“Hey, do you still have that chocolate bar from the car?”
She pulls away from me and takes it out of her pocket with a wide grin. “I forgot all about it.”
It’s like heaven in a purple wrapper. How either of us could have forgotten about it, I don’t know. Especially after we were forced to eat cold baked beans and prunes earlier. I shudder at the thought.
We tear the chocolate bar open and divide it in two and I examine it. It doesn’t look so good up close, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to eat it anyway. I’m about to take a bite, and by ‘bite’ I mean ‘shove the whole creamy chocolate half into my mouth at once,’ when Emily speaks up again.
“What about you?”
I pause. I knew this question was coming. It’s one I’ve avoided up until now. One I haven’t been able to speak about, and one I don’t ever intend on discussing with anyone.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Emily.” I nibble the edges of the chocolate. Strangely, it doesn’t taste as good as I thought it would. The vodka was way better, and I reach for that instead.
“Please, Nina.”
I gulp down too much and stifle a cough. My head is beginning to feel heavy from the drink. I used to be such a great drinker; now I feel like such a girl. Not even a quarter of a bottle gone and I’m getting woozy.
“Nina.” She places a hand on my leg and looks at me. “It helps…to talk about it, to get it off your chest.” Her bright blue eyes stare up at me with a profound innocence. She’s lived through this horror too, but for some reason I feel that my horror is worse. Shit, don’t we all. However, she is still the girl she was; I, on the other hand, am not. I’m harder, colder, and much less trusting.
I shake my head and close my eyes. “It won’t help, Emily.”
“Why not?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“It just won’t. Nothing helps.” My eyes are beginning to fill up. Jesus, what is it with this girl and making me cry? Nothing for an entire year and then boom: twice in one day. She makes me feel almost human again. Almost.
I open my eyes and look at her. I feel a tear sliding down my cheek. I don’t want to cry, I don’t want to think about it.
“Nothing will ever help.”
She frowns at me, her chocolate discarded like mine. Taking the bottle from my hands, she takes another drink. There’s no cough this time, as if she’s sensing that what I’m going to tell her is bad news, like she’s hardening up to the fact that I’m not the goody-goody she thought I was.
I shake my head again. “I can’t talk about it, Emily. I just can’t think about…about.” I snatch the bottle back from her and stand up. “I’m done with the chitchat,” I snap.
I storm into the kitchen, but I’m not sure why. There’s nothing here—we checked earlier—but I need the space. Space from her, space from the memories.
“You can’t just keep bottling it all up you know, Nina. One day the bottle will overflow.”
She’s followed me to the kitchen and I turn to look at her. Her small frame seems so huge, filling the doorway and stopping me from escaping for a second time.
“Well aren’t you the profound one all of a sudden?”
“What happened?” she asks again.
“Fuck you! And quit looking at me with those big, sad eyes! It’s like you’re doing a Bambi impression.”
I take another long drink, the alcohol really flooding my system now. This is a stupid rookie mistake, getting drunk. I slam the bottle on the counter, making us both jump.
She looks hurt but doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stare at me, one eyebrow rising in an unspoken question.
Push, push, push. That’s all she keeps on doing. That’s all she’s going to keep on doing. I huff out a heavy breath.
“I killed him,” I whisper.
“Who?”
“Ben.” I look at the floor, the shame flooding my face as his image appears in my mind’s eye. His tortured face begging me to…
“Who’s Ben?”
“He was my husband, and I killed him.”
Seven.
I look up at her, my features hardening once more when I see the sadness on her face. I don’t want her pity.
“We should try and sleep, get some rest for tomorrow.” I screw the cap back on the bottle.
“Nina—”
“Don’t. Just don’t, Emily. I don’t want to talk about it, so just drop it. You have no idea what I have been through. That was just the start of the horror for me.” I try to push past her, but she stands frozen to the spot like a statue. “I’ll take first shift. Sleep upstairs. The bed’s comfy, just don’t disturb Dead Guy; he’s quiet for a change,” I bite out. I hope she drops it. Emotionally, I don’t think I can go through this right now—or ever. This is always the worst part of getting to know someone since the apocalypse: sharing each other’s sordid pasts, each other’s journeys through hell. Like any of it matters or makes a freaking difference. It never does, no matter how many times you tell people what happened. It never helps. The guilt, the pain, the horror, it always sticks around like flies on shit.
