The Faces of Lions (Book One - The Reset)

by Angie Morel

  I’d get there. There were reasons I needed to make the most out of my own “reset”. And those reasons were named Rolo, D, Snick, Claire and Cory—the people that by some miracle, loved me.

  Me.

  Shit-baggage and all.

  Chapter 17

  In the country, the arrival of spring came by way of sound first. If you paid attention and listened closely, that is. And I listened closely to everything now. Almost a hyper-awareness, you could say. Ears cued for any subtle variation that might indicate danger.

  So it began, tentative chirps from birds here and there, graduating to continuous twittering as the air warmed. Delicate sounds were there too, hidden unless you stood still and let your mind go fishing for them. The creek, which cut a path through the fields to the east, gurgled as it swallowed down the icy water fed to it by the melting snow to the north. Newborn grasses whispered to each other as they rose up and tested the wind. Spring made the horses livelier too. Not that I got too close to those unfamiliar beasts, but I could hear as well as see them prancing around in the pasture, neighing, hoofs clomping the ground.

  It felt good to finally get outside and breathe some fresh air. Granted, you couldn’t ask for a better house to be cooped up in all winter long, but I was about bursting with the need to be outside, to shake off the confines of the walls. As soon as most of the snow melted and the temperatures rose to a reasonable level, I explored the pastures and wooded areas nearby—always with my weapons because I’d never be caught unprepared again—and enjoyed using all of my senses as the earth awoke, flinging off its winter coat.

  It smelled really good too. Fresh.

  Did springtime ever arrive in the projects? I couldn’t recall noticing if it did. In fact, I doubted it. Only one season took place there, and there wasn’t anything pretty or good smelling about it.

  Today was the fifth time I’d been out this week. The ground was semi-hard, having a slight squishy feel to it from being saturated by the snow melt. There were still patches of white visible, but only in the areas that remained hidden from the sun.

  Heading north from the house, I increased my speed. After running the perimeter of the cleared land at a good clip for several minutes, I slowed it down to a jog, never quite losing sight of the house. The run was invigorating, infusing a feeling of strength and well-being in my body.

  Following my cool-down, I wandered over to a downed tree a few feet into the woods. Taking a seat on the makeshift bench, I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. It was a good day. The air was crispy and fingers of bright sunlight reached through the branches above and touched my face.

  There was a rustling.

  My eyes popped open as I stood, looking for the possible source. It had to be a small animal or something. That’s what it sounded like anyway. Something along the lines of a spring-energized squirrel burrowing through the icy leaves, rejoicing in the departure of winter. But thoughts like that were dangerous. Oh, it’s nothing, it’s happy little animals, la la la.

  It’s not. It’s a fucking rooster. Lesson learned.

  The noise seemed to be coming from the ravine to my left. Moving in that direction, I unsnapped the knife attached to my side and pulled it from the camouflaged sheath. Yep, it was definitely coming from the ravine ahead. Hunching down a bit, my steps quick but careful on the damp leafy ground, I came upon two downed trees.

  And there, under the point where the broken trees crossed, was a banger.

  X marks the spot.

  I quickly glanced around to make sure there were no others, as they usually moved in groups. After detecting none, I moved towards the banger, knife ready. About five feet away, I halted, relaxing a bit.

  There wasn’t much of a threat here.

  He (at least I thought it was male) was on the ground, pawing weakly at the snowy leaves and winter debris. Only one hand was visible, and it was attached to his only remaining full limb. Both of his legs were nubs below the knees and his other arm was either beneath him or gone as well.

  Crouching within a couple of feet of his body, I stared into his washed-out, hate-filled eyes. There was no life in them. And based on the condition of his body, the small amount of life remaining in that damaged shell had to be about gone as well.

  His mouth stretched open wide, to the point where I thought his jaw would dislocate, and then clacked shut. I noticed in that brief opening, with my mind unfortunately taking another mental picture—CLICK!—that his tongue lay black and unmoving, like a piece of dead, charred meat rotting in his mouth.

