by Randy Henson
I uncapped the water bottle’s built in straw and squeezed. Water shot out of the thick straw and into my mouth. It felt crisp and cool and tasted like a miracle. I squirted some on top of my head to let it run down my face and the back of my neck as I jogged. Then I recapped the straw and returned the bottle to my backpack.
I looped my arms back through the backpack’s straps as I continued to jog after my brother. We jogged for another mile or so until my brother’s legs started to shake. He finally stopped and leaned against a tree with his right shoulder. He panted as his starved lungs sucked in much needed oxygen.
I had learned better than to say his name or touch him when he got like this. He was confused and frightened and had no idea who he was or what was going on. All he knew was that he had to get away, even if that meant getting away from me.
My brother was a Category Three. I had learned at The Compound in New Orleans that the infected had been grouped into five categories.
Category Ones had it the best as far as the infected were concerned. They could speak, they remembered languages, and some of them even remembered their own names and the names of loved ones; but, like the rest of the categories, they couldn’t remember what happened yesterday.
All of those infected with The Plague apparently have their memories erased every time they fall asleep and experienced REMs, rapid eye movements.
Category Twos could remember a few words of speech and seemed to understand more than they could speak.
Category Threes, like Jack, couldn’t speak at all unless they were repeating something they heard someone say. Some of the more insensitive uninfected people called Category Threes ‘parrots’. I had broken a man’s jaw for calling Jack ‘Toucan Sam’. That’s why Jack and I had to leave The Compound in Atlanta.
I never had that bad a temper growing up. I still don’t, except for when it comes to someone mistreating my brother. I also tend to lose my temper when it comes to men trying to rape me. Luckily, no one has tried to rape my brother yet. There’s no telling what I would do then.
Category Fours are really bad. I guess I should feel grateful Jack is only a Category Three, although feeling grateful for anything nowadays strikes me as strangely absurd. If I was in a grateful mood, I would also feel grateful that the categories don’t digress, or at least I haven’t run across a case yet where this has happened. In other words, Category Ones don’t deteriorate into Category Twos, Twos into Threes, and so on. That would be bad, or I should say worse. Category Fours can’t remember how to eat, bathe, or how to relieve themselves.
Category Fives are the worst cases. They have forgotten everything. They have even forgotten what fear is. They have no respect for all the things that deserve our respect, such as heights, guns, fire, and bears, just to name a few. Many have died just climbing out of windows or walking into campfires. Category Fives don’t last long without constant supervision. Many don’t last long with it.
Since The Plague outbreak ten months ago, I have only run across two physicians and one nurse. All three of them told me the same thing, that so far The Plague only did two things: it attacked the host’s memory and it changed the color of its host’s eyes. The Plague turned the whites of the eyes red and the irises yellow. The doctors and the nurse said that the whites turned red from burst capillaries. None of them had a hypothesis as to why the irises turned yellow. They were completely baffled.
Both the doctors also confirmed this little tidbit: throughout history all plagues have mutated. In other words, things were bound to get a lot worse before they got better.
As my brother leaned against the tree and caught his breath, I reached into my shirt and pulled out the large heart shaped locket that hung around my neck from a thick piece of twine, the gold chain having broken when some bastard at The Compound in Atlanta had snatched it from my neck.
I opened the locket and it played its tune, Beethoven’s ‘Fur Elise’.
My brother immediately jerked away from the tree and his head swiveled. He stared at me as I pretended to ignore him.
I let go of the locket and let it fall between my breasts. I then shrugged off my backpack and sat down against a tree. I hummed along with the locket as I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a water bottle.
I looked over at my brother as he moaned and stared at me with his red and yellow eyes.
I continued to hum as I uncapped the water bottle’s straw. I then stopped humming as I opened my mouth and squirted a long stream of cool water into it.
My brother moaned and took a couple of tentative steps toward me.
I licked my lips and said, “Mmmm, yummy.”
Jack moaned again and shuffled closer.
“Water,” I said as I held out the water bottle and offered it to him.
Jack shuffled closer to me and said, “Yummy.”
“Very yummy, Jack,” I said as I sat the bottle down on the ground beside me. I then put my right hand to the locket and began humming along with it again. I turned the locket around with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand so I could look at it right-side up. It was large for a locket, about the size of a silver dollar and almost as thick as a pack of playing cards, and on the inside of the locket were pictures of our parents, our mother in the left side half of the open heart and our father nuzzled in the right side.
Jack sat down Indian style about ten feet away from me as I continued to hum along with the locket.
“Jack, Jack,” my brother said as he pressed his palms into the earth and swung himself closer to me.
“Mmmm, Jack, Jack,” I said. I continued to hum as I picked up the water bottle. Then I stopped humming as I squirted some cool water into my mouth. When I was done I leaned forward and placed the water bottle down between us. I then leaned back against the tree again and continued my humming.
Jack scooted closer until he could reach the water bottle. His left hand froze inches from the bottle as he looked from it to me, his eyebrows seeming to rise even higher than usually, his expression even more fearful than usual, as he said, “Jack, Jack?”
