Palimpsest (Book 1): Feral

by P. J. Post

  He’s got an easy smile. It probably came in handy chatting up girls back in school.

  He’s not wearing coveralls. He’s got on jeans, holsters at each hip for the revolvers, and an old Motley Crew t-shirt. I can tell he’s ripped from here, like one of those juiced male models. His long blond hair is hanging out from under the oldest, most worn out, Budweiser ball cap I’ve ever seen. He’s smiling at us like we’re old pals, but his gray eyes are ominous, like goddamned storm clouds, they’re watching us with unease.

  I glance at Feral and she’s glaring at him.

  Good.

  Fucking tool.

  Neither of us is buying the damn-glad-to-meet-you-class-president bullshit.

  He’s got a lot of friends with him, though, and they’re all pretty much dressed the same, jeans and t-shirts, even though it’s damn cold. They look badass. They’re all heavily armed too. I look him in the eye, trying to see what’s in there and he just stares right back at me — like fucking Nietzsche.

  I get him; he doesn’t need a posse. Unlike The Swiss Family Robison here, I’m betting this guy’s killed before — and has no problem doing it again.

  He walks over and stops in front of us, instantly in command of the situation.

  “I’m Cam,” he says, smiling like a movie star. “How ‘bout we take a walk?”

  Emily steps forward, folding her arms across her chest as she stares up at him.

  I grin again, she’s foolhardy. There’s not a timid bone in her body.

  Should I kill Cam right now?

  It would be easy.

  Cam kneels down in front of her. “I’m awfully sorry I scared ya, ma’am.” He tips his hat to her like he’s Clint fucking Eastwood.

  “You don’t scare me,” she snarls back up at him. Her voice is so high pitched that the situation would be comical — if so many of us weren’t so close to dying.

  “That’s good, real good, and I shouldn’t scare you one wit, ‘cause me and my boys, we’re the good guys,” he continues, absently scratching his nose.

  Emily just glares at him, her fingers slowly inch toward her concealed knife.

  Everyone is quiet as the knife springs into her hand, glinting in the light as she turns it over in her fist, blade out. Cam doesn’t even flinch. It’s a Mexican standoff and Emily is Eli Walloch to Cam’s Clint. He just grins.

  I hear a protesting wheel dragging across the asphalt as one of the new guys pushes the shopping cart across the parking lot for Brad.

  “Careful, Cam,” Sis warns.

  Cam ignores her and keeps his attention on Emily. “I bet your name is every bit as pretty as you are. What is your name, ma’am?”

  She looks to me and I wink at her.

  “Piss off,” she says.

  Everyone laughs — everyone except us.

  It’s possible I haven’t been a very good influence.

  “Maybe, just sayin’, you know, maybe — we should be friends,” Cam suggests, holding out a hand.

  “Fat chance!” she fires back.

  He laughs again as he stands up. “Hang in there, Brad,” he says to the brother.

  Even though Cam pretty much ignores Sis, her eyes look like an anime character, growing wide and shiny as she stares at him. She looks like an adoring puppy. I can almost see the little hearts floating around her head. She’s crushing on him like this is high school instead of the end of the world.

  I glance at Feral and wonder if I’m just as obvious.

  Can everyone see the little hearts floating around my head?

  Can Feral?

  Jesus.

  Cam nods to one of his buddies and they lift Brad up, and as gently as possible, lower him into the shopping cart. He screams and whines the whole time.

  Stop being a wuss. I’m not going to feel guilty about this one, not this time.

  “Let’s go,” Cam says, his voice once more filled with authority. He points at us. “You too.”

  I’m not sure we have a choice anymore, but then again, they didn’t take our weapons. I could still shoot movie-star-frat-boy-Cam right in the fucking face. And we’d get most of his buddies, but not all of them.

  Everyone begins to head for the back fence, like it’s all agreed, but their guns are still pointed at us as they go.

  “So, Neo, are we shooting our way out?” Feral asks me.

  Cam stops and studies Feral. He holsters his revolvers and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “I wouldn’t advise it, ma’am, but it’s up to you, of course. But seein’ as it’s as cold as a well-digger’s ass out here, I’d be awfully appreciative if you’d make your mind up sooner rather than later, if it’s not too much bother, that is — no pressure.”

