and I’m scared it’s a dream, but my feet don’t hesitate like my brain does. I flee down the corridor, hopping bodies, slipping in blood, frantic to make it out.
I land on a knee in a wet spot. The dark matter soaks through, making me cringe, but I’m up and running again.
The guard from before is up ahead on the ground, dragging himself by an arm.
I hit his buckets of blood, its sheen unnatural, glowing almost, and I slosh through, falling, knees wet again. My momentum continues like a slip and slide, pushing me onward.
/> Another guard’s body stops me—his head’s missing—but it’s easy to shove away on the dry floor and get back onto my feet.
There’s an exit, and no bleeders here to stop me—yet. So, I ram through. The open air fills my lungs, and the sun’s glare strikes me blind, disorients me, forces me to cover my face, even as the euphoria of a fresh breeze makes me laugh.
I fall backwards. The world—it’s too big again. I’m high with the exhilaration of so much space.
Despite my blurry vision, I remember where I am, and right myself, jumping into a strange lope toward what looks to be a tree line. Even impaired and eyes not quite adjusted, I press onward, afraid this may be the last chance I’ll have to get away.
I run.
I can see better in the shade, but it’s not a pleasant sight. Zombies have cut across the grass surrounding the compound. Hundreds of them, all rushing in my direction, and I’m not fast enough. These have fed, and are Olympians compared to me. I’ve gotten way too bulky for running, so I decide to hide behind some crates stacked nearby where I can squeeze in between and climb to the top.
Across from my perch is the green sea. I’ve been on an island this entire time. I was told it was an island, I believed it was an island, but actually seeing it for the first time since I’d been drugged and brought here is quite different. Feeling the ocean air from all sides is a whole other story.
I bite back dark emotions at being both free and trapped at the same time.
This island’s just another bubble.
The sound of waves in the distance draws me like a bee to honey. Stiffs can’t swim, I don’t think. Sure, I’ve seen them doggie paddle, but they usually gulp in seawater until they drown.
Once the worst of the horde has passed, I’m back on the ground, moving from tree to tree toward the sound of the surf. The sudsy rush brings back memories from the mainland and the last shore I was on—and Joelle.
Though it feels like forever, I finally step onto the softer sand. Large metal posts line the edge of the island—a sort of force field for the prisoners—but when I wave a hand through, nothing happens.
A trek along the water’s edge reveals empty space and more ocean … wait … out in the distance: a boat.
It’s too far to swim. Think, Tommy, think.
Some of the zombies have spotted me, so I sprint along the shore, pretending to have more of a plan than running for my life. Those fastest, close the distance.
Miles seemingly pass, when something shiny in the water catches my eye. A kayak, anchored right offshore. Someone’s traveled from the ship to the island, then left it to come onto the beach.
Wading into the water, I don’t forget about the sharks and how they swarm, but they’re not what stop me at the waist in the waves. The kayak beckons me to commandeer it out of this hell hole, but…
“Tommy!”
I close my eyes and wade farther.
“Thomas Ripley Hatter!” Daisy yells. “You get back here right now!”
I ignore her and swim toward my ride home.
“I hope a giant shark eats you!” she calls, already sounding more distant.
The kayak’s close. A couple of shapes churn the water beyond it, but I keep on anyway.
At the side, I haul myself into the small boat, which has paddles and an open case revealing a gun with ammo.
Daisy’s still standing on shore, watching me, arms crossed, while the undead run around her, as if avoiding her.
I’m pulling up the anchor when it strikes, an ugly, dark feeling. Not the monster. Guilt.
With a sigh, I let the slimy chain slide through my fingers, and I stand with a groan, close the case, and throw it over the side, before I swan dive back into the water.
Damned chivalry.
Chapter Four
Tommy
Two people are inside Sleeping Beauty’s bubble when I get back in one piece—barely. Took some very careful maneuvering up the tree line once again, working my way inside had been the hardest. Once there, I found I wasn’t alone in my aim to get to Marilyn. She’s damned popular.
I flatten against the wall to listen to her guests. A young woman asks the man with her, “Phillip, can you figure out these tubes?”
“Yes,” Phillip replies. “Here, move.”
She checks outside the door, large weapon in hand, but doesn’t see me. I remember her. Rubber Man had called her Crystal, and she’d spoken fondly of Marilyn.
“How are we going to get her to the boat, Crystal?” Phillip asks.
“You’re a good swimmer.”
They’re taking her?
I’m undecided if I should introduce myself and hope for the best, but no, these aren’t Underground. That much is clear. And if they aren’t Underground, they aren’t on my side—period.
