Crunch stops laughing and looks at us with a more serious look in her eye. “The screaming seemed to go on for hours, but it could have been minutes. I lost track after a while. I covered my ears with my hands and hid under the desk like a little fucking kid.”
I look away from her sorrowful expression, her mood decidedly darker. I look up to the trees, where a bird flits from one branch to the next. I watch it as it looks down at us with its little brown beady eyes. They have it so easy, birds. It’s like none of this crap happened to them. They’re still free to fly and roam the world without any harm coming to them. Sure, they don’t get the friendly neighbors throwing out bread for their morning breakfast anymore, but I’d give up anything on this shit-hole planet to get things to go back to how they were. For just one more day of normalcy. The bird takes off into the sky without a second glance back at me, and I’m brought back down to earth by Crunch’s storytelling.
She looks at her feet sadly, her nose stud glinting at me. “I must have drifted off at some point. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m some heartless bitch who doesn’t give a shit. Well, I’m not. I had a mother who was a drunk and a father who brought more trouble to our front door than old ladies to a bake sale, so my safe place was always to sleep. I would sleep to drown out the noise from them both arguing and fighting with each other.” She shakes her head and I see a slight blush rise in her cheeks, clearly embarrassed by her small revelation. “So, anyway, that’s what I did. I woke up to Damien prodding me in the ribs. He looked really scared. I mean,” Crunch whistles through her teeth and wrings out her hands, which seem to be full of nervous energy as she recalls the horror of the moment, “I’d never seen Damien scared before—ever. But he looked petrified. He had obviously listened to every damn sound coming from the other side of the door. There were noises coming from behind it now too—moaning and scraping—and I knew right then, there was not a chance in hell I was even attempting to leave through that door.”
I haven’t realized that I’m leaning forward on my log seat until my neck and back start to hurt. I lean back and look at everyone else, and realize that Crunch’s storytelling seems to be having the same effect on everyone in the group. We all sit transfixed by her words. Maybe it’s the vulnerability that we can hear in her voice. She’s normally such a badass, so fierce in her demeanor, that to see a softer side of her is just—well, it’s just bizarre. Or maybe we just want there to be a happy ending for one of us. Any of us.
“What did you do?” Emily asks quietly from next to me, making me jump a little at the sound of her voice. I look at her and scowl, but she pays me no attention.
“We stacked a couple of chairs on top of the table and went out through the tiles in the ceiling. I didn’t even know if it could actually be done, but I’ve seen it in enough movies, you know?”
We all nod in agreement. I miss watching movies. The small memory of being curled up on the sofa with Ben watching a movie brings a deeper sadness to my heart than any story I can be told.
“So anyway, we’re following the ceiling tunnels through the mall ceiling, tracing the electricity and water pipes or whatever the fuck they were, stopping every now and then when we get to a store to look in and see if we could climb down.” She shakes her head. “The things we saw. Damn, it was like God himself set free all of hell. Damien was like a big crybaby. Every single time we stopped to look into a store, he would sob like my mother high on ketamine. I don’t know how long we were in there, but I knew that I didn’t want to ever leave. I mean, up there it was like we were separate from it all, like it was a dream or something. But there’s always an exit, a dead end, or a loose panel that makes you fall through the roof and into the loving arms of one of the undead, right?” She picks up her half-empty bottle of water and takes a swig before standing up to leave.
I stand up abruptly. “Wait, what the fuck happened?”
Why now, why her, and why I give a shit all of a sudden is beyond me, but I do. I want to know what happened. I need to know. Damien isn’t here so it’s pretty obvious really, but for just a moment I feel the smallest spark of hope. A glimmer of us beating the undead at their own game. Maybe he escaped. Maybe there’s hope for the rest of us. Maybe…
“Damien got eaten—obviously. Ripped limb from limb, fucker was still crying for his momma even as they chomped through his throat.” Crunch shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly, but I see the look in her eye and know what she hides way down deep, too deep for just anyone to get to. “I’ve never seen someone in that much pain, and if I could have ended it for him, I would have.” She starts to walk away and begins to tie the ropes around her waist to move across to another platform before looking back at all of us sitting in deathly silence. “But damn, that zombie got a beating before it got its meal. Nearly beaten to re-death by a dildo.” She smiles at us, but it’s grim and a failed attempt at hiding her sadness. “What a way to go, eh?”