  I shake my head and she nods.

  He grins.

  “Where did you come from?” Feral asks as she lowers her .38.

  Cam’s grin gets bigger as he bows like a Musketeer, doffing his cap and throwing one arm out with a great flourish for her to lead the way. “This way,” he says.

  It’s an act, but I wonder if he’s really as good on the inside as he’s trying to make us believe. I know what I saw in his eyes.

  Maybe this is his journey, his atonement.

  He needs to knock it off, though, he’s too fucking chilled. I grin, reminding myself that I can still shoot the happy-ass son of a bitch.

  We start across the parking lot and Emily falls into step beside me, like she’s been doing ever since we found her. I’ve caught her mimicking me out of the corner of my eye when she thinks I’m not looking. She stares up at me and grins.

  I ruffle her hair and she giggles, before grimacing and then giving Cam her best badass stare. Life is just that simple for her.

  Feral and Emily stay close as we follow Cam and his crew through the broken stockade fence and then across a deserted and pot-holed asphalt street. We pass through another series of chain link fences before stepping out onto an open field of what must have been a regional airport. The tower is still standing in the distance.

  A jet, maybe a 707 or 737, something way too big for this airport, at any rate, crashed out here. Silver and white metal parts are twisted up in the colorful wreckage of seat cushions, interior panels and luggage. Shit is everywhere, including people bits. The fires burned out months ago and most of the bodies have been claimed by the local wildlife. I try to cover Emily’s eyes, telling her not to look, but she pushes my hand away and glares at me. “I’m not a little kid!”

  Yeah, you are…

  Is it a sociopath or a psychopath when you know right from wrong, but just say fuck it and do whatever you want? I wonder what’s going to pass for therapy in this new age, because she’s going to need a shitload of it by the time she’s a teenager.

  I keep an eye on Feral as we skirt the worst of the crash. She’s intense and vigilant. The knuckles gripping her .38 are white. I wonder if she’s seeing something I’m missing.

  We all stay close to the edge of the field and head toward a row of low buildings on the far side. We may be a small army, but everyone is still quiet, cautious and watchful with weapons at the ready, including Cam.

  For all of his aw-shucks-ma’am horseshit, he seems like a good leader, even if he is young. His men are all a lot older, some look like they might have been cops or military, but they respect him just the same. It’s obvious. Somewhere along the way, he’s proven himself.

  We duck through the chain-link fence on the far side of the field and walk past the airport security offices and through the parking lot. Cars are scattered every which way, just like the day they were abandoned. But they don’t look nearly as out of place as the bullet holes in the windshields and fenders do.

  Several cars are ass over teakettle up in the parkway, out in front of departures and short-term parking. Everyone pauses to look. Even the biggest, baddest looking guys cross themselves or take a moment to get their shit together again.

  The blackened and faded blood trails are just too much today.r />
  Cam glances back to the airfield and then to the jumble of cars. “You never get to decompress or unwind, you know?” His voice is catching in his throat.

  He’s not talking to anyone in particular, but I know exactly what he means.

  As we clear airport parking and enter the perimeter streets lined with warehouses, I start to get the feeling we’re being watched. As we turn the corner of a large, dangerously unstable brick hanger we meet the first sentry. He steps out from the shadows and greets Cam, who nods back. Lots of Cam’s crew nod at this new guy as well.

  He’s another kid, about my age, maybe a little older. He’s dressed in a dark Polo shirt and is wearing black face paint. His head is shaved and he has a healing black tribal tattoo over one ear. His eyes are hard. I wonder what his deal is because he has that rich asshole look, like he should be at Princeton, chasing girls, getting shit-faced and throwing up in the Lexus his daddy bought him for graduation.

  He’s changed too.

  I glance to Feral to see her checking him out as well.

  I have no idea what’s going on, but for reasons I can’t explain, I get the feeling we can trust these guys, as much as we can trust anyone these days. I don’t think they’re like the Cart People — they’re not going to eat us or whatever the fuck those crazies were up to.

  We step out into a concrete courtyard shared by several warehouses. It’s a good defensible position. A quick study of the area reveals snipers high up in the windows, covering every direction and approach.

  “Hey,” I say to Feral. She looks to me and I nod toward the top windows.

  I watch her search out each of the snipers, and then pause like she’s taking inventory, before moving on to the next one.

