He tried to reach for it, tried to draw more of the memory from his brain so he could see more, so he could experience more, but no matter what he did, it remained nothing but a smile. Soft lips turned up because of something he’d said or done. Even in his sleep his heart ached at the memory and at the realization that he’d never again experience anything like it. Even worse was the knowledge that he’d wasted years pushing people away, pissing them off, making them hate him. How many smiles had he missed out on because he’d been a miserable piece of shit of a person? He couldn’t stand thinking about it.
The lips began to fade, began to melt into the darkness surrounding them, and desperately he tried to grab them and pull them closer, to keep them around for just a little bit longer. It didn’t work, and too soon they were gone, leaving him alone in his misery once again. He groaned and shifted, slowly resurfacing from his dream to find his cheeks wet with tears. He didn’t bother wiping them away. He was used to it by now. There had been a time—another life, it felt like—when he would have cursed himself for what he’d thought was his weakness, but not anymore. Now he understood all too clearly the beauty of human emotion. It was something he would never again take for granted.
He opened his eyes to darkness, but instinctively knew morning had come. The silence that accompanied dusk was gone, and the rodents and other animals had come out of hiding. Their scurrying feet scraped against the floor as they scrambled around in other parts of the building, and probably even inside the walls of the very room he was lying in. They were hurrying about their daily tasks, knowing that all too soon darkness would return, and they would once again have to hunker down in silence. Just like he would.
He pushed himself up and felt around, locating his bag after only a few seconds. Barely thinking about what he was doing, he opened it and pulled out the bundle of berries he’d found the day before and popped a few into his mouth. They were soft and overly ripe, but sweet when he sank his teeth into them—on the verge of going bad. They were a luxury he rarely got these days and something he didn’t want to waste, so he popped the remaining few into his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the tart sweetness when they exploded between his teeth.
Food wasn’t easy to come by and he was never full, but despite the gnawing feeling in his stomach that never seemed to go away, he’d discovered he literally could not starve to death. Couldn’t die of dehydration, either. Yet another thing those bastards had changed about him. To some it might have sounded like an advantage, especially in a world where you were never sure where your next meal was going to come from or when it would arrive, but he’d long ago learned that nothing about his life was a blessing. He was cursed. That was an irrefutable fact.
Once he’d finished his berries, he gulped down the little bit of water he had left. He would have to find more today. No, his body didn’t need it to live, but it did need it to feel comfortable, and there were so few comforts left in this world. This was one he refused to give up.
Empty bottle now back in his bag, he hauled himself to his feet and moved across the room, his hand out in front of him. After only two steps, his fingertips brushed the cool surface of the desk. It was grimy to the touch and the metal legs rough against his palms when he gripped them, dragging. Once the desk was far enough away from the door, he pulled it open, and a scurry of feet followed as the rodents that had been scavenging rushed for cover.
Like he’d thought, the sun was up, allowing him to see the building he’d spent the night in clearly for the first time. It was no different than any other place he’d been recently. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and cobwebs—both old and new—crowded the corners. Animal droppings dotted the floor in places, and black mold grew up the walls. Still, it was obvious people had taken refuge in this building at some point—although a lot of time had passed. The furniture that had distinguished it as an office was pushed against one wall, and a few mattresses were set up. The bedding was strewn about and the pillows chewed by over-eager rodents, but they remained. Their insides pulled out, their carcasses hanging open as if to illustrate just how impossible it was to find even the smallest comfort in this world.
He sighed and turned away, heading to the front of the building. Sunlight streamed in through the holey board covering the broken window and the wide-open front door. He froze at the sight. Had he shut it? It seemed unlikely that he’d leave a door hanging open, but he’d been in a hurry and exhausted, and he couldn’t remember for sure if he’d pulled it shut behind him.
Still not moving, he scanned the room, paying special attention to the floor. The carpet was dark green and spotted with stains. He didn’t know if it was the original color or if it was growing something, and he didn’t care because his focus was on something else.
Scat. And it was fresh.
He had his knife out in a flash and was looking around for any signs that the creature who’d left the stuff was still in the building. They didn’t venture out during the day, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t attack if you stumbled upon their resting spot. They would, which was something he’d learned the hard way.
The room was too bright to be a good place for one of the creatures to stay, and there were scratches beside the door. Long scrapes on the wall, cutting into the rotting wood as if one of them had raked its nails across it on the way out. It must have only come into the building to search for prey and relieve itself.
Not for the first time, he was thankful he didn’t talk in his sleep.
He slid the knife back into its sheath as he started walking again. Just before he stepped outside, his gaze moved back to the pile of scat. A shudder moved down his spine when he thought about how close the thing had been. He’d been lucky lately. He hadn’t seen one of the bastards in a long time. Months, maybe a year. Not that he kept track of the days anymore. He just knew he’d managed to avoid them, and that was enough.
