Every Dark Little Thing

by T. S. Ward

  Fox hits the breaks again and leans over the wheel. “The fuck?”

  I’m certain it’s going to be some messed up biter, another bodybuilder or something that’s grown an extra set of limbs, but it isn’t. And it’s worse.

  Lana.

  It’s that horrifically clean white coat, just barely in the headlights. She’s looking right at us. Her beetles have their guns ready.

  “Oh, fucking shit fuck,” I hiss, sliding down between the seats.

  “Squirrel? You say that like you know what’s happening,” Fox says quietly, reversing the car again.

  I’m shaking. My hands, arms, legs, everything. Shivering.

  “Wait, wait—there’s… what are they doing? Is that… Fox, am I seeing this right? That person is willingly putting their arm in that thing’s mouth. That’s fucked up.”

  Fox whips the truck around, slams on the gas, and heads for the alternate route. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way the truck moves after that tells me he’s on edge. Freaking the fuck out. And Viking is still rambling about it.

  They’re here. Close. And by the looks of it, testing whatever they got from me. With a live fucking human.

  I press my arms tight to my chest, knees pulled up, and try to not hyperventilate. My teeth are chattering, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel any safer until I’m on the other side of the country. There’s one thing, though, that I can do about this.

  I dig out the radio from the bottom of my bag, turn it on, to channel six, and wait.

  “Squirrel. What is that?” Viking’s voice is high and tight.

  “It’s a radio,” I snap. My nerves make me do dumb shit, make my tone get confrontational. My hands shake despite my grip on the thing.

  “…tail?”

  “Negative. Standby.”

  Hearing voices on this thing is a punch right to the gut. I throw it onto the seat, press the heels of my palms to my eyes, and shake my head. If there’s any place I want to be right now, it’s the base. Ezra’s compound. Surrounded by people with guns and fences with barbed wire.

  “Status on Delta?”

  “Negative visual.”

  Delta. That’s what they said in the forest. Delta and November.

  I swear softly.

  Soldier was certain they meant Daniels and Newell. He would know, even if he said they weren’t following the typical conventions of the military. After all, you break half the rules of war, and it’s pointless to pursue anything rigorously structured.

  “Keep looking. Status on November?”

  I’m biting my fingernails now, reaching for the radio.

  “Last known: bridge on twelve. Blue truck—”

  I turn it off as fast as I can, but I’m shaking so much I don’t get to it in time.

  “What the fuck was that?” Viking demands, and when I stay quiet, he twists around and leans over the seat to look down at me. “The bridge on twelve. That’s where we were just at. This have something to do with the bites on your arm? Look. I assumed they were human or some shit, but after that… what the fuck is happening?”

  I don’t answer his questions. I don’t say anything for the rest of the night. I don’t answer when Fox asks if I’m alright. I just sit there, and shake, and try to breathe but it comes ragged for hours. It comes shallow.

  They’re looking for Soldier, too. They don’t know where he is, and we’re far from Athens now. It was hours ago that they last saw me, and I didn’t see a hint of them, so who knows how long ago they last saw him? Who knows how many miles are between us now?

  As long as they don’t find him.

  As long as they don’t catch me.

  As long as we both live, at least that’s something.

  Day Two Hundred and Six

  The hardware store is overrun, according to Fox, and I don’t have the energy to deal with it. I don’t have the energy to help them move everything into the new truck, the one that isn’t blue. And I sure as hell don’t have the energy to siphon gas for the thing, so Fox takes over. Pushes me out of the way without a word.

  I feel pretty fucking useless right now, but I’m flinching at every small thing and ducking at every noise a damn bird makes in the bushes next to us.

  “Hey,” Viking says softly, “It’s gonna be alright.”

  My cheek twitches. It’s supposed to be a smile but I’m so goddamn wired nothing in me is working properly. I can’t even muster up the strength for a dumbass joke.

  “Sit in the truck. We’ll get this handled.”

