by Joshua Guess
“Yeah, thought I saw him running around out by that chicken farm west of here. We’re thinking of going into livestock.” He buckled his belt, the holster empty at his side. The men always left their weapons elsewhere before entering one of the rooms, so they couldn’t be used against them. I hoped every day Mason would forget. Just once. “But there were a bunch of guys huntin’, so they probably got him.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Got him?”
He smirked. “Some of the groups, not ours, of course, have been huntin’ dogs. They trust people, so they don’t run like game does. Easy to shoot. They’ve been sellin’ them to some camps as meat. Don’t tell ‘em it’s dog, though.”
My stomach clenched, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how sickened I was.
He was almost out the door when he turned back for one final zinger. “By the way, I’ll be back later tonight. I’m bringing you some overnight company. Ain’t that nice? Her room isn’t quite ready yet. The last tenant… left it kind of a mess.”
The door closed, and I grimaced. There was no way this was going to be good.
***
It was late when I heard the wails in the hall. Then the lock rattled and Mason entered, dragging a hysterical girl behind him. Her long, dark hair, the opposite of my mid-length dishwater blonde, was stuck to the sides of her face. Her clothing was torn, and she had a gash on one cheek.
“Princess, meet Melissa. She needs a place to stay tonight, and I knew you’d appreciate the company.” He slung the girl, who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen, toward the bed and called for someone out in the hall. The tall, scrawny kid came in, pulling a folding cot, which he set up near the window. He was gone in less than a minute.
Mason ordered me to sit on the cot, while he stalked toward the quivering girl on my bed. I can barely stand to think about the things he did to her. I tried to close my eyes and look away, to will myself not to hear her screams, but Mason wouldn’t have it. “Turn over here and open your eyes, girlie,” he said. “Every time I catch you not watching, I’ll cut her again.”
I believed him. I watched. I wished I could command my brain not to record the images. But it did.
***
Mason left before dawn, and Melissa didn’t say a word. I got a rag from the bathroom and cleaned her up the best I could, but it was obvious that her mind had gone somewhere far, far away. I wished I could go there with her.
An hour or two after sunrise, everything changed. At first I thought it was another zombie attack, but I heard shots coming from farther away, as if someone were firing at the hotel. I had no idea if that was good news, then decided anything was better than the hell I’d endured for the past few weeks. Even death.
Booted feet ran down the halls, shouting about defensive positions and points of attack. I pulled Melissa down against the wall beside the bed, and we waited.
It might have been an hour later, maybe two, when I realized I was hearing shots inside the hotel, not just in the streets. I heard doors crashing open, screams, softer cries. When our door flew open, I clutched Melissa. If these men wanted to kill us, I couldn’t stop them.
They didn’t kill us. They saved us.
***
The next few days were a whirlwind. I know Josh has written extensively about the rescue at the hotel, and the subsequent events at the Compound where we now lived. The looters who were left, or who converged from other locations, attacked repeatedly, as did the zombies. Some of us from the hotel fought, but I stayed hidden, trying to get Melissa to talk. And I started drinking.
Everyone wanted to help us. They knew some of what we’d endured, but nobody who hadn’t gone through it could ever really know. There was still plenty of stockpiled liquor around, and some people thought maybe it would calm us, help us sleep, whatever. I didn’t care. If I drank enough, I forgot about things for a while. And any second I wasn’t reliving Mason’s atrocities, and hoping someone had blown his head off during the rescue, was precious.
During my lucid moments, I learned one thing. We all had lives before this pandemic – because it was beginning to look like this was some sort of disease – but none of it mattered. The only parts of our past lives that were relevant were the experiences and skills we had that might contribute to the survival of the community. I was a librarian-in-training. I could research and catalog with the best of them, but I didn’t have any particularly useful skills. I’d have to figure out a way to fit in here, eventually. But for now I was busy being depressed. And terribly, terribly angry.