The sun was barely up and low in the sky, but still bright, and he squinted when he stepped outside. Lifting his hand to shield his eyes, he scanned the surrounding area. The day was alive with activity, and the birds that had quieted down last night as dusk set in now sang to their hearts’ content. He spotted a few perched on top of a nearby building, as well as one pecking at the ground, but most were out of sight. A white bird tilted its head when he started walking, its black eyes following his progress like the animal had never seen anything like him. It probably hadn’t. He didn’t know how long birds lived, but this one had definitely been born into a world nearly devoid of humans.
He began walking just like he did every morning. Without purpose, without a clue where he was going or what he was expecting to happen. He wasn’t even sure why he did it. There was nowhere to go. No more settlements. No more survivors hanging on for dear life. It was just him. Alone. Always alone. And that was how it would stay.
A few times he’d considered finding a place to call home, but the longest he’d managed to stay in one location had been three days. That had been all he could stand. It had given him too much time to think. Too much time to reflect on the past and the memories he’d lost, as well as the ones he couldn’t shake. So, he’d walked. He’d walked all day, every day, getting up as soon as the sun rose and settling in as it went down. In the beginning, the walking had caused blisters on his feet that throbbed until they popped, but still he’d walked. Eventually, though, his body had gotten used to the action, and now the soles of his feet were rough and calloused. Now his muscles didn’t ache until night began to set in, almost as if the oncoming darkness gave them permission to complain.
This morning the sky was clear but the air chilly. It was fall, and he was way up north—although where he didn’t exactly know—but he was traveling south. It was his normal migration. North in summer, south in winter. He’d made it all the way to the Florida Keys once, although he hadn’t realized he’d been headed there until he’d reached it. Most road signs were gone, and license plates were as rusted as the cars they were moun
ted on. Nature had taken everything back, claiming the Earth as its own once more, and landmarks were almost impossible to find.
There were exceptions, of course. He’d once come upon the Grand Canyon—had even spent a few days hiking the area before getting bored and moving on. The Statue of Liberty was still standing, too. Or at least it had been the last time he’d made his way up to New York, although that had been nearly a decade ago now. He’d gone there hoping to find civilization of some kind but had found nothing but a crumbling city that was now inhabited only by ghosts and demons. He’d gotten out of there fast.
The memory made him walk quicker and look over his shoulder even though none of them would be out right now. They didn’t like the sun. It was their pale skin or hairless bodies or something else, he didn’t know. He just knew they didn’t come out when it was sunny. Ever.
She was standing in front of him when he once again looked forward. In the middle of the street. Staring at him with big, brown eyes. It was the eyes that made him freeze. They reminded him of another pair of eyes. Eyes he hadn’t been able to picture clearly in a long, long time. Eyes that made his knees tremble and nearly give out.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. She didn’t disappear, and she didn’t move. She was young, twelve or maybe thirteen. He’d never been a very good judge of age when it came to children, and a long time had gone by since he’d seen one, so he wasn’t sure. He just knew she was in front of him and she was real.
She was alive.
He stepped forward, and her back stiffened. She pulled a knife that was nearly as long as her forearm, holding it in front of her in a steady grip.
“Stay back.”
He lifted his hands as if trying to let her know he wasn’t a threat but said nothing. Had he forgotten how to speak? Perhaps. Anything was possible. His life was proof of that.
The girl narrowed her dark eyes and shoved a mass of black hair out of her face. Her skin was brown and shockingly clean considering the hell they were living in, but her clothes were as tattered as his. Pants that were too big for her small frame were held on by a leather belt, and while the legs had been cut to fit her, they were uneven and frayed, and there were holes in both knees. Her jacket, which was olive green, was dirty and too thin for the weather—although miraculously intact—but her boots looked sturdy enough. She looked sturdy, too, which was more than miraculous. It was downright dumbfounding.
When he didn’t say anything, the girl frowned. “Who are you?”
He swallowed as he prepared to respond. The idea of speaking out loud after all this time was both exhilarating and terrifying. He couldn’t even remember what his voice sounded like—that was how long it had been—and the reverberation of it in his own ears made him jump.
“I ain’t one of them.”
His voice was gravelly and scratched his throat on the way out, as if it had turned wild from disuse. Had grown fangs and claws and wanted nothing more than to rip his throat out as punishment for locking it away for so long.
She swallowed and seemed unsure what to do next.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he said, lifting his hands higher. “It’s been a long time since I seen ’nother person, and I ain’t ‘bout to do nothin’ to scare you off.”
She tilted her head like she was studying him, trying to decide what to say or do or if she could trust him. He kept his hands up, waiting. His heartrate had increased at the sight of her, and with each passing second, it seemed to pound harder. He’d been alone for so long, and even though she was just a child, he couldn’t keep the excitement at being in the presence of another person at bay. He could talk again. He could feel human again. Maybe, just maybe, he might be able to shake her hand and once again experience the warmth of another person’s skin against his.
After an extended period of silence, the girl finally lowered her knife. “I need help.”
He looked her over, frowning. “You hurt?”
