by Angela Scott
"They're kids," Red said. "Tell them that we'll protect them. We'll shoot the guns and cut off heads. You don't hand them a weapon."
"How 'bout a small knife?"
"No!" Caroline snapped and slapped Wen's shoulder. "No knives. No guns. No swords. They're kids!"
"So what do we do with all the snowmen, then?" Wen gestured toward the populated courtyard. "That's just wasteful."
"Teach us." Red pointed at herself and Caroline. It could prove useful for them to learn how to wield a sword. "I've seen what you're capable of, so why don't you teach me and Caroline? The kids can learn by watching us and you can still have your fun."
Wen looked at Trace, who simply shrugged.
"A'right!" Wen rubbed his hands together and a grin spread across his face. "Let me get the swords."
***
"Now, of course, you're just learning the movement and feel of the sword in your hands." Wen stood at a safe distance, and swung two swords in unison around his body with such fluidity that Red didn't know whether to be amazed or terrified. He'd step to the left and stab an invisible foe on his right. Over and around his head and body, the blades sliced the air, a ting of metal whizzing and vibrating around them.
The kids stood with their tiny jaws open as they watched the precision and beauty of Wen's swordplay. They clapped at his tricks, which only encouraged him to be more daring than Red thought he should. She caught the concern in Caroline's eyes as she watched the man she loved waving the sharp blades around his body, coming within inches of his arms or legs. One small slip or miscalculation, and Wen could be seriously injured. Perhaps that's what made the display all the more intriguing, and why no one said anything to stop him. Even Ira pumped his fist in excitement to keep the show going—an overgrown kid himself.
"The snowmen are for accuracy and aim only," Wen said. "When you really try to sever a head from its body, you'll hit more resistance than you're gonna get here—bone, muscle, stuff like that. You need to make your slice go all the way through, no stopping in the middle. One clean cut."
To show what he meant, Wen twisted his body and leapt up into the air—overdoing it a little, Red thought—and sent the blade right on through the neck of the snowman, spraying the crowd with white crystals.
The kids jumped to their feet, clapping and shouting. Ira showed his approval by banging a crutch on the fort wall.
"Do it again!" Rivers bounced up and down, covered in snow from Wen's inanimate victim. "Another one!"
Wen sailed the sword through a second snowman, which garnished just as much excitement from the kids as the first head-lopping had.
"Okay, you two," he told the kids. "You're both on head duty. Go make two new heads for our snowmen here."
They knelt in the snow wearing makeshift mittens and hats, and gathered the snow into a good-sized ball. The kids became the "head makers" and Trace became the "head placer," setting the newly formed snow heads on top of the decapitated bodies.
"You want to give it a try?" Wen held a sword out to Caroline, who eyed it as though he'd thrown a coiled rattlesnake at her. "Come on, I'll help you."
Red didn't think it looked all that hard, and the fuss and bother Caroline made over the sword put Red off. She'd been a good friend, another woman to talk to, but as she watched Caroline act all meek and helpless while Wen placed his arms around her to help guide the sword, she rolled her eyes.
Without waiting for Wen's instruction or approval, Red took up the second sword, made sure no one stood nearby, and drew it over her head. The blade sliced through the thick neck of the nearest snowman. Clean. Crisp. Precise. The head fell off and rolled a short distance away. With adrenaline rushing through her veins, she twisted around and guided the metal blade through one head after another, scattering the snow, which hung in the air momentarily before falling to the ground.
In the time it took Caroline to dismember one snowman, with Wen's help, Red had destroyed five. If more had been built, she would've taken off their heads as well.
Trace smiled and tipped his thumb at her while addressing the stunned kids. "And that right there is why no one messes with Red."
She lowered the sword as Trace approached her, his grin growing wider with each step. He reached up and brushed the snow crystals from her cheeks and lips before lifting her chin. "You're scary, but I like it."
