Apocalyptica (Book 3): Ran

by Joshua Guess

  All sense of up and down was gone. The floor was hard and cold but not especially painful when I rolled out of bed and thumped down on it. My throat was constricted, too narrow to scream but just enough to breathe. My skin was tight against my muscles, stretched like rubber to the point of breaking.

  I had a moment of utter clarity during which I thanked Carla for suggesting Nikola stay down in the bunker. Then I had a seizure. Maybe a series of them.

  I can’t be sure that’s what happened because, you know, seizures are famously impossible to recall for the people having them. I knew time passed because the digital clock jumped forward a few times. Somewhere in there my tortured brain shrieked to just let me die, the pain in my body too intense and shifting to tolerate.

  There was no rage. Not the ‘oh, I want to shred your flesh to ribbons because you look delicious’ variety, at any rate. Sometime during my bout of muscular and neurological spasms I began to worry I’d just end up with permanent brain damage, and that pissed me off thoroughly. I hadn’t made it this far to end up vegetative. No sir.

  Fact: at a certain point, pain can make you pass out. I didn’t reach it.

  Which isn’t to say I was fully or even partially aware most of that time. While I did catch the occasional glimpse of the clock, it was in a disassociated way. The numbers made sense to the ingrained pathways in my brain, the impenetrable logic stored in my neurons giving me a rational understanding. It was an entirely separate experience from the pain, which reached a crescendo more than fifteen minutes after the writhing agony in my flesh began.

  Then it dropped away. A rippling ache was the only residue, the only proof of the bone-cracking muscle spasms which had vanished all at once.

  I gasped ragged breaths on the floor of my room, interspersed with equally threadbare sobs when my lungs could manage to spit them out. Sweat poured from me, with no sign of stopping.

  Someone knocked on the floor. I heard a muffled voice say my name.

  “Are you okay?”

  I could just make out the shouted words and knew I didn’t have the lung capacity to answer. Instead I rolled my limp hand over and made a weak fist. Three fast taps, three slow taps, three fast taps. Or as close as I could come to it in that state.

  I didn’t hear an acknowledgment, but I was too exhausted to get upset about it. The heat in my bones, seemingly an artifact of whatever attack had hit my system, wasn’t going away. I continued to sweat profusely. I felt it rising, warming me like a sunrise. Assuming the sun was rising in Hell.

  I blacked out, which was fine. Ideal, really. Then I woke up—no, I woke THE FUCK up—as someone poured liquid nitrogen over every square inch of my body.

  My eyes burned from the sudden light. I found myself naked but for my boxer shorts, lying in the tub, and surrounded by worried and curious people.

  “J-just like college,” I said through chattering teeth.

  Carla leaned in and turned off the shower, then tossed a towel over me. “Sorry. You were burning up. I needed to get you cooled down as fast as possible. I undressed you, but I needed help to get you in here.”

  I let my head thump back against the wall and took some time to relish the cool droplets rolling down my skin. “Thanks,” I rasped. “I’m not inclined to give a shit about modesty right now.”

  Jem’s head appeared over Carla’s shoulder. “What happened? We heard you scream a couple times, but when we found you, you were just passed out.”

  My hand drifted automatically to my neck. “Felt like I was being tortured.” I briefly described the various sensations. “I thought I was dying.”

  Carla’s head cocked curiously. She knelt down next to the tub and gently pulled my hand away, tugging the edge of the towel down to expose the base of my throat. “Huh. That’s weird.”

  I sighed heavily. Weird was probably not ideal. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Hush,” she said. “Jem, lean in here. What do you see?”

  Jem’s frame was slightly too large for the bathroom, his shadow spilling over and blocking much of the light from the vanity. His eyes narrowed as he examined my neck. “It looks like it’s fading to me. Doesn’t seem nearly as dark.”

  “Stop,” I said. “Please be quiet. And give me a few minutes.”

  You know that thing people do where they think they know what’s best for you? Genuinely good people will often take statements like mine and interpret them through a filter. Maybe you just want to avoid talking about it, maybe you’re secretly asking for the opposite of what you actually want. I considered it a credit to the three of them—even Tony, who had silently watched from behind the others—that they took my words at face value. They were perceptive and empathetic enough to know that I didn’t have that many layers. What you see is what you get.

  So they left, Carla shutting the door behind her. It wasn’t that I wanted bad news and was upset by the potentially good. I very much wanted to be well, to live. It was just about being realistic; we had no idea how Nero worked, no clue how it might progress, and I didn’t want casual observations that might be laughably premature to get my hopes up.

  Not to skate too lightly over my suffering, but the next few days could be generously described as a mixed bag. Carla, who wasn’t nearly old enough for the job, took to mothering me in between managing what the boys were doing. I knew peripherally that Jem and Tony were slowly hauling truckloads of stuff to the property, and that they’d caught glimpses of other survivors while in town.

  My ability to concentrate on the goings-on was limited, because I kept having more of those attacks. None of them hit me with the strength of that first one, but even the follow-ups were enough to rattle me for hours afterward. The only positive spin I could put on them aside from the decrease in intensity was my ability to feel them coming. I suspect I’d have known something was terribly wrong when the first hit me had I been awake at the time.

