Every Dark Little Thing

by T. S. Ward

  “Idiots,” I mutter.

  The goblins start sauntering toward me, and I pull my knife.

  “Hey, shit for brains. Wanna dance?”

  The first one’s jaw hangs loose, so I grab it by the vest, push it backwards onto the ground, and shove the knife into the back of its head. Just beneath the helmet.

  Every single one is almost the same, which makes me question how they died in the first place. Jaws slack and dislocated, covered head to toe in full gear, with no clear evidence of any kind of wound. Scratches, maybe, on the hands or the face, but it’s hard to tell with the decay.

  But that doesn’t explain the dislocated jaws.

  I take their ammo and shove it into my bag, and then climb up on top of the tank. It’s weird how big it is, how it takes up most of the street. Bigger than I thought they were. And I feel so small on top of it.

  I stand with a foot on the cannon and hold both middle fingers up to the horde.

  The effect of it feels lost without anyone else around to see.

  These green goblins have grenades, and it gives me a shit idea that makes me grin, even as I question why the fuck every damn soldier-type has grenades, all the time. This certainly isn’t the first time I’ve found some.

  I gather them up, careful with all the pins, and get as close to the horde as I dare to. I string them all up along a fishing line. One line tied to the pins and another around the barrels. The pins get tied to one streetlight, and the barrels to another on the opposite side of the street.

  And then I climb back up on the tank and sit down. A little too close, someone might tell me.

  But I’m alone. I’ve been alone. And I’m losing my shit.

  So I’ve been a little reckless. So I’ve been considering letting my ass get tortured for the sake of what’s left of humanity. So this is all so conflicting.

  I have a sister to find and leave somewhere safe before I decide whether I want to live or if I want everyone I’ve ever and never known to live—Sadie, for one.

  A selfless person wouldn’t hesitate. Thing is, I’m far from selfless. I’ve seen death and returned cursing the shit out of it.

  Nothing’s about to bring me down.

  “What have you got going on here?”

  The voice is there just as I fire a shot into the horde. I twist, and aim the gun right at the head of the man I’ve been looking for. I breathe out as the first grenade blows some of the idiots to bits, and soon after the rest of them.

  “John Ezra,” I say, and the smile I have on my face isn’t quite forced, because finally, I have found him. Or rather, he’s found me, and he’s got a group of people behind him waiting near a truck.

  A slow smile spreads over his face. “Now how the hell is it that you happen to know my name when I don’t even have a hint of yours?”

  I stand up, walk to the edge of the tank, and still have the gun aimed right at his skull. “There ain’t no one who knows my name. I don’t have a name. I don’t have anyone to know my name. Ghost. That’s what I was called last.”

  “Ghost,” he drawls, whistling low. “You know, few of my men, my boy, they tell this story about a rabid squirrel that some man called Ghost. Stabbed one of ‘em. Bit another’s fingers off. Threw one in the fire. Shot gunned one in the chest and blew him wide open. Held a knife to my boy’s throat. That gonna be the same rabid squirrel as you, stringing grenades up to fuck with these devils?”

  I sit on the edge of the tank.

  Rest the gun on my knee.

  “No. Couldn’t be me. I never held a knife to any boy. A shotgun to the chest of a scared little teenager who was about to let his friends do unspeakable things to a helpless young lady, yeah, sure, that was me. But I ain’t never held a knife to any kid.”

  It’s reckless to say anything like it. But he seems like the kind of man who prefers straightforward, honest, and ruthless friends, and if I’m getting Sadie out of there without getting either of us killed, I’m about to be that rabid squirrel he keeps calling me.

  He smiles. “So then how about we try this a second time? You seem clever enough, rigging up this horde to blow. And you have my full permission to take down anyone who tries to fuck with you.”

  I jump down from the tank and look up at him. “And if I say no? What then?”

  He looks to his men, piled down the street like a rival horde. “I think you know what.”

  So this is it.

  My in with Ezra, by chance, as I’m demonstrating my skills to no one but myself and these dead little grunts. And that’s how it starts. This time it begins with John Ezra, and it’s gonna end with me and Sadie running free.

