by Laken Cane
I’d get water and some goodies first, then head to the farm and feed store.
I pulled my machete from its sheath and put it in a cart, then pushed the cart to the water. I tossed in two cases—there were only three cases left—before heading to the canned food. It was good that I shopped every day, because who knew when baddies might find my town and steal the few supplies that remained?
I’d also taken cartload after cartload to the back of the mall, where I’d previously buried over a dozen airtight containers. Over time, I’d filled every one of those containers.
Each trip to the mall, I took as much as I could get in as little time as possible. It wasn’t a good idea to linger.
I’d encountered a lone mutant in Crowbridge on a couple different occasions. Those were not memories on which I liked to dwell.
I hurried down the aisle, turned the corner, and then, I caught a glimpse of something that made me lose my breath.
The shadowy dimness inside the shop made the world outside the huge front windows seem especially bright. And in that brightness stood one of the mutants, staring into space, head tilted, listening.
Listening, maybe, to me.
I dropped to my knees a mere second before he turned to peer at the store windows. I was panting, and when I realized it and tried to slow my breathing, I panted harder. I couldn’t get enough air into my tight, constricted lungs.
Lovely time for one of my stupid panic attacks.
I threw back my head and stared at the ceiling as a giant hand squeezed my lungs and there was only a tiny straw through which I could draw a teaspoon of air and I could not breathe.
I could not breathe.
I was going to die. Maybe it was a heart attack. Or a stroke. Even young people had those and with the stress of everything…
Shit shit shit.
The mutant would hear my gasps and wheezes, surely he would. Their hearing was insane—and that was the reason a girl couldn’t use a gun to shoot one of the sons of bitches and the reason she couldn’t drive a car.
Because the mutants would hear.
And this time I was really dying.
That’s what panic attacks did.
They made me believe I was dying.
I held on to that realization with everything I had. I wasn’t dying. The panic attacks just made me think I was.
My chest loosened gradually—when I could breathe again I was lying on my side, my hands at my throat, and little silver spots danced in the musty air of the store.
I got to my knees, slightly dazed. I peered around the cart, then swept the parking lot outside the windows with a worried gaze.
I didn’t see the mutant.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t there somewhere. Maybe he’d sneaked into the store while I was trying to figure out how to breathe. Maybe he’d sidled to the windows, cupped his eyes with his long, pale hands, and had spotted me writhing on the floor.
I stood carefully and reached into the cart for my machete. I had blades in various places all over my body, in my boots, the pockets of my vest—and I’d also stashed bigger weapons all over the stores I frequented.
One could never have enough weapons.
I left the cart where it sat and slipped quietly to the end of the aisle, fully expecting a mutant to appear suddenly, grinning, waiting…
I glanced over my shoulder constantly. I couldn’t let one of them sneak up behind me. Where was he?
I liked the little thrill of leaving my house each day, but the terror I felt at that moment…that was a bit much.
The mutants didn’t seem to have any lovely weaknesses or convenient boundaries like sensitivity to sunlight or an inclination to shuffle along like zombies on TV.
Nope.
From everything I’d heard before the world ended and from my own experiences, they were very difficult to kill. A person couldn’t kill them by stabbing them or shooting them or clubbing them to death.
But a person could decapitate them.
That was the main reason I liked machetes. A sharp machete would take off a mutant’s head with a couple of well-placed slashes.
The mutants were just like humans in some ways. They resembled humans physically. Most of them wore clothes, though I’d seen a couple of them that seemed confused by clothing. I’d once seen a tall, bald male mutant wearing a lacy, pink dress that barely covered his butt.
It would have been funny had it not been so terrifying.
But in other ways, they were not even remotely human. They didn’t seem to have feelings. They had no heart. At all.
Their preferred food source seemed to be raw, screaming meat. Sometimes they’d tear their victims apart and gobble them down like raw chicken.
Yeah, I’d watched both of those things happen—some of them on TV before it’d gone down, and some in real life.
I’d heard the screams.
I’d had the nightmares.
There were two different types of mutants—those who wanted to eat a human, and those who wanted to catch a human. I had no idea what they did with their catches.
They didn’t use guns. They used blades—though it wasn’t because of the noise firearms made. It was because they liked their meat alive. Bleeding.
At least, that’s what I believed.
A dead human was a useless human.
So unless I couldn’t outrun one or was caught in the middle of a mob of them, then I was safe.
Safe.
LOL.
Smiley face.
I missed the Internet and texting and doing things with my friends.
But right then there were more important things to miss—like the days when the monsters were only in the movies and a girl had a mother to protect her.
Those days were gone.
I found my hidden machete and slipped it from its hiding place, wincing when its contact with a can of juice released a metallic snick into the silent air.
What was better than a machete?
Two machetes.
Just as I stood, the weapons in my hands, I caught movement through the huge front windows.
I saw two things. Two very bad things.
