by P. J. Post
She lies back over on her stomach, pressing against me, one arm back over my shoulders. Her face is so close. And now I can tell she’s smiling at me because her eyes light up.
She’s making everything less shitty after all.
She runs her fingers through my hair like she’s thinking about cutting it. “Tell me about Mickey.”
§§§§§
I wake with a lurch, confused.
“Good afternoon,” Feral whispers. Her eyes are smiling — encouraging.
And then her eyes grow wide in surprise.
I turn before she says anything, following her gaze.
The fake wooden door to the small playhouse bursts open and slams against the siding of the little building. A man and a woman dressed like models from one of those outdoor sports catalogs rush out followed by a little kid wearing a cartoon character bathrobe and carrying a matching backpack, but as they turn the corner of the playhouse, the kid stops.
Her blonde hair blows in her face.
The man and woman keep running, sprinting across the soccer field. They don’t even glance back.
Fucking assholes.
How can anyone abandon a kid like that?
And then I see the woman shift, buckle and fall to the grass just before I hear the report of a sniper rifle. The man lasts about six more steps before his head explodes like a melon dropped on the sidewalk from the roof of a tall building.
I hear the report of the rifle just as the man flops to the ground.
My eye is drawn back to the kid. She’s a little girl. Christ, she looks just like Lisa. She drops to her knees, crying and freaking out, but she’s being quiet about it — she’s learned that much. Based on the direction that the man and woman fell, I think she’s on the far side of the playhouse from the sniper, so she’s safe unless he…
I see the helmeted rifleman come into view as he walks past the ruins of the garage. He’s Crayton alright. He’s got a pistol in a holster hanging from his belt, a small knapsack slung over both shoulders and a long sniper rifle.
I’m fucking awake now.
He must be going for the supplies of the two deaders out on the soccer field, but, thank God, from his angle he won’t be able to see the kid.
“Just stay put,” I whisper to her like she can hear me.
The panic in her eyes is hard to watch — the betrayal.
She looks back to the house and then to the soccer field in confusion. And then she gets back on her feet.
She looks like she’s about to run.
“Oh, baby, don’t…” Feral cries softly.
And then the soldier stops and removes his helmet, cocks his head and listens.
He takes a step toward the playhouse and stops again.
He draws his pistol.
Shit.
He gently lowers his rifle to the ground and then takes the pistol in both hands, holding it up like they do in the movies. He changes his path, walking in a broad circle as he moves cautiously toward the playhouse.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I’m not sure if I can make the shot from here. I hope his ears are still ringing from the shots that brought down the parents of the year and won’t hear me.
Feral grabs my arm as I begin to slide out from under the stair stringer. Her eyes say, be careful.
I quickly, but as noiselessly as possible, crawl out of our hiding place and then scurry on my hands and knees through the rubble to what’s left of the laundry room wall that’s still standing next to the garage. I hiss at the pain from the small rocks, glass and splinters jabbing into my hands and knees.
I remember the woman on her hands and knees from this morning.
I’m almost there.
My mind clears and focuses — once more emotionless.
When I get to the wall, I stand up, peer around it and carefully take aim.
He’s still moving slowly, about fifteen feet away. He hasn’t heard me yet.
I lean back under cover of the laundry room wall and slide my feet along the tiled floor.
And then the little girl starts crying, gasping with great shuddering sobs.
Motherfuck.
I take a deep breath.
I’m going to have to take him in one shot and pray he doesn’t have a buddy watching us, drawing a bead on me even now.
I take one last breath and then leap out from behind the broken wall and race as fast as I can across the thick overgrown grass of the backyard. He’s so close, yet so fucking far away.
I see the girl poke her head out and then stand up in plain sight.
She reaches out to him like she wants him to pick her up.
Fuck me.
Her eyes are so hopeful — trusting. She thinks this man is going to help her.
Is he?
Is he going to take her and feed her and make sure she’s clean and watch over her…
I see him lower his pistol, pointing it at the little girl.
He abandons his crouch and stands upright.
He’s tall.
My God, he’s going to shoot her at almost point blank range.
Why?
What’s she to him? What does she even matter?
Hang on Lisa, it’s going to be okay — I promise, this time is going to be different.
I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where no matter how fast I run, I never get to where I’m going.
I raise my own gun and take aim, but I’m going to be too late. I’m going to fail again — break another promise.
He’s going to kill her.
I can’t save her.
I can’t do anything.
I’m going to watch her take a bullet, watch her die again.
My feet are pounding the grass, almost noiselessly, but something gives me away. He pulls the gun down for a split second and turns his head to face me. His eyes widen in surprise and he makes a grunting noise as he tries to pivot toward me, but a split second is all I need.
I see the little girl staring at me with wide, tear-filled eyes.
She’s gone from hopeful to terrified — just in time to witness a murder.
More shit that can’t be unseen.
I’m not the kid hiding under the window anymore, and I don’t need a full goddamn magazine today. I squeeze the trigger twice in quick succession without slowing down, shooting the mercenary in the face.
