Palimpsest (Book 1): Feral

by P. J. Post

  A large chunk of pottery crashes against the wall near my head. “Jesus, chick.”

  I take a breath, my mind a tumble of memories, and start talking before I have time to think about what I’m saying. “Look. I know you’ve been through some shit — so here’s a promise, like to help you sleep or not have to look over your shoulder all day or whatever…a fucking vow, okay? I won’t ever be like, you know — I won’t come on to you, I won’t try to sleep with you or anything like that. I won’t run out on you either. I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect you, to give you a chance.”

  “Protect me?” she asks in mock surprise.

  I nod.

  “That’s some hubris. You’re a kid. What makes you think you can protect anyone?” she asks rebelliously.

  “I’m better at it now.”

  “Better than when?”

  “Better than I used to be when this all started,” I say, waving my .45 around in the air. I try to push the image of a young girl from my mind, a girl with blue eyes, full of fear — and betrayal. She never had a chance and she deserved one.

  “Okay, so why me?” Her voice is hesitant.

  “Why does there have to be a why? You matter, okay? Do we have a deal?”

  Why did I promise that?

  Because it feels right — she needs it.

  Let’s be honest here — I need it.

  She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out why she matters or maybe what my motivation is.

  “Yeah, deal. I do have a name you know,” she says quietly.

  “Well, don’t fucking tell me, I don’t want to know. It’s like naming feral cats. The next thing you know, you’re adopting them and taking responsibility. I don’t need to know your name. Look, I’m not making a life-long pledge here or anything. I’m dumping you at the first Red Cross Camp I can find…”

  Maybe.

  I can’t let her matter this much.

  “But I won’t bail before,” I finish clumsily.

  “You. Dumping. Me? Fat chance, asshole. Blink and I’ll be gone.” She sounds like one of the popular girls from school. I wonder if she was popular.

  Who do you have for homeroom this year?

  “I doubt it,” I say dismissively.

  “Who do you think you are?” she asks angrily.

  “I’m the guy saving your ass for one more day,” I say irritably. “Have you always been this ungrateful?”

  She grunts from the shadows, and then I hear her rummaging around, getting her stuff together. She’s going to need to speed this act up.

  “Get your driver’s license yet?” I ask.

  “My what?”

  “Driver’s license, can you drive?”

  “Where did that come from?” she asks.

  “Just curious, you know, making conversation, not that it matters.”

  “I told you, everything matters.” Her tone’s too serious. She’s so brittle I’m afraid she’s going to snap.

  “So did you?” I ask.

  There’s a short silence and I listen for the shouting parents down the street. I can barely hear them arguing now over the noise of the crowd. The younger kids are wailing. They’re all going to die if they don’t make some sacrifices — which child are they going to save tonight?

  Which one are they going to leave behind?

  I hear her mumble something behind me.

  “What?” I ask, trying not to think about what’s going on out there in the middle of Main Street.

  “I said, no, they failed me,” she says.

  “Who did?”

  “The DMV, you asked.”

  “Right, sorry, that sucks,” I say reflexively.

  The crowd is stalling.

  I glance back and stare at her and then I connect the dots. She’s Goggle Boy, or as it turns out — Girl. She’s been wearing a pair of white ski goggles and trailing even further behind than I have. But when we find food or water, or gangs pass to close, she catches up and hangs with that Realtor woman — and yeah, Denise and her mom.

  “I can drive, though,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I can still drive even though I don’t have my license. I know how.”

  “You mean if the cars worked?” I ask.

  I hear a soft laugh. It’s dark, but it’s real.

  I like the sound of it.

  “Yeah, if they worked,” she says.

  “So you’re at least sixteen, huh?” I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  After a few more minutes, she’s standing next to me, holding my .45 out.

  “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, huh?” she says.

  She’s defiant again.

  But her accusation makes me laugh, and God knows there’s not nearly enough laughs these days.

  The sun is full up now and her eyes are sparkling in the morning light. She reminds me of something more now; running with my friends last summer, heading down to the beach and wading out into the ocean with a blunt in one hand and a beer in the other…

  I need to stop thinking of the past, the Before Time; no good can come from it. Gone is gone. But this girl — she’s getting under my skin, leaving a mark, but in a good way, I think, even though it’s only been a few minutes. Have I been that desperate for company or is it the atonement I’m so desperate for?

  She’s got her goggles on, resting them over her forehead.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  She nods.

  And even though the disguise worked on me earlier…

  The way she shifts her hips…

  The way she leans against the brick wall, standing with one foot resting on the other…

  The way she holds her head…

  It’s all girl.

  She can’t help it.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a pair of black Ray-ban Wayfarers and slide them on.

  In a few days, one of us will probably be dead. I hope it’s not her.

  I shake my head at the morbidity of my thoughts and laugh again.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I’m unemployed, but I’m still wearing a two-hundred dollar pair of sunglasses,” I say instead.

  “Stylin’ the apocalypse, eh?”