A small girl, a tangled mass of dark red curls hiding her face, stumbled slowly by the wall of windows.
And right behind her, his tall, pale body towering crookedly over her tiny one, the mutant lifted his hands and prepared to snatch his dinner.
Chapter Two
Horror burst from me in a thoughtless scream. “Robin!”
It wasn’t my sister. I knew that.
Robin would have been my size. My age.
My twin.
And Robin was dead.
I reached the exit doors before I was aware I’d even moved. I shot through them, opening my mouth for another scream, praying I wasn’t too late.
I had to save the child. I had to save her.
I’d left one to die.
I wasn’t leaving another.
Maybe I thought saving her would make up for Robin’s death. Maybe I was just that insane.
Maybe I’d get us both killed.
But there was a child, and I would fight for her. I would protect her.
Even if it killed me.
I ran like I did in nightmares—slowly, so slowly, with my feet sinking into quicksand as I slogged weakly on, opening my mouth for another scream.
I had no words, just sounds.
But the sounds got his attention.
He whipped toward me, his head tilting precariously upon his skinny neck as he studied the newer, bigger threat.
The bigger meal.
I needed to shut the hell up.
One mutant I could possibly take. I had two machetes. I had knives. I had desperation.
I could take him.
But if I kept screaming, it would draw other mutants.
And then neither I nor the little girl would have a chance.
“Run,” I screamed at the child, but she slid down the wall and then curled up on the
pavement, her face hidden behind her hands.
I knew her terror. Her exhaustion. Her confusion.
The thought flashed through my mind that I wasn’t actually okay in this new world. I understood my pretense.
And I couldn’t allow that thought. No.
That truth might have shattered me.
I didn’t hesitate. With my machetes up and ready, I ran at the creature.
He leapt back when I swung, and my blade cut through the air, barely missing his chest. But I wasn’t exactly a stranger to fighting the mutants—and I had adrenaline lending a hand.
He came at me fast, no fear in those cold, yellow eyes, no sounds coming from his half-open mouth.
I dropped one of the machetes.
I caught a glimpse of large, crowded, sharp teeth, and then I fell to my knees, yanked the small dagger from my belt, and drove it into his groin.
His eyes widened slightly, and he leaned over, grabbed the handle of the knife, and wrenched it from his flesh.
Seconds. It all happened in seconds.
Instead of flat coldness, his eyes now held hunger. Raging, ravenous, consuming hunger.
That’s what pain gave them.
When fighting a mutant, death—preferably theirs—needed to happen quickly. Before they got hungry. Before they got angry.
That was when the mutants ate humans.
They were like people out of their minds on meth. They felt no pain, no fear, and there was nothing but death in their eyes.
When the hunger roared over them, it was as though they had to consume whatever was before them, and they had to do it immediately. They couldn’t help themselves.
I couldn’t believe it was fear—I doubted they were able to be afraid.
He flew toward me like a pale missile, his hands bent into claws, desperate to end his hunger. And if he got those hands on me, I was dead.
Not because his hands were some sort of magical conduit of heart-stopping poison, but simply because they were so very strong. He’d grab me, then he’d sink his teeth into my flesh, and then I’d die.
But pain made them foolish, distressed, and frantic, and that was good for me.
It was how I fought them—smart or not.
Hurt them, make them lose their minds with that pain and hunger, and then I could stand back and wait.
I held the machete like a baseball bat, almost, waiting for him.
He saw no weapons or resistance—only food. He leapt at me, and I swung.
Blood and a milky white substance flew from his throat, and his head fell nearly to his chest. I kicked him in the stomach, and when he stumbled back, his clawed hands reaching beseechingly for me, I followed him and swung the machete once again.
His head smashed against the pavement like a mushy coconut, and there it lay.
His body joined it a couple seconds later.
I drew back my booted foot and kicked the head. As it rolled across the parking lot, I shoved my machete back into its sheath, then ran to the child.
I knelt beside her, then reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “It’s okay now. I killed it.”
She didn’t move.
She wasn’t dead—I could see her chest moving, and her exhalations rasped dryly against her hands.
“Little girl? Come on, now. You can go home with me.”
Nothing. It was like she didn’t even hear me. And other than her breathing, she didn’t make a sound.
I glanced around, my eyes narrowed against the bright sun. I saw no movement, but it was only a matter of time before another mutant found us. They traveled in groups—and even when one strayed from his group, the others weren’t usually far away.
I stood, then leaned over her small body. “I’m going to pick you up, kiddo.” I hoped that once I lifted her up, she’d come out of her shock and be able to walk again. I had a cart to shove home.
If it came down to it, I’d grab a wheelchair from the front of the store and push the kid home, then come back tomorrow for the cart.
It looked like it was going to come down to it.
But when I slid my hands under her and grunted with the effort of lifting her lax body off the pavement, she came to life.
She flapped like a fish on a line and slipped from my hands. She landed hard, but was up at once, and she didn’t make a sound as she reached out to take my hand.
