Gary's Trilogy (Book 3): Still Myself, Still Surviving (The Retaliation)

by Marlin Grail

  Remember, Ashton, stop being a whiner. We all need to change at some point, and what better point than helping fill this absolute emptiness that’s entered me with our loss?

  Gary deserves better than to have his brother decide not to self-improve. He always told me to never stop finding ways to improve. Here’s my chance.

  Again, no harm trying.

  When Hannibal’s gaze darts back at me, I see how surprised he is that I kept my stare on his silently-frustrated figure for as long as I have. It darts quickly where I’m pointing my two fingers. “We could try drawing the hazes in there. Maybe they’ll make it easier for us if they start coming in when most of the undead are dealt with.”

  “So, trap them in there?”

  My lifted smile, the gums of my upper mouth exposing the sign of the dare-devil in me, indicates to him he’s on track with my thinking.

  Hannibal’s expression remains stern. Then he starts to stroke his chin. In a weird way, for a brief instant, I can see Gary in his expression.

  As much as it saddens me to recognize you in him, bro, I’ve got to not forget what you looked like. Every face I forgot before just made every street filled with people, and everyone on a bus, all resemble the ones I truly wanted to erase. It becomes harder to forget you when I purposefully want to.

  This is my undeniable truth.

  “It’s the best option to handle them,” Hannibal ingrains with optimism. “Thank you, Ashton.”

  “What? Did Janice tell you my name?” I distance myself back from any friendly moment he and I just had.

  I have to. Like I’d imagine Lissie’s making an oath to never love again, I’m making an oath to have no more friends. Those three in the group are all I need, and I’m okay with that.

  Hannibal catches onto my withdrawing, and finishes it for us without sending me another spoken word. He walks back down to his officers in silence. I can tell he’s playing with the buttons on his shirt’s cuffs, another significant sign to his raving anxiety. It’s an unspoken message to us how we should all feel…confidently afraid.

  Rather than try to hide fear, and stop trying to lessen the severity of this humongous threat we’re, excuse me, they’re facing head on, we should all not try and hide our quirks. Our nervous pacing, knee-rocking, nail-chomping fear. Yes, I am afraid, but I’m confidently afraid.

  Before a concert, people pipe down, and settle where they stand. Here’s where everyone starts to look that way, and it’s coming faster than I initially thought it would.

  “It’s only 8:18 am,” I mumble to myself. My attention swipes left and right fast, then faster, even faster than that, hoping I see a little shuffle, an interruption, from the several officers, from the guns raised shoulder-level, and the hands gripping to the handles of those turrets. “Come on, someone…Janice!”

  I can count on you, Janice, to soothe me. Interrupt for me. Please.

  Something snaps. I shout and shout with my hoarse throat, worried she won’t hear though.

  However, I shouldn’t have doubted her protective instincts wouldn’t come to the rescue.

  I see a pale hand, veins of age trenched in the thin skin, wedge in between several shoulders, bodies much taller than her. She’s never rushed to a jog as fast and as determined as she is to get to me now.

  Hannibal delays any further action, which calms me down, but I now skyrocket in humiliation over my quite apparent fear. I know she sees this, and she shows a nursing hand to mine.

  She’s the friend, the caretaker, the mother I’ve trialed her to prove herself as for so long. I’d punch myself every time before now for having taken it for granted.

  “Are you okay, Ashton?” she asks with a lilt of panic.

  “Yes…no,” I respond, ashamed. “Janice…I’m…I’m…scared.”

  “It’s okay. I’m scared too.”

  “Am I going to be easy to take out there?”

  She shows ambivalence when she’s stumped to quickly respond. It’s as though she wants to say “Yes” but can’t—because that’s not needed.

  “What is it?”

  “Hannibal doesn’t plan on us leaving.”

  Chapter XXVI

  I’d love to spring off my bed, be irate with both legs happily kicking at Hannibal, but my foot refuses to let any natural turn or twist come about. It makes me roar, but I lie on my back doing so, mainly in rage rather than pain.