I can’t risk imprisonment again. I won’t make it another month inside this fish bowl.
The one named Phillip wears a mask with a skull across it. Crystal is bare-faced, dressed in camouflage, her dark eyes sharp, demeanor militant. Everything about her screams “leader”.
I prop open the door at the end of the hall and let in some stiffs.
They funnel through, the fast ones running directly for the pair, and the fight begins. Like I guessed, they don’t use their guns inside the glass. Probably afraid of ricochet.
Slipping between a few zombies, I’m in the room with the growing numbers, elbowing past the two people.
“Hey!”
“Stop him!”
But the stiffs grab them, forcing the two to defend themselves. Some are getting me, too, and I barely avoid a bite to my shoulder before I get to Marilyn’s bedside.
She’s free from the machines; they’d unplugged her. I tuck my arms under her small body and gather her to me. Luckily for us, with blistering tactical maneuvers, the two have taken out most of the nearest zombies.
I turn to find Crystal there, gun barrel aimed at my head.
The weapon I’d stolen from the kayak is in my hand under Marilyn, and I hoist my light burden to show I have it pointed at Phillip.
Crystal moves to stand between him and me. Interesting.
“Don’t make me do this,” I say.
When my chest swells and I grow inches, Crystal’s eyes widen.
Before I can change, the hallway door closes, and the last bit of dim light dissipates. We’re doused in complete darkness, in a room clustered with zombies.
Crystal shouts, and she and Phillip begin to scramble, bouncing off the bubble’s edges.
Me, I know these enclosures with my eyes closed. I count the steps—seven and a half—then again to the door. Phillip cuts me off, eerie eyes shining in the dark. A handy trick, that.
The zombies are disoriented enough to topple over one another, and I use them to trip up Phillip.
Bones break as Crystal kills a few, then moves closer. They make good time—great, even. Are they Specials? I don’t have time to think about it. I’m free of the swarm, having muscled through and out the door. Already I’m running down the hall through the slip-and-slide of blood.
By memory, I turn alongside the building. A horde shuffles directly outside, but with a space this narrow, too many can’t get in, giving me time to get ahead. I’m bigger, so I barrel over the few in my way who’ve gotten stuck, and squeeze between trees and the wall.
Other than a head bob, Marilyn’s the same; the sun’s on her face, and for once, I’m not seeing her in profile. But I’m too busy to spare more than a glance.
I waste no time finding my spot on the shore, and I hop through the waves, dragging Marilyn along like a drowned victim, which she soon may very well be.
The zombies stop at the shoreline like they’re bound by invisible leashes.
Maneuvering in a straight line with the larger waves when we’re farther out takes every bit of my strength, but we make it to the kayak.
I roughly haul Marilyn inside, then lay her down more gently before I pull up the anchor. I pause for two bea
ts to stare down at her dripping face.
It’s not at all what I’d expected.
The light out here from our sky’s orange fire contrasts with the girl’s skin, as pale as the moon’s face. Pretty, but in an almost-too-fragile way, and seeing her up close changes her to me. Her bones press against thin skin, revealing blue veins that run down her throat, and a smooth, high brow sits at a sardonic height, like she’s silently judging the world, even from her coma.
“How in the hell have you lived this long, Princess?”
I shake my head with a sigh while paddling toward the ship, a grey mass of steel that looks a lot like freedom. We’re moving with the current, now. Luck’s finally found me.
Chapter Five
Dallas
“Dallas,” he mumbles. “It’s your watch”
I hop down from my porch. “Yes, sir.”
“Cut the crap. ‘Sir’ is for old people.”
I shrug Jansen off and follow the dirt path to the gate. He watches me go, then turns, spits, and shambles onward to wherever decrepit men lie down to sleep or die.
I’m on guard duty, though usually my shift isn’t for another two hours. Jansen didn’t say it, but someone’s not here on time, and no one’s ever late because of the old excuses. New reasons are the only ones good enough to risk Lotte’s grim irritation.
Reasons like “dead.”
That the old codger had come calling for me this early was warning enough. No need to run around screaming about emergencies in our town. We see them daily. We’re up to our ears in emergencies. People die. People are born. People die being born. Thus, is the life of a settler.
What had begun as a refugee camp of nearly a thousand—a group ready to fight the Authority, rather than be taken—has since become an actual town sitting squarely between two thick rivers bordering California and Arizona.
Lotte Jackson founded Ironwood—and that’s Missus Jackson to anyone who’s not her senior, which is most everyone ‘cept Jansen. Respect Missus Jackson, or get out your walking boots.