  “Totally,” I say, laughing. I stop and stare at her. “Don’t go and make me start liking you. I swear to God, I’ll name you and then you’ll be sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let that happen,” she says, holding her hands up in front of her. She cocks her head like she’s passing judgment, but I think she’s close to, if not laughing, then perhaps snickering. I’ll take it. “Don’t blink,” she reminds me.

  “So you said.”

  “Just that fast.” She laughs gently and snaps her fingers.

  And the way her shoulders shake looks like a girl too. Now I’m wondering what color her hair is and if it’s long or short.

  “Fair enough.” I grin at her, but I can’t read her expression.

  She stops near Denise and pauses. She looks at me like we should do something.

  The mood changes again.

  “We covered her last night,” she says.

  I kneel down and lay my hands over her eyes until they thaw enough for me to close them.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I get out.

  She nods, but doesn’t say more.

  My throat tightens.

  What the fuck?

  I clench my jaw. This shit used to come out of nowhere, useless tears and uncontrollable sobs and fear. I look down at Denise. All her stuff is gone, including her coat, shoes and pants. She’s wearing a West Side High Sophomore t-shirt. I wonder if it’s hers.

  I suddenly see her for the struggling girl she was yesterday afternoon instead of the frozen husk she’s become.

  I feel like shit.

  I glance back at my new companion. She has her arms crossed over her chest, looking at me with disapproval. I know that’s just in my head, but it feels right — deserving. I slide my .45 back into
my backpack and set it down on the foundation wall. “Hang on.”

  Redemption demands perseverance.

  I feel like I should say something like a preacher might, but I have no idea what that is.

  I gently push Denise over and rest her down, flat on the ground.

  “The mattress,” I say, pointing.

  She gets my meaning and we lift the mattress up, walk it over and then lay it down to cover Denise.

  The girl looks across the mattress to me. “I…I…thanks,” she says quietly, her voice is full of emotion.

  I nod and walk around the mattress and grab my bag. She deserves so much more. It’s just not right for her to be out here like this. And the mattress won’t even last.

  Everything is temporary.

  I wonder where her mother is.

  The thought of dogs leaps into my mind and I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  I haven’t felt like this since…

  In a long fucking time.

  No, it’s only been a couple of months, not a long time at all.

  I can’t think about it anymore and I don’t want to talk about it so I take a deep breath, and despite the tears in my eyes, change the subject.

  “You were friends, you and Denise?” I ask.

  “Not really, a little. She was sick. I tried to cheer her up, be there for her.”

  I nod. “Why didn’t you go with her mother?”

  “Carlos made her go with them, and I couldn’t help her.”

  “Bad shape?”

  “Yeah, real bad. You know how it gets when parents lose their kids. You’ve seen it,” she says with an odd detachment that is sad and unsettling in its own right.

  But she’s right, I do know — all too well.

  “If you wanted to be alone, why didn’t you keep quiet? I didn’t know you were hiding back there. You’d be free and clear. Why did you say anything?” I ask softly.

  She looks at me and then studies the ground at her feet, kicking at it. “I’ve seen you around.”

  “So?”

  “You’re not afraid.” She glances at me, looking into my eyes for a moment, like she’s searching for something.

  “What makes you think that?”

  She shrugs.

  “It’s got to be something?”

  “It’s just how you are — a feeling maybe.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. I’m scared shitless, like all the time, but I’m just too tired to care anymore.”

  “What does that even mean?” she asks, laughing.

  “You know what it means. How long did you watch me this morning?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Cut the shit, how long?”

  I get the feeling she’d rather change the subject, but then so would I.

  “How long, this morning?” I ask again.

  “I watched one of Carlos’ guys take Denise’s stuff after everyone left. And then I watched you until you woke up…and then put your gun…” She looks away for a moment and then back, her eyes intense again. “I watched you put it in your mouth, okay? What the hell? I was scared you were going to do it this time, you know…” Now her eyes are guarded. “It wasn’t the first time I saw you do it. But you looked different this morning. Like I said, I was afraid for you.”

  I’m not sure why I can’t pull the trigger. But she’s right. Denise was almost too much for me this morning — I watched her for a long time. I came damn close. Fuck, I think. How can I say how close I was without actually pulling the trigger?

  “Stalker much?” I ask.

  “I’m just awake. You’re an early riser too — important stuff to do?”

  “Yeah, like offing myself.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “How long have you been watching me?” I ask.

  She looks away again like she’s thinking about what to say. “I don’t know, a couple of weeks. Stop looking at me like that. I was scared for you, but I was afraid to talk to you too, you know, about the suicide thing, well, at all, really. You’re scary. And I knew you never looked at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, never mind,” she says tersely.

  “Fine. How am I scary?” I ask. Look at her like what?

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s see, you’re tall, all that dark hair, the piercings, those black tribal tattoos on your arms and chest…”

  I grin thinking about how I snuck out and got the tattoos and piercings last spring. I thought they made me look cool — bad ass. They might as well have been fuzzy cartoon characters, because it turns out tats don’t make you bad ass after all.