  He opens the driver’s door for me and holds out the keys he found in the ignition. By the look of the thing, the driver was dragged out. There are scratches in the seat, some brown stains on the door that I’m assuming are dried blood. Shit luck, buddy.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to Viking as I get in, watching Fox drive the other truck to the back of the store.

  “Look. I don’t know what happened to you or what they want or whatever the fuck they were doing, but I think you’re a tough kid and you can handle it. If anyone can, it’s you. And if hiding in a walled off compound is what you feel like you need to do, then do it. Just… find the right one.”

  He takes the map out of his shirt pocket, and tucks it into the visor over the driver’s seat.

  “I’m going to go meet Fox back there, and we’ll work our way in, and grab what we need. If we aren’t back in an hour, take off and bring back reinforcements. Don’t tackle it alone.”

  I nod. “Good luck.”

  He smiles as he backs away. “You too, Ghost.”

  —

  The hour drags by in searing silence. As slow as hell. And I don’t see any damn biters roaming out of there. I have to keep turning the truck on and off to check the time, and don’t even make it an hour before I get out and grab a gun and start hiking across the parking lot.

  The truck isn’t back here.

  There’s nothing back here. Nothing but a note, duct taped to the back door of the place, the door propped open. I rip it off and stare at it.

  Squirrel—

  Think about what I said. I’ve thought about it. This opportunity is too good to not take it. See you when we see you, and hopefully that’s on the same side of the line. Macon’s a better man than Ezra.

  —Viking (& Fox)

  “For fuck—” I crumple it up and toss it into a nearby dumpster.

  Ezra won’t believe me when I tell him they got overrun.

  Viking told me to just go, not to bother, but he knew I’d never listen to that. He knew I’d go in after them. And the damn place ain’t even overrun. It’s dark as hell, but my footsteps echo across the warehouse in silence.

  At least they’ve got the buckets of shit on a trolley waiting right at the edge of the light that cuts across the floor from the door.

  I push the thing out into the sun, and the effort makes me notice stiffness in my back. Pain starting to throb in my spine. Of course. Of fucking course. Because why wouldn’t that be a problem right now?

  To be fair—it’s preventable. It’s just that I’m the biggest goddamn idiot around and it is a wonder to me that I’ve made it this far. I don’t know how I’ll make it any further.

  I’ve got tubs of heavy ass shit to get to the truck, and then load into the truck, all because those two shitheads decided to fuck off. Then, assuming I get that accomplished without being ambushed by a mob of undead or the very real threat lurking within radio range, I have to drive all the way back to base. And if I survive my own driving, I have to tell Ezra something that won’t get half of Eleven and their families killed—or me, for fuck’s sake.

  If I survive Ezra, I have to survive getting Sadie out. I have to get her away from his turf, away from Lana and her beetles. Maybe we’ll follow Fox and Viking to that guy, Macon, even though I’m sure he’s the same one I threw a grenade at.

  And then Soldier.

  This shit’s heavy enough on the cart. I push the thing against the side of the truck, wedge it against a tir
e, and try to pick up a bucket. It’s heavy as hell. I can feel it in my spine.

  “Lift with your knees,” I huff out to myself.

  I try it again, grunting as I carry it to the tail, and drop it down.

  “Come on, Ghost, come on. Only a few more. Not even that bad. Not that bad.”

  I grab the next one, shimmy it over to the edge of the cart, grab it, and hoist it onto my shoulder. I nearly fall over backwards as I walk to the back of the truck and let it fall. The thing rolls toward the fabric and other shit. The next one, I drop upright and shimmy it back. Damn thing shakes the whole truck.

  I’m on the last one, breathing heavy and sweating like a pig, with searing pain through my back, when I see it rolling back.

  Panic surges through me, and I lunge forward. The one I’m holding throws me off balance as I drop it down, but at least it’s upright. Upright, idiot. I try to stop the one that’s rolling off the tail, but my leg stops responding.

  I stumble forward like a stupid idiot, clutching the truck as it falls.

