by P. J. Post
I’m worried about why she’s still covering her face too. Hiding from Emily is pushing the disguise paranoia pretty far. I finally shut up about it, but not before making a fool of myself.
Emily thought it was funny as hell.
Emily’s terrified face leaps into my mind again, another waking nightmare dogging my every step. I squeeze my eyes closed against the images of the mercenary…
…her eyes wide…blood spraying across her way too young cheeks…
She’s like a baby sister now; maybe that’s why the memory won’t let me go. When I see her, I see Lisa and the look of shocked betrayal — and then I hear my kid sister screaming and begging on the other side of our kitchen window…
It’s just another reminder of what I am, and that I’m going to get them killed — or worse.
I can feel it, like walls closing in around me.
They deserve better.
My stomach rumbles and the nausea returns along with a rush of lightheadedness. A cigarette sounds good, but I decide to wait until we stop to rest. Conservation sucks too.
Finding food and water is getting serious.
The Twinkies gave out yesterday and everywhere we’ve gone has been picked over, every last house, basement and shed. We’ve been working our way through a pretty bombed-out part of a city, miles from the main travel routes, and even though we haven’t seen another soul for days, it still looks like an army systematically looted the entire fucking county.
We’ve been weaving our way around smoldering pyres, sacrifices to the old gods of money, celebrity and entitlement. Fire can’t tell the difference between last year’s Black Friday deals and this year’s bodies.
I wonder what the new gods will eat.
On top of everything else, it’s getting fucking cold.
I have no idea what the date is, but I remember the last few Halloweens being warm enough that we didn’t need to wear coats, but the last warm day like that was the day I met Emily and Feral. It must be early November, or close.
“Hey, check this out,” Feral calls to me from up ahead.
I look around, taking stock of the deserted streets and sidewalks. It doesn’t look like it was a very happy neighborhood even before the bombs. Feral’s on the crest of an asphalt rise, bouncing on her toes like she’s at a pep rally. The oranges and pinks and yellows of an early evening sky are painted in behind her.
And that makes the neighborhood a much less shitty place to be.
I grin at her and she cocks her head staring back at me and then points at a surprisingly intact window with a spray-painted warning on it: GAS, and then a childish rendition of a skull and crossbones.
It’s painted on the street in huge, twenty foot high, matching, orange day-glo letters too.
That explains why we’re the only ones here — it’s a dead zone — a pretty shitty place after all.
“Should we be worried?” she asks, raising her goggles.
This is the most she’s said to me in days and she wants my opinion?
It’s great to hear her voice again, but of course, I have no fucking idea what to think about the gas. We can’t really be sure that gas was even used here — it could be something or nothing.
Then again, we could already be dead.
I pull my coat closer and shrug.
She shakes her head and bounces one last time before turning and walking down the hill, spinning her .38 like a cowboy showman — make that cowgirl.
“You’re useless,” she shouts.
Yeah…
Emily looks up at me and shrugs too, and then returns to playing with her knife, spinning it and doing tricks, like Feral and her pistola. She drops it often enough that I’m sure the edge is fucked, but it’s still dangerous enough.
I should probably make her stop, keep her from getting hurt, but the rules have changed. There’s no streetlights left to tell us when to go home.
Feral disappears down an alley and I jog to catch up. I get panicky whenever she’s out of sight.
She’s standing in a shop doorway, or at least the rubble of where one was once nailed up. The rest of the storefront has been blown out into the alley. A happy-green sign is painted above the broken windows on the brick façade: Buds.
I laugh.
Feral has found a post-apocalyptic head shop.
A spliff would make the end of the world a little less, well…less shitty too.
“Dibs on the Mountain Dew and Doritos,” she shouts.
“Just leave me the American Spirit smokes,” I answer.
Emily catches up and peers inside, and then looks up at me as if to confirm it’s safe.
“Stay here, we’ll check it out. Feral?”
She stops and nods, holding her .38 at the ready.
I take the lead, holding my own .45 up with both hands.
The shop is a large, single room, drop-ceiling, water damaged disaster of broken bongs, toppled shelves, crushed moving cartons and empty knife and Katana gift set boxes. The breeze is rushing past the broken windows making it feel colder in here, or maybe it’s the series of tinted skylights throwing blue light around the store.
At the back, behind a faded Lollapalooza poster, is a barred steel door. Two threadbare couches are shoved along the wall, a Victorian gothic wrapped in purple velvet and one covered in ripped and duct-taped orange vinyl. The orange one is blocking the exit door.
They’re dry.
“Classy,” Feral says. “I like the fake wood paneling, very homey. Between that and the plastic couch, it reminds me of playing spin the bottle in Kyle Bledsoe’s basement.”
“Spin the bottle? You? Nope, can’t see that ever happening,” I say, still worrying too much to joke around.
“It could happen, jeez, you’re no fun at all,” she shoots back playfully.
This mood swing is way weird, but it beats the shit out of tears.
“No fun,” Emily chimes in, since she decided not to wait outside, but then what’s new? She never minds.
