by Jones, Isla
“I’m aware.”
“Vicki said that nobody’s gotten yours right.” He didn’t reply. “I would’ve guessed a soldier, but she said that’s been guessed already.”
“Is this your way of trying to determine my career without using up your three attempts?”
“Maybe.” I laughed. “Is it working?”
He smirked. “You tell me.”
“You weren’t a solider, but I think you had something to do with the defence force,” I said. “A marine, maybe.” —He went to speak, but I cut him off— “That’s not a guess, I was just thinking out loud.”
“Lucky you,” he said. “Because it was incorrect.”
My cunning eyes lit up. “The marine part, or the defence force bit?”
He smirked, but didn’t reply. My eyes narrowed at him. He wasn’t making the game easy for me.
“If I’m right,” I said pensively, “and you were in the defence force, you’d know what’s happened, right? To the world, I mean. You’d know what caused this.”
“I know enough,” he said. His face and tone darkened, and I didn’t know if he was warning me off the topic, or the topic itself provoked him.
Silence passed between us, and I waited patiently for him to elaborate. He didn’t; he finished his coffee and stuck the empty mug in the cup holders between us. Cleo trotted over and jumped up onto my lap. There, she curled into a black ball, relaxing as my fingers combed through the needles of her fur.
Impatience triumphed within me. “What do you know?”
His thumb tapped against the steering wheel as I finished off my coffee. I stuffed the mug into the cup holder beside his.
“Open the glovebox,” he said. There was a sharp edge to his tone, and his dark green eyes remained fixed ahead at the van. They simmered beneath his black lashes, and with the changing sun, shadows appeared on his cheeks. Dimples, I realised.
I did as he said and popped open the glovebox.
“Take out the black box and open it.”
Inside the black box, no bigger than my palm, was a set of preloved rosary beads. They were in good shape, save for a few scratches on the beads and silver crucifix.
“I used to be religious,” he said. “Those were my mother’s.”
My brows shot up and I gaped at him in a mixture of stunned silence and confusion. I wasn’t sure where he was going with the turn in topic, but I’d also never pegged him for the religious type.
“I never went to church, but I confessed my sins every time I killed someone. I prayed, I said my Hail Marys, but I got back up and returned to work. Every time.” He paused and turned the steering wheel, following the van in front. “You asked me what I know,” he continued. “That man on the cross died for our sins. I know that. But we haven’t stopped sinning. Our apologies are insincere; our repentance is non-existent. We kill each other over land and politics and cultural differences. We treat the world like it’s ours, but it isn’t. We’re guests here, not owners. God has given up on us.”
I don’t believe in God, but it spills out of my lips regardless; “Can you blame him?”
“Not even a little,” he said. “But we’re not God’s children anymore. This isn’t his world; he’s handed it over to the Devil, and us with it. Look around you.”
I did; I gazed out of the windshield, seeing barren dirt grasslands and limp corpses sprawled out on the harsh ground.
Leo added, dryly, “Hell was brought to us. We’re living in it.”
6.
Laughter filled the dry air, and for the first time in a long time I was … happy. We’d stationed at a desolate petrol station on the side of the dirt road, and all survivors enjoyed themselves. We’d scavenged all the food from inside, and syphoned all the petrol we could. All that was left to do was relax—a rarity these days.
Cleo and I played near the petrol pumps with a tennis ball; cliques sectioned off and shared candy from the shop; and a few twenty-somethings spray-painted the building. Vicki and Mac, however, had disappeared inside the building, and I didn’t need three guesses to know what they were up to. I wondered, though, where they found enough condoms to fund their everyday coitus.
Cleo barked at my feet. I pretended to toss the yellow tennis ball, only to hide it behind my back. I giggled as she searched for it—no matter how many times I did this, she still didn’t learn. When she nipped my ankle—hard enough that I winced—I finally chucked the ball. It went far; it soared passed the scattered abandoned cars onto the grasslands surrounding us. I tensed; I watched Cleo run after it, a bit too far out than I was comfortable with. But it was my fault that the ball travelled past the concrete and bounced onto the grasslands. There weren’t any rotters around, lurking behind the brittle bushes, but the anxiety kicked in regardless.