  I was curled up on the couch—I would need to reorganize the house so my bed didn’t constantly sit in the way of the bunker entrance—while Carla sat in the recliner working on several running lists of supplies and plans. Two days had passed, forty-eight hours of occasional seizures, fevers, and bone-rattling muscle spasms.

  A familiar flush ran through me, as if someone turned on the hot water taps in my veins. “Another one,” I said, just before the first wave of spasms hit me.

  Carla saw me through it, as she had with most of the fits so far. I’d been the one to suggest taking measurements. It struck me as a good idea to know as much as we could, despite her reluctance to do anything but comfort me. Treating me like a lab rat wasn’t in her nature, but I’m known for my stubbornness.

  It was over in fifteen minutes, and as fucking awful as I felt, the new entry in the small notepad Carla used to record observations gave me hope. My fever was lower each time, the duration of the episode shorter. Fewer seizures, and my own notes showed a trend of less and less severe pain in my muscles.

  “Won’t be too long until you’re done having these altogether,” Carla said as she brought me a glass of water. “I’ll be glad. It feels ghoulish taking notes while you’re sitting there jerking around.”

  I downed the whole glass in one go. “Hey, I didn’t piss myself this time. That’s a win.” I put the glass on the table, and Nikola raised his head off the floor to sniff it. “Don’t assume it’s going to be over. This might be a side effect of Nero that doesn’t go away. I could have these the rest of my life.”

  Carla made a dismissive pfft sound. “You’re too negative. If you’re getting better, that implies you’ll get over this. You’re awfully cynical.”

  “Really?” I said. “Does that surprise you? Given, you know, the whole thing were I spent my childhood in what eventually became a cult? Because that being stipulated, I think I qualify as a realist.”

  She looked horrified, and tried to stammer an apology. I smiled and waved it away.

  “It’s fine, really. It’s easy to forget how awful it sounds
to other people, but it really was a long time ago for me. Let’s say it taught me some lessons about expectations.”

  Carla went to refill my glass. “About not getting your hopes up?”

  “Sure,” I said. “When I got myself free, I saw a psychiatrist for a few years. I was having nightmares every time I fell asleep. The doctor explained they’d become less frequent over time, and might go away entirely.”

  “Did they?” Carla asked when she sat back down.

  I shrugged. “Mostly. I still have dreams about it now and then. That’s fundamentally different from this, though. I can’t risk going out there,” I said, waving a hand at the front door, “when I might start seizing at any time. I don’t want to risk anyone’s safety like that.”

  She fixed me with a measuring gaze. “And you feel guilty about not being able to help.”

  “Ah,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You sneaky bitch! You’re trying to be my shrink!” I said it as playfully as possible, to let her know I was joking or at the very least didn’t mind. I knew it came from a good place. I also got the sense that she didn’t usually spend much time with women, socially speaking. It was a position I understood, since I didn’t socialize with anyone. Some people are more comfortable around one type of person. I’m not overly comfortable around any kind of people.

  “Minor in psychology,” Carla said.

  I propped myself up in the couch, sitting lotus with the blanket wrapped around my legs. “I think I’d have gotten better faster if not for the attacks. The first one happened six months after I escaped.”

  “What, like panic attacks?” Carla asked, intense interest on her face.

  I laughed. “Oh, no. I had those, sure, but I mean actual, physical assaults. There were about thirty members of the church, but most were classified as victims. Only ten convictions. About half the people who went free were really, really pissed at me. The first one tracked me down and tried to put me through the window of a store I was shopping at.”

  Carla’s mouth dropped open. “You’re serious? What happened?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Well, store security dropped him like a ton of bricks, then had him arrested. I’d become friendly with a few cops by then, and I asked one of them for some boxing lessons. Came in handy when the second attack came. I call that one a draw; he broke one of my ribs, I broke his nose.”

  She shook her head. “You were just a kid. Jesus.”

  “No,” I said, mirroring the gesture. “I was young. I wasn’t a kid for a long time before that. I told you all the crazy training I’ve done. Didn’t you wonder why?”

  Carla looked mildly uncomfortable. “I figured it was a defense mechanism. You know, a way to feel in control after what happened to you.”

  I considered that. “Partly, maybe. But mostly it was the need to not get the shit kicked out of me. After those first two times, I started looking for anyone who could teach me anything about fighting. The dirtier, the better.”

  Carla smiled ruefully. “I’m almost afraid to ask how many times they came after you.”

  “Only because you feel ashamed as any tabloid addict,” I said with a laugh. “Seven altogether, over the course of three years. I think the last one finally drove home the point that I was not going to put up with their shit indefinitely. That guy, I put in the hospital. In the ICU, specifically.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t get in trouble,” Carla, the attorney, said.

  “Nearly did,” I explained. “The fact that three of them—the core group harassing me—cornered me in a laundromat with video surveillance helped keep me from being charged. The cops weren’t thrilled that I kicked the guy in the face a couple times after I broke his knee, but they let it slide on the understanding it was a situation where I couldn’t risk letting him back up. Not with two other people to deal with.”

