Every Dark Little Thing

by T. S. Ward

  I stand up then, start to turn, and stop dead.

  Ezra’s standing there, hands on his hips. “You’re some trouble now, aren’t you?”

  “You talking to her or me?”

  “Both,” he smiles. He grabs the rifle from Lisa and holds it out to me. Forces it into my hands. “I want to see your shot.”

  I close my eyes for a second and sigh. “Fine. But I don’t like guns so forgive my flinch.”

  “Says the girl who fired into a horde of biters for fun.”

  It’s not exactly the kind I know, but it’s basically the same. I stand there, bolt the thing, aim down sights. I find a distant target and steady my breathing. A metal can with a target painted small on it. Not exactly a deer in the bush. Hell of a lot smaller, but far fewer obstacles. Far brighter colours. Nothing blending in with the background.

  I look past it at the fence and take aim again. Fire. Aim and fire. Aim and fire. Three deadlies drop to the ground, down and out for good.

  Ezra whistles. “I’ll be damned.”

  Lisa isn’t as impressed as he is, and I think that’s the point of it. That he makes a huge deal out of my shooting to his cronies, all of them jeering and joking, as the girl stands there with her arms crossed. He’s trying to make her feel foolish.

  Girl just wants her dad.

  I disarm the rifle and bring it back to the rack.

  Three downed biters through a chain link fence two hundred yards down must be admirable enough because there’s no more babysitting after that. There’s no more down time.

  And as the days pass, I still haven’t seen Sadie.

  Day One Hundred and Ninety-Seven

  Patrol Eleven is four men and Squirrel.

  Sharpe, Fox, Throttle, and Viking. All nicknames, except for Sharpe, but his name was fitting enough for him. Everyone’s got their roles and he’s the leader, the guy with the knives, the guy with the scars. I’m certain he was in some prison gang before all this.

  Fox is the scout, always ahead in his own truck.

  Throttle is our driver.

  Viking is the level-headed one I pointed out to Ezra my first day at the base. The muscle. I don’t mind his company as much as the others.

  I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be but I’ve got permission to talk. To speak for Ezra. Because, as it turns out, that too many people I mentioned isn’t even half of it.

  There are five other camps stationed around the state and we’re going between them, checking on things, dealing with what needs dealing with.

  Seems a lucky strike to me. If Sadie isn’t at base, she might be at one of these.

  “Squirrel,” Sharpe jerks his chin. “How many people you kill before Ezra picked you up?”

  “None, the first time. But now… you looking for an exact number?” I ask, pulling a face when he nods. I haven’t thought about it. Haven’t kept a kill count. I don’t want to remember any of it. “Eight. Oh, no, nine. Nine.”

  He grins, which I don’t understand. “You almost forgot one. Who’d that be?”

  “My brother,” I say, and he slaps his knee as he starts laughing. “Oh, you find that funny, huh? How many have you got then?”

  He shrugs. “Can’t count that high, little girl.”

  “Oh. So… less than five?”

  That earns a chuckle from Viking and Throttle, and a crooked grin from Sharpe. He turns so his back is against the door as he plays with a knife. “We got a funny one, boys! What do you say we get that number in the double digits?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You volunteering?”

  Throttle smacks the steering wheel and howls. “I wasn’t too sure about you, Squirrel, but goddamn.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But for real, Sharpe. What are you talking about?” The man just shrugs and turns away again, and it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Is that what Ezra’s got us doing at Factory? So, what’s the crime, then?”

  Viking is the one to answer. “Ezra’s very particular about rations. This individual is… not.”

  I nod. “Alright.”

  “Hey, Squirrel?” Throttle looks at me in the rear-view mirror, with some small bit of empathy in his eyes. “They always have some sob story to get you to take pity on them, let them go with a slap on the wrist. We aren’t playing judge or jury. It’s already been decided. We’re playing executioner. That’s how it is now.”