She still didn’t look at me, but with her head down, she tugged gently at my fingers.
I left the spare machete on the ground and began walking beside her.
“Where are we going?” I let go of her long enough to transfer her hand from my right hand to my left. “Are you hurt?”
As soon as I’d slid my fingers out of her hand, she’d stopped walking.
I asked her no more questions. I needed to listen for enemies, and I had to be more careful than ever. I now had someone to protect.
She wasn’t going to answer me anyway.
We walked all the way across the parking lot and around to the back of the mall. Halfway to the end, she stopped beside one of the huge dumpsters that sat against the buildings. Some had been toppled over, but most of them sat exactly as they had before the world ended.
A little rustier, maybe, and splattered with brightly colored bird dung. I knew before she pointed at one of the dumpsters that a person had taken cover inside.
And that person had probably sent the little girl for help.
I heard a quiet, strangled sound inside the metal box she’d pointed out.
“Shit,” I whispered. I pulled a knife from my belt and handed it to the child. She stared at it for a second, then grabbed it. It disappeared somewhere inside the bulky coat she wore.
“No,” I told her. “Keep it out in case you need it while I’m…” I gestured at the dumpster. “While I’m dealing with this. And let me know if you see anyone coming, you hear me?”
She nodded.
I swallowed hard, leaned the machete against the side of the dumpster, then grasped the lid. Maybe there was another kid in there.
Maybe the little girl was a decoy used by a gang of baddies…
I pushed up the lid.
I cringed as I lost my grip on it and it banged against the side of the filthy container like some sort of hellish dinner gong for monsters.
When I glanced down at the girl, she was staring straight ahead, her big blue eyes empty, one finger to her lips.
Shhhh…
“That’s some creepy shit,” I muttered, a little pissed off.
Fear did that to me.
I didn’t need my flashlight—the sun lit up the interior of the dumpster. I grabbed the side of the container and peered somewhat reluctantly into the depths.
The smell wasn’t that bad. I mean, it was bad, but it wasn’t the sort of smell that usually came from dumpsters. Everything in it must have had a chance to…fade, I guess. Or maybe the woman inside had simply chosen one that was slightly clean.
The woman.
She was staring at me. Her eyes were wide with terror or pain or both. Her face was so pale it had taken on a greenish cast, and her parted lips were broken and bloodless.
She rested on a high bed of what appeared to be old newspapers and half full garbage bags. Bloody, filthy blankets were tangled around her tortured body, but her bare legs stuck out like white sticks covered with oozing sores.
“Help me,” she said. Her voice came out in a gasping half-scream, as though her pain was so large she could barely speak.
And I believed it was.
Once my mother had written about a corpse that’d been dragged out of the river. She’d described the character’s bloated, ripe, discolored body…
And that’s exactly what this woman’s belly looked like.
I recoiled in shock, but after chewing my fingernail for a long moment, I once more peered into the woman’s bed.
She was in the process of giving birth.
But the baby must’ve been stuck. Even as I watched, the woman’s bel
ly rippled and I could have sworn I saw the tiny imprint of a face pressing against her flesh.
She screamed, but her screams were almost silent. Her mouth opened wide in the mask of pain she wore, and her eyes stayed full of awareness and the worst horror I’d ever seen in my life.
I was young, but I’d seen horror.
I’d seen pain.
Just not like this.
She didn’t cry. Maybe she was too dehydrated to cry. Likely she was beyond crying.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “So sorry. I’ll take care of your little girl if you…if you can’t. And the baby,” I added, quickly. I doubted the infant would survive the birth, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
For one second, the look of relief on her face was stronger than the pain. But only for a second.
“This…monster,” she whispered. “Not baby.”
“Hold on,” I said. I looked around, found a bucket, then turned it over and stood on it so I could lean over and get closer to the suffering woman. “What about the baby?”
She grabbed her stomach with bruised, dirty hands, arched her back, and screwed her eyes shut. The only sound that emerged from her gaping mouth was a high-pitched wheeze. Her skin stretched across her sharp cheekbones so tightly I was sure it would split like her dry lips split as she silently screamed.
Her swollen stomach was going to burst. It would have to, if that kid didn’t find its way out soon.
I wanted to cover my ears and close my eyes but I remained stoic and strong and stayed with her. It was the least I could do.
Finally, she exhaled a breath that seemed to go on for five minutes—a long, wheezing end of life breath, and then spoke. “Kill me. Kill it.”
I tried to swallow but my throat was too dry. “Your man is dead?”
She shook her head violently. “No man, no man. Just them.”
I drew back. My stomach began to hurt and my heart was beating so fast I couldn’t breathe. “What do you mean?”
“They did this.” Her voice was louder with its rage and remembered horror. “This baby is one of them. You have to kill it. And…”
“What?” I whispered.
She held up a shaking hand for me to hold and God help me, but I couldn’t bear to touch it.