Blood sprays across the playhouse as he stumbles, drops his pistol and then falls over backward onto the grass as though he were a toy that was just turned off. His sightless eyes stare up at nothing.
I lower my gun and stop, waiting to see what the little girl does.
She stares at me for a moment.
Her little face and robe are covered in the mercenary’s blood.
And then she races over the grass like a gazelle and reaches her arms out as though to hug me. I kneel down and she wraps her arms around my neck, squeezing so tightly I can barely breathe.
“I got you Punkin’, I got you this time,” I whisper to her, squeezing back.
When I turn around, Feral is standing here, my backpack hanging from one hand and the teddy bear from the other.
I wonder what she’s thinking because I can’t read her expression. She’s seen this before, up close, right? I nod toward my bag and Feral holds it up for me. She nods like she gets it. I wished she didn’t. I wish she never had to see anything like this again, but wishes are fantasy and this is real.
I wipe the blood away from the kid’s mouth with my sleeve and then grab a Twinkie from my bag.
“Here,” I say, offering it to the kid.
She takes it from me and quickly rips open the package with her teeth.
“Slowly,” I admonish.
She nods.
“Were they your parents?” I ask the little girl.
“Nut-uh,” she says through bites of Twinkie.
“Who were they?”
She shrugs.
She wouldn’t shrug
if they were family. “Good enough for me,” I say.
I look at Feral and shake my head. She looks back at me in confusion.
“Stay here. Look after her.” I don’t care who they are, as long as they’re not family. “I’ll be right back.” I turn toward the soccer field.
Feral nods, but I don’t think she comprehends, not yet anyway. She thinks this is finished.
I assume we’re alone at this point and the other scouts have moved on. A few random gunshots aren’t going to attract any unwanted attention. I hope. The rest of the mercenaries should assume that one of the scouts took out some refugees. That’s the plan after all. Besides, they’re too arrogant to ever think that it might be one of their own getting whacked — hopefully.
I know revenge is worthless in the new world order.
I understand, but with every step, a welcome rage is boiling away.
I can see them lying in the overgrown green grass of the field. Both of them have designer backpacks. The man is lying face down — still. The woman is slowly trying to crawl toward the woods, desperately trying to escape.
The closer I get, the angrier I become. They left the kid behind. They just fucking left her and ran for it — to save their own asses.
She notices me when I get within a few feet.
Under her color coordinated foul-weather coat, she’s wearing a black and lime green running suit that matches her crosstrainer tennis shoes. The gunshot went through her shoulder and must have hit bone because she’s all fucked up. But she’s probably going to live…
She looks up at me in a panic. “Oh, thank God, thank God, please, please, help me, please…wait…what are you doing…please…don’t… God no…please don’t…”
I shouldn’t be wasting ammunition either, but sometimes karma needs a servant.
I pull the trigger.
Atonement will have to wait another day.
§§§§§
Even though it’s still late afternoon, the light is fading as the clouds thicken. It looks like rain. I drop the two backpacks next to the mercenary. They are both full of food and water. The woman had a single, chrome plated .38 revolver in hers, just like Feral’s, along with a few boxes of shells.
I crouch down and wrestle the sniper’s knapsack away from his arms.
“How do you do it?” Feral asks. Her tone is full of disdain.
Now she knows me — the real me, what I’ve become. I don’t have to hide anymore.
I don’t have to be afraid of her finding out.
I’m free again.
“Do what?” I ask, pretending not to understand.
“Shoot her. You just murdered that woman in cold blood. How…”
“This is who you were afraid of — who Carlos was afraid of. I’m not a nice guy. I told you, warned you. Survivor’s guilt isn’t my problem. Let’s leave it at that.”
“But…” Her brow furrows, like she’s sorting it out and I can see as each passing thought resolves itself in her eyes, she’s coming to terms with what I’ve done — what I’ve done to her. He eyes readjust from confusion to sadness, and then to the anger of betrayal, and the whole morning and our time under the stairs disappears in a flash, just like the frost from Denise’s eyes.
I knew it was coming, but it still hurts.
I push it away for now and grab the sniper’s pack. It has a few packages of crackers, some water in plastic bottles and boxes and boxes of .45 and rifle shells.
He also has a mostly clean towel.
Priorities, just deal with priorities.
I take one of the bottles out and pour water over the towel. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say to the little girl.
I gently begin wiping at her face, cleaning the blood and mud away.
She alternates between making a face with her eyes squeezed tight and beaming up at me as she pushes her long, sandy blonde hair out of her blue, sky blue eyes.
I look to Feral. “Remember I said you were a good person?”
“Yeah, so?”
Her eyes are judging me now, she’s afraid of me again. It makes me sick to my stomach, but it was only a matter of time I remind myself — sooner or later, this was going to happen.
In the end, it’s a good thing. It’ll be easier to cut her loose.
