by P. J. Post
P°A°L°I°M°P°S°E°S°T
BOOK ONE
FERAL
P.J. Post
Copyright © 2017 P.J. Post
All Rights Reserved
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
TABLE of CONTENTS
Her Eyes Matched the Sky
The Mark
Pal-imp-sest
Noun
Something altered or repurposed, but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.
1
Her Eyes Matched the Sky
°
I can feel the thunder in the ground.
The war is closer this morning.
A thin layer of frost shimmers off the dirt and grass. The Bower girl is covered with the same gossamer sadness.
Her lips are blue.
They match her unmoving eyes.
She reminds me of any one of the girls back in school giggling down the halls, worried about Friday night dates and prom, while the seniors were all about college and their futures, and the outcasts were already preoccupied with jobs and getting out of that shit-hole town — then one day, they were all the same, saying and doing it all for the last time.
She’s staring at me like I can help her, like there’s still hope.
But hope hasn’t been real for a long time, if it ever was.
It’s harder to fake shit like that now. The war won’t let us. Each new day lays us bare — turning our ugly inside out. Hers is permanent now.
I wish someone had closed her eyes.
I lower the gun from my lips, but the metallic taste remains like it always does.
I push my Spiderman and SpongeBob blankets away and get to my knees, pull my backpack around and slide my .45 inside the front pocket. The house is empty. I watched most of the group I’ve been shadowing stick to their usual routine and leave before dawn. There was lots of crying and arguing. I might catch up with them later in the morning, and if not…
I can see the remaining families through the broken and scorched walls. They’re milling about in the middle of the street, a few houses down, arguing about which way to go — what to do. Their voices are too loud.
They’re losing their cool because their kids aren’t making it. Not enough sleep, not enough food, not enough water — no medicine. The parents aren’t any better off and can’t carry their kids much further.
They’re becoming weak — targets — victims.
I wonder what Darwin would make of it.
It just keeps playing out like this, over and over like a goddamned television re-run.
Every day, every town, every neighborhood — every mass grave drainage ditch is full of atrocities, painful sights that I can’t unsee — reminders of shit I can’t take back, shit I can’t undo. My memories are demons, coming each night to possess me, haunting the darkness when I close my eyes. They won’t let me forget, no matter how much I pray.
The Bower girl got the better deal.
I stand and walk across the burned-out corner of the center-hall colonial. That’s what Mrs. Chandler called it last night. She said she was a Realtor or some shit before. I stop and for the first time take note of where I am — the Promised Land of middle-class suburbia.
I bet they sat around the dinner table this summer eating take-out Chinese, no — probably Vietnamese — and talking about SAT scores, career paths, investment portfolios, life coaches and yoga. They were probably worried about their carbon footprint too.
The right and wrong of it doesn’t matter anymore.
It’s only been a few months, but it seems like a lifetime.
A second-floor bedroom has collapsed down over the dining room and leans like a tipped fedora from one of those old gangster movies. Band posters, magazine cut-outs, sports medals, ribbons and other personal crap are still hanging on the beige walls upstairs like some museum remembrance. It looks like a high school kid’s.
His bed is out in the yard now, next to a purple, metal-flecked Bass boat lying on its side. The trailer’s gone.
We burned the wooden bed frame last night for heat. Carlos and his crew slept on the box springs and mattress. No one argues with Carlos. He’s been leading the group for several hundred miles, following gang tags from town to town, ruin to ruin. His mind’s not gone yet, but he’s on his way. He’s a scary guy, but he’s a survivor too, no matter the cost. Fear does that to people.
That was a hard lesson to learn.
A fancy stereo sits drunkenly on top of a cabinet housing a large television with a caved-in screen. Game controllers and wires stretch out like life support appendages from some bad science fiction movie. The kid probably begged his parents for all of it; one worthless gadget after another, one empty promise after another — Christmas must have been totally rad. No one gives a shit about any of it anymore, not even high school boy here.
I never cared enough to question the way of things, or wonder about what was important in life. I just took the shit as it came; ducked when I needed to and when I was slow, I’d let the bruises heal without bitching about it. It never occurred to me things could change, really change, especially not like this. Now a cross-eyed glance or even a chance to sleep on a mattress can get you shot.
It’s fucking anarchy.
I wonder if high school boy made it out.
All of the clothes and supplies that might have been here have long since been taken, a side effect of being closer to the back of the westward migration. I’m not even bothering with the rest of the house. It’s already been stripped.
I step onto the foundation wall, near the body of the Bower girl, and stare out across the shadowy bombed-out neighborhood and unbutton my jeans. The spaces between the houses are turning from gray to pink as the broken trees and stumps, cars and scattered family mementos reveal themselves. The sun will be up soon.
I try to empty my mind and focus as my piss steams in the morning air.
This is all going to get much worse and soon. I need to head south…
“That’s disrespectful, you know?” a hesitant and young sounding voice says from the shadows.