It was strange meeting the women who had shared my captivity. They’d suffered the same abuse, from the same men, but we couldn’t talk about it. And most people didn’t talk much about their lives before. It was too painful, because the majority of the people in that life were lost to us. So some of us worked, some raged, some cried alone in the dark, and I drank.
A few of the women attached themselves to men in the community. I guess they needed to be reminded what it was like to be touched without violence. I couldn’t. If bland, inconspicuous Mason could turn out to be such a monster, how could any man I saw here be any better, any safer? I knew that didn’t make sense even as I thought it. But it was how I felt.
A few days after I came to the Compound, some looters tried to burn us out, and got captured. When I heard this, I hoped Mason was one of them, because I was certain they’d be executed. I wanted to see him beg for his life. I wanted to pull the trigger. I was disappointed when he wasn’t among them, though I recognized them all.
The residents were debating how to punish these men, and weren’t even close to a consensus. Some wanted to send them away, while others thought they could be imprisoned and forced to perform hard labor. Others wanted them executed. Guess where I cast my vote.
I couldn’t understand how anyone could show these abominations any sort of mercy. They hadn’t shown any to me, or any of the other captives. And the fact that some of the women here actually wanted to put them out of the Compound, where they could torture even more women, infuriated me. Courtney and Darlene were the worst. They were part of the group who would ultimately decide, and I considered them the worst sort of traitors. I’d heard rumors that Darlene had briefly been held captive herself, and that she would not want rapists dead was beyond my comprehension.
When the men were sent packing, I drank for two straight days. I missed my shifts clearing debris from the recent attacks, and my mood didn’t improve once I sobered up. Not that I was sober for long at that point.
A little more than a week later, the biggest swarm of zombies so far attacked the Compound. The residents suffered their first loss of life that day, and it hit everybody hard. It was decided to have a day of mourning and reflection to try to reconnect with the tattered remains of our own humanity.
Darlene thought it would be a good time to resolve the animosity between us. It would have been better to wait till I wasn’t drinking, but those times were few and far between. She wanted to share the story of her captivity, and explain that if she could overcome it and use it as a way to make herself stronger, then maybe I could, too. But all I heard was superiority and condescension. I know she didn’t mean it that way. She was trying to help. Still, it felt like she was saying I was weak, that my helpless rage was somehow my own fault.
Before I knew it, an adrenalin surge gave me the strength and coordination to launch myself at her. After that, things were a confusing jumble of images. I punched, kicked, clawed, bit… I wanted to hurt her. I wanted her to remember what it was like to be at someone’s mercy, when that person didn’t have any mercy left.
Others finally pulled me off her, and I found myself locked in my bedroom. When the whiskey wore off and the hangover set in, I was deeply ashamed. I believe I would have killed her if I could. I had almost become one of the monsters myself.
Several of the community’s leaders came to talk to me. The full impact of my remorse was crushing. I think they saw it, and that they had some sympat
hy for what had driven me to such a terrible act. I was still uncomfortable talking to men, though, so Jess helped me the most. When I completed my sentence, a week of hard labor chopping wood, and confinement when not working, Jess asked me to help her organize and catalog the many books she was beginning to accumulate. That single gesture made more of a difference than anything else. For the first time, I felt useful, and gained some hope that I had a place in this new world.
Her only condition was that I stop drinking. That was hard at first, but got easier with each passing day.
A lot of new people started arriving. Sometimes it was a caravan with a few dozen people, and other times small groups of survivors arriving on foot. One day, a group of six men had almost made it to the gates when a dozen zombies appeared and cut them off. I was taking food to the people guarding that part of the perimeter, and what I saw terrified me.
No, it wasn’t the ragged, mutilated zombies that sent flaming daggers of fear into my gut. It was the man.
He looked exactly like I’d have expected Mason to look, if I’d only heard about the sadistic, vile things he’d done, rather than experiencing them up close and personal. He was about twenty yards outside the gate when I saw him. The late afternoon sun was quite warm, and they must have been pushing to get here before nightfall because he and a few of the other newcomers had their shirts off, folded and tucked into the waistbands of their pants. His thick, dark hair was plastered to his neck and the sides of his face with perspiration. He got closer to the gate, and when he whirled, swinging a machete at one of the zombies, I saw a gruesome tattoo covering most of his broad back, some sort of winged demon that appeared to be ripping its way out of his spine. I thought he must surely be a demon himself.