  After blinking to clear away the awful vision, I closed the distance between us. My knife went under his chin, ready to jab its way into his gray matter, ending his misery. With all the strength of an infant, he attempted to grab my arm. His claw-like fingers weren’t able to unbend, so all he was capable of doing was brushing against my sleeve with his frozen, useless hand.

  With grim determination, I hooked my free hand behind his head and made myself look into his eyes as I slowly inched the blade upwards, all the way until the tip was imbedded deep in his brain. Throughout his slow execution, his eyes didn’t change one bit, like he didn’t even comprehend his own death. My stomach had a sick, greasy feeling during and after, but I had to know. And now I did.

  There was no awareness there at all.

  After cleaning my knife on his tattered shirt, I looked him over. Bits of him were blackened with frostbite. Studying his limbs a little closer, I decided they looked…chewed on. Did wolves get to him? Or bears? Maybe he’d been injured and crawled this far before succumbing, having to lie here as animals nibbled on his extremities, immobile and defenseless as the cold set in. That’s probably why he hadn’t bled out, I realized. The freezing temps had slowed his blood flow, like he was on ice—literally.

  I wondered how long he’d been here, barely out of view of the house. And had there been others with him initially? There were no answers to my questions.

  Kicking leaves to cover his corpse, I decided to keep this discovery to myself.

  Chapter 18

  On a dreary afternoon in mid-May, while upstairs doing some strength training exercises with Claire and D, Snick barged into the room, informing us that he spotted a girl running towards the house. Grabbing the binoculars from his hand, I went to the dormer that faced the driveway. Looking through the lenses, I followed the drive to where it dipped and disappeared, and then to where it reappeared again in the distance before curving out of sight.

  Sure enough, there she was, a blonde of undeterminable age, running as though the hounds of hell were after her. Backing out of the dormer, I passed the binoculars to Claire, who put them up to her eyes immediately. There was a clank sound as she accidentally bumped into the glass with them, having lost depth perception. “Ow,” she muttered, taking a half step back.

  “Where’s Rolo?” I asked Snick.

  “He’s cleaning guns in the kitchen. I’ll go tell him.” Snick had taken only a couple strides towards the door when Claire spoke.

  “Holy Snap! I think that’s our cousin Savannah.” The last part was said with dread in her voice.

  My gaze slid towards Claire. Either I misunderstood her tone, or Savannah showing up wasn’t exactly great news.

  Cory elbowed his sister out of the way, grabbing the binoculars to verify this bit of news. After a moment he said, “Holy shit, I think she’s right!”

  We rushed the stairs, finding Rolo waiting for us at the bottom.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Our cousin Savannah, who lives about three hours away, is heading down our driveway!” Cory exclaimed in breathless excitement, heading for the door.

  Flinging open only one side of the curved double doors at the entryway, Cory, Claire, and D got jammed up briefly in their quest to get out of the house first. Once they burst through, we stood on the porch, peering down the driveway. She must be in the dip, I thought, seeing no sign of her. There was silence as we waited for her to reappear, our he
ads bobbing and craning like pigeons. After a few seconds she gradually emerged, a bouncing speck in the distance.

  The twins moved down the steps and into the yard, prepared to greet their cousin. Said cousin grew into a small featureless person with running legs, growing continuously larger until she was finally here, staggering into the yard and collapsing to her knees. Her momentum, plus the weight of the backpack attached to her back, pitched her forward. She caught herself and rolled to the side. By the time she looked up, we were surrounding her.

  “Things,” she wheezed, hand jabbing the direction from which she came. “Things following me.”

  “Everyone, in the house!” Rolo yelled.

  Rolo and I scooped up Savannah by the armpits and flew through the door. Snick closed and locked it behind us as we handed off a still-sagging Savannah to Cory and Claire. Snick grabbed the binoculars from where they’d dropped on the floor and then took the stairs three at a time to see what he could detect from the higher vantage point. The others followed more slowly as they helped Savannah up the stairs. Rolo and I stayed on the main level, gathering our weapons.