  That’s how it is now. I’ve heard that too many times.

  I see Sharpe watching my reaction out of the corner of my eye, so I keep the act up. “Yeah, I think I got that, thanks.”

  That seems to satisfy the boss, sobers everyone else up, so we’re quiet the rest of the drive there. My leg shakes. I have to press my foot firmly to the floor to stop it.

  Factory is in the back end of one of the nearby small towns.

  They’ve got people running the grids to the factories for power, and other patrols out looking for solar panels to install so we can keep the manpower in bases where it’s needed. The grids don’t hit every factory, but most have their own generators fueled up and going.

  Only one is completely without power. It’s where everyone sleeps. Where they live, crammed together in sleeping bags on a cement floor, dirty and close and practically slave labour. There’s no payment for this, other than protection and rations, and hardly protection. There’s no sick leave, no benefits, only rations, and the rations are meager at best.

  Everyone gathers shoulder to shoulder in the bunk factory.

  I hang back slightly, watching the way Sharpe and Fox and Throttle and Viking act.

  Sharpe offers some soap box speech that I barely pay attention to. Something about being grateful, the importance of rations, and all this other bullshit.

  I watch the crowd as much as I watch Eleven. They’re terrified. They don’t know what’s going to happen or when. And when Sharpe drops a name, I spot the guy in the crowd almost immediately.

  The others around him step back, as if they’re afraid proximity will incriminate them, too.

  I slip through the crowd as he starts backing away, come up behind him, and kick him in the back of the knee. He falls, hands held up as he starts pleading with me.

  Fuck me, fuck this, fuck Ezra.

  “Daddy!” A young girl screams. She lunges forward, and another girl holds her back. They’re both teary eyed, but the older one looks the same age as me. The girl is somewhere around Sadie’s age.

  “Please,” the man begs me, and it takes everything I have to remain stoic about this. “My girls, please, they…”

  I don’t know how I’m meant to do this.

  I’ve got an entire crowd around me that could just turn and kill me first, but there are men armed to the teeth at all exits, and I know in the face of an attacking mob they would start firing blindly. If I don’t do this, they might kill more than this man. Ezra will be pissed with me, and his anger doesn’t stop with one person. His kids get the brunt of it.

  I look to Sharpe for confirmation. He nods.

  “My daughter, she’s diabetic, she needed the insulin. Please.”

  The gun is pressed to the back of the man’s head as I look to the girls, and I don’t think. I can’t think. I shoot. The thinking comes after.

  The older girl has a patch on her arm, so he’s not lying there. But this man, he’s strong, he looks healthy. And he collapses at my feet, lamenting about how he’ll never do it again, while the younger girl just screams and screams and it’s the only sound in the building.

  It buries itself in my head.

  When I look up again, I catch the eye of another girl.

  Eight years old—no, nine now. She looks like me. Has the same hair, small as hell. Sadie. And there’s this look of horror on her face. I try to shake my head slightly, but I don’t think I move beyond looking back to Sharpe and the others.

  They’re staring back at me in shock, Throttle with a bit of awe, and Sharpe with some pride. Distaste in the look on Viking’s face—thank god.

/>   This is a way to win them over. To win Ezra over. Slightly. Enough to tip the pot if and when it comes to that.

  Because, just then, I’m realizing Ezra can’t continue like this. His men can’t continue like this. These people can’t live like this.

  Civilization doesn’t have to end because of a few undead. A small virus, plague, whatever the fuck this is. A breakout. Pandemic. Pandemonium. People can live and live through it without becoming animals.

  That alone might be enough to tip the pot for me to become a damn cure.

  Especially after this. After what I’m doing and going to do for this man and his compounds. For Sadie. Just getting her out isn’t enough, morally, mentally. It won’t make this feeling any better—the feeling, being some incurable sickness rotting away in the pit of my stomach.

  It’s a wonder I don’t vomit right then and there.