The zombies were quickly dispatched, and the gate swung open enough to let the exhausted men inside. I stood, my back to the small gap in the wall from which I’d watched the battle, unable to stop staring at what I was sure was the physical embodiment of evil. As they passed, the man looked right at me. I started to close my eyes, but he gave a hoarse shout and lunged at me, drawing his machete back to strike. I screamed and ducked my head, only to stumble and fall. When I looked up, there was a decapitated zombie lying just feet away. It must have been in close to the wall during the fight, and slipped through the gap when we’d turned our attention to the new arrivals inside the perimeter.
Mr. Evil had just saved my life.
***
The community population had grown to a level that I thought it would be possible to avoid him. When this proved incorrect, I became convinced he was seeking me out, finding ways for our paths to cross.
Even when faced with almost daily fights for survival, people still found time to gossip, and our newest residents caused quite a stir. I heard they’d all served time in the Luther Luckett Correctional Complex up in LaGrange, and had been finishing a sentence at a halfway house when the outbreak started. There was a lot of discussion as to whether they should be allowed to join us, but they’d communicated with the council prior to coming. They were completely honest about what their past lives had been like, and swore a commitment to making their roles in this altered world positive ones. That was what had bonded them together at the halfway house, and why they struck out together when the town was swarmed.
It helped that they brought some useful skills to the table. Mr. Evil, whose name I learned was Quinn, had worked as a diesel mechanic when he wasn’t incarcerated, one was a welder, and two others had solid backgrounds in construction. It was decided they could stay, as long as they proved to be hard workers and abided by the rules the council had established.
To avoid encounters with Quinn, I spent more and more time working on the library project with Jess. This had the added benefit of spending time with her two dogs. I could pet them for hours, taking comfort in their unconditional affection, though I ached every day wondering what had happened to Skip. I put the word out to those who ventured outside the Compound working patrols or scavenging for supplies, asking them to keep an eye out for him, but nobody had seen him.
One day, Jess needed to check on some aspect of the ever-increasing garden plots, and I’d promised to stay at the house and sort through some new manuals that had been found at a technical college.
“I’ll probably only be a couple of hours,” Jess said. “I told Josh to ask around and see if he could find someone to come by and tell us which of the books are most useful, or if any of them are too outdated.”
The idea of being alone in her house with a man – any man – set my stomach churning, but I nodded. Shortly after she left, there was a knock at the door. Of course, it was Quinn.
He wasn’t as tall as I remembered from when he was swinging a machete at my head, but he was broad, seeming to take up more space than the laws of physics would dictate. The sleeves of his chambray shirt were rolled above the elbows, revealing powerful forearms with tattoos much more crudely drawn than the one I’d glimpsed on his back, probably obtained while in prison. His dark eyes revealed little emotion, but something told me he was working hard to present a bland, non-threatening appearance.
It wasn’t working.
We mumbled our way through brief introductions, though we were well aware of each others’ identities. I moved away, putting the boxes of books between us. I couldn’t help watching closely for any sign that he planned to harm me, even as I felt foolish for doing it. I was simply unable to get past his resemblance to a photo that could come out of central casting under “homicidal thug.”
I shook my head to clear my thoughts and realized he was speaking. “Are these the books Josh asked me about?” He was looking at the boxes at my feet. “I had a couple of training classes while I was locked up, so I should be able to tell you which ones will help people learn, and which ones are more advanced.”
His voice was softer than I’d expected, with a subtle hint that he might have at one time lived farther south than Kentucky. “Yes, um, those and one more box in Josh’s office. He was looking through it last night.” Damn. I sounded like I’d been inhaling helium.
