Palimpsest (Book 1): Feral

by P. J. Post

  “Yeah, I guess I spoke too soon, but you looked…”

  “Like a boy? You said my eyes were all, let’s see, what was it you said — fucked up — I think that was it, wasn’t it? You said you knew I was a girl.”

  “Sorry about that, I…sorry.” She’s never going to let me live that down. “But I meant after, not before.”

  “After what?”

  “After you pulled the .38 on me, that’s what after.” I laugh, but she doesn’t join me.

  “Did you think I was going to shoot you?” She’s using a serious, accusatory tone, like a parent might.

  I tip my head in her direction. “I thought you knew from talking this morning, I didn’t care one way or the other.”

  She’s quiet. I wonder what she’s thinking.

  “You’re still ducking the question, why did you stick your .38 in my face?” I ask again.

  “Changed my mind. Can’t a girl change her mind? I’m pretty sure we can still do that, even in the apocalypse. I think it’s a rule.”

  “How long are we going to play this game, you know, just so I can get comfortable?”

  She sighs. “I got scared, panicked, is that okay? I wanted to trust you, like I said, I’ve seen you around…I really did want to, but when everything began to happen, when it got real…us…I just wanted to be alone again — everything that I’ve seen and heard came back, I couldn’t let myself do it, I just couldn’t. Don’t take it personally, I don’t trust anyone.”

  She pats my shoulder again and the same emotions return — the same hypersensitivity.

  “But you’re here now?” I ask.

  “I’m a mess, okay?” Her voice is soft. “Besides, you have pretty gray eyes.”

  “My eyes? You changed your mind over my eyes?”

  “Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

  “Why do I feel like I’m getting the run around here?” I ask.

  “You don’t know much about girls do you?”

  “I…” I don’t.

  “Look, I have no idea what you’re looking for here, so you’re on your own. Oh, and let’s never talk about you turning around and going to the bathroom at the house.”

  I laugh gently but I realize pretty quickly I’m laughing by myself.

  She’s gone.

  And then I realize that wasn’t a joke.

  I’m an asshole — fucking again.

  I hear her kicking around back in the rubble of the den.

  Today is the first time anyone has touched me in a long time — who knew it mattered?

  Who knew it mattered so much?

  I wonder if she has and then immediately worry about what she may have suffered. Her disguise seems like more than just a precaution. Images of First Night rush back into my mind, more memories I can’t escape from — monstrous shapes, haunting screams and sporadic gunfire lights up the darkness. Once the lights went off for good, the future was pretty fucking clear.

  Everyone knew what we were up against that night.

  The world was different the next morning.

  I feel my eyes tearing up and my jaw tightening.

  What the fuck?

  I take a drink of water and then rub my face before sliding the bottle back into my pack. I can’t go backward. I can’t be that kid again — that weak guy — the coward.

  I sit here watching the road in silence as low clouds roll in, turning the Indian Summer back into Fall. I drop my shades in the side pocket of my pack and then slide my shirt back on. The sound of moving again makes me realize I haven’t heard her in a while. I assume she’s sleeping. I risk a glance back, but don’t see her.

  I imagine her pulling off her beanie again and seeing her hand in her hair. It’s all I can do not to sneak back and talk to her — see her, make sure she’s okay.

  I remember the touch of her hands…

  And then I hear it.

  The faint thump of boots.

  Lots of them.

  In rhythm.

  Getting louder.

  Shit, can’t we catch a goddamned break?

  It’s soldiers. They’re wearing the gray and black uniforms of Crayton Industries; the homegrown mercenaries of the United States of Fuck All. Everyone is terrified of these guys, the private army of Homeland Security, here to serve and protect until the shit hit the fan — now they take what they want and if you’re lucky, they just kill you before they leave.

  “Hey, wake up!” I hiss.

  “What?” she asks. She’s groggy.

  “Crayton’s here. Get your shit together.”

  I see the first of them as I pull on my jacket. “Hurry up.”

  They can’t see us, but fuck if I can’t see them — hundreds of them.

  I can’t let them find us — find her.

  There’s not much left of the house, but off to the side of the living room is a foyer and the remains of collapsed stairs.

  They’ll have too many scouts to try and get ahead of them. Looking past the tilted swing set and surviving yellow-sided playhouse in the backyard, I can see dense woods on the other side of a soccer field. We’d have a shot heading through the woods, but we’d have to cover all of that open ground. I doubt Feral’s got the strength to sprint that far, and even then, if they see us — snipers could take us out or wound us with no trouble at all. One look back down the road convinces me our best bet is to hide here in the darkness under the stairs. There’s just too many of them. We’ll never get away.

  “Over here,” I whisper to her.

  “Where?”

  “Under the stairs,” I say, pointing.

  She’s back in disguise and it feels like a wall between us — like some fucked up secret.

  “Why aren’t we running?” she asks.

  “We’ll never make it. Go,” I say firmly.

  She stares at me for a moment as if she’s debating her next action — can she trust me — should she trust me? And then she acquiesces, kneels down and slides under the stair stringer and disappears. I shove my pack under and follow her. It’s cramped and dark, but we can sit up under the landing. Fortunately, there’s nothing else hiding under here with us.