Chapter 26 – Not Like You
Stupid rooster. Red wanted to throttle its murderous neck. Bloodied, broken, and barely hanging onto life, the poor hen lay on the dirt floor while the cocky rooster pranced about, pecking incisively at it. As much as she wished to save the suffering creature, it was beyond hopeless. The best she could do was put it out of its misery and use the meat for a meal that could last them a few days.
Red kicked at the rooster and it shuffled away. She lifted the battered chicken in her hands and its head flopped sideways. It watched her with beady eyes as blood pumped from a gash on its neck and flowed slick and warm onto her hands.
She'd seen numerous animals butchered for meals while growing up on the farm, and helped her mother prepare most of them. The circle of life. But as she grabbed the chicken's neck and snapped it with one quick twist and pull, a vile sensation built and then ballooned in her throat. Her hands shook as an unnatural longing crawled up from the depths of her stomach and expanded her insides. She couldn't breathe—the smell of iron and copper overpowered her senses; she couldn't think of anything but the dead chicken, the bloody feathers, and the broken bones.
She choked down the urge to tear the chicken apart piece by piece, tendon by tendon, muscle by muscle. Animal instinct pushed up against her closed throat, begging for release, until she felt on the edge of passing out.
"You okay?" Caroline placed a basket of eggs on the ground and reached out to touch Red on the arm. "You don't look so good."
Red shoved the dead chicken into Caroline's hands and pushed past her without a word. She slipped out of sight behind one of the small buildings, and fell to her knees in the snow with her hands stretched out in front of her. She stared at the crimson color that covered her fingers and seeped beneath her nails. The chicken's blood began to dry and harden on her skin, and her heart pounded more insistently within her chest.
She used the snow to scrub her hands raw, turning the whiteness around her into a sickly pink. Though diluted, it was still blood. She knew it, and the darkness inside her knew it, too.
The animal instinct that came alive at the sight of blood and the sound of the chicken's neck breaking screamed for release, and couldn't be held back. It hurt to fight against it.
So she gave in and began to lick her fingers.
***
"Everything a'right?"
Red looked up and saw Trace standing there, watching her. There was nothing left for him to see—her hands appeared free from blood, and the surrounding snow with its once pink hue had all been consumed.
She relaxed her shoulders and climbed to her feet. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Caroline said you were sick."
"No, I'm good." She brushed her hands off on her pants, her fingers too numb to feel the fabric.
His eyes narrowed. "You sure?"
She nodded and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, just in case. "Don't worry about me. I'm okay." Once she'd licked and swallowed the blood, she felt better than she had in a long time—and it scared her.
"Then why you hiding back here?"
"I'm not hiding. I just needed a moment."
"Behind the smokehouse?"
He took a few steps toward her, but Red stepped back, afraid of what she might do. She didn't think she would hurt him, but after the new experience of licking blood from her fingertips, and liking it, better not to take a chance.
"Why not?" she said. "It's as good a place as any."
"You're acting awful strange." He tipped his head and assessed her. "Somethin' ain't right."
"You're the one acting weird." Why won't he stop looking at me? C
an he tell? Does he sense something is different?
"You should go lie down for a bit. I'm sure Caroline can handle dinner."
"But I'm not sick."
"You look kind of pale to me."
Trace reached out to touch her forehead, and she sidestepped his hand. When she realized her error, Red smiled to ease his concern. She needed him not to worry, or suspect anything. More importantly, she needed him not to touch her.
"I always look pale. It comes with the color of my hair. It's a curse."
He appeared unconvinced. "If something was wrong, you'd tell me, right?"
Red smiled again. "Of course, I promise. Go let Caroline know I'll be there in a minute."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be too long."
***
Sleep wouldn't come. Instead of tossing and turning, Red simply lay motionless next to Trace.