He studied me for a moment, then to my relief he moved away, clearing a space on the worktable against the wall. He moved the boxes, and started sorting the books into piles on the table. I went to retrieve the other box, waking both dogs from a nap in the process. They followed me back to where Quinn was working, their keen canine gazes studying him intently. Seeming to make some sort of decision, they settled to the floor beside the table. In between placing books on one pile or another, Quinn dropped his hand to stroke one of the dog’s heads, or ruffle an ear. They were calm and relaxed in his company, and while I’d long advocated trusting a dog’s opinion of people, I couldn’t bring myself to do so in this instance.
He murmured softly to the dogs, his voice gaining volume little by little. Soon, I realized he was speaking to me, as much as to the dogs at his feet. “I had a dog growing up. He was a lab-mix named Bogart. Man, I loved that dog, but he died while I was in jail.” He looked in my direction, not quite meeting my eyes, as if afraid I’d bolt. “It was all so stupid. I was stupid. Everything I knew about cars, stealing them was easy, and not much risk. But when the guys wanted to break into some houses, I should’ve stayed out of it. They said no worries, the family won’t be home, and we aren’t going to carry any guns. Except the family was home, and Dale had his brother’s Glock in his jacket pocket, and he dropped it after he shot over the guy’s head and we ran. Got caught, ‘course. Stupid.”
I found myself replying. “My dog is missing. The looters were robbing my brother’s store, and Skip started barking. They shot Matt, then shot at Skip as he ran away. I don’t know what happened to him.”
His dark brown eyes softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What kind of dog?”
I described Skip, and where I’d last seen him. Quinn said he’d watch for him whenever he was outside the Compound. I felt a little more hope, knowing one more person would be on the lookout for Ski
p. I carried the last box over to the table, and Quinn reached to take it. I was holding it against my chest, and his hand brushed my ribs, just below my breasts. I gasped and dropped the box, taking several lurching steps backward. I knew it had been an accident, but I was unable to stop my reflexive response.
Quinn held his hands in front of him, palms facing me, indicating harmless intentions. He slowly reached for the books as I tried to catch my breath and slow my racing heart. Once he’d placed the box on the table, he said, “Look, Ellen, I understand you don’t know me, but I’m not like those men. I’d never hurt you, or anybody else who wasn’t trying to hurt me or someone I care about first.”
I didn’t like that he knew about those men, but everyone did. “I know,” I said, too quickly.
“Maybe in your head you know that, but your heart, your instincts, they haven’t caught up yet.” He pulled a stack of manuals from the box before turning back to me. “I wish you would try to trust me.” The last was spoken so softly I had to strain to hear.
“Why?” I asked. “Why does it matter if I’m afraid of you?”
He sat down, one hand absently drifting down to rub Riley’s ear. “I don’t know. It just does.”
“If you want me to trust you, you have to do better than that.” Where had that remark come from? I didn’t want to know him well enough to trust him. Did I?
He sighed and fanned through the pages of a thick Caterpillar diesel service guide. “I guess it’s because of how we met.”
“You mean when I thought you were going to decapitate me?”
“When I saw that zombie right behind you and stopped it from killing you.”
“So, what? Is it like those warrior movies where after you save someone, you’re responsible for them?” I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I wanted him to keep his distance, not become my shadow.
He rubbed one broad hand over the dark stubble that covered his jaw. “No, not like that. Well, maybe a little. But it’s more about how it gave me hope.” I raised an eyebrow, indicating skepticism or confusion. Either way, he took it as a sign to continue. “While I was in the halfway house, I promised myself that I wasn’t going back to my old life. I was going to stop being a selfish punk and do something good with my life. Then the outbreak happened, and we were too busy trying to save our own asses to worry about anything else. I saw a lot of people die, but I was never able to do anything about it. After a while, I wasn’t even sure if I would, or if I’d just keep running. But when I saw you, and that zombie, I didn’t even think. I reacted, and that’s when I knew I could do the right thing, that maybe I really was capable of doing something to make this fucked-up world a little better.”