Cleo dashed toward the rolling ball. But her paws suddenly scuffled backwards, then she stopped in her tracks a metre away from the ball. Her short black tail straightened, darting up into the air, and the hairs on her tiny body prickled.
“Cleo?” I called out. The Chihuahua stayed on the grasslands. The faintness of her growl reached me.
I scanned the area, but I didn’t see what she was growling at. Nothing caught my eye, except Leo who’d looked over his shoulder at me, then at Cleo. He stood in front of an abandoned car, crouched over the hood with a map sprawled out between his palms.
“Cleo. Come here, baby.” She didn’t so much as whine. It was as if I hadn’t spoken at all. My legs moved slowly; I walked towards her, but the muscles in my body resisted.
I passed Leo, and his eyes followed me.
Suddenly, Cleo barked. But at what, I didn’t know. There was nothing on the landscape to bark at, except the tennis ball and some brown, wiry bushes. My pace quickened and I jogged towards her, slipping the knife out of my belt as I went. Leo’s steady footsteps crunched on the ground directly behind me, but I didn’t look back.
And then I saw it.
From behind a bush, a matted black Rottweiler emerged. The muscles on its beefy shoulders slinked as it crept towards Cleo. The Chihuahua still yapped, but she was no bigger than the other dog’s head.
Leo raced toward me and snatched my arm, hauling me back.
“Cleo—”
Leo’s hand slapped against my mouth, silencing my shouts. My heart pounded in my ears as the Rottweiler drew closer to Cleo. I could see her, my baby girl, trembling. But she stood her ground. She was braver than I was, I realised.
Leo, with his free hand, pulled out his semi-automatic. His palm left my lips before he screwed on the silencer, then aimed the gun at the Rottweiler. The matted, dirtied dog paid no attention to either of us. It had its sights set on my tiny Chihuahua.
I was conscious of every sound—my frantic heartbeat, the laughter and shouts of the others as they went unaware, and the savagely low snarl of the Rottie. Blood stained the black fur around its salivating jaws. I exhaled a shaky breath. I didn’t know what to do. Somehow, I felt as though any move or noise I made would spring the Rottweiler into action. And Cleo was closest to it—the Rottie would reach her before I would.
Leo held the gun with two hands and stepped around me, moving like a panther on its prey. The soles of his boots crunched against the dry stony dirt. A twig snapped beneath his boot; he stilled. The Rottweiler’s wild eyes swerved to us. A tremor ran down my spine to my toes.
“Cleo.” The shakiness of my own voice startled me. She whined in response, but that caught the dog’s attention again.
Leo switched off the safety and whistled. “Over here,” he said softly. To this day, I don’t know whether he was beckoning Cleo or the Rottweiler. Both noticed. And the Rottie bared its yellow teeth.
My stomach churned. The Rottie pawed the dirt. Cleo crouched down, as if hoping the ground would swallow her whole. The Rottweiler shook, preparing itself, and then—
It bounded towards us.
Cleo yelped. It was a squeal of fright. She scrambled around, her paws kicking up dirt, and r
aced toward me.
I lunged forward, hitting the dirt, and spread my arms wide. “Come on, Cleo! Hurry!”
But the Rottie was faster. It dived for Cleo, its jaws wide open.
“No!”
A sharp whistling sound whizzed over me. The gun.
Blood spurted in the air, and the Rottweiler collapsed to the dirt. Cleo reached me, soared into my arms, and whined. My arms wrapped around her in a blanket of promise—I won’t let you go again.
Leo cautiously stepped towards the dog, gun still aimed. When he reached it, he nudged the Rottweiler with his boot; a soft sound came from the dog. It was somewhere between a growl and whimper.
Leo yanked a knife from his holster and crouched beside the canine. I shut my eyes and looked away. Hearing the knife was enough—I didn’t need to see it, too.
