Palimpsest (Book 1): Feral

by P. J. Post

  “So, what was that? It’s like they were herding them, just to, just to…” she begins.

  “Yeah. The whole thing looked planned. Somehow, they got everyone over there and then, Jesus.”

  “Why didn’t they kill everyone?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier for them if the refugees carry the supplies for them, transport them to where they need them and then when they need shit — they do this. I think you nailed it — they’re using the refugees as draft animals.”

  “That’s twisted.”

  I just nod.

  “Is it really getting that bad already?” she asks.

  I look at her. “It’s been that bad for a while now. No matter how scarce shit is, though, that was just plain old fucked up.”

  “I can’t believe what people are capable of. Just a few months ago, those people worked at grocery stores and print shops. Their kids were in school, in the marching band or working at the corn dog factory down at the mall,” she says, but her voice isn’t cracking. She’s coping.

  Which means she’s seen worse.

  Shit.

  “You want to remember monsters like that?” I ask.

  “No, well, yeah. I mean loved ones…”

  “What’s the point?”

  “It keeps them with me, the special ones, but we have to remember the bad ones too — so we don’t let the same evil happen again.”

  I want to comfort her, but we’re not in that place yet — we may never be.

  Shit, maybe she doesn’t need comforting. Maybe I’m the one who needs it.

  “I don’t want to remember anything or anyone ever again,” I say.

  She glances at me. Her eyes look softer. Not seeing her face is killing me. It’s hard to not know what she’s thinking.

  But I’ve seen enough, heard enough to know she’s decent — a good person, a deserving person.

  I wonder how long that’s going to last and it makes me sad all over again.

  Everything changes — everyone changes. Sooner or later, the horror catches up with us and eats away at our humanity, like bugs on a corpse — and we become something…

  We become someone like me.

  Why do I try so hard?

  I’ll never be like the Cart People, but that still leaves a lot of ugly to remember.

  Why do I bother when there’s no one left to forgive me?

  I wish I had an answer, if I did maybe I’d have a different ritual every morning. I slide my finger along the trigger of my .45, remembering the taste of the metal.

  Fuck it.

  The sun has risen with a vengeance and the day is getting unusually warm for this time of year, at least a lot warmer than it has been lately.

  “I’m roasting, are you hot? You want to shed some layers?” I ask.

  “I’m still pissed, don’t make me shoot you,” she says with another unidentifiable tone.

  “No, no, no. I meant — whatever, I’m sweating my ass off.”

  I slide out of my letter jacket and tie it around my waist and then grab my t-shirt by the back collar and pull it over my head.

  She gasps.

  “What?” I ask. And then I remember the healing wounds along my side.

  “I haven’t seen you — so close. What happened?” she asks with concern.

  “I got shot, barely grazed me,” I say through a grin.

  She points at the other wound, a long cut running from my shoulder to my waist.

  “Ouch, right? Knife. Shit got real right out of the gate for me. I was going for a baseball theme with the stitches. How did I do?”

  “You stitched yourself?” She sounds horrified.

  “I try not to think about it, but yeah. It was touch and go there for a few days.”

  “Jesus, are you okay?” She reaches out and then stops, flinching before she touches me.

  I force a laugh to lighten the mood. “I don’t think anyone is ever going to be okay again, but yeah, I should pull through. Tetracycline, don’t go to the apocalypse without it. Thanks for asking.”

  “That’s good, I mean, you know, as long as you live long enough to dump me. I won’t need you after that.” She flashes her eyes at me, but I still can’t read her expression.

  The thought of her not being here, not being with me, makes me feel suddenly empty, but I force a grin anyway like it’s still a game. “Yeah, until I dump you.”

  I’m worried about her dehydrating. She must be hot under that coat and whatever else she’s got on, but I guess there’s not a street deserted enough for her to take any chances. So far, she hasn’t even unbuttoned her coat. She’s still wearing her beanie and that damn scarf.

  Shit, I’m just worried about her.

  “Were you in sports?” she asks.

  I laugh, surprised by the question. “Where did that come from?”

  “Well, the letter jacket and you look like you might have worked out,” she says.

  I stare down at my stomach and slap it. “Yeah, thanks, but no. I think the six-pack is more from being hungry all the time than from working out, although running away is definitely good cardio and really shouldn’t be underrated.” I grin at her. “Nah, it’s just clean living.”

  “Clean living? What’s that?” she asks.

  “My mom, it was something she used to say.” I can’t keep the sudden emotion out of my voice this time and I look away.

  Shit. I’m a real tough guy. I need to stop being so fucking weak. I was fine until this morning. I was a ruthless, cold-blooded son of a bitch. But I swear to God it’s her — Feral.

  The girl must be a witch or something, cursing me to feel shit again. I never asked for this, but now that she’s here, now that I’m feeling again, I don’t want to lose it either — lose her.

  That’s it, I’ve gone insane.

  She’s quiet again as we follow our shadows down the concrete street.

  “What’s with the disguise?” I ask.

  “Rape gangs.” Her tone is neutral — matter of fact.