I glance around to see a disheveled kid in the darkness, he looks like his voice sounds — young. I can see frayed layers silhouetted from here. A long coat wraps a short slender frame, and what light there is shines on filth. He’s a mess. I don’t think he can take me, besides, if he wanted to jump me, he’d have already done it so I finish my business.
What’s the worst that can happen, a bullet to the head?
“Fuck off,” I say without any real conviction as I watch the other refugees come out of the houses down the block and join the mob congealing in the center of the street.
“You’re an asshole, dude,” the kid says.
“It’s not like I’m pissing on her. Besides, I don’t think she cares one way or the other.”
People are beginning to flood onto the block. This feels weird, wrong somehow. This is an out of the way neighborhood, there shouldn’t be this many people showing up, not this early. I need to get to the fringes before it gets out of hand.
I face back into the room and drop down from the foundation wall, further away from the dead girl, and continue pissing into the living room. “Better?” I ask.
“Don’t turn around!” the voice shouts.
“Keep it down. Who gives a shit?”
The kid turns and disappears into the shadows. “I do. She has a name, you know.”
“They all do, or did, what’s it matter?” I ask.
“It just does. Her name is Denise Carlson.”
I button my pants back up. “Carlson? I thought her name was something or other Bower. Are you sure?”
The figure materializes again. “Yes, I am and no, it wasn’t.
We have to remember. There isn’t anyone else to do it for us.”
“If you say so, whatever,” I say, waving him off. I’m much more worried about the gathering storm outside.
“Whatever? That’s it? I watched her die last night and all you have is whatever?” His voice is pained exasperation.
“Why didn’t you help her if you knew she was biting it?” I turn back to my stuff and begin rolling up my blankets.
Denise had asthma or some shit.
At night you can hear the sobs, prayers for the living and the dead, and occasionally someone will lose it and just snap, wailing and screaming for whomever they lost or for whatever happened to them. But it was Denise’s wheezing that kept me up over the last week as I tried to go to sleep, that and her mother’s sobs — her prescription ran out.
Nothing short of a hospital from the Before Time was going to save her.
“Sorry, that wasn’t fair,” I say. I don’t need to take my shit out on this poor kid.
“Stop being an asshole and just hurry up and leave,” he says.
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
I take a closer look at him and realize he’s worse off than I am. I bet he’s not much more than five feet tall. He’s either skittish as hell or not very steady on his feet. I wonder when he last ate. The odds of him making it are pretty much shit.
I don’t remember him even being with our group, but he must have been trailing us or he wouldn’t have known Denise’s name.
He’s alone now.
And the only way to make it alone out here is to be a ruthless, cold-blooded son of a bitch — and I can tell just by how he’s standing — he doesn’t have it in him.
Trying to help him is probably a death sentence, but it beats the hell out of the alternative — living.
Atonement is a lonely fucking road.
Besides, there’s just something about this kid starving to death or worse I can’t ignore. There’s a quiet desperation in his voice — a loneliness that’s more tragic than pathetic.
He’s not giving up and I respect the shit out of that.
I finish rolling up my blankets, tie them and then secure them to my backpack.
“Please go,” the kid says.
I walk over to the side of the foyer, out of sight of the street people and lean against the flowered wallpaper near the front door, next to one of those framed needlepoints: We may not have it all together, but together, we have it all. I keep an eye on the kid as I pull out a cigarette and light it with a wooden grocery store match.
The sun peeks through the trees and casts long shadows across the street. The light is creeping over what’s left of the wood living room floor.
“Seriously, go,” the kid says again. He’s relentless, but I’ve already made up my mind.
Life and death isn’t anything more than a coin flip, but come hell or high-water, this one’s going to live.
I toss my backpack over one shoulder and pull the .45 from the front pocket. I casually point it toward the kid and motion with it to the street. “Come on, I’m not going to leave you here by yourself. Let’s go find something to eat.”
“With you?” he asks in an unexpectedly dismissive tone.
“Who else?”
“I don’t need you,” he says, fading further back into the shadows. He takes a seat on a rickety dining room chair and leans over, resting his elbows on his knees as if that settles anything.
“The hell you don’t. Look, kid, you’ve been lucky so far. Winter’s coming and it’s only a matter of time until…” I point the .45 out toward the mob. “It’s all gone. Everything is fucking gone. Soon, they’re going to start taking what they want. It’s going to be like nothing you can imagine. Sorry, kid, I hate to say this, but it’s time to grow the fuck up.”
“I can take care of myself…”
“You can’t take care of shit. Do you even have a weapon?”
“Please go…” His voice breaks.
“Are you crying? What the fuck, kid?”
“No, I’m not, please…” He is crying, but trying like hell to hide it.
Tough kid.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says.
“Piss? So hurry up and piss.” This is a lot of drama.