  Rolo yelled up to Snick. “What do you see?”

  “I think I see four of them! They’re kind of half-running towards the house! They’re still pretty far down the driveway!” Snick yelled down in reply.

  “Let’s go up for a sec,” Rolo said briskly, jamming one last knife in his pocket.

  I followed him up the stairs, my two weapons of choice in hand. One was a hurling stick of Cory’s, and the other a sharp machete I’d found in his late father’s shop. Claire had set me up with a longer leather sheath which incorporated a leg strap for the machete—that way I could use both hands to swing and bash bangers with the hurling stick, while still have easy access to the machete. It had to be altered a bit since it was made for a different type of blade, but after Claire was done with the adjustments, it was perfect.

  And, as always, there was Harvey’s switchblade tucked into my pocket. I was never without it, even slept with it. Admittedly, the reason was more sentimental than anything. It was the only physical tie to my past. But a weapon is a weapon.

  My plan was to use the hurling stick to put them out of commission, and then use the machete to finish them off. We didn’t want to shoot any guns if at all possible, so a quiet attack was necessary unless we were far outnumbered, or losing the fight. The backup plan for that scenario was having Snick standing by inside, guns ready. We’d gone over this drill numerous times, and I felt we were more than ready.

  It was plan we started developing a couple weeks after our arrival. The initial reaction from Cory, while amusing, was expected. He was insulted that a girl was going to be fighting while he had to hang back. He didn’t understand why it wasn’t him—Lacrosse Player Extraordinaire—or even Snick for that matter, with Rolo doing the first strike. I wasn’t insulted. I knew that people, especially ones who were pampered and lived mostly sheltered lives, didn’t fully understand that the sewers of poverty and violence didn’t care if you were a boy or a girl; they marked and dirtied up both equally.

  So, we decided to show him why it was me that would be doing the front-line fighting. I tried to do it gently—I really did—but wound up accidentally breaking his pinky finger when I took him down. He realized then that his world of girls for girly stuff and boys for all the manly things didn’t apply to everyone. And that perhaps he had a slightly skewed vision of how things were from atop his wealthy, cushioned seat. He didn’t anymore.

  After climbing the stairs, Rolo and I strode into the warm-up room. Savannah had been deposited on the floor and was in the process of removing her backpack. The other four were split between the dormers on the front side of the house, looking over the driveway.

  “Lemme see.” Rolo said, holding his hand out as he made his way into one of the middle dormers. Snick handed him the binoculars.

  Claire retreated from the window and looked at me. There was a touch of worry pulling at her face, but she wasn’t letting it get the best of her. Flashing a quick smile, she went over to tend to Savannah.

  Better hold your breath, I thought. Claire’s cousin was in dire need of a shower. Big time. In fact, if stink was something visible, hers would fill the room (probably the entire top floor) like one of those thick choking dust clouds.

  A quick assessment of her face and build put her somewhere in the realm of high school aged. She had blonde hair that hung in multiple stringy sections, and the four-inches of dark roots showing on the top of her head emphasized the grease that made its home there among the strands. Her clothes, on the other hand, were almost newish looking. They were a stark contrast to the dirt and grime that coated her skin. Granted, there were all sorts of stores filled with racks of clothing—more than enough to have something different to wear each day for the rest of our lives. But even so, I’d make sure to find some way to clean my body, even if it meant using baby wipes to scrub myself down on a daily basis. What’s the point of clean clothes if you dressed them on a disgustingly dirty and smelly body? And I didn’t know about boys, but on girls there was a particular body part that you just had to keep clean, otherwise…well, yuck.

  A headache was beginning to develop from the smell. Discreetly, I opened my mouth and breathed through it. There was no doubt that the time spent in this clean environment had spoiled my nose. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d been hauling dead bodies out of houses, actually touching them, and I’d grown used to the nauseating smell back then. Well, maybe not so much grown used to it as learned to push past it in order to do what needed to be done. And it didn’t get worse than the smell of death.