  “No, yeah, I mean, I figured that. When did you…”

  “You really want to hear this?” Her tone is still even, but whatever was there a minute ago is gone now.

  Fuck me. I am a disrespectful asshole.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I repeat softly.

  I don’t know what happened and I sure as shit don’t want her to relive anything. I can’t imagine what she’s seen — been through.

  I decide to change the subject and circle back. “Look, we’re all alone out here. How about losing the scarf and beanie? You know, so we can have a proper introduction?” I ask.

  “You want to see my face?”

  “Yeah,” I say. More than anything.

  “Really? Did the rape gang thing turn you on?”

  “No, no…Jesus, no.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a bitch, but — but no,” she says and keeps walking.

  I jump in front of her and carefully walk backward. “Come on. It’s just us.”

  “What if I’m ugly?”

  “You’re not.”

  “I might be. And then what? Or do you think I’m cute? Maybe you think something is going to happen between us? What about your vow? No takesy-backsies.”

  “No, well, shit. I don’t know, I mean — no, I’m not taking anything back. I want you to feel safe.” And then I try not to grin. “But is it okay to admit I may have been hasty about the whole vow thing?” I say, unable to control my widening grin.

  “Seriously?” she asks playfully.

  “Mom taught me to be honest.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a pig.”

  “Well, it sounded good.”

  “So much for your vow, huh? You suck.” She doesn’t sound pissed, though.

  “I think I said that it didn’t matter just because you were a girl…”

  “You know that wasn’t it…you said a lot more.”

  “Yeah,” I say and it’s my turn to look away.
/>
  She stops and takes my hand, sending shivers up my arm. Why do I feel like I’m trying to ask her out to a high school dance?

  She looks at me funny and then her hand is gone. “Why does it matter what I look like? And don’t go trying to be all charming. I mean, what if I’m all messed up, are you going to leave me?”

  “No, I’m not going to leave you even if you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down — I’m not going anywhere. I gave you my word.”

  “Careful what you wish for. Pity sucks. You might have to name me and then where would you be?”

  “Okay, fine.” I step back to her side, frowning. Now, my imagination is running wild.

  Is she hideous under that scarf?

  Is she beautiful?

  I guess she’s right, in the end, it doesn’t matter, I made a commitment — and I wouldn’t take it back if I could.

  I stop and stare out across the neighborhood for a moment and then stare at her until she meets my eye. “I made a promise to save you, to get you somewhere safe,” I say more seriously than I mean to.

  “I never asked you…”

  “I made a goddamned vow. I have to do something right — you’re my something.” She’s my redemption, she has to be — I can’t live like this much longer. I can’t take the guilt. I need her — this. “I won’t let you get hurt, even if it means…means, shit — becoming a monster.”

  She stops.

  “Thanks, okay, but that just sounds crazy,” she says cautiously and then cocks her head to one side like she’s processing everything I just said. Her tone is different. “What if I don’t want to be your something?” She’s pissed. “Is that it? I’m just your good deed for the day? You said it earlier, didn’t you? I’m your good thing. I thought you meant something else. I guess that’s what I get for believing in people, for believing in you. Don’t blame me for being a monster. You hardly know me, and you sure don’t get to use me just so you can feel better about whatever you’ve done. Fuck you and your vow.”

  I don’t even try to defend myself. She’s close enough to the truth, no matter what else I feel for her.

  I kneel down and pick up a worn teddy bear lying in the street and study it. It’s brown and threadbare with oatmeal-like stuffing coming out between the seams. Its eyes have been pulled out. It smells like a bonfire.

  I don’t get up. I just stare down the street at the devastation. “I don’t really give a shit how it sounds. You’re right, I don’t know you, but then, you don’t know me either. I need this, call it selfish, call it whatever the fuck you want. All you need to know is that you need me — at least for now.”

  I can’t look at her because I know just how crazy this does sound. We just met.

  And I’m already a monster. I don’t need her help on that score.

  Nothing she can do will make matters worse.

  I see her shadow move toward me, like she’s going to reach out, but she stops herself again. That’s the second time she’s done that. She’s had a tough road and even though I can’t save her from her past, I intend to make it easier on her from here on out.

  I stand back up, and scan the neighborhood, careful to avoid looking at her. “Tell you what, why don’t we take a break up there at that house on the left, the one with walls along the front. You can shed some layers and cool off for a bit. Seriously, you have to worry about dehydration. It might be better to lay low during the day and travel at night. I’ll give you space, privacy and keep an eye out front.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” she asks.

  “Because you know you can,” I say sincerely.

  She stops and studies the house, then turns back, staring at me. I’m not sure what she’s seeing or even what she’s looking for, but she nods and starts walking again.

  We walk in silence, picking our way through the rubble, and as we near the house, she angles off across the blackened yards and scorched driveways.

  I wonder what she’s thinking.

  We walk through the garage and into the living room of what’s left of the house. I follow her inside while I take mental notes on escape routes. The whole rear of the house is gone, but there’s some privacy nestled back inside a room that might once have been a den.