“Fun isn’t allowed, it’s the end of the world,” I say.
“Let’s tickle him,” Feral says, waving her fingers ominously in the air.
Emily giggles and mimics Feral’s dancing fingers.
“Let’s not and say we did, okay?” I’m in no mood.
“I was right before, you’re no fun,” Feral says again and kicks a pile of empty white boxes at me like we’re knee-deep in a snow drift. “See if I ever play spin the bottle with you.”
She turns away, but not before leveling me with a...with a what? A stare? A glare? A warning or a promise or both? An invitation? She was right; I don’t know shit about girls and even less about her.
I run my hands through my hair, thinking about sitting on the cold concrete floor of a dark basement somewhere back in New Jersey, staring at her across a fateful Dr. Pepper bottle and wondering if she’s shivering with the same anticipation that I am because no matter what, we have to pick each other — we’re the only ones playing. She’s sitting right in front of the broom closet of destiny. She’s smiling, her teeth white and even.
She has dimples.
The Deftones’ Passenger fills the room, encouraging us, tempting us, haunting us with possibilities.
My palms are sweating.
I reach for the bottle, leaning close to her.
She doesn’t flinch.
I spin the bottle and she’s blushing even before it stops…
“What?” she asks from the middle of the shop. She shakes her head, dismissing me and turns away, but then stops and slowly looks at me again, like maybe she senses my daydream, my longing.
I feel guilty and look away. “Nothing, just…nothing.” I start kicking the piles of boxes, trying and failing at not being jealous of Kyle goddamned Bledsoe, what a dick.
“There’s got to be something useful here,” I shout in frustration.
“Want to get high? We got bongs?” Feral laughs.
“Tease.”
“How would y
ou know?” she asks with that defiant and accusatory tone of hers.
“I can tell. I bet you were a cheerleader or some kind of rah-fucking-rah-go-team-go-do-gooder chick.”
“I could have sworn we already covered this — you don’t know anything about me. And call me a chick one more time and I’ll suffocate you with my pom-poms.”
“What’s the opposite of a fate worse than death?” I ask, grinning.
“What does that mean?”
“Death by pom-poms might not be so bad, well, not your pom-poms anyway…”
“I’m trying to decide if you’re being charming or a pig. I’m going with pig,” she says with mock disgust.
“Seriously, you were one of the cool kids, right?”
“Like I said…”
“I don’t know anything, yeah, I heard you the first ten times and I still think you’re full of shit.”
“Why do you think I was popular?”
“They way you talk, like I said, you’re a tease.”
“You should ask Kyle about that,” she says, winking.
“What’s a tease?” Emily asks.
“Now you’ve done it, explain that one ass…hat,” Feral finishes, grinning as she pulls her goggles off.
“Asshat?” Emily repeats.
Feral laughs, but I’m thinking about beating the shit out of someone I’ve never met, for something that probably didn’t even happen, in like, eighth grade. If there was any doubt before, it’s all cleared up now — I’m batshit crazy.
Fucking Kyle.
He knew her before.
Lucky son of a bitch.
Emily plops down on the orange couch and stabs her knife into the cushion next to her like it’s nothing.
But it is.
It’s wrong.
It’s sobering.
“Keep looking,” I say again, sourly.
Feral nods and pushes through the debris to the checkout counter, and starts pulling out drawers and opening cabinet doors.
I get back to kicking boxes along the walls. I’m guessing the ones with shit in them won’t move.
Besides the bongs, there are ripped ponchos, postcards scattered everywhere and other worthless crap piled around, broken candles, incense and lots of those empty knife and decorative weapons boxes. Somewhere out there in the vast post-apocalyptic wasteland are gangs that smell like apple-rose patchouli, armed with Klingon battle axes or whatever they’re called, blunt Katanas and child-proof throwing stars.
Jesus Christ, the end of the world is a fucking comic book convention gone horribly wrong.
Whump.
One of the boxes doesn’t move.
Pay dirt.
“We can fix Teddy,” Feral shouts from the front of the store. She’s silhouetted by the glow of the sunset. She looks like an angel.
“What?” I ask.
“I found a sewing kit, we can fix Teddy.”
“Is that his name now?” Emily asks.
“It can be, if you want,” I say.
“Teddy,” she repeats. “He needs eyes. Are there Teddy eyes too?”
Feral skips over to the couch and slides up next to Emily. “Yep,” she says, holding out two small black buttons, outlined in turquoise, along with blue thread.
“Pretty,” Emily says, clapping her hands together.
The world would be a nicer place if it was run by kids.
“I got something here too,” I say.
The soiled tapestries are heavy, but I managed to pull them aside. I hope it’s something useful. “Knife?” I call out.
Emily slides hers out of the cushion and Feral hands it to me.
I take it and cut through the packing tape on the box.
“Cross your fingers,” I say and open it up.
It’s stuffed with clear plastic packages full of dark fabrics. I pull one out and hand it to Feral.
“It’s pants. What else is in there?” she asks as she begins ripping the package open.
“Looks like coats,” I say.