  I’ll make damn sure of it.

  Day One Hundred and Eighty-Eight

  Ezra’s got a compound. A whole town of people. People building shit, growing shit, a whole host of kids fucking around and being loud as all hell.

  We travelled all night toward the east coast in the back of a truck to get here, and being so tired, being dropped into so much noise so suddenly, it’s disorienting.

  Ezra guides me through with a hand on my shoulder, and as much as I want to tear it off with my teeth, I hold steady. I listen best as I can as he points out all the facets and functions of the place, but my mind is on Sadie.

  If she’s anywhere, she’s here.

  I’m just scared of what he’ll do if he finds out I have family. He might use her against me. So I stay alert, watch for her in all these faces, and ready myself to turn away if I see her.

  Someone runs up alongside us, real close, and I flinch back.

  “Easy now, Squirrel,” Ezra laughs. “This one’s living.”

  Squirrel. So that’s what he’s going to keep on calling me.

  I look at this kid who’s walking with us now, looking at me sideways, and think: must be one of Ezra’s kids. Two girls and a boy, that’s what he told me.

  “What are you looking at?” I say to her, but offer a smile anyway.

  She grins, grabbing my arm. “My name’s Emily. What’s your name?”

  “Rabid Squirrel, I’m told.”

  The girl looks about sixteen or seventeen but has the demeanour of a child half that. That doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but Ezra makes a noise in his throat that sounds a lot to me like disgust, and he stops us to rip her hand away from me and pulls her to the side of the road.

  “Where is your damn brother?” He growls. “I told you to stay with him, you stay with him.”

  “He went with the scouts—”

  “Goddamn, what did I say?” He drags her toward one of the too-pristine houses, and I’m left standing there, wincing for the girl.

  It sounds familiar. It sounds too familiar. I can hear the poor kid crying from out here.

  I look around at his closest men, standing there pretending they don’t hear a single damn thing. A bunch of wannabe militiamen who never had the balls to join the real army. I want to start shouting at them, demand to know why the hell they’re pretending to be soldiers, why the hell they think they’re so special they deserve to have weapons mass manufactured to murder people as if they’re heroes for it. They’re not. As far from it as possible.

  Not that I ever liked the idea of people being made to be soldiers, fighting imaginary wars, or the idea of war at all, but—Soldier made the distinction between these idiots and the real thing quite clear.

  No more ghosts. No more ghosts. No more Ghost.

  Ezra stomps out of the house without the girl, and I try to ignore the fact that he’s doing his belt up, but he sees that I see. He walks up to me, real close, chin tucked down. His hands are still on the buckle.

  “Does that bother you, little Squirrel?”

  I press my lips together. “I’ve had worse. But I’m struggling to see the purpose.”

  He nods me along and starts walking again. “See, the boy you held a shotgun to, the one that your friend left a nice little bump and bruise on—”

  “—not my friend,” I’m quick
to say.

  “Whatever he is, that boy. My son. He and Emily, they’re twins. Lev, he’s soft for her. She’s simple, he sees that, he takes care of her.”

  Simple? Fuck off, you asshat. I could say something, and really should, because that’s a piece of shit way to treat anyone let alone his own kid, but. I keep my mouth shut. Let him keep talking. I’ll hate him more if he does.

  “Lev does what I tell him when it’s Emily on the line, you understand? In fact, most people do exactly what you want when it’s someone they love on the line. I’ve learned that throughout my life. Learned that someone’ll jump in front of a gun for someone they love, or drain their life savings because they think their granddaughter’s being held captive in Mexico or some dumb shit like that.”

  “And the trick to that’s not loving anyone,” I muse, and he isn’t entirely wrong, except for how he’s using that information. I laugh shortly. “Only reason I’m alive.”

  “Who took the bullet?”

  He’s trying to be clever. Trying to trick me into saying there’s someone out there he can use as leverage.