None of us say anything as Crunch moves across to another platform, swinging from the ropes that hang high above the ground, like a monkey in the trees, a determined look set as a stony mask on her face. We all sit in silence as her soft sobs for her friend are heard ringing through the trees. We’ve all been there, we’ve all had that loss, that pain, but seeing a woman so strong and so broken has affected all of us. Maybe she isn’t that strong after all; maybe it’s all a front. We all wear a different mask these days.
Silence encompasses our little group. Each one of us is lost in thought, but whether it is because of the stories that have just been shared or because of our own horror stories, I’m not sure. Me? I just need to get some air. Even though we are as in the open as practically possible, I feel like the oxygen has been stripped from my lungs.
“You ok?” Emily’s voice seems distant.
I look at her with far away eyes and nod.
Jesus, I need some space.
I can’t seem to think with so many people all around me. My gut twists and churns. Perhaps it’s the decent food I’ve had to eat for the past couple of days. My diet behind the walls consisted of, how shall I say this…whatever we were given, which was never enough, and too far between. It’s not the food though. It’s me. Something in me is changing.
Emily’s hand squeezes my leg, and I feel suddenly like a child needing reassurance from its mother. My chin trembles and I take a deep breath.
“I need…to walk.” My voice seems hollow and unfamiliar as I croak out the words. “What’s the easiest path around? I mean, without all the knots and stuff?” I ask Emily…the group—hell, anyone who’s listening.
“There’s no way around without the knots. There’s a harness, but we use it over on a different platform. I can show you a quick knot and give you some space to practice if you want.” Duncan stands and I follow him.
“I’ll help.” Mikey follows closely behind.
I smile weakly at Emily as I walk away. She seems at ease here, comfortable even. Britta strikes up a conversation with her, but I’m not sure what about. I’m just grateful that she’s giving me some space. Now if I could learn how to tie my own stupid knots, I could get some real space.
The funny thing about the end of the world is how quickly you adapt. One day you’re incapable of changing a fuse in a plug, and the next you’re fighting off deaders, building campfires, and saving teenage girls from impending doom. I have begun to like these people. Much more than the people I used to live with. Maybe it’s because they have some fight left in them. Shit, maybe the fight never left them. But they are all strong and capable people in their own way, determined to survive no matter what.
Emily and I are told the rules that they live by, and I hold my breath while they explain them, waiting for the kicker, the one rule that I could argue about. But I can’t. They’re all perfectly reasonable rules that are intended to make each other’s lives easier and safer. We all have jobs; some are awful, some are okay, and some—well, they’re just plain dangerous, but someone has to d
o them. The main one is that no one goes anywhere on their own. Apart from Mikey. He is the camp’s scavenger, and no one wants to have his job. To be fair, he always votes to go alone anyway. So apart from bathing, fetching cooking and drinking water, and helping Duncan to pick berries and wild mushrooms and other weird shit that he grows, Emily and I don’t leave the trees.
Our existence begins to become comfortable, happy almost—as happy as you can be at the end of the world, anyway. Life would be an awful lot easier I didn’t receive dirty looks from Crunch on a daily basis, but life can’t always be peaches and cream, can it?
Mmmmm, peaches and cream.
Seventeen.
“You ready to do this, Nina?” Duncan eyes me warily.
I take a deep breath. “Yep, let’s do this thing.”
Emily touches my arm. “Be careful, okay?” She smiles.
“Always.” I smile back and carefully climb down the steps of the main platform with Duncan.