“Hmmm, yummy,” I said.
“Yummy,” Jack said as he picked up the bottle, stuck the straw into his mouth, and squeezed.
As Jack drank, I noticed that the locket had slowed. I thumbed the wheel on the back of the locket, winding it, and ‘Fur Elise’ kicked back up to speed.
When Jack had squeezed and sucked all the water out of the bottle, he tilted his head back and shook the bottle over his mouth. He then lowered his head, looked at me, and said, “Jack, Jack?”
I reached into my backpack and pulled out another bottle. This bottle didn’t have a built in straw. Instead it had a nozzle you pulled out, like a bottle of dish liquid. I pulled the nozzle open and squirted water into my mouth. The water didn’t stay as cool in this bottle as it did in the other, but it still felt and tasted great, especially after all the running we had done. I swallowed and held the bottle out to Jack.
Jack scooted closer and looked at me with the same frightful expression.
I shook the bottle slowly from side to side and said, “Yummy.”
“Yummy,” Jack agreed and took the bottle from me.
Jack lowered his head and sucked on the bottle as he peeked up at me and scooted closer. He stopped when our knees were almost touching.
I leaned my head back against the tree and rolled it slowly from side to side, massaging my scalp with the tree bark as I closed my eyes and hummed.
Ten minutes later the water bottle was empty and Jack was lying fetal and holding my left hand inside both of his, his head in my lap as he hummed along with me and the locket. I licked my right thumb and gently rubbed the dried blood off my brother’s neck. It was only a scratch, thank God. I then lazily ran the fingers of my right hand through his hair, massaging his scalp as I continued to massage my own against the tree bark.
As my brother’s breathing slowed and he began to snore, I dropped my chin to my chest and allowed myself to cry.
CHAPTER FOUR
These kids are like a pair of rhinos, Orin thought. You didn’t have to be a Comanche scout to track them. A dying man could track them. A dying man was tracking them.
Orin stopped and shifted his weight, getting a better grip on both the bedrolls tucked under his arms. They were light as feathers, but they were large and puffy and wanted to slip out from underneath his arms. Once he had a good grip on them he continued walking.
After what seemed like forever he came to a large field. When he saw the size of the field he was surprised he couldn’t see the boy and girl yet. He could see their trail, though. These kids may have lacked stealth, but they sure could move.
He made it halfway across the field when he heard a gunshot behind him and he stopped. It sounded like the report from a rifle, but he couldn’t be sure. He guessed it was a couple of miles away. Was someone following him? Was someone following the boy and girl? If so, then why the shot? Why warn them of their presence? He shook his head and continued walking. It was probably just someone hunting breakfast.
He made his way across the field and his mind wandered to The Compound in Atlanta. He should have burned it to the ground before he left. He was surprised the girl hadn’t burned it down. This thought made him shake his head and chuckle.
He had chuckled when she had shot the big man in the butt. He had also chuckled when she shot the man that was sitting on the ground, although not at first. At first he had been shocked. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Neither had the others, he thought.
The big man had blamed Orin for his injury and the death of his buddy. He had said Orin was to blame because he had gotten the drop on them and had taken their rifle and pistols. That was true. Orin had robbed them of their guns because he had noticed that they were tracking the girl. He had noticed because he was tracking her too.
What the big man hadn’t known was that Orin was even more to blame than that. Orin was the one who had given the girl the pistol she had shot them with. He had slipped a gun belt with two holstered pistols under the covers of the girl’s bunk the night before she had left The Compound in Atlanta. He had also slipped a box of bullets under the covers as well.
He had chuckled when the girl had broken that one man’s jaw at Atlanta’s Compound. He hadn’t been close enough to hear what the man had said to her. It was obviously something she hadn’t liked because she had smashed him in the face with the pop bottle she had been sipping from. It was then that Orin had decided to leave her the pistols.
The first time Orin had noticed her was when she had broken a man’s leg. Actually, he had noticed her a few moments before. He had been eating a bowl of noodles at The Mezzanine and was doing a little girl watching, because that’s what guys do; they watch girls. The first thing he had noticed was her amazing figure. She was athletic and toned, but she didn’t look like she was starving herself either.
Then he noticed her hair; it was wavy and shiny and the darkest red he had ever seen. He hadn’t even noticed it was red at first, not until the sunlight had hit it just right. For a moment he thought maybe she dyed it, but he quickly dismissed that idea. Some women still dyed their hair, but those were the women who still wore dresses and jewelry.
The girl wore faded blue jeans, hiking boots, and a man’s white t-shirt. The only thing about her that suggested that she cared about her appearance was that the t-shirt she was wearing was bright white and it looked like she kept it clean. Then again, maybe it had just come out of the package and this was the first time she had worn it.
Then he noticed some sort of pendant hanging from her neck. It flashed gold when the sunlight hit it. Maybe she did dye her hair after all.