She shook her head, sending her dark, knotted hair fluttering. It got caught on the wind, lifted around her face like it was trying to take flight, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“My mom. My mom is hurt.”
Mom? She wasn’t alone. He should have automatically assumed that—she was too young to be by herself—but he’d been too shocked at her sudden appearance to think that far ahead. Was it just her and her mother, or were there others? Was he about to find the one thing he was certain had gone extinct? People.
“Your momma’s hurt?”
“That’s what I said,” the girl snapped.
She had spunk.
He felt his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, but they didn’t turn up. It was almost like they’d forgotten how to make the gesture.
“I ain’t gonna promise I can work miracles,” he said, “but I can take a look at her. I’ve had more than my fair share of scrapes.”
He waved to his hand so she could see the scar. There were others, dozens of them, but this was one of the few currently visible. The girl’s eyes narrowed on it, but if she was shocked by the sight, she didn’t let on. Maybe she couldn’t make out its shape from where she stood. There was a good ten feet of space between them, and the scar was old and faded. Still, he knew she would be surprised once she realized what it was. Everyone was—or had been before they’d all disappeared. Very few people could walk away from a bite.
“She’s this way,” the girl said, turning her back and waving for him to follow.
“What’s your name?” he called as he jogged after her, suddenly feeling more exhilarated than he had for decades.
“Naya.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she walked, her gaze meeting his, and for the second time, the sight of her brown eyes nearly knocked the wind out of him. Suddenly, he could picture her perfectly, only not as she’d been that last day, but how she’d looked when they’d first met. Small and scared and so very young. Beautiful, too, although he’d been too much of a fool and a prick to admit it back then. God, how he missed her. How he missed them all.
“What about you?” Naya asked, jolting him back to the present.
He cleared his throat, trying to push his emotions down even though he wasn’t ashamed of the tears threatening to break out.
“Name’s Angus,” he said.
Naya’s head bobbed once, but she was already looking ahead when she replied, “Nice to meet you, Angus.”
Chapter Two
The girl moved fast as Angus followed her through the ruined city, their feet crunching on hidden debris as she expertly hopped over items that tripped him up. Although she didn’t say a word, she looked back at him every few seconds to make sure he was still there, her big eyes seeming to take in more of him each time she did. She was young and thin and gangly, but she walked with a self-assurance that defied her age, a certainty that almost made her seem older than—
He still didn’t know how old she was.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, tickling like a fly caught in his mouth, but he’d lived in silence for so long he found the words difficult to form. So many times over the last few years he’d begged God for someone, anyone, to talk to, but now that she was here, he couldn’t seem to make his voice work. There was a fear inside him that he couldn’t exactly put a name to or explain. It was like he was terrified she wasn’t real. Afraid he’d finally gone insane and his brain, so desperate to see another living, breathing person, had conjured this girl up. But she had to be real. Didn’t she?
His fingers twitched with the need to reach out and touch her. To rest a hand on her shoulder just so he could reassure himself he wasn’t mad, that she wasn’t an apparition, but he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to scare her. He was a man, after all, and her mother must have taught her what men could do. She must have prepared this young, pretty girl for the harsh realities of human nature. Just in case.
Naya slowed as they neared an old skyscraper, her gaze shooting back to him once again. “It’s here.”
>
He eyed the building, frowning from the uncertainty swirling through him.
Not a single window remained as far as he could tell, and like most of the other buildings in the city, its walls were covered in foliage, the dense vines only providing an occasional glimpse of brick, and branches jutted from a few of the windows on the first floor, giving off the impression a forest grew inside.
“Don’t look safe,” he said, turning his eyes back on the girl.
“It was only supposed to be a pit stop,” she told him, “before we moved on.”
His eyebrows jumped like a startled rabbit. “Moved on?”
“Yeah,” was all she said.
She stepped through the broken front door, her boots crunching on glass as she did, and he followed.
The interior was a jungle. Trees and bushes grew out of control, and most of the carpet was covered in vines and even grass. A maple tree towered over him, its branches straining against the ceiling like it was trying to break through, and he believed it would eventually succeed, because there was nothing safe about this building. Not anymore. Too many years of neglect and abuse from nature had worn it down, but there were signs of other damage as well. Charred, black areas on the walls told him something had happened here. Probably back in the beginning. A fire. Maybe even a grenade or bomb. Things had been wild in those early days as humanity fought to survive, and twenty long years had passed before they were able to make a dent in the plague that had wiped out most of the population. At the time, they’d thought they’d won. Thought they were safe, and life would go on. They’d been so very wrong.
Naya ducked beneath a low hanging branch and disappeared from sight, and he clung to the strap of his backpack as he hurried to follow. The air in the building was thick and moist, and above their heads, birds chirped while other small creatures scurried over branches. He caught a glimpse of big, dark eyes set in a round, furry face. A monkey of some kind. He’d seen them in nearly every city, in almost every forest. They’d broken out of zoos or been released by staff when the virus got bad and had thrived in this new world where humans had not.
Broken World | Novel | Angus Page 2