  “How did you see my tattoos?”

  She looks away. The way she’s acting, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s blushing. What’s that about?

  “I’ve seen you clean up, it’s no big deal. It’s not like we have private rooms at the Holiday Inn,” she says.

  “Fair enough. So tattoos are scary?”

  “No. It’s how…you are. Even Carlos is afraid of you. I heard him talking about killing you last week.”

  “Killing me? Carlos?” That’s fucked up. “You didn’t think to warn me?”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry — I would have, I would. But I didn’t say he planned to do it, they just talked about it. He said they needed to keep an eye on you, but if things went bad, he wanted you around. He said, let’s see, ‘That white boy is loco Diablo’, or something like that.”

  “Loco Diablo? Really?” I laugh at her.

  She looks down and then back up, meeting my eyes. “Like I said, something like that.”

  “So you think I’m scary because of Carlos?”

  “Carlos is terrifying. If he’s afraid of you…”

  “Okay, that makes sense, I guess. But if I’m so scary, why the fuck did you say anything to me? I don’t get it.”

  “And I don’t care.” Her tone is angry again.

  “Seriously, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Still don’t care. I’m leaving. I told you, I don’t need you.”

  She’s overacting and not selling it very well.

  I look back out at the crowd. It’s thick as soup now. “I think you’re full of shit. Why are you here?”

  “Leave me alone,” she says.

  “No, tell me.” I grab her arm.

  She jerks away and raises her .38. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

  I raise my hands and step back, giving her space. “Fine. Which way are you going?” I ask.

  She looks up and down the street, saying nothing for a moment and then back at me. “You promised me breakfast.”

  “And?” I coax.

  She’s still close, looking up at me. Her eyes are wide again, glassy. It’s like she wants to reach out and touch me, maybe to make sure I’m real. It’s almost like two normal teenagers trying to reassure each other, like everything is going to be okay — but it’s not. Her recoil reflex is wound pretty damn tight — nowhere near normal.

  “I lied. I don’t want to be alone, okay? I don’t know who you are…I mean, I do, but I don’t…I can’t…”

  I can tell this is really hard for her to admit. She’s just plain old scared. Her stains are getting easier to read.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I say, trying to comfort her. “It’s okay.”

  I want to hold her, but I don’t dare for fear of setting her off again — scaring her. It only reinforces my vow — there’s just something about her that needs to make it through this shitty world — the one ray of fucking sunshine in my useless life.

  Her voice is full of sadness and tears again. “So, I guess I’m going with you, you know, to the next Red Cross Camp.” There’s bitterness in her tone that sucks. I probably shouldn’t have said anything about dumping her, but the truth is — if she’s going to be safe, really safe — she needs to be in one of the rescue centers. I can’t protect her out here, not indefinitely.

  She wipes at her eyes and
refuses to meet my gaze, staring out to the sunrise instead.

  I’m still going to do whatever I need to for her, so I don’t push it. I just need to know her gig. “That sounds like a good plan. Whose idea was that again?”

  I grin at her.

  “Funny.” She looks down at the ground and fiddles with her .38. “I know what I said, but you don’t have to do this, and you’ll make better time without me. You’re asshole enough to survive. Why are you helping me, especially if you’re too tired to care anymore? What am I to you?” Her tone is serious again — sadly detached.

  “You’re nothing and you’re everything. I’m not sure you’d understand; you’re a good thing, okay? Maybe someday, if we live long enough, we can figure it out together.”

  “Together, huh? Sounds like you’re getting close to naming me,” she chides.

  “Maybe.”

  She looks up at me.

  “Then again, maybe not,” I say, remembering my promise about the rescue center. I already feel closer to her, and I should probably back off, but I am an asshole — I know I’m not going to.

  “I was right before, you are an asshole,” she says.

  There you go.

  “You don’t sound scared now,” I say.

  “That’s because I’m not, not anymore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You won’t hurt me.” She stares into my eyes again, but this time it’s different, maybe she’s looking for confirmation that I’m not as bad as she thinks I am.

  She’s wrong.

  I’m worse.

  And suddenly, I see Denise’s dead, doll-like eyes staring at me too, taunting me.

  I see all of them, everyone that didn’t make it, in a flood of emotion — all of the pain and all of the damage.

  They’re all dead. I won’t kill this girl too.

  “I lower my sunglasses and stare back at her. “Don’t bet on it. You’re gone at the first Camp.” I try to be as tough sounding as I can, but I’m afraid I just sound like a tool.

  She doesn’t flinch, meeting my eyes for a moment, and then lowers her goggles.

  “Whatever,” she says and turns toward the hole in the side of the house.

  I take a look out into the river of humanity as I walk over to the bass boat, a mix of men, women and children, families and friends — all wearing whatever they’ve been able to scrounge from the towns and cities they’ve passed through, carrying their last earthly possessions. Most are still shocked and starving, still too civilized to do what needs to be done to survive — they’re still waiting to be rescued, waiting for the system to be turned back on.