Orin felt a twinge of jealousy when he noticed she was holding a young man’s hand. He was a big, well-built, good looking fella with golden curls that were swept back and secured in a ponytail. Orin thought the man’s eyes glowed, that they had turned, so he was probably infected. He was probably a Category One and had been her boyfriend before the outbreak.
Her eyes weren’t infected, though. Her eyes were a bright green. He could tell that even from a hundred feet away. They were mesmerizing. They sparkled like two flakes of jade.
He was admiring her eyes when a rough looking man walked up to her and her boyfriend and got in their faces. The boy took a step back, but the girl held her ground. The rough looking man said something and the girl said something back. Then the man snatched the pendant and tore it from her neck, breaking the chain.
The girl didn’t even flinch. She just reacted. As soon as the chain broke, the girl kicked the man in the knee. And it hadn’t been any girly kick either. She twisted her body, throwing her hip and all of her weight into it, as she dropped the heel of a hiking boot onto the man’s knee. Orin could hear the loud crack from where he was sitting as the man’s leg bent at an abnormal angle and the man fell to the ground screaming.
Orin noticed that the girl hadn’t let go of her boyfriend’s hand; not when she kicked the man and not when she bent over to pick up her pendant where the man had dropped it. The boyfriend tried to let go and pull away from the girl after the girl stood back up. The girl wouldn’t let go though. She just took two steps closer to the screaming man who was clutching his knee, and then she kicked the man in the side of the head and knocked him out.
Orin had laughed at that. He had kicked his share of men in the head before, but he had never been able to knock a one of them out. Next time he’d remember to throw his hip into it like the girl had. He watched the girl slip the pendant into the front left pocket of her blue jeans as she turned and led her boyfriend away.
He watched the girl and boy walk away hand-in-hand and it was then that Orin decided he would keep an eye on them.
Orin thought about introducing himself to the young woman and her boyfriend, but had eventually decided against it. Instead he asked around about them.
Their last name was Deville. The young man’s name was Jack, but no one seemed to know the young woman’s name. Jack was seventeen and the girl was twenty. They turned out to be brother and sister. Everyone called the young woman Devil Girl, but no one knew why. Orin thought about it and realized it had to be because of their last name. Then he thought about the jaw and the knee he had seen the girl shatter and he thought maybe there was more to her nickname than just a play on her last name.
Orin had felt a sense of relief when he had found out that Jack was her brother and not her boyfriend. Then he cursed himself for fantasizing like a fool. He didn’t have enough time left for romance. He was quickly running out of medicine, and he was afraid he was building a tolerance against the injections.
It was time for another injection. Once he had left the exposed terrain of the field and had entered the forest, Orin dropped the bedrolls and unzipped his fanny pack. He couldn’t believe he now wore a fanny pack where his gun belt used to hang. But he figured he shouldn’t regret it. He couldn’t have put the pistols to any better use than Devil Girl had, or whatever her name was.
He pulled a small injection gun from the fanny pack. He then reached into the fanny pack for a medicine pellet when he realized there was already one preloaded into the injection gun. He had forgotten he had done that. He didn’t like forgetting stuff. It never failed to creep him out when he forgot something, and it always sent a chill up and down his spine.
Orin knelt onto his right knee and rested his left elbow onto his left knee. His shirtsleeve was already rolled up but he pulled it up further to expose more of his arm. He then pressed the muzzle of the injection gun into the crook of his arm and pulled the trigger. Then he put the injection gun back into the fanny pack and zipped it closed. He grabbed the bedrolls, tucked them under his arms, and stood.
As soon as he stood, he heard the barking. He turned his head and concentrated. The barks were the barks of dogs, not wolves or coyotes, he was pretty sure. Someone was definitely hunting. Orin hoped they were hunting four legged game.
He waited
five minutes or so until he was sure the dogs really were getting closer. Then he turned and continued to follow the trail the brother and sister had left behind. Only now he double timed it.
CHAPTER FIVE
I had a good cry and then I reached into my backpack and pulled out a pair of scissors. I began slowly and gently cutting off Jack’s ponytail. Live and learn… that’s what they say. I decided I would cut my own hair as well when I found the time and a mirror. All the crap I’d survived the last ten months, it would be a shame to meet my end due to something as inane as vanity.
When I had freed Jack’s ponytail, I tossed it into some bushes. I then started trimming the hair above his ears when I heard movement from somewhere behind us. I turned my head as I leaned to my left and peered around the tree.
Someone was coming.
I dropped the scissors and slowly slipped my right-side pistol from its holster while I scanned the terrain behind us for intruders.
“Don’t shoot me,” I heard someone say.
I looked in the direction of the voice and I saw a young man walk around a cluster of small pines. He was carrying something under each arm.
“Let me see your hands,” I said as I leveled my pistol at him.
The man walked a little closer and dropped the bundles he had been carrying. I recognized them; they were Jack’s and my bedrolls.
“You left these behind. I thought you might need them,” the young man said as he raised his hands and showed me his empty palms.
“Who are you? Why are you following us?” I asked him.
“My name’s Orin Clarke. And I’m only sort of following you, but not really.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