  Although Savannah’s body odor came in at a close second.

  “Let’s wait and see if they come closer. If they get past the post there, we’ll go take care of ‘em.” Rolo kept the binoculars locked on the bangers. “Snick, the guns are where they’re supposed to be, right?”

  “Yep, they’re downstairs in the basket right by the door.”

  With nothing to do but wait, I set my hurling stick down and started bouncing on my toes while shaking my arms out. Adrenaline was kicking my system into high gear and I needed to blow off some energy.

  Savannah moaned from her position on the floor, demanding that Claire get her some water. Claire rushed over and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the stash we kept in the corner of the room.

  When we first got here, I was astounded by the number of cases I saw of the sports drink. Stacks and stacks were around the house, mostly in the huge storage area in the basement. Turns out there had been around 250 cases, all ready to be taken to the annual 5K run/walk event that their family sponsored every year. Needless to say, we were well supplied. Although, I must admit, after overloading on the sports drink the first couple months of being here, I preferred plain bottled water now. Thankfully, there had been just as many cases of that in the basement as well.

  Claire opened the bottle and knelt down, holding it to Savannah’s mouth so her cousin would hardly have to move in order to drink from it. Savannah curled her lip and in the next instant smacked the bottle away from Claire, causing her to tumble to her side.

  “WATER, I said!” she snarled.

  The fruit punch flavored drink not only hit Claire, but splattered on the floor and wall in a shock of bright red, making that portion of the room look like a murder scene. I stopped bouncing, pinning my eyes on Savannah. It might very well be a murder scene soon.

  As the silence in the room became obvious, Savannah looked up and around, realizing then—by way of glares and tight mouths—that perhaps she’d overreacted. Cory looked like he was ready to punch her in the face. She moaned again, dramatically holding her hand to her head.

  Yeah, right. She wasn’t fooling anybody.

  “Ugh. Help me up. I need the bathroom.”

  Cory went over and yanked her up, losing the effect of his rough act when he steadied her as she had a bit of noodle-legs. He told her where it was lo
cated and we watched as she made her way out of the room. A few seconds later they heard a door close.

  “Da-yamn,” D said with big eyes.

  I looked at Claire, raising my eyebrows. Claire grimaced as she pulled her legs in front and sat Indian style, wiping the Gatorade from her face. “Uh, yeah, my cousin can take a little getting used to. We haven’t actually seen her in a couple of years. She’s always been, um, difficult, I guess you could say.”

  “Ya think? I can’t believe she’s related to you.” D was shaking his head.

  It was quiet for a couple minutes while Rolo watched out the window. I started bouncing again. “Are they closer?” I asked.

  “Can’t see ‘em, they’re in the dip.”

  Closing my eyes, I envisioned the moves I was planning on trying out. I pictured every step and every swing. Hopefully there were only four bangers. Four was a good number for us to dispatch. Any more than that might mean trouble. I stopped bouncing and started stretching. My muscles were getting twitchy. Jeez, how long were they going to take? Were they crawling down the driveway? I picked up the hurling stick and sliced it through the air a few times. Man, I loved this thing. The weight felt perfect. Maybe I should name it…

  “R-O-W-D-I-E that’s the way we spell rowdie rowdie…let’s get rowdie, whoo.” The quiet chant had come out of Claire, who looked as surprised as anyone to hear it.

  “Oh my gosh. I totally meant to say that in my head.”

  Pin-drop silence. Then the room exploded in laughter. Claire lost her worried look, displaying a big smile. Soon she began the chant again, with D joining her. I grinned. Claire was so perky and good natured. And she was so genuine about it that you couldn’t even dislike her for being so. If I had to bring an image to mind of what the perfect all-American girl would look like—it would be Claire. Dark blonde hair fell in tidy waves to her shoulder blades and her wide-set amber eyes sparkled with energy and wit. She tended to talk with her eyebrows raised and her mouth, which was very mobile, was quick to grin.