  Carla didn’t say anything. I wondered if the casual way I’d mentioned beating a man unconscious had unnerved her, but when I glanced over she had the look of every rabidly curious six-year-old I’d ever seen. She wanted gory details, to know every angle of the story, and suddenly I knew exactly what had driven her to become a lawyer. It was an unexpected insight into the way her brain worked, but so much like my own thought process I could only feel love for her just then.

  “In case you’re wondering,” I said, “the other two were so caught off guard by me stomping a hole in their friend that they didn’t even try to help. They ran off before the cops got there. Never had any trouble with them after that.”

  18

  My symptoms didn’t stop all at once, instead dropping off slowly over time.

  Two weeks after the world ended, I was no longer having seizures. Being stuck at home became almost maddeningly claustrophobic—ironic, given how rarely I left the house before the apocalypse happened—but I was mostly encouraged by my progress.

  I never developed the jittery rage or any other psychological problems. Not any new ones, anyway. My brain was well stocked with neuroses to begin with. The muscle spasms and random contractions faded to bouts of tremors and shakes. The fevers subsided to mild hot flashes. I still didn’t want to put myself or anyone else at risk by being distracted at the wrong time, so instead I bent my back working on the many improvements Tony was laying out for the property.

  I was a little jealous that he and Jem were getting so much done. The once-empty field around my house was now stacked with tons upon tons of construction supplies. They had raided our local superstore for every tarp and other waterproof covering that could be found to keep the pallets of lumber from getting soaked. There was no small amount of equipment, too. It’s easy to forget what a willingness to take and the lack of anyone to stop you can accomplish.

  Almost every day was filled with trip after trip as the two of them rushed to hoard everything possible. Watching them do it was why I eventually annoyed Tony into giving me some work to do.

  I was walking along behind the trencher, trying to keep it straight and follow the spray-painted line in the grass, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned off the machine and wiped my hands on my shorts. Not because they were especially dirty or sweaty, but from the powerful vibrations running a digging machine sent through them. Every time I stopped using it, my fingers felt like they were going to rattle forever.

  Carla walked over, Nikola lazily following behind. My dog had taken to the other woman, a fact I chalked up to the frequency with which she supplied him with table food. Traitor.

  “What’s up?” I asked. I’d only been working for an hour.

  She looked at the trencher appraisingly. “Watching you use that thing looks a little like you’re trying to murder the planet with a chainsaw.”

  I laughed. It was true; the model I was using pretty much looked like a huge chainsaw on wheels. The long line of dirt piled up next to the trench could be thought of as the ground’s flesh, with a little imagination. “Did you come out here just to compliment me?”

  “No,” Carla said. “Though the fact you consider it a compliment is pretty fucked up. The boys just called on the radio. They found some survivors and want to bring them in. Apparently they’ve been staying in one of the stores. They aren’t in great shape.”

  I leaned on the trencher. “Okay. Uh, how many? And do we have the supplies for them?”

  Carla pulled her little notebook out and flipped it open. “Tony said there are eight of them. Let’s see: the boys brought five twin mattresses day before yesterday. We have sleeping bags for anyone who doesn’t get a mattress. Plenty of blankets.”

  “What about food?”

  She flipped a few more pages. “I think we’re okay for the near future. The store where the boys found them was that new place just north of the county line, and it’s stocked. They’re hauling everything here in the box truck. But even without that, they’ve brought back food every day. Most of it’s canned stuff, and it might not be what we actually want to eat, but there’s a lot of it.”


  I shrugged. “Sounds like you have it covered, then.” I turned back to the trencher, eager to finish at least one side of the perimeter line before I stopped for lunch.

  “Ran,” Carla said. I looked back at her. “You’re saying to tell the boys yes?”

  I frowned. “Yes to what?”

  She gave me an exasperated sigh. “To bringing them here. We agreed you were in charge. This is your call.”

  I stared at her for a few seconds until the words began to work together and make sense. “Yes, Carla. Bring them here. I thought the whole ‘I don’t want to condemn innocent people to death out there’ discussion made that clear. Even if we didn’t have the food and supplies to feed everyone, we’d just figure it out as we went.”

  “I know, I know,” she replied, putting her hands up defensively. “But this is your place. I needed to make sure.”

  “I understand,” I said with a nod. “As long as people agree they aren’t going to come here and start giving orders, I don’t have a problem. Can I get back to work now?”

  Carla smiled and gave me a mocking bow. “Of course, my lady. At your service, as always.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Blow it our your ass. And stop feeding my dog people food. He’s gonna get fat.”

  I had finished the first leg of the trench and started on the second by the time the box truck trundled up the driveway. I wished I could get a bird’s eye view of the lines I was excavating. They were the first step in building a wall, and Tony assured me there would be a huge volume of space inside it. I was less sure how that was going to get done, but worked with enthusiasm anyway. What little girl doesn’t dream of one day having her own castle?

  Look, I know my trailer doesn’t qualify, but it was a work in progress.

  I watched the truck pass, and made my way to the house. My heart fluttered a little, my chest tightened. Fighting was easy. Meeting new people, now, that was a challenge I never seemed able to meet with confidence.