She didn't want to sleep in the same room with him, let alone the same bed, but she couldn't come up with a convincing reason why she shouldn't. Trace wouldn't buy her lies anyway. She had no choice but to abide by the established sleeping arrangement and hope she wasn't making a mistake.
To ensure nothing happened, she kept her eyes open and her back to him, but felt every unconscious breath he took. Whenever he shifted, Red shifted as well, curving her body away from his.
The day before, she'd found a great deal of peace lying beside him with his breath on her neck and his arms enfolding her. Now, she battled fear.
Something was seriously wrong with her.
Trace rolled away from her in his sleep, and Red used the opportunity to steal unnoticed from the bed. She grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, slipped her arms into the sleeves, and lifted the collar to her nose to breathe in his woodsy smell. Then she pulled on her boots and inched the door open just enough to slip outside.
The sharp bite of midwinter snatched her breath away, and she drew the jacket even tighter. Millions of stars sparkled overhead and a full moon threw down its light, casting the snow at her feet in an otherworldly glow. With everyone asleep, the only sounds came from the moaning undead on the other side of the fort walls.
The zombies had trickled back in after her brother, John Gatherum, and their travelling companions killed a bunch off a few weeks before. Within a week of the slaughter, enough zombies had gathered outside the fort to fill a small town. The undead had smelled them from miles away, and trapped them inside once again.
She walked toward one of the lookout towers, wrapped her fingers around the rungs of the ladder, and climbed upward. Her breath floated in white puffs that quickly evaporated. At the top, Red shivered from the feeling of uncertainty that penetrated her very core.
As she gazed down, the dark, undead shadows barely moved. Most of the zombies swayed from side to side, since the frigid weather slowed their ability to walk or crawl. They just stood about and stared at the fort walls, too frozen to even claw at them. Once the sun rose, their activity would increase dramatically. The more decayed of the bunch struggled against the bitter cold. The more recently turned ones ambled around in small circles, bumping into one another.
Regardless of their state, all of them ignored her. Their moans of displeasure remained steady and unchanged by her presence.
Red slumped against the railing and squeezed her eyes closed.
The kids loved to climb the towers, but whenever they did, it caused the walking dead below to claw at the walls, pound on the doors, and groan so loudly that they'd banned the kids from climbing them again. The men only ascended the towers twice a day—after breakfast and right before dinner—since the havoc lasted for well over an hour each time. None of them could stand to listen to the noise any longer than necessary.
"Hey," she called down to the zombies. "Up here!"
Her eyes followed them for any hint that they'd heard her. Look at me.
Nothing.
"Do you see me?" She let Trace's jacket slip from her shoulders, baring her skin and scent. She raised her arms, pressed her waist against the railing, and leaned over the edge. "See me! I'm right here." Tears slipped from the outer corners of her eyes and curved under her chin. "I'm right here!"
No reaction. Not even a glance in her direction. The zombies were oblivious to her.
She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to keep from falling apart.
She left the jacket behind and clambered down the ladder. Once her feet hit the dirt, she ran across the courtyard straight to Wen's room. Before opening the door, she stood there with one hand on the knob, calming her breathing, so as not to wake him.
She didn't want to wake anyone.
With a twist of the knob, the door fell open without a sound. She waited, but the occupants of the double bed never stirred. The chill from outside swept through the tiny room, causing the flames in the fireplace to dance and flicker. Wen and Caroline still didn't budge.
Caroline's dark hair fell down her back and over the bare arm Wen had wrapped around her small shoulders. She pressed her face into the dip of his neck. The sleeping couple created a picture of peace and contentment.
Red swallowed the sob that threatened to burst out of her, and glanced around the room, aware of what she looked for, but unsure where it might be.
Her eyes fell on the sheathed blade tucked carefully away in the far corner, and she released her arrested breath. She calculated each step to the corner, then wrapped her fingers around the handle and drew the blade.
A silhouette of the weapon appeared on the wall, a shadow cast in the glow of the firelight as she held it out for inspection. She ran her thumb across the blade and a red line of blood rose to the surface of her skin.