Yeah, that’s it.
Shit.
I can’t even lie to myself.
“Never forget — I‘m not. How can I shoot someone like that? Practice, lots of practice. Give me your bag.”
“Emily,” the little girl says out of nowhere as Feral drops her bag on the ground.
I turn to the kid. “What?”
“My name is Emily. I’m this many old,” she says, holding up six fingers.
“Now she’s gone and done it, you’re stuck with her forever.” Feral’s tone isn’t playful as she reminds me of my cats and responsibility.
I take another look at the kid.
This is fucked up.
She probably needs meds, but that doesn’t change anything. Priorities. She’s my responsibility now. I’ll have to do the best I can.
I glance at Feral, name or no — she’s my responsibility too.
I clean the last spot on Emily’s nose and then start sorting through the supplies. I set the ammunition and weapons aside, and then divide the food and water into portions for each of us, stuffing them into our backpacks, including Emily’s — but not more than she can carry on her own.
I stuff the .38 shells into Feral’s bag.
“Here,” I say to Feral, holding out the chrome .38 and her bag.
She takes them without looking at me like she’s ashamed.
I transfer some of the .45 shells into my own backpack and then tie the sniper’s knapsack to the side of mine, right alongside SpongeBob.
I don’t know why I should feel like I have to answer for my actions, but I find myself wishing for guilt, something, anything — but the rage has hollowed me out. As quickly as those emotions returned this morning, they’re gone now.
“She left the kid to die,” I murmur.
“But that wasn’t your call to make!” Feral glares at me, finally understanding.
“Then whose call is it? Look the fuck around! There’s no one out here. We don’t have police. Hell, even if the phones worked, we wouldn’t have anyone to call.”
She looks away. I can tell she’s still pissed and my explanation isn’t acceptable.
She may be too good.
She’s too good for me, that much I know.
I’ll dump both of them once I find somewhere safe.
“Look, you don’t have to like me. Fine, we can’t be friends, not even fucking acquaintances. That was never a requirement of the deal anyway. I just don’t want anything to happen to you, or Emily. The world is a better place with you in it. That’s all I have to say about it. Let’s go.”
I don’t wait for a response or even look at her. I pick up the rifle and sling it over my shoulder and begin walking.
“I like you,” Emily says matter of factly and takes her place at my side.
And my heart melts as all of the guilt rushes back in, filling me up again. But that woman, she abandoned Lisa, I mean Emily. She didn’t deserve… I wipe my eyes as she tries to keep step with me as we head across the soccer field.
A moment later, I hear Feral following.
“Hey,” Feral calls to me.
I pause and look back.
She tosses the teddy bear to me and nods to Emily.
“Can you watch him for me?” I ask as I hand the teddy bear to Emily’s waiting arms.
Her eyes get big. “He’s blind. Someone hurt him, big fat meanie,” she says sourly as she makes a face. And then she hugs him and grins up at me. “I can see for him. I’ll take care of him, until we can find him new eyes.”
“Come on,” I say.
“We can can’t we?”
“Find him new eyes?” I ask.
She nods vigorously.
I smile and pat h
er head. “Yeah, Punkin’, we’ll get him some new eyes.”
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to find him one,” I reply.
She looks up at me and nods like we’ve made a sacred bond, as though all that’s left is to spit and shake on it.
I intentionally choose a path that leads us away from Emily’s dead companions. I don’t want to traumatize her any more than necessary. And then I wonder if Emily saw me shoot the woman — or if she even understood what she was seeing.
Fuck it.
I already knew I was an evil motherfucker.
It’s growing dark as we enter the forest, to spite the time. It smells of mold and weeds. To the south, between the trees, is clear sky, so that’s the way we go. Hopefully, there’s another neighborhood on the far side. We need a place to hang while I figure this shit out.
Emily surprises me when she takes my hand.
She’s a goddamned puppy.
And I have no idea why she isn’t scared shitless of me. By all rights, she should be, but she’s not.
I guess she trusts me.
What a fucked up world.
Lisa trusted me.
I’m probably going to get Emily killed too.
“Where are we going?” Feral asks with an irritable restless tone.
I nod south and keep walking. “As far from winter as we can get.”
The Mark
°°
Feral’s hungry, but she won’t admit it.
Neither will Emily.
They’re tough as hell and I’ve come to respect both of them over the last few days, and Feral — I don’t know what it is about her but she’s got a hold over me I can’t shake. I can’t stop watching her, thinking about her — worrying about her. It’s not like we’re sharing our deepest darkest secrets by the campfire or shit like that, but every time I see her crying, which seems like all the goddamned time, I worry that she might not make it back from whatever happened to her.
It fucking guts me every time.
I want to fix it — but I can’t put her back together. I don’t know how.
And even if I did, any chance we had at being friends is decomposing back in that soccer field. I can’t say for sure if she liked me all that much before, but I’m pretty sure she’s done with me now — she hasn’t said three words to me since we found Emily.