  I walk away from Sadie, give a quick sharp look to her before I go that I hope comes off as don’t do anything stupid. I think I taught her better than that from the get go. I hope I taught her better than that. She certainly never seemed like a stupid kid.

  Just one caught in the crossfire.

  Like me and Adam.

  And look how that turned out for both of you, idiot.

  I meet with Fox near a door and stand next to him, arms crossed over my chest, as the others finish up their little rally speech.

  Fox is the same size as me, but skinnier. Thinner. I’d have called him Coyote before Fox, but the man is smarter than most. I figured that out quickly, even though the others give him shit for being stupid. He’s smart enough to play dumb, and silence is golden when that’s the goal. But.

  He turns slightly to me and talks under his breath. “They expected you to kill the man. Rather, chicken out of it.”

  “Man’s worth more than a diabetic kid,” I mutter, “Less resources—”

  “You don’t have to sell it to me,” he says. “That’s exactly the move Ezra would have done. In fact, it’s what he wanted done. Sharpe is just trying to put you through the ringer.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” I say, leaning back against the wall.

  He nods slowly. “Playing Ezra’s cards is all fine and dandy, to keep ploughing your way through the ranks until you’re right there next to him. But you need mercy to take his place.”

  I glance at him, not sure if he’s being serious, or playing me for Ezra or Sharpe. Trying to gauge my aim here. But the man looks genuinely fearful, the way his eyes twitch around.

  I laugh softly. “That’s a ballsy accusation.”

  “You seem like a ballsy person,” he counters. “Most folks aren’t. Most are like that man, with family as leverage. He doesn’t have anyone you love, does he?”

  “I don’t even have anyone I love.”

  He shrugs, but he doesn’t say anything else.

  We stand there for a couple more minutes, as Sharpe lays down the law, and when he’s finally done, we walk out toward the trucks and wait for them to catch up.

  Throttle whistles as he runs up to me, hand held up for a high five. I oblige, half-heartedly. Viking stands next to me as Sharpe walks up, looking me up and down.

  He nods, tongue caught in his teeth. “Alright. So you’re not half bad, Squirrel.”

  “She’s badass!” Throttle hollers. He’s hanging out of the truck, sunglasses on, hat turned backwards. “Ain’t that right, Fox?”

  Fox shrugs and gets in his truck.

  “Whatever,” Sharpe says.

  He waves a hand, and we all turn and get back into the truck. The thing smells terrible, not that they seem to notice. It smells like dude sweat and feet. And Sharpe lights up a cigarette that doesn’t help at all.

  I feel sick the entire way back. And that feeling doesn’t ever go away.

  Day Two Hundred

  “You did good,” Ezra says, leaning up against the railing.

  I keep hearing that girl’s screams, seeing Sadie’s face. I haven’t slept properly for days. I miss Soldier no matter what happened, and would give up anything to be two hundred days back so I could refuse to split up. Refuse to leave the damn hotel.

  I’d spend an hour in that frozen pool for it to be just him and me again.

  That was simpler. Easier.

  “Maybe too good,” Ezra continues. “Might tone it down a little.”

  I give him a look, with a bit of a wry smile. “Why? You scared?”

  “No. Thing is, Squirrel, I keep the order here. I lay down the law. I just have this feeling that people will listen to you if you’re a little more lenient than I am. People, they tend to have more trust in softer women, and if you’re going to be my right-hand man—woman, I think that touch will hold over nicely.”

  He watches me as he says it, trying to judge my reaction, but I don’t offer one.

  I don’t say what I want to say. I barely let myself think about it. Instead, I say, “Is that really what you want? You’ve got about two dozen guys who are rearing for that position. Not sure they’d take kindly to that.”

  “They don’t respect my decisions, they don’t deserve the position,” he says.

  “Fair point.”