  I just shake my head. “My uncle tried to murder me and left me in hospital for an entire year. Brother shot himself in the head when I found him. Uncle confessed to killing my dad and my grandfather. I mean, the only people I ever had all took a bullet, quite literally, but not for me.”

  He stops walking and looks at me with a raised brow. “Not a word of that fine gentleman you were with when we first came across you.”

  “Gentleman?” I scoff, although that’s how I’d describe him. A damn fine one at that, if that woman was a liar through and through. But I’m not so sure. I’m not sure at all. I look at Ezra and make my question about him, rather than a ghost. “Does that word define men who try and fail to take advantage of young women?”

  “Well,” he says, “If he didn’t learn his lesson seeing what you did to my men then he sure as hell earned whatever it was that happened to him. I say a threat’s a threat. You don’t heed it the first time, there won’t be a second.”

  He whistles to a woman near a sea of colourful tents.

  “Patricia, this is Squirrel. Squirrel, Patricia. She’ll settle you in, show you the rest of the place. Show you where the women’s supplies are. Soup kitchen’s open at five.”

  Patricia is a big woman who’s also shorter than me somehow. She hooks her hand through my elbow and guides me forward, into the swathe of tents.

  “You seem like a good, sweet girl,” she says, too cheerily, too kindly. She pulls me close to hiss in my ear. “Too good for this. Too soft. You have to leave. You have to get out, get far away from here. While you still can.”

  And then her voice changes completely, back to that cheery tone.

  “Here’s where you can set up if you have a tent, and if you don’t, I’ll show you the bunkhouses. Now, over here, the supplies are rationed. You get to keep what you have on you, but anything else is shared…”

  I let her drag me around without a word.

  This place was an army base. There are defunct planes parked in hangars where people are sleeping. Patrols near high, barbed fences. Every so often, Patricia dips around something to avoid one of Ezra’s armed men, or mentions something that sounds very much like get out now or else!

  But I’m here intentionally. On purpose. To get something done. And if that makes it a long con, then I’ll be the best damn decision this man ever made.

  When we get to the soup kitchen she tries to direct me to a group of girls huddled together as if every single person who walks by is going to suddenly snap and stab them, but I spot Ezra.

  I force my way through the crowd to get to him.

  “Squirrel,” he says, standing up to tower over me. “You see any women sitting at my table?”

  “You see me giving a shit?”

  Reckless little Squirrel.

  “You know damn well you didn’t bring me in here just to make me sit at the little kiddy table for breakfast. And by the way, that Patricia, she’s a little flighty. Wouldn’t trust her so much if I were you.” I cross my arms and force the man sitting next to him over, taking his spot on the bench. I wait for Ezra to sit down and start talking quieter. “I’m not the kind of person to sit idly by just to have idiots looking out for me. I’m frontlines. You need a scout, you need a gun, that’s me.”

  He leans on his elbows, fingers folded together. “You calling my men idiots?”

  “Most of them,” I say, and I nod down the table to the couple of them stabbing knives between their fingers. I nod to another man who seems level headed, minding his own business. “Not all.”

  He raises an eyebrow and nods in agreement. “Alright. So why are you so eager to get out of this place when you just got here? It’s safe. There’s a fence. Patrols keeping the biters out.”

  “Too many people.”

  He looks around the hangar soup kitchen, the tables all piled densely with people still lined up out the door, volunteers working fast to keep up with demand. I can see he’s thinking about it. About the tents and the bunkhouses, how most of the property’s been taken over by them all.

  “It’s easy to keep track of patrols, to know who’s who and what motivates them. But you’ve got an entire city packed in here and what happens when they think they’re above what’s going on out there, and get too comfortable? What happens when someone gets bit or scratched or dies in their sleep and starts attacking? That’s why. Too many idiots.” I look up as some girl comes by to fill bowls, a service only this table gets.

  She stops when she sees me. She doesn’t fill the bowl in front of me.

  “Go on, then. Do your job.”

  She looks at Ezra, which is good, I think. I don’t need him feeling threatened. He nods to her, and she fills our bowls, but still hesitates.