  The plastic shatters all down the side, and the thing starts rolling across the parking lot. And, as a big ol’ fuck you, Ghost, the thing comes to rest against the opposite tire.

  I lean on the tail, drop my head onto my forearms, and scream into my jacket sleeves.

  This isn’t just something where I can cut my losses and go. This shit is two-part, meaning I need the bucket of part A to mix with part B, and it sure as fuck won’t work without it.

  “Goddamn this,” I mutter.

  I shove the cart away and get in the truck. Might as well drive the damn thing back there. Should have in the first place. Maybe the thing wouldn’t have rolled out. Should have set it upright, anyway. Should have, would have, could have—did. So deal with it.

  And I deal with it.

  I park the truck outside the door, and dig around for a flashlight for a few minutes. I have my knife and a gun, just in case. I should have brought the cart back, really, but I’ll just have to make do without it and find another one.

  Before I go in, I double check that it’s A and not B that I need. I’d rather not be any more stupid than I have been and get the wrong one.

  The flashlight cuts through the darkness ahead of me as I walk in. There’s a hell of a lot more stuff in here than I thought there’d be, and it almost feels like breaking and entering in the before times. Before the apocalypse.

  Which is to say, it reminds me of the time when Adam kicked me out of his house and sent me back home to Dad. When I was being a rebellious seventeen-year-old little shit. He chewed me right out, made Sadie cry, and all he managed to do was piss me off enough to start screaming at him in front of all his cop buddies about his problems.

  He blamed me for his shit the last time I saw him.

  He said I made him lose his job, made him relapse. I wasn’t even around, so whatever the fuck he had going on—well. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe that started the ball rolling.

  After all, I can string together a puzzle of random objects and see the outcome, but I can’t see the consequences of my own actions. Can’t see what’ll happen when I start running my mouth. It’s what happened with Eli, too. I imagine it would have happened with Soldier, stoic as he was about my being a nuisance.

  Thinking about Adam gets me thinking about what Soldier said to him. And that’s another punch to the gut.

  “Adam,” I mutter, and I haven’t said his name out loud in so long.

  I haven’t said anything or thought about it since. I didn’t think I’d need to. But I don’t know—hell—I don’t know anything, do I?

  “Who the fuck was Kel? I never heard shit about Kel. Was she really more important to you than your sister disappearing? Fuck, I wish I’d met her, Adam. Must have been goddamn special.”

  I walk down the aisle where the shit I need is kept, almost annoyed at how well I still remember the layout of this chain. I worked in one, before. When Eli and his goons tried to kill me.

  I stand staring at the buckets for a while, looking for the right one.

  “So, what was it, then, Adam? Was it seeing my face again? Was it knowing I wasn’t her? Was it remembering what you did to Sadie? Was it what Soldier said?” Goddamn it, I choke on his name. “Was it pure guilt, then, or was it knowing you had nothing left to keep you high?”

  I kneel down, lean over a bucket, and force a guttural noise out between clamped teeth. I smack my palm against it, over and over. Get the anger out, Ghost. It fuels me as I haul the thing up and curse myself for not remembering to grab a cart.

  The flashlight is between my teeth as I shuffle out of the building, arms shaking and back about to give out just as I get to the truck. Just as I set it down.

  “Come on, Keely,” I growl at myself, shouldering the thing back in the truck bed. Do it again, and again, until I can close the tail, until I can drag myself limping to the cab.

  I climb up, climb in, and barely manage to pull the door shut with the tenseness running through my back. I try to start the truck.

  The damn thing won’t even turn over. Barely even a sputter.

  “No. No. Come on. Come on. Come on! Fuck you. Stupid fucking piece of shit!”

  I slam my palms against the wheel, scream, and then tilt the seat back. The radio is sitting on the seat next to me, flashlight resting against it from tossing it in blindly. I see it out of the corner of me eye as I try to not let the frustration get me. Try to breathe.

  “No, no, no,” I tell myself, shaking my head.

  But what if he’s close? The idiot devil on my shoulder asks. What if he’s around here and he can help?