After a moment, my eyes pried open. I looked over at Leo. A jingle sounded out as he fingered the tags on the Rottweiler’s collar. Suddenly, I felt a punch of nausea hit my gut. That dog had been a pet. Someone had loved it, fed it, cared for it. It’d had a name.
And then the virus came and destroyed everything.
Would Cleo be like that if I died? Would she turn feral for survival?
Maybe we already had.
Leo stood up. He stalked towards me. “His name was Bruce,” he said.
Numbly, I gazed up at him. “Thank you,” I whispered, cradling Cleo against me. She buried her face in my hair. “Thank you, Leo.”
An unreadable look flashed in his eyes. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and regarded me.
“You didn’t have to,” I added. Though, I wondered if that were true. The group would hardly benefit from a vicious Rottweiler running around them. But he’d saved Cleo, and that’s all I cared about.
He remained silent. We just stood there, looking at each other. He didn’t say anything.
A few second passed before I cleared my throat.
“Right,” I said, stepping back. “I’ll put her in the caravan.”
Still, he said nothing. He simply watched me with a guarded expression as I walked backwards. I turned and jogged over to the caravan.
Cleo was better off inside for safety reasons.
“Sorry, Cleo,” I said, placing her inside. My pitiful expression made no difference to her. She whined and looked around the caravan vacantly. “Stay away from the bedroom,” I added. “They’re doing naughty things in there.”
Cleo just whined and sat down. With a heavy sigh, I closed the door and rested my forehead on the laminate panel. I’d barely gathered my nerves when a voice came from behind me.
“Winter, is it?”
I stiffened. I recognised the voice. Eyes, as Summer always said, are gateways to one’s soul. But in my case—according to Summer—they’re gateways to my mind. Each and every emotion I felt showed in them, which I suppose is what made me such a terrible liar.
So when I turned to face America’s Sweetheart, I’m certain she saw the contempt in my eyes. Her hands were settled on her cocked hips. It reminded of my stricter flatmate, back when I’d stagger home drunk in the wee hours of the morning after leaving Cleo to run rampant in the share house.
“Yes.” My tone was as hard as my stare. “And you’re Marsha, right?”
I knew her name was Rose, but I just wanted to poke the bear a little.
“Rose,” she said, each letter rolling off her tongue. The strong sunlight squinted my eyes, but I could see her gaze dragging over me, measuring me up.
“Did you want something?”
The curtness of my tone didn’t seem to surprise her. Her icy eyes locked with mine before she took a single step toward me. A sneer morphed at her lips, and I glimpsed at the ugliness behind her pretty face. “That dog of yours is going to get us all killed.”
I choked on a laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“That stupid mutt,” she spat, “keeps running away—though I don’t blame it—yet you always chase it. One day, you and that rat are going to bring something back with you.”
The confrontation was no longer amusing to me, but tedious. That showed in my hooded eyes as I blinked at her, the way I did to the back of a stranger’s head when they walked slow down the street.
“It’s only a matter of time before you bring back a rotter,” snapped Rose. “Or yet another group.”
“Yet another?” I echoed. “I didn’t bring the first one, Monica.”
“My name is Rose.” Her back stiffened and her words hissed out; “You might have Leo under your spell, but I see right through your act. I think you’re full of shit. He’ll come to see that, too. Right now, you’re just a shiny new toy.”
I smirked and closed the small distance between us. Our noses almost touched, but neither of us withdrew. “Luckily for me, it’s not your opinion that matters here. It’s Leo’s. And I get the feeling this has nothing to do with Cleo, but everything to do with him. If you have a problem with Leo, talk to him about it, not me.”
“Look, bitch—”
“No,” I spat, and poked her shoulder. “Unless you’re about to apologise for being an ass, I don’t want to hear a damn thing you have to say. You’ve had a problem with me since I got here, and I don’t care why. You have something going on with Leo, or did before I got here, but I have nothing to do with what’s happened between you, or what hasn’t. Bother someone who gives a shit, Morgan.”
With that, I shoved past her and stormed away. I heard her frustrated voice—‘It’s Rose!’—and it only made me smirk in triumph. To further irritate her, I went over to Leo by the hood of the sedan.