  I’m in my own tantrum.

  “Hannibal! Hannibal, get over here!”

  He couldn’t be any more insulting to my patience, since he walks to me without hustle. He’s irritated, looking as if I’m the cranky grandmother who needs her meds.

  “What, Ashton?” He does nothing to hide his annoyance with me.

  I should be the one having the right to be agitated, and I am, but don’t dare try to defend yourself by being pissy with me!

  “What the hell?” My question is as baffled as I can intentionally express to show it isn’t related to my foot’s pain. I start coughing, becoming over-excited by my hissing and squirming.

  Janice, as always remains nurturing. She murmurs soothing noises while Hannibal just stands over me, with no real interest in my condition. This helps burn out the liquid in my throat.

  “You want to stay here, even after maybe taking care the problem?”

  “We have to,” he defends confidently with a chin held high. “This is where our base of operations is at—”

  “The hell, man? Forget trying to better the world!”

  I still have no idea what they’ve been doing here, what he knows that I don’t, but I know, for certain, the world’s not getting any better any time soon.

  He tolerates my yelling, though I can tell I’m reaching thin ice when he rests one palm over the other by his pelvis. This is a sign I saw in men I brawled with before. Many do it to try and remain above the situation.

  They fail miserably all the time, though.

  “Ashton, this is our last place that the outside hasn’t yet corrupted. We’re cleaning what’s out there, because we’ll need to eventually spread our people back out, including you guys.”

  I bite my tongue against the vision of bringing him down to my level, and choking him with that damned tie of his. Instead, I remember my motivational thought.

  “Do better for yourself, Ashton. For Gary.”

  I close my eyes, breathe out my nostrils heavily the way a beast would, and reset my tone to a new approach. Working to be calm. “Hannibal, you’re smart enough to know that once these doors let in the undead and hazes, this place is forever corrupted to what the world’s become.”

  He rises his heels off the ground repeatedly, staring at the ground now.

  He’s not ignoring me. He’s slowly coming around. Let’s pursue this, Ashton.

  I start to sympathize with his headstrong will about preserving his operation’s presence here. My eyes let him know this, and he allows himself to receive the sympathy.

  “It’s okay to let go, Hannibal. You wouldn’t be failing human kind. Human kind isn’t there yet, where the majority needs someone like you to fix what they’ve grown tired of. Believe me, so many people out there have adapted.”

  “But, this, this needs to end!” he vocalizes with desperation, a finger point striking invisible lighting to the floor with each word.

  He’s afraid to give up. He won’t be giving up. He wants to cling on to the cause, but the cause can’t hold on anymore. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for another year. It’s not time, yet.

  We don’t have time.

  “Hannibal, you’d already be ahead out there. You’ve got numbers, weapons, and supplies. Let us help you embrace that head start.”

  His eyes roll in his head like an angsty teen, but this teen is responsible for dozens of lives right now. He needs to scratch that nose for as long as he needs to, and let his hands flail in disbelief.

  But, by the end of it all, he needs to make the best choice for everyone.

  Janice make
s the heroic effort to defuse anymore conflicting dialogue between Hannibal and me, by triangulating our thoughts to an agreed act. “Let’s clean the outside up first. Then, if we want, we can dispute this afterword.”

  Her way of talking is always potent to relax the uneasiness happening, rarely kicking the negativity down the road.

  She gets Hannibal to agree.

  He pauses and then, “Sure. We’ll talk about this after.”

  I’m already expecting that talk will never come, not because he chooses not to, but, because we’ll have no choice but to go with the most self-preserving course of action. Fleeing the site when the right opening is available.

  I’ve got one more question. “Janice, will I be okay just left here?”

  She opens her mouth, but Hannibal interrupts to answer for her. “This corner is completely in the dark. And, with the turret positioned by your barrier, you’ll be absolutely protected. I guarantee it.”