  He turns toward me, one elbow against the railing, a sly smile bunching his cheek up on one side. “You know why I like you? You’re goddamn crazy, for one. Fucking around with grenades like that. Sitting back, watching the show. And you’re easy-going. You don’t get hung up on shit. You’ll crack a joke before starting an argument, but even then, you’re asking all the right questions. Getting to what really matters. You’re a fighter. You don’t go down without giving it your all. And on top of all that, you and me, we think the same way.”

  I laugh lightly, staring down at the people below, putting together the ration packs. Everything taken from scouting missions. “My whole damn life I’ve never heard so many compliments.”

  He nods. “You’re a catch, Squirrel.”

  I try my hardest not to squirm. “Well, now, don’t make me blush.”

  He starts to say something, but stops when he looks past me. “What the hell is this now?”

  There’s a lady hesitating at the bottom of the stairs, squeezing her eyes shut as she takes the first step, and huffing out a breath. She climbs up to the platform laboriously, like she’s struggling to catch her breath after the first few steps. Except, she was struggling before she got here.

  She seems fit enough. It’s just that she’s so damn anxious.

  She stops before us, finally, and I can tell Ezra’s already over whatever it is she’s about to say. If she can say it.

  “Go on, spit it out,” he says.

  Her cheeks are bright red. She can’t look him in the eye. But she looks at me and I swear to god those eyes are pleading for me to help her out. I cross my arms, thinking about what Ezra was just saying.

  “She’s not going to be able to spit anything out if she asphyxiates, for fuck’s sake,” I say, setting a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe. Must be important, coming all the way up here.”

  Ezra scoffs. “Might do to bring a backbone next time.”

  “You afraid of heights, or him? He ain’t gonna hurt you unless you do something stupid. And I don’t bite. Most times.”

  She closes her eyes, nods, and huffs out a breath. “I um… I’m sure it won’t matter much, to you, sir, but us girls… we, uh, well… there isn’t much, in the way of feminine hygiene products. And I know we’ve exhausted all local areas. Grocery stores and pharmacies and the like. So it’ll be a bit of a trip to find more—”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I hold a hand up and look between them. “It’s not reasonable to rely on something that isn’t currently being produced in factories around the world. So hard no on any trips to find more. That’s a cycle we won’t be able to keep up, pardon the pun. But we have people who are crafty, don’t we? Get some fabric and sew up some reusable pads. Or, even better, make a mold of a menstrual cup, get some silicone, and make enough that we don�
�t need to worry about it again.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can see she’s interested. It’ll be an adjustment, for most people, but it’ll be better in the long run.

  Ezra, on the other hand, is so disinterested he’s inspecting his nails. I kick his shin and raise an eyebrow when he looks at me.

  He clears his throat. “See what I mean, Squirrel? Need you handling shit like this.”

  “And? What do you say? We get the materials, get a team making this shit, or are you looking for a manicure?”

  He hooks his thumbs to his belt loops and shrugs. “This is all you. I don’t… Yeah, no, it’s all you, Squirrel.”

  I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, breathe out, and wave the woman back down the stairs. “Right. Well. I’ll get on that, then. Jesus Christ. I don’t think Eleven’s gonna be interested in doing this. I need a map. And Patricia.”

  “At least one of them needs to go with you,” Ezra sighs. “If they don’t, I will.”

  “Then who the fuck’s gonna run this shit hole?” I say, and I look back at him with a smile so he knows I’m joking about the shit hole thing. He’s sensitive about that. He pushed a man’s head toward a saw blade for a similar comment.

  I wait until he shakes his head, says something under his breath, before I think it’s safe enough to start down the stairs.

  I shout out over the building, “Patricia! Where the fuck’s Patricia?”

  Day Two Hundred and Three

  Sharpe and Throttle said fuck no when I explained to them. All they heard was menstrual and that was that, but Viking and Fox stick around, listening, offering advice about where to go and how to do it.

  They know these cities and towns a hell of a lot better than I do, and know where to find the stores we need. I don’t need them to tell me how to navigate a hardware store.