“It’s Christmas!” Emily shouts as Feral holds the jeans up.
“Something like that, Punkin’. Do they fit?”
I’ve learned to read Feral’s eyes now — she’s grinning.
“What else?” Feral asks.
I pull out a few more packages, it looks like more coats and then shirts and more pants. The next box is also full — scarves and beanies.
“You’re lucky day, Babe,” I say.
Feral pauses for the slightest of moments, making me wonder what I said, before taking the coats and tossing them to the velvet couch. And then she peeks into the next box and claps her hands together just like Emily.
“So everything fits?” I ask.
“They so fit. Turn around,” she says.
“What?”
“Turn around. I’m going to change. Make yourself useful, go watch for bad guys.”
“I’ll watch too,” Emily says.
“No, you stay and keep her safe,” I say.
“Emily?” Feral asks gently.
Emily looks up with an expectant expression.
“You get new clothes too.”
Emily smiles from ear to ear. It is Christmas.
I guess stuff like that still matters after all.
Good, they needed something; spending all day, every day, trying not to die, can suck the life right out of you.
I walk outside to the sound of Emily clapping again and risk lighting a cigarette.
I see a flash out of the corner of my eye and turn to see a fireball billowing up miles away over the downtown skyline like a tiny Hiroshima. A few seconds later the crack of the explosion reaches me after racing across the desiccated city like thunder chasing purpose.
I watch and wait for more, but that’s it.
Is it the war?
Is it fighting for water, for shelter?
Is it the Cart People?
Or is it just fucking Tuesday?
I walk down the alley to the next block. Storefront glass covers the sidewalks and street, appliance store display windows are missing televisions and microwaves, probably from the first day’s looting. The cell phone store across the street is wasted the most. Why does anyone need smartphones when nothing electrical works?
While most people were trippin’, others were finding the guns and ammo, ripping off army surplus stores and the big box camping stores, organizing — planning.
Surviving.
The city slopes away toward the distant suburbs past blocks of blackened brick warehouses. We’ll head that way tomorrow.
I watch the fireball slowly dissolve, leaving another stain on the horizon.
I concentrate on my cigarette as I walk back to the head shop.
Feral steps out onto the sidewalk, like she was waiting for me.
“You look…amazing,” I say.
She’s wearing new, designer blue jeans, a black lace-up shirt and a suede hooded, orange, North Face-looking coat.
She holds the coat open and spins in a circle and then poses like a model — a pseudo-curtsey, revealing how slender she’s become. It hurts to see her like this, but she still looks amazing. I’m probably not a very good judge, though.
“Are they stiff?” I ask.
“No, they’re soft, come feel,” she says.
I step over and pause, staring at her.
She looks up at me with wide eyes, focused, unflinching — stoic even.
And then I take another step. We’re very close now. I can hear her breathing.
I gently touch the collar of her coat. She continues to stare into my eyes and slides the coat off her shoulder. My fingertips find her arm and the dark fabric of the new blouse, and then I slowly trace a line up her arm toward her scarf, laying my hand flat on her shoulder. The fabric of her shirt is soft, not as soft as the skin I imagine underneath it, but soft enough.
My heart is racing.
There’s something in her eyes.
Is it forgiveness?
I shuffle closer still. I’m hypnotized. I raise one hand to her blond hair poking out from under her beanie and she subtly leans her cheek into my hand.
She’s warm, even through her scarf.
“The field…” I begin.
She raises her index finger to my lips, silencing me and gently shakes her head.
I feel her press against me and then she leans her face into my chest as her arms encircle my waist, hugging me.
I hug her back, gentle at first and then fiercely. She holds me just as tight.
I don’t know what this means, but I don’t want it to end.
“Everyone has their reasons,” she says.
“For what?”
“For why we do what we do, for why we go on.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“Why can’t you pull the trigger? There’s a reason, and you probably don’t even know what it is — but it keeps you with me just the same. Reasons and secrets, we don’t have to talk about them, not yet, maybe never.”
“But…”
“It’s okay,” she says firmly.
“You never told me what a tease was,” Emily interrupts. “Is that the same thing as an asshat?”
Emily is dressed like a smaller version of Feral, sans scarf.
Feral laughs and begins to pull away, but I take her hand and hold her long enough to kiss the top of her head.
She looks up at me with an expression she’s wearing a lot lately — but I can’t read it.
She’s killing me with the whole not knowing what she’s thinking. I wonder what her secret is, what her reason is.
“How about we have a picnic, eat our crackers, and then maybe cuddle up and get some sleep?” Feral asks.
“How’s that sound, Punkin’?” I ask.
Emily looks serious and nods.
I can’t always tell what she’s thinking either.
We follow Feral back inside and I drop my pack next to her as she collapses onto the purple couch. I want to sit with her, hold her, but I’m afraid to push my luck.
“Are you my new Mommy and Daddy?” Emily asks as I give her some crackers and water.
Her last guardians got…dead. I’m not sure how to answer.
Feral just shakes her head, dismissing the subject altogether. “Let’s take a look at Teddy.”