She finally relents and lets me past with a roll of her eyes. I wonder if it’s the cheap thrill of sleeping in a comfortable bed, or if she’s just not sure what’s left to say to me. Either way I’m done for the night. I have nothing left to say to her about Ben, about my past. Story hour is finished.
Morning breaks, the light slipping in through the aging curtains, and I rouse myself from my dream and sit up with a yawn. Emily’s still upstairs, sleeping I presume. I need the toilet so badly, and dash to the bathroom. I never thought I would take such great satisfaction from sitting on a toilet, but there it is. I don’t flush. There won’t be any water in the tank and even if there was I wouldn’t want to attract any attention. It’s kind of gross, but back behind the walls we mainly used buckets, so this is an improvement upon that. I can feel my ladylike-ness slipping through my fingers with every passing day. While here, I may as well root through the bathroom cabinets and see if there’s anything useful. I don’t think either of us checked yesterday.
I pull open the door under the sink and move things around. There are lots of shampoos and body washes. Man, what I would do to be able to take a long, hot shower and wash my hair and body. I stink. Everyone stinks these days, yet this doesn’t make me feel any better. Neither does the fact that I know I’m becoming accustomed to it. I don’t want Eau de Stink to become my natural smell. There are some spare toothbrushes, at which I nearly jump for joy. Tearing open the package, I grab the toothpaste and squeeze out a little of the dried-up substance from within, spit on it to soften it, and scrub my teeth until my gums bleed. Even then I don’t think that they are clean enough. These are definitely coming with me. I slip them into one of my many pockets and continue with my search. I find cotton swabs and clean my ears, and then some god’s-honest ‘dry shampoo’—the kind that you massage into your scalp, but instead of it shaping your hair into place, it does some magical voodoo shit and makes it look, smell, and feel cleaner. It’s not the same as using real shampoo and water, but damn this is a luxury. I’m close to tears at the thought of having clean hair again. Pathetic. I’m so not Lara Croft.
I pull my out hair band and squeeze out some of the shampoo, rubbing it into my scalp and through to the tips, pulling my fingers through the knots until clumps of dry, dirty, knotty hair come out in my fingers, but still I don’t relent. Who knows when I’m going to get the chance to do this again? There’s virtually nothing left in the tube, but there’s enough to get a start on my roots.
My fingers are sore and red, as is my scalp, by the time I finish. Looking in the mirror above the sink, though, I know that it was worth it. I use makeup remover to wash my face and even under my arms. Who gives a shit if it’s not soap? It’s just as good. I look almost human again. Clean teeth, relatively clean hair, and a perfume smell to my skin. Who would have thought this is what I would have missed the most? Being clean
.
After primping myself for what seems like forever and filling the pockets in my pants with the extra painkillers, cough medicine, and my toothpaste and toothbrushes, I make my way back downstairs and continue my hunt for useful shit.
Rummaging through the boxes again, I find some more food—dried pasta, dried beans, canned tuna fish. I want some more of the prunes we had last night; I think I have a new favorite, but there’s no more to be found. I grab a couple of dried cereal bars from the bottom of the box, examining the Best Before dates on them and then sniggering to myself and unwrapping them one after another. I bite into them with more enthusiasm than I showed the prunes the previous night. I’m not sure my stomach can take much more of the delights that this house has to offer.
“Is there any more of those?”
I look up to Emily. She looks well rested, and I’m glad. It’s probably the best night’s sleep she’s had since this all began. I wish I could say the same, but the dreams always ruin my slumber.