  “What is it, Lisa?” He sighs.

  “I was just… I was wondering if you’d teach me how to shoot.” She looks down at the bowl she’s cradling and I realize she looks a bit like Emily. Younger, but still. “If you get the time, anyway.”

  He looks at her for a long while, and then nods to me. “Think you’re in luck. Squirrel here wants to earn her keep.”

  Long con, I remind myself. This is a start.

  I shrug, nod. “Question is, what do you want to shoot?”

  “Biters, mostly,” she says earnestly.

  “No, I mean, bow, rifle, slingshot, film…?”

  Ezra chuckles and sets a hand on my forearm, holding the other up to the girl. “Not at the dinner table. Squirrel can find you first thing tomorrow morning back home. Get going. You’ve got the rest of the table to feed.”

  I sit with Ezra for the rest of the night and hear stories I don’t care to hear about what he’s been doing this apocalypse. How he’s done it. How he talked his way up to the top of a group of gun-huggers and then had to act the part, how it changes a man doing what he had to do, though I’m damn sure there was nothing changed about him based on the way he treats his kids.

  That kind of shit doesn’t happen over two hundred and eighty-eight days. I’m not sure any of it does.

  By the end of the night, he’s put a knife through someone’s hand, pinned it right to the table. And everyone continues on drinking as the guy screams.

  I stay until the first couple of guys leave, excuse my need to get set up before the sun comes up, and leave. There’s a spot that’s easy to find near the supply building without too many people close by.

  I have trouble falling asleep.

  Day One Hundred and Eighty-Nine

  The girl might come to the wrong conclusions with almost every question asked, but she’s never exactly wrong about it. She’s smart, in a roundabout way. But she’s also got shit aim.

  I try to pay attention to the patrols while I’m standing here with this girl and a pistol and a target thirty feet away, ear muffs on both of us. The patrols don’t go down range of the targets. Smart. But I wonder if that’s the same in the mid
dle of the night.

  Mostly, I let the girl shoot blindly and offer whatever I can remember being told on hunts. Other things that Soldier told me, too, though I keep the majority of that to myself.

  I tell her to be absolutely certain that what she’s shooting is what she wants to be shooting. There’s no point wasting bullets when you can be smart and use one where it matters. Which doesn’t seem to resonate with her.

  Eventually, I get fed up, grab the pistol, and remove the clip. I bring her a rifle instead, have her line up her shot, and tell her not to take it until I say go. But I don’t say go. I crouch down next to her and eye up the few people who are wondering what the hell’s going on.

  “Can I shoot yet or what?” She complains.

  Her finger rests beside the trigger rather than on it, something I haven’t told her, something someone new to this wouldn’t think of. Her posture is nearly perfect. The way she’s lining her sights up—it’s like when you take your first sip of alcohol in front of a parent when it isn’t actually your first sip.

  She’s faking her shit aim.

  “First, you’re going to tell me who taught you how to shoot,” I say, “Then, you’re going to explain why you bothered asking to learn in the first place.”

  She’s quiet for a long time. Probably thinking about just pulling the trigger anyway. But then she answers me, as if she trusts me and I’m some friend to gab to about these things.

  “There’s this boy who’s been teaching me, out in the woods.”

  I snort a laugh. “A boy, right, right. How old’s this boy?”

  “Seventeen,” she says.

  “And you’re what? Thirteen?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Oh, alright, then. So there’s this boy who’s almost an adult and you’ve been going out into the woods alone with him. Sounds kosher. Go on. What’s the deal with me being stuck with you here?” I rest my forehead on my fingers, closing my eyes.

  She groans. “I didn’t want to get stuck with you. Wanted my dad to teach me.”

  “To what, impress him? What if he wasn’t around? Would you have learned how to do this anyway? Would you have gone out of your way to learn a skill that can save your life during the goddamn apocalypse, or would you just have suffered without it? Listen to me, Lisa. There’s no one to impress but yourself, so just get good and be good. Don’t waste your breath trying to flaunt it. That’s how people die. Now go put that damn rifle away.”