  “Here you go. I’ll be over here, keeping watch,” I say.

  I take a seat on the arm of a black leather couch, toss the teddy bear on the cushions and then drop my pack to the wood floor. I have a clear view of the way we came and it looks even worse from here. The bombers fucked this town up good before they were grounded.

  I glance behind me to see that Feral has already shed her coat. She has her back to me. She’s wearing a flannel shirt. Her faded and ripped jeans were probably tight once upon a time, maybe back when they were new. Now, she’s skinny. I need to make sure she gets more to eat.

  She pushes her scarf down, and then she slowly pulls the beanie off. She rubs her hands through short and shaggy blond hair before sinking to her knees. I can tell by the way her shoulders begin to shake, she’s crying.

  I get it. It can hit at any time; deep dark sadness — fucking depression, and boom, from out of nowhere, the tears are there. An overwhelming need to comfort her wells up, but I keep my word.

  I turn back around and watch the street while I pull out a cigarette and light it.

  A world without cigarettes is going to suck too.

  I reach into my bag and pull out a box of Twinkies next.

  Twinkies, three times a day.

  I take another drag and blow the smoke out through my nose and laugh as the thought of dying of scurvy hits me.

  “Hey, catch,” I shout and then toss two Twinkies over my shoulder, one after the other.

  “Thanks,” she says quietly. Her voice isn’t muffled by the scarf anymore, and it’s fucking lyrical.

  Christ, I’m losing it.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you smoke?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” she says with a laugh. “I hear they’re bad for your health.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that too. I mean, I wasn’t going to give you one, just curious.”

  God, I’m lonely.

  “You’re such a douche,” she says through a mouthful of Twinkie.

  “Is a douche better or worse than an asshole?”

  She laughs again. “Why does it matter?”

  “I don’t know, I was just thinking.”

  “Should I be scared? Thinking about what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, what? I want to know,” she says.

  “It might take a while to find somewhere safe, that’s all. I was hoping we could be, you know, friends.”

  I instantly regret saying any of this. I’m probably creeping her out.

  “That’s quite a commitment. I’m not sure I’m ready. Maybe if we go slow? How about we agree on being acquaintances for now?”

  “Yeah, no sweat,” I say casually.

  Is she fucking with me or serious? She shouldn’t have this effect on me, not like this.

  I’m anxious. It’s like being back in school again, trying to impress.

  My palms are sweaty.

  How can I feel this strongly about her after one morning? But it wasn’t the morning that did it. It was those blue — like the goddamned sky — blue eyes glaring at me over that revolver. I was lost right the fuck then. Everything else is rationalizing bullshit.

  She is a witch.

  “Hey, I was joking,” she says softly.

  She’s right behind me. I try to relax again. The sound of her voice — so close, makes me nervous, but in a different way than a moment ago. I want to turn around and see her, but I don’t. I take another drag off my cigarette instead and keep staring down the street.

  Her tone is even and serious again. “I’m sorry, about earlier. It’s been…you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

  “It’s cool.” It’s a relief to hear her
say it. A weight lifts. I’m such a dork. I’m more worried about what she thinks of me than anything else, it’s clouding my judgment. That’s fucked up. I laugh, because, fuck it — nothing ever changes, even at the end of the world guys worry about what girls think of them.

  “What’s so funny,” she asks.

  “I’ll tell you later, maybe.”

  She seems to consider that for a moment. When she speaks, it sounds a little forced but I’ll take it. She’s trying. “I think we have a chance, you know, at being friends.”

  “I guess that’s all anyone can hope for — a chance,” I say. A chance is more than most get these days.

  “Maybe we can hope for more — maybe. That doesn’t make losing any less painful, though.”

  Losing?

  I don’t understand. I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but I feel too stupid to ask.

  So maybe we can be friends, until I find a camp to dump her in.

  I keep having to remind myself of that. Maybe that’s because I’m the one who needs convincing.

  “Yeah, that’s true,” I say, agreeing anyway. And then I change the subject. “Everyone has lost something, but have you noticed how much people seem to like talking about it, about before — who they were, what they did, shit like that?”

  “Maybe they’re trying to hold on?”

  “To what? It’s not coming back — any of it,” I say.

  She gets quiet.

  I toss the smoke out into the pile of bricks that’s fallen into the living room. We’re going to need more food and water, we can’t ration forever. I pull a water bottle out of my bag and hold it behind my back. “Here.”

  I feel her take it from my hand.

  It’s weird being this close and not facing her, but I notice the soft scent of soap for the first time. She’s clean. How does she find the privacy to bathe?

  After a moment, I feel her hand on my shoulder, a gentle touch…

  And then she hands the water bottle back to me. Her hand is dirty, the chipped, blue polished nails bitten down. I reach up and for a moment almost touch her hand, but take the bottle instead.

  She pulls her hand away and I suddenly feel alone again.

  “What was up with the gun this morning?” I ask as I slide the water back into my bag.

  “Just making sure you knew that I wasn’t helpless.” She sounds more confident now than she did this morning.