Perfect.
She stepped outside the room and eased the door closed behind her. Wen and Caroline slept on, unaware of her intrusion, exactly as planned.
She quickened her footsteps to match the pace of her heartbeat, and gripped the sword as though it were a lifeline. The heavy gate fought against her, refusing to budge, and she nearly gave up. With a final angry pull, it opened just enough for her to squeeze out and yank it shut behind her. In order to get back within the safety of the walls, someone would have to let her in, but in that moment, she didn't care.
Time to settle a score.
***
The cold air pricked her skin and flowed through her flannel nightgown with ease. The heat of resentment and purpose encased every cell of her body, warming her better than any coat or blanket ever could.
The smell of rotting flesh enveloped her and clung to her skin, hair, and clothes. It didn't matter how many times she smelled a decaying body, the stench still churned her stomach. Whether or not she vomited, she'd continue on.
She expected a siege, —a mass assault from the collected undead. She was used to such, having lived through it numerous times.
With the sword poised above her head, she ground her feet into the soil and positioned herself for an attack.
But they didn't swarm her. They drifted around and absent-mindedly brushed their mangled limbs against her in passing. They didn't growl, moan, sniff, or bare their teeth. In fact, they barely noticed her at all.
Standing in the midst of the dead walkers, fully exposed, Red lowered the sword and guided her hand over her heart, to feel the repeated thumping. She bit her bottom lip to still its quaking. If they didn't see her as human, then what was she? A miracle? No, more like a mistake—a freak of nature that belonged nowhere.
She whipped the sword above her head again and swung it into place. She gritted her teeth so tightly, the fury inside her had no option but to escape through her nostrils in a flared snarl. With a twist of her hips, she sent the blade arcing through the air. With one fluid, circular movement, rotating on the balls of her feet, she swung her arms and sent the blade slicing through the necks of three zombies. Decapitated, the heads wavered for a moment before falling to the ground.
"I'm not one of you!"
She released the intense hat
red for the demons that had made her a freak. Darkened blood, putrid and thick, sprayed across her arms, face, and clothing in her mission to destroy each and every one of the undead creatures.
The blade sung through the crisp air, lopping off heads with each swipe in a grotesque dance between her and the unassuming zombies. Her arms burned and ached, but her white-knuckled grip on the sword handle never wavered. Each rolling head increased her mental tally in her favor—a win in a game she'd thought already lost. She needed to feel the resistance as blade met bone and tendons, sending vibrations up the length of the sword to sting her strained muscles. She welcomed the pain.
How many zombies fell, she couldn't tell. She only saw the dozen or so that continued to stand, and if they still stood, she wasn't finished. Resolve surged through her veins and adrenalin pumped her heart.
"I'm not like you! I'll never be like you!"
Yet she wasn't like the people inside the fort either.
Chapter 27 – Hewn Down
Sleep weighed down Trace's lids. Without opening his eyes, he reached out to pull Red's warm body against his, but found her side of the bed empty, her pillow cool. She'd risen early and didn't want to disturb him. He would've done the same.
Without her body there to hold onto, he chose the next best thing and pulled her pillow toward him, breathing in the scent she'd left behind on the white fabric.
Oh, how I love her.
"Trace!"
Fear coated his name and cut through the morning silence. He bolted upright and wiped the balminess from his eyes, to remove the fog from his brain and to make sense of what was going on.
"Get out here, Trace! Now!"
Wen.
He pulled back the covers and fumbled with his boots, tugging them over his bare feet. The urgency in Wen's voice led Trace to forgo searching for trousers. He subconsciously reached for his jacket on the peg near the door, only to find it missing.
Long johns and boots would have to suffice. If something terrible happened, what would it matter anyway? He grabbed his rifle and opened the door to the bitter cold. It nipped through his drawers, and he took a quick intake of air.