  “Don’t guarantee,” I critique with a grin. “Just say ‘it’ll work’.”

  “It’ll work,” he replies with a barely visible smirk on his face.

  And, just like that, he ghosts.

  Two officers come over. They’re positioned to grab hold of that turret. He orders them to be the flank on the undead, while at the same time being my protector.

  This is crazy, but this would have to occur at some point in time. What about when supplies ran low? Better now when we’re all fed up enough with our lack of “homey” space to face this problem head on.

  “You’ll be safe,” Janice assures once more. Then, she slowly, and unfortunately, detaches from my hand.

  I watch her the whole way back to the front lines of our battle formations. Sadness tugs me, but I can’t dwell on the feeling. Otherwise, I won’t be ready for what’s coming next.

  I accompany, possibly also motivate, these two officers. I figure one will fire, no confusion about it, while the other will watch their ammunition feed. Down back to the front lines, I see Will has taken up that occupation beside a turret.

  An assistant. Will might have found his comfortable ground in life. Assisting. That’s not a jab at him, by any means. Will’s our new leader, and our group is unanimously being led by Hannibal’s faction. We’re assisting, not leading any of this.

  Lissie has handguns in both hands, no doubt paying homage to her knight in shining armor. Janice? Hard to see what she’s got in hand, or is helping with. What I give as a reminder is that there are these two officers on my left. Past my barriers, they’re still people for me to look after.

  I assist in that regards.

  You and I, Will, possibly you too, Janice, are assistants, and that’s who we don’t mind being. I think we’re tired of taking point. We just want to live without being harassed. We’ll provide the bullets and boosts, but I think we’re wanting to break away from having to drain ourselves, without our own aid looking after us.

  Four officers hurry down the empty walking grounds, hustling over towards the doors. They nod at Hannibal, who nods back.

  It’s time.

  The soldiers enact the first manual folds. Left side, right side, both just bent open enough to coax those undead to let themselves split those rectangular folds on their own. They pancake the doors wider and wider as they work on slipping their decaying bodies through.

  Our men sprint back in a flash. A sprinting athlete would definitely be proud of how fast they book it.

  My breathing slows as my vision zeroes in on the breaching bodies. Everyone is counting on each other to be coherent, better than the currently slipping-in undead that trail behind one another.

  This is how we’ll separate ourselves from them. Teamwork.

  The turrets don’t feel pressured to pop the first few heads. That was for the first few though. I’m stuck here. I can’t speak or I give my location away. While my thoughts aren’t loud enough to block out the bullet pops, and their tail-end echoing after, I can only lie here, listen, and watch.

  I can only spectate and root for our team—like it’s a macabre football game.

  I’ll have fun with this, because it’s the only way to not be shitting myself while watching their numbers gradually increase.

  They start tumbling over their fellow undead’s bodies. It’s starting to get confusing which of them are dead, and which are still playing dead—pun intended.

  Humor will keep me self-improving. Gary would want me to still make fun in a serious situation, because that’s in my control against a bad time.

  However, I won’t ever make fun about our loss of you…

  Chapter XXVII

  (Gary)

  1 Hour Later…

  I felt peace in the void of darkness. My fragmented memory of the dreams I had made sure they gave me that warm, cozy, selfish desire for more sleep.

  For only a split second though.

  It’s not warm anymore. My back’s getting stabbed hard by the texture of a truck’s bed. It’s not happily hot whatsoever. My finger twitches to regain sense of where I am, but then it also signals to me who I’m with.

  “Go the shit back to sleep!” Claw growls.

  He knows I won’t obey, and I start to grunt up awake. Maybe a foot off the bed’s surface, maybe, then smack on sore head again. I can feel the hit, but only for a moment. I can only imagine it will grow tender when I’m allowed full wakefulness.

  When I’m allowed.

  I’m not right now. Claw’s made sure of that.