Scavenging is always a tricky business. Even out here, so far from any major civilization, there are deaders. Somehow they always seem to find our little vegetable patch too, like a lost memory of what they used to eat. Either that or they know that at some point humans will come to pick the damn vegetables, and so they wait for us. I shudder at the thought that maybe they have any sense of who or what they are now. Any brain control at all would be horrifying. Would they remember who they used to be? Are they trapped inside the monster that they now are? God I hope not.
Duncan and Britta have been showing me some of their recipes, and tonight I’m cooking a full meal by myself. It’s their funeral: I can’t cook for shit. My best meal was number thirty-nine and number twenty-two on the Chinese takeout menu. Duncan is the camp cook, but Britta—damn, that woman knows how to do some great stuff with herbs. She helps make homemade medicines for headaches and tummy troubles, and even knows a great seasoning for rabbit stew. I’m hoping that at some point she’s going to show me some of what she knows.
The vegetable patch is closer to the hub than I would have liked, and as we round the corner, the top of the hub comes into view. I’m still yet to see the actual building, since Duncan refuses to go anywhere near there, but every time we come to collect vegetables he goes all glassy-eyed.
Two deaders are, as we have come to expect, standing right in the middle of our patch. Seriously, it’s only a little patch, yet every time they end up standing smack dab in the middle of it, trampling some sort of food that we’re growing. I drop my bag to the ground and whistle. They both turn at the same time, give an angry snarl, and come for me.
One of them has a face that’s a mixture of my next-door neighbor and my old Aunt Sally. Since my Aunt Sally was a six-foot-two transvestite who used to wear the most hideous orange curly wig, and my neighbor had a bust size that most Playboy models would be proud of, the rotting semi-male and busty transformation is not something to smile about.
“Jesus fuck,” I whisper and shake my head.
The other deader follows right after, one of its blue dungaree straps dangling down around its ankle. It stands on the rhubarb that I’ve been trying to grow for the last couple of weeks, trampling the leaves with its dirty boots, and I curse again.
As soon as they step out of the vegetable patch, Duncan comes out from behind a tree and lops off Aunt Sally’s head. Dungaree Guy turns to look at Duncan and then looks back at me. He seems to be in a state of confusion as to which meal to go for. Thankfully for me, he chooses Duncan. I can’t blame him, really; I’m like a skinny taco at about a hundred and five pounds, whereas Duncan is easily twice my build. Does that make him the gourmet meal?
“Nina?” Duncan whispers my name, and I nod and grip my bat tighter.
I run up behind it and slam the bat as hard as I can into the back of its skull, feeling the softening bone crumble upon impact, and black ooze seeps out of the cracks I just made in its head.
Dungaree Guy pauses for a moment, doing a half-turn to look at what just hit him, before he collapses to the floor and starts twitching. Brown and black gloop continue to escape through the hole in the back of his head, bubbling out and releasing a toxic-as-hell smell.
“Man, he reeks.” Duncan wafts a hand in front of his nose.
“They’re getting worse,” I agree. “Do you think, maybe, we could use it to our advantage?” I grab Dungaree Guy’s legs and Duncan reaches for the arms, as we drag him to a hole further into the forest.
“Like how?”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe if they can’t smell us—like, if they could only smell themselves, then maybe we wouldn’t get as many of them.”
We both drop the deader at the same time at the edge of the hole and I kick him in. He lands with a soft thud on top of the others we have killed up here over the past couple of weeks.
“R.I.P.,” I say, making the sign of the cross as I continue. “So, I’m thinking maybe we could string up a couple of arms and legs around the patch. They might not sense—smell, or whatever—that we come here, and move along. Does that make sense?”
Duncan looks down at the pile of rotting deaders in the pit. No flies surround them, no maggots—nothing. Even insects know not to go near the flesh of the dead. We turn and head back to the vegetable patch.