  I turn around and lie against my pack so I can still see the soldiers through the ruined house. They’re walking down the street casually but methodically, like they have a destination but no last call to worry about. I hope they make it quick and move on sooner rather than later.

  “Get comfortable, we’re going to be here a while,” I whisper.

  So far, they don’t seem to be searching the houses. This one’s a lost cause, there’s not enough left to bother searching, so we should be safe even if they change their minds.

  I hear her rustling around and then feel her push up next to me, lying on her stomach, our bodies touching from hip to shoulder. She’s staring out as well, her chin propped up on her hands, watching the soldiers.

  I reach over and tap her goggles.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Reflections.”

  She slides them off and the gray light of the day does nothing to dull her eyes.

  She’s going to be the death of me in more ways than one.

  We’re so close I notice, under the dirt, that she has freckles.

  I grin.

  “You’re staring at me again,” she chides, but I can’t tell if she’s bothered by it or not.

  I look back to the street and the column of soldiers emerging from the ruins beyond. I don’t know what to say.

  “Can we talk?” she whispers.

  “Yeah, just keep whispering. Hush if they get to the front yard.”

  We have so many layers of clothes and leather between us, it really shouldn’t matter that she’s this close. But it does. I swear I can feel her warmth, but it’s probably all in my head.

  I’m getting hot, sweating again.

  Jesus.

  “What’s the plan?” she asks.

  “After they clear the area, we’ll keep heading southwest. Most of the refuge
es are staying along the main roads. That’s where supplies and rations were getting dropped before. We need to head further out, away from everyone else.”

  “Are you thinking about the little towns, out in the country?”

  “Yeah, but they’re dangerous too. Not all of the folks out there took off. They have something to fight for, to protect, farms and shit, you know?”

  She doesn’t respond, she just watches the soldiers march past the house.

  “What about the gas?” she asks.

  “What about it?”

  “Didn’t they use a lot of it out there?”

  “Who knows for sure? Have you seen it? I mean where it’s been used?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Me either, just rumors, but I’m not sure we should believe everything we hear.”

  “Depends, what have you heard?” she asks.

  “I’ve heard Zombie a few times.”

  “Zombies? Really? Isn’t everything bad enough without making stuff up?” she asks without amusement.

  “I know everyone thinks that the Midwest is a dead zone, but I’m not so sure. Rumors sometimes have a kernel of truth in them, you know?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Maybe, shit, I don’t know. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How about we live through today and worry about tomorrow...”

  “Tomorrow?” she finishes. Her eyes twinkle. “It’s a date.”

  A date? What does that even mean?

  “Yeah,” I say, staring out at the mercenaries.

  “But, isn’t that a little short sighted? I mean, don’t we need to talk about what’s going on now?” she asks.

  I look over at her again and frown. “You really want to know what I’m thinking, I mean, about all of this — you and me and plans?”

  She nods.

  “I don’t think plans ever work, no matter how careful you are. I think I’m going to die at any moment, and I think stopping to help you is going to get me killed even sooner, which could be literally any minute if one of those mercenaries decides to check this house out.”

  She doesn’t flinch and keeps gazing out at the road.

  Shit.

  That came out harsher than I intended.

  But the truth is like that.

  She glares at me. “I told you to leave me alone. Vow or no, you didn’t have to drag me along,” she says angrily, her tone is tinged with emotion.

  “But you wanted me to, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t…”

  “You don’t understand. I said it before — I don’t care what you think of it, you are the one good thing that’s happened to me since, shit, since the beginning.”

  Her eyes soften.

  “You’re worth dying for. I know that may not sound like much coming from suicide boy, but I’d do it again a thousand times over. Besides, having you here makes me happy in some psycho way I don’t even want to think about. This started as a promise, but to be honest — now I’m just being selfish. How’s that for fucked up?”

  She stares at me for a moment and then looks away again. “I thought you were going to dump me the first chance you got?” Her voice is taught.

  I smile. “I am. I’ll ruin you if you’re with me for too long.”

  “Ruin me? That sounds dramatic.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the truth. You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

  She points out to the neighborhood and the passing soldiers. “You’re worse than that?”

  I nod.

  I’m no better.

  Before this is done, she’s going to know it too.

  She picks at the wood splinters in front of us and then in a quiet voice says, “I don’t believe it, but if you don’t stop staring at me, I really am going to shoot you.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re a good person.”

  “I’m thinking about going to the dark side,” she says. I can’t read her expression, but she can’t keep a straight face and giggles.

  “Do you have cookies?” I ask.

  “Yes, oh my God, yes — come to the dark side, we haz cookies.” She’s laughing quietly now.

  “And cute kittens,” I remind her.

  “Yes, painfully cute kittens.”

  I can feel myself smiling and then reality kicks me in the teeth. I shouldn’t talk like this. I can’t get close, not like this. I have to find her a home. The truth is the other way around — if I don’t get my head out of my ass and start thinking clearly, I’m going to get her killed, and I’m not sure I could forgive myself if that happened.

  Losing her would give me the strength I need to pull the trigger once and for all.