I turn away and concentrate on my cigarette as I watch the crowd continue to grow. “Seriously, we need to go. Crowds are dangerous.” I turn back to see the kid on his feet.
The jerky barrel of a chrome revolver is no more than three inches from my face, aimed with dirty shaking hands.
“You mean a weapon like this?” he says, unable to keep the venom from his voice.
Now that the kid is out of the shadows, he’s not as young as I thought, maybe about my age, give or take. The long, heavy leather coat is at least three sizes too big. He’s got a ratty wool scarf loosely wrapped around his face, covering everything except his nose and eyes, and a black beanie over his head. Muddy jeans and small, worn basketball sneakers show from under the dull-brown leather coat.
But the most interesting thing is — he’s not even a he.
Big, teary, cornflower blue eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes are staring up at me.
I feel like I’ve been slapped.
Her eyes are so, so blue, so clear, so innocent…
I didn’t know I could still feel like this. I thought I was over compassion; thought it was buried in a shallow grave somewhere back East, along with my guilt and regret.
Either way, I don’t fucking like it.
I choke down the emotion and tighten the grip on my own pistol. I’m not going to cry in front of this girl.
With a force of will, I grin at her instead. “Nice disguise. You should stay in the shadows.”
“Shut up. Go!”
“Keep your voice down. We need to get you some sunglasses. It’s your eyes, they’re all — fucked up,” I say.
“What’s wrong with my eyes?” Her tone is hurt.
“Nothing, no, I didn’t mean…they give you away, that’s all.”
“I’m not…”
“A girl?” I laugh, ignoring the gun. “Yeah, you are.” I tilt my head down to get a better look at her. The barrel of her pistol follows me. “I should have known by your voice, but yeah, your eyes are — not wrong, Christ, they’re breathtaking, that’s what they are. Did anyone ever tell you that? Does the rest of you match?” I look down again and reach out like I’m trying to peek inside her coat.
She takes a step back and cocks the pistol. “Don’t say stuff like that.” Her eyes narrow. They draw me in despite my memories or maybe because of them — they’re mesmerizing — but the pain’s etched pretty deep in there too.
Shit, not as innocent as I would have hoped for, and that sucks. She hasn’t had an easy time, but then who has?
“Say stuff like what? So, what are you, like seventeen?” I take a drag and blow smoke into the barrel of her gun.
“Stop it. You don’t know anything about me,” she snarls.
“Nope, that’s why I asked. But I’m going to take a wild-ass guess here and say you’re thinking about shooting me.” I grin at her again.
“Stop it,” she says more forcefully this time.
“Stop what?”
“Grinning at me.”
I’m not acting anymore. “I’m not sure I can. You seem to have that effect on me. I’m thinking you might just, you know, when you get over the impulse to kill me, make everything — less shitty.”
“Less shitty?” I must have caught her by surprise because she laughs through her scarf. “I bet you say that to all the girls, look, you really don’t know me.” Her tone has chilled, she’s just irritable now. She lowers the gun.
I look to the street and take another drag, and then back to her. “Maybe I don’t, but fuck it, what do you say — need some company, you know, a traveling companion, someone to keep an eye out?” I ask quietly as I glance around. “We’ve already been heading in the same direction, besides, I promised to fe
ed you breakfast, didn’t I? I mean, it’s not like it’s a date or anything.”
Her eyes soften, not much, but a little.
“If you try anything…” she starts.
I study her face, what I can see of it anyway, and those eyes, trying to figure her out — trying to see what this war has done to her, the stains. I take the last drag off my smoke and then grind it out in the rubble of high school kid’s living room without ever taking my eyes from her. She never looks away either.
Fuck me if her eyes aren’t as blue and clear as…
Shit.
In for a penny, in for a pound; there’s no point in holding back now. She needs to trust me if I’m going to have a prayer of helping her. I slowly spin the automatic in my hand and hold it out to her butt first. “There. You’ve got all the guns. Happy? I won’t look, so go squat already. I’ll keep an eye out for bad guys.”
She takes the gun, gently sliding it out of my hand.
I turn away but don’t hear her moving. I glance back to see her still staring at me, but I can’t read her expression.
“Like, hurry. I said I won’t look.” I lean against the broken wall, avoiding the splintered framing and sharp brick and watch the street as she disappears back into the shadows. The block just keeps filling up. We’re taking too long. “Hurry,” I say again.
“I’m squatting as fast as I can, asshole,” she hisses from the shadows.
I laugh.
“You look like you’re still in junior high,” she taunts me, no doubt to conceal the sound of her pissing.
“No one is in junior high anymore. Didn’t you hear, they canceled fall semester? But since you brought it up again, you never answered me. How old are you?”
“Old enough to know better,” she says from the shadows.
“That makes two of us. Aren’t we a pair?”
“No, we are definitely not a pair. We’re not anything,” she says defiantly.
“Relax. Yeah, you’re a girl, but it’s not like I want to get in your pants.”