  When my conscious repeats the way it did before—where it wanted more warmth to drift away to a cozier feel, then re-awareness to what’s happened—this time I sum up the intelligence to not flinch a muscle in me. Nor open my eyes.

  Play if off like you’re asleep still. Bide your time. When least expected, you’ll rid of Claw once and for all. Then…what then? What’s left in life?

  I wake myself up, but not in the traditional sense of doing so. My mind winds up, as though it’s been working for several conscious hours, but my body remains stiff. It’s discomforted by the awkward handling of being strictly laid out on this truck’s bed in a particular way. The bed vigorously bounces up and down, and my working mind questions how I could’ve slept for as long as it feels I have.

  However, this stiffness won’t stop me from pouncing into action at lightning bolt speed. I recall the way it sounded Claw’s voice was coming from. He’s to my right side.

  I’ll just lunge straight at him. When this truck comes to a stop, I’ll do it. I’ve got no more risks I’m taking even if I can’t kill him…maybe I should sleep some more? I could potentially see this being the last time I can sleep, or last time I wake up from a slumber anyway.

  Stay in-between like I’m currently. Partly awake and partly asleep.

  The truck’s steady incline tests my ability to play ragdoll so that Claw, or anyone else on the bed, doesn’t catch me when I slide down the textured bed. The top of my head crashes hard to the bed’s door guard.

  My internal voice knows how much my nerves are in shock from the hit to my head. There’s no doubt that’s going to be some bruise that grows in the future. That is if I last long enough to feel the bruise in the first place.

  I’ve already made your peace. I’ve got nothing, no one, left to live for. There’s no glimmer of triumph over C.F.O.G. I’ve made your peace…

  A low-key voice sounds behind me. It’s easily any average male’s voice. Except the cadence gives it away. It’s slow, slamming hard on the last word it always says…

  It’s Ominous. “This is as far as we should go.”

  “All right,” Claw announces out loud. He then bangs the side of the truck with his palm. The truck comes to a firm stop, once more bumping my head against the door guard. This signals pain to all of my nerves again.

  Masculine grunts and groans rise all around me. Burps of calmness, pats to the car’s frame, all as though everything’s right.

  Maybe for them it is.

  I hear Claw’s body plung
e out of the bed, smack-dab to the ground. Again, there’s another round of masculine grunts and groans of calmness. “Anybody got a match?” he asks. “To wake him up?”

  You’re not assaulting, or humiliating me one more damn time. I’ve been jotting mental notes to defend why you deserve a bullet or knife to your body’s precious organs. Why I should tear through your brain or heart.

  It could be either one to me. You’re not adding another damn reason to that list.

  It’s time I make my move…

  Without trouble, but also without grace, I bolt up, and dive right into him.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Our rigid shoulders bang violently against one another. Because I’m graceless about it, when I fall, and he doesn’t, my hands remain clenched tight to his jacket. It’s as though I’m a football player desperate to pull my opponent down with me.

  But I’ve underestimated his ability to change direction, ever so slightly, to protect himself from my tackle at last second.

  “Good lord, Gary,” he mocks. “You are pathetic.”

  I resist with all my might, but Claw breezily pulls off each one of my fingers until not one’s left on his jacket. My right index jams when it hits the ground. My body is so weak it couldn’t fight gravity from pulling it down.

  I’m weak. On so many levels right now, I’m weak.

  “Gary,” he says, now with pity. Claw meets me eye-level in my kneeling position, seeing as how I don’t have the energy to rise up off the dirt. “So much has been offered to you. Yet, you still want to just be a survivor.”

  I only glimpse in his direction every time he snaps his fingers for me to do so, but I mostly just stare at the ground behind his back. He tries to silently signify his control over that even, only helping me look to see more detail of the grass behind him as he leans to my ear.

  “You know, as well as I, that you’re no better than us. Be with your own kind.”

  I’m nothing like you. You dare have it sound as though I’d sit down, agree with you, then pass a beer over.