  I can’t let myself go down this road.

  I look away and try to ignore the fact I can feel her breathing next to me. I try to focus on the men moving down the road instead.

  They look tired and beaten.

  They look desperate.

  They look hungry.

  They look dangerous.

  The lines are thinning as the horse-drawn wagons pass us. I count twelve wagons, each pulled by two horses and then another ten horses behind them. They look like race horses, but then everything has to find a new purpose these days. I fear the weaker ones are not going to be lucky enough to pull any wagons. They look more like lunch.

  “They’re gone,” she says, questioning more than confirming.

  “Yeah, the main group is, but they’ll have a few scouts trailing behind, waiting to see if anyone sticks their head up, and then if they do, bang — they get their supplies too. It’s like whack-a-mole.”

  “Whack-a-what?”

  “A silly game my mom told me about, she played back when she was a kid. Never mind.”

  “No, tell me about it.”

  “It’s nothing…”

  “Why don’t you like talking about your mom?”

  “Besides the fact that she’s dead?” I ask defensively, snapping at her.

  “What’s with the attitude? Where do you think my family is?”

  “I…”

  “You think they’re wintering on the French Riviera?” she asks flatly.

  “Well, no, I mean…I don’t know…”

  “We’ve all suffered, we’ve all lost. That’s what nightmares are for. Did you think you could just hoard all the grief and regret? You know what they do with hoarders don’t you?”

  I just stare at her.

  “You have to share.” She pokes my shoulder, emphasizing each syllable.

  This is a new side to her. Either, she’s tougher than I thought she was or she's just as crazy as I am. Either way, I still don’t want to relive this shit.

  “Bad memory. Let’s leave it at that,” I say flatly.

  “How about let’s not. You said we’d talk about it if we lived long enough, we’ve lived long enough. You made the vow, you brought it up. You involved me in your shit. So, what does that mean, your good thing? I have a right to know. What did you do?” Her eyes are questioning, but not judging — not yet anyway.

  I close my eyes, but I don’t have to think about it — the memory is always crawling around just under the surface.

  “You won’t like me when I’m done,” I say.

  “I’m pretty good at making up my own mind, but thanks, I’ll let you know if I need any help.”

  Fuck it.

  “Fine. Remember when everything changed, after the first wave of bombings, when everything just stopped and went dark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And everyone realized that whatever food was on the shelves, the Similac, the fresh water, the medicine, whatever — that was all there was ever going to be?”

  “And the closest place to get more was your neighbor’s, yeah, I remember, so?”

  “And then the Red Cross, Homeland Security, Crayton Industries, FEMA and the Guard mobilized and told everyone to evacuate the cities and to head west to shelters?”

  “Yeah, and everyone lost their minds.”

  “That�
��s the day the Patriots started shooting each other, so much for helping each other out, huh?”

  “Yeah, I was there. Quit talking around it. What did you do?” she asks firmly.

  “Where are you from?” I ask.

  “Jersey. Why?” she asks. Frustration is creeping into her voice.

  “Hudson Valley here — a little, shitty old neighborhood north of Manhattan. Just curious. New York City got hit hard. The evacuations started as soon as we heard about the incoming bombers. The Tappan Zee was taken out with the first wave, but people just came over the GW instead, and on up the Hudson, looting as they went. Millions came through. They overran towns like locust. I swear there weren’t enough bullets. We heard the shooting all day and night for days and they still kept coming. How soon did you leave?”

  “We left the first day, driving through the back roads into Pennsylvania, but by evening, everything was all backed up. We were on foot after that,” she says.

  “I wished we had. Dad said everything was going to be okay and we just needed to stay inside, stay put.”

  She shakes her head in sorrow. “Just so you know, it didn’t matter in the end.”

  I let that sink in. Maybe it didn’t matter. The world was falling apart everywhere.

  “Thanks. Dad kind of lost it and he never was someone to argue with. We didn’t have the guts to stand up to him before, so this was no different. He had a quick temper and a quicker backhand, you know? But I never should have let him keep us there.”

  “You blame yourself for staying?” she asks.

  “No, yeah, I mean, I blame myself for not standing up to him, for not getting everyone out when we had the chance, or at least the other kids, my brother and sister.”

  “How far would you have gotten with a bunch of kids?

  “You’re just a ray of goddamned sunshine aren’t you?”

  “I’m serious. You know what I mean. You couldn’t have taken all of them, could you? So, even if you still made it, which isn’t very likely, you’d be carrying around the same guilt and regret; it would just be for a different reason.”

  But I was the oldest; I was the one my brother and sister trusted when it got ugly — I was always there to take his anger, to take the hits for them. I betrayed them before as much as anyone after could have…

  Feral sounds like a preacher now, or maybe it’s my own guilt working on me. “There’s no good choices, no right way to make it through this. You either die or you don’t. Regret comes with living. They used to call it survivor’s guilt. I saw a show on cable about it. Why was I spared? Why did I make it when someone else: your dad, or a sister, or the guy who lives across the street with the newborn twins doesn’t? What’s so special about you?” Her eyes are cold now — unforgiving.