We fill up on cereal bars and load everything into the backpacks. I’m pretty impressed by what we have: food, medicines (sort of), survival gear (sort of). If we can find a car, we might actually stand a chance of surviving. For what reason though? I can’t help but wonder. The world isn’t ever going to be the same again, so what’s the point of all this? Three years, and not much has changed. I frown and look through a small gap in the back curtains, which are still drawn shut. Survival instincts are a real bitch.
“So what’s the plan?”
Jesus, I wish she would stop asking me that question, or at least find a new approach in asking it. She’s like a broken record stuck on repeat. And why does she think I have all the answers? I can feel my temper bubbling below the surface.
“Old Man Riely used to have a real big Hummer parked in the garage. Never drove it anywhere, but he’d be damned if he didn’t clean that beast every Sunday morning up on his driveway.” Emily peeks out into the back yard with me nonchalantly.
“Really?” I turn to look at her, our proximity close enough for her to smell my fresh breath.
“Did you brush your teeth?” She looks around my face and hair with a frown. “Did you take a shower?” Her eyes skim my clean hair and face, a furrow pinching deeper between her eyebrows.
Guilt floods me: she looks positively green with jealousy. I decide to ignore the interrogation. “Does he really have a big-assed car in his garage?”
She tugs her hair behind her ears. “Yeah. Well he used to anyway.” Her perky smile is back in place. How do teenagers do that? Just bounce back every time.
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night? If it’s still here, then…” I stand up with a huff, and go into the kitchen.
“I dunno. I didn’t think that it was important last night, I guess.”
I rummage through the drawers; I know I saw some keys round here somewhere. I didn’t pay attention to them last night, but maybe they’re for the Hummer. I slam through a couple of the drawers, shoving things around, and nearly slice my finger off on a pizza cutter. I pause on the item, deep in thought as to whether it could be useful as a weapon, but decide against it. What am I going to do, slice up a portion of zombie face? Urghh.
I move to the next drawer, and my hand finally lands on the keys I had seen, but they aren’t the right ones. These aren’t even for a car, for God’s sake. I slam the drawer shut in anger and lean back against the kitchen counter.
“He might have kept the keys in the garage. My dad used to keep his spare there.” She shrugs and I eye up the door to the garage.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Something about always having the keys close at hand if we ever needed to make a quick exit.”
I really want to be a bitch and ask how that motto fared up for him, but decide it’s best to keep my mouth buttoned on that subject. No point in pulling off the Band-Aid for her.
“Where did he keep them?” That seems like a better question to ask, given the circumstances.
“On the wall, right by the door.”
“What was he, stupid? What would he have done if someone had broken in?”
Her mouth opens and closes like a fish for a moment as she flounders on a suitable answer.
I put up a hand in protest. “Don’t answer that, I honestly don’t want to know. Obviously you were all idiots.”
Emily is biting on her lower lip, her nostrils flaring at my last comment. I guess she’s trying to contain her temper too. Jesus, we were not going to be a good team if our monthly cycles coordinated.
“Nina, do you think we could go look for my parents at some point? I know what you said about them being…” She looks away from me before continuing. “I’d still like to look for them though. Just in case.”
“No.” I grab my butcher’s knife and stand by the door to the garage. This girl seriously has a death wish if she thinks it’s a good idea to wander around a zombie-infested town looking for Mommy and Daddy with nothing to defend ourselves with but a crappy butcher’s knife and a blunt penknife.
“But…”
“I said no, Emily. They are dead. I know that sounds harsh to you, but you need to deal with this sooner rather than later. Everyone that got left behind is dead.” I turn back to the door with a bitter taste in my mouth. Emily says nothing, but her eyes had told me everything I needed to know. I’m a bitch.
“I don’t mean to be horrible, Emily…”
“Then why are you?”
I look at her. The words sting, but I know she’s right. I am being horrible, but I also know that there will be no point in going to look for her family. If they are alive, then they won’t be here. There’s no point in trying to sugarcoat it for her. My hand is on the doorknob to the garage while my mind is somewhere else.
“Not everyone died, Nina.”