“Sounds like it’s worth trying. I mean, I’m not sure it’ll work, but I’ll give it a try.” Duncan shrugs and smiles at me. I feel strangely proud that I may have come up with a semi-useful plan.
I begin to hack away at Aunt Sally’s arms and legs while Duncan goes into the forest to find something to use as rope, muttering something about finding a dog with a bone. Once I’ve removed all her limbs, I drag her by her shoulders to the pit and kick her in, saying a quick ‘R.I.P.’ again. I hunt down her head and give it the same treatment.
When I get back to the vegetable patch, Duncan is coming back out of the forest from the side opposite to me. He’s looking pretty pleased with himself, too, and carrying a handful of sticks.
“You find your dog and bone?” I laugh.
He looks puzzled. “What? Never mind.” He shakes his head. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to help me. This is Dogbane, I need to you to…” He looks at me and smiles. “Dogbane, not dog and bone.” He chuckles and sits down with the twigs.
I flush, embarrassed, and sit down with him.
“So, I need you to break these in half and pull out the middle bits.” He hands me a couple of sticks and we set to work on them, each doing our own. I look up through my lashes as he squashes the twigs on the ground until they split down the middle and begins to pull out the inside.
I copy him, finding it easier than I thought I would, and then repeat the process with a couple more branches until we have a small pile of ribbony-type bark.
“Now what?”
“We need to tenderize them all and then do what’s called a reverse wrap. I’ll show you. Do you have any idea where we are going to hang these things? They are going to ruin the smell of my vegetable patch you know.” He raises an eyebrow at me and starts rolling the ribbony bark between his fingers.
I pick up a piece and start doing the same. “I know, sorry about that,” I chuckle. “If it works, though, at least everything won’t keep getting trampled on.”
“I guess so,” he grumbles.
Forty-five minutes later, and with several smelly rotten limbs hanging around our little vegetable patch, we finally get to picking some of the crops ready for supper—after washing our hands in a stream. Apparently Dogbane is poisonous; good thing I didn’t need to lick my fingers or anything. My rhubarb managed to survive, though it’s not quite ready to be picked yet; but we manage to pull some potatoes and carrots and onions.
We’re about ready to go when I hear movement from over the hill toward the hub, and curiosity gets the better of me. I creep over to the edge and look down on the hub. It’s bigger than I thought it would be, with a curved roof and large windows. It’s painted white near the top, with wood paneling along
the bottom to help it blend into the surroundings. Outside it are a couple of trucks with several people climbing out. They all have guns, from what I can tell, and I realize that these must be the Forgotten.
Duncan grabs the back of my shirt and drags me backwards, and I only just stop myself from yelping loudly.
“What?” I snap.
“Get away from there. We need to get back to the group, quickly.” He picks up his basket and knife, and climbs back down the little incline.
I tut, and turn back to see what the Forgotten are going to do. I creep up as high as I can on the little hill, but keep myself low to the ground as I peek over. My breath catches when I see them dragging a deader off the back of the truck. It’s shackled with its arms behind its back, and a long pole to its neck to keep it at a distance. It’s more horrifying that, even from this distance, I can see that it’s a newish deader. The clothes are filthy, but still intact; its skirt flaps around its ankles, but its feet are empty of shoes.
One of the men uses what looks like a length of rope to whip the deader’s back, and they all give loud, guttural roars of laughter as the deader tries to turn around. It’s clearly not hurt, but it sure looks pissed off; even from this distance I can hear it growling like a fucking bear. I shudder and start to turn away when another man approaches the deader, a long pole in his hand. While the deader is still looking behind it, the man reaches out with the pole, stabbing it into the deader’s abdomen. Smoke rises from the end of the pole buried deep in the deader, and as I strain my ears I can hear a strange buzzing noise. The deader turns back to look at the man. Ignoring the pole inside it, it tries to reach its hands forwards for the man holding what I now comprehend as a zapper of some sort.
Odium (The Dead Saga.) Page 12