He was bowed over the spread map, hands resting on either side of the crinkled paper, in deep concentration. His jumper was tied around his waist now, showing his plain black t-shirt and the smears of dirt that licked up his mocha skin.
I jumped up on the hood, perching myself beside his hand, and smirked across the lot at the red Rose. Her upper lip curled before she stalked off. Leo didn’t ask why I’d joined him. I had doubted he’d even noticed my presence until he’d tapped a green patch on the map. “See that?” he asked.
I hummed and leaned closer. His neat fingernail drummed on the patch again. “What is it?”
“That’s us,” he said.
My gaze wandered to him. His chocolate hair fell over his forehead as his jungle-green eyes scanned the map. I could see, for the first time, why Rose pursued him. His exterior was the cliché ‘tall, dark and handsome’. But that was only the wrapping.
Summer had always told me it was the inside that mattered. The jury was still out on Leo. Away from others, he was different—welcoming, open, and he thought himself sort of funny. He wasn’t funny, but he thought he was, and I liked that a little … just a little.
But then around the others, he was guarded. I couldn’t throw away the memory of him holding me at gunpoint, shooting a blank into my skull, threatening me so effortlessly.
“We’re in Kress,” he said. “If we take this route—” His index finger dragged over the page. “—we’ll reach Eldorado in approximately five hours.”
“Eldorado?” I repeated with a smile. “Sounds like paradise.”
“It isn’t. It’s a small town in Oklahoma.”
“Then why are we going there?” I frowned before it struck me. “Oh, is that the meet-point with the rest of the group?”
“Yes,” he said with a smirk. I wondered if he was smirking at me or something else. Regardless, my gaze flickered to his lips. I’d never noticed how full and pink they were before. Had Rose kissed them?
His head lolled back as he stared up at the crystal blue sky. The sunrays danced over his irises, turning them turquoise. I was mystified; watching the flickers of blue and green in the hues of his eyes.
“We should stay here for the night.” He looked back down at the map, stealing away the view I’d enjoyed. “We’ll leave in the morning for the meet-point, refreshed. There’s a farm a few miles east. If we go within the hour, we
’ll have enough time to clear it before sundown.”
“Everybody’s really tired,” I said, nodding. “Except from that Rose girl. She could probably do a few more tasks, if you have anything that needs to be done. I’m sure she’d love to help clear the farm of rotters or corpses, you know.”
His lips spread into a devilish grin, and he looked at me. “Is that so?”
“What?” I faked innocence. “I overheard her saying that she doesn’t get enough work in this group. It’s just food for thought.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” he said through a chuckle.
He folded the map and tapped it against the hood of the car. His gaze stayed down, fixed on the edge of the map; his brows furrowed that way they did when he was deep in thought.
A silence passed between us, in which I just swung my legs lazily over the side of the hood. It wasn’t awkward this time. It was almost peaceful. But then he lifted his head and met my gaze.
“You should make friends.”
My eyebrows shot up and my legs stopped swinging over the edge of the car. “What?”
“It’ll be easier for you that way,” he said.
I sneered and observed the selection of people in distaste. “I’ll pass.”
“Look,” he said, gesturing to a crowd across the lot. They were laughing and spray-painting the shop windows. Rose was one of them.
I slipped off the hood of the car and wiped away the sweat from my dewy forehead. Strands of my peachy blonde hair stuck to my temples; I peeled them away, looking up at Leo. “I have a friend,” I said, moodily.
He ran his fingers through his thick head of sweaty hair. “I’m flattered,” he said.
I made a face. “Not you. Vicki.”
He laughed and pushed himself from the car, tucking the map into his back pocket. “Well, it seems your friend has left you for a man.”
A grin swept across my face and I slipped a white box from my bra—a packet of red Marlboros that I found underneath the cash register in the shop.
Leo seemed impressed, but the expression quickly gave, and he made to grab them. I yanked my hand back just in time. “Trade you for a chocolate bar?”