“Yeah, we’re left with the real charmers of society eh, aren’t we, Emily? The evil, and corrupt, the ones who would sooner leave you to die than help you. Yeah, and that’s just another solid reason why we can’t go looking for your family.” I turn the handle carefully, wondering for a moment if it will be locked.
The door abruptly yanks from under my grip and shoves open wide, slapping me in the face with brutal force. I shout out and drop my knife, my hand flying up to my face where I feel hot blood pouring from my nose. I feel blinded by the lights in front of my eyes, but try to push past them as I hear the groaning of a zombie in the kitchen.
Shit!
Emily screams out my name loudly, and I drop to the floor in search of my knife. The blood pours down my face, a heavy throbbing in my nose. My hand mercifully touches the blade and I grip it and stand back up, simultaneously wiping the blood away with the back of my arm.
Emily’s back is pressed hard against the kitchen countertop, the cold enamel digging into her bones the further back she leans. A zombie is clawing for her, drooling and slathering over the floor and itself.
She’s kicking out at it repeatedly, but with her back pressed against the counter she can’t seem to get the force behind the movement to shove it off her.
I don’t hesitate as I slam into the zombie’s back, my knife plunging into its skull, which is surprisingly covered in pink fluffy hair. Looks like we have a little pink punk zombie. The knife slices in to the hilt before the zombie drops to the floor in a heap of rotting flesh and stinky drain smells. Back splatter from the zombie’s head covers my face, and I spit and wipe it off my mouth, shouting angrily and kicking it hard in the ribs. Rotten brain tissue mixes with my own blood, which is dripping off the end of my chin.
“Fucking zombie. I only just got myself clean!” I bend and pull my knife out of its head, black congealed blood flying up over my pants, and abruptly stomp over to the garage doorway and charge in without bothering to check first. Stupid? Yeah, but you should never piss off a woman who’s just cleaned her hair. “Any more of you fuckers down here?” I beckon them with open arms, my temper boiling over. “Come on, lunch is served!�
��
It’s dark in here, and my hand roots around the walls until I find a switch and flip it. My eyes go wide as I survey the damage. Pink Z must have been stuck in here for months. I wonder if this is where she actually turned, or whether she was locked down here afterwards.
There’s blood everywhere, across the walls and floor, even on the ceiling when I look up. The garage door is painted in the same brown-and-black liquid that seems to fill each zombie. Dirty handprints cover everything I can see. Most things have been tipped from their shelves and now cover the floor: tools, old paint cans, and general junk. However, my eyes fall on the most amazing thing I’ve seen in a while. Filtering through the horrors, they land on the most beautiful black mid-sized Hummer I’ve ever seen, which sits in the middle of the room.
I’d love to say it’s shiny and perfect, but it isn’t. It’s covered in blood and gunk, and dented to hell and back, but the windows are intact and it’s big and powerful-looking.
“Nina?”
Shit, I’d forgotten about Emily. Her voice calls down cautiously to me.
“Come here, there’s no more of them.” My temper has passed now, even with the blood and gunk that still clings to my face and hair. I grab the band from around my wrist and tie my hair back up in a bun. It was stupid of me to leave it down, really.
A few seconds pass before I hear her hesitant steps in the doorway.
“Oh my God, look at this place.”
I turn to look at her. She too is covered in black sludge and brown blood, her shirt is ripped, and she’s as pale as a ghost.
“Yeah, but look, Emily. Look at that beauty.” I walk up to her and grab her hand, smiling for the first time in what feels like forever. “If we can get that going, if it has gas in it, if we can get the garage door open—Christ, we might have a chance.” The excitement in my voice is palpable, yet she seems unperturbed by it.
“That’s a lot of ifs, Nina.”
“It’s a shit-load less than we had before, babe.” I give her hand a little squeeze and pull her further into the room. “We have to find those keys. They’re here somewhere. They have to be.” I point to the little hook that’s by the door. It’s empty, but the fact that both it and the Hummer are there means the keys had been hung there at some point previously.
Odium (The Dead Saga.) Page 5