  He knows how to fix cars and trucks. He should have been a mechanic rather than join the army. Should have. Would have. Could have. Met me instead.

  “Well, meet me again, you bastard,” I say, reaching for the radio.

  I set it to channel five and turn it on. And I listen. And listen. I sit there for a long time, just listening to nothing, keep flinching over nothing, over static—would there be static if it wasn’t live?

  What the fuck do I know?

  I close my eyes. Press the button. Think better of it.

  Those beetle bastards are too close. Lana is too close. They’re probably monitoring every channel there is just to hear me, to find me, and now I’m worried about Fox and Viking. They took the blue truck.

  A courtesy to me, really, that I would appreciate if this one wasn’t shot. The only thing I know about cars is how to hotwire one.

  Thanks Dad. Adam. Eli.

  “It wasn’t even my fault!” I shout, and I accidentally kick the horn for a half second. I immediately sink further down in the seat.

  Whatever happened to Adam—it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t raise him. I didn’t put him through a life like he had and throw his idiot sister and a child at him like that. I didn’t raise him on stealing cars and cleaning guns and getting into scraps and drinking young and taking shit he really shouldn’t have been taking.

  It wasn’t me, and I know that. I know, because I was in it, too.

  Not as harsh, maybe, with seven years between us. But seven years sure as hell made a difference, and so did fifteen. Dad wasn’t even that bad by the time Sadie was born. Mellowed out. Matured. Grew a little. No longer a teen father with his own shit dad.

  He tried looking out for Sadie. It wasn’t even his fault that she got sent to Adam.

  “It was all Eli, wasn’t it? Fucking prick,” I mumble.

  I sit in the truck all damn night, too irritated to do anything about it. Too frustrated to bother trying. And I figure, it’s better to cool off and rest my back than to make mistakes.

  Day Two Hundred and Seven

  I wake up to thumps on the outside of the truck. Thumps, and a slick squealing sound against the glass. A rasping ghoul knows I’m in here, and it’s trying to claw its way in, only it’s ripped its fingernails off and only has bony fingertips to try. And teeth. Damn thing is gnawing on the metal, not that it�
��s accomplishing anything.

  If the truck would turn on, I’d roll the window down, jam a knife into the top of its head, and have that be that. But, just my damn luck.

  It’s just my luck, too, that sleeping on a reclined car seat did absolute fucking wonders for this bullshit that is my spine. I can barely move, and up until this point my plan was to just kick the door into the thing, knock it over, and jump out with the knife.

  Like some kind of action movie.

  I settle for dragging myself across the cab. The door cracks open quietly, and I slide out, crouching low as I move around the truck.

  The damn thing turns right when I bring the knife down. The blade skids across bone and sinks into the neck. It must be fairly fresh, the way the blood splatters onto my skin and the sleeve of my jacket when I pull the knife back.

  It grabs my arms and lunges forward.

  I shove it back with a grunt, grab the door handle, and pull it open, slamming it down against its skull. It’s hard. It takes a shit ton of effort, leaving me breathless by the time it stops twitching enough to pull it out.

  “For the love of all that is holy,” I mutter, brushing bits off the seat with my sleeve, “That could have been easy, man, could have gone so quickly. You had to turn, idiot. Just had to.”

  I lean on the door for a second, take a deep breath, and then reach up and try to start the truck again. Thing sputters. At least it does that. Makes some kind of noise. I pop the hood and walk around to the front, and then groan as I shove it up and realize I can’t see shit.

  “That’s great. That’s just great. Way to go, Dad. Fucking me over my whole life with this short shit!” Quit yelling, girl, you’ll attract more biters.

  I get a foot up on the bumper, grab the edge of the truck, and haul myself up. I don’t even know what the fuck I was thinking, trying this in the first place. I don’t know shit about this. I don’t know what the fuck I’m looking at. Nothing’s on fire, nothing’s smoking. Doesn’t look like anything’s leaking or disconnected or whatever the fuck it is trucks do when they die.