  We round a brick wall that encloses a decorative but dry fountain, and then, seemingly from nowhere, there are people everywhere, many with weapons and all of them pointed at us.

  “Yo, chill everyone,” Cam says, and spins his revolvers around with another one of his flourishes and then slides them into their holsters.

  “Practice much?’ I ask sarcastically.

  He just grins. “Does it show?

  I notice Cam’s crew has made a circle around us now.

  He steps back. “Sorry, kids, but this is the interactive portion of the afternoon’s entertainment, the part where we take all of your stuff. Camp rules. But you’re invited to stay if you want.” He tips his cap to Emily and then points back to the warehouse. “We have food, clean clothes, medicine — protection. Or you can go, but we all share here, so much obliged for the donation just the same. Tammy, get Lucy and Henry.”

  Tammy? The sister runs into the warehouse with only a few backward glances. I’m afraid she’s focusing on Cam so much she’s going to trip and hurt herself.

  The father walks over. “I’m sorry,” he says to Brad, holding his hand, and then turns to Cam. “I am sorry.”

  Cam pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’re not a killer. There’s no shame in that.”

  “But they’re just kids, I should be able…” the dad says.

  Cam laughs and shoots me a knowing look. “This one may be a kid, but he’s not just a kid. He’s dangerous enough.” He kneels down to Emily again. “And so is this one.” He shows her all of his teeth.

  And this time, Emily smiles back, guarded, but it’s there just the same.

  Jesus, I’m not sure if I’m going to kill him or start buying into his bullshit too.

  “Hand it over,” Cam says, staring at my backpack, and holds out his hand, palm up.

  I look around at the crowd, studying them and the first thing that stands out is the look in their eyes. They’re not like Crayton Mercenaries or the Cart People, there’s no desperation here. No one is starving. No one looks scared. They’re clean too, organized. And there’s a lot of them.

  I glance at Feral and nod.

  She nods back and then slides her backpack off and hands it over to a woman dressed in a long, floral peasant skirt, low-heeled boots and one of those sweaters sea captains are always wearing in the old movies. Cam drags mine off of my shoulder and hands it to the same woman.

  “And the squirt guns,” he says.

  I hold my .45 up and study it. “We’ve been through a lot, this gun and me. I’d rather keep it.”

  “After we inventory everything, and if you prove yourself to be the trustworthy sort, then, you might get a weapon, but I’m sorry, pal, I can’t say it’s going to be this one.”

  “This is my gun, there are many like it, but this one is mine,” I chant, grinning a cold grin.

  “I saw the movie too, while we’re young.” He’s losing patience.

  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

  His eyes narrow and he glares at me. The challenge to his authority isn’t winning me any favors. Under different circumstances, I’d say I was slightly more suicidal than usual this afternoon, but they’re not different — he’s not going to hurt us, and that gives me leverage.

  “Cam, you do realize I can kill you, right?” I ask.

  He nods slowly. “Yep. I hope you don’t mind me pointing out that that would truly suck. There’s a dance tonight, and I sort of planned on attending. So, is shooting me something you think you’re likely to do?”

  He looks at me like he wants to know if I want fries with that.

  I let the weight of my gun shift so that the butt swings forward, the barrel aiming up. I hold it out. “I think you trust us, and if you wanted us dead or had any evil plans, you could’ve just killed us back at the video store. And we both know you’re going to be giving me a gun, sooner rather than later, but, just so you know, keep it close, I’m going to want this one back.”

  “Thanks, but like I said, I can’t promise that.”

  “I’m going to want my pack back too and everything in it; sorry, charity begins at home.”

  “We share here. No one wants for anything. You’d be surprised how much more willing folks are to fight when they depend on one another. It’ll warm your heart, if you give it a chance.”

  “Well, I’m going to want my shit back.”

  “Kid, that ain’t gonna’…”

  “Figure it the fuck out,” I say, smiling.

  Feral follows my lead and quietly relinquishes her .38.

  “And the rest,” he says, pointing at our clothes.

  “You want us to strip?” I ask, suddenly angry, thinking I’ve misjudged everything. “What kind of sick fuck…”

  “No, no,” he says apologetically, holding up his hands. “But we’ll be needin’ the coats and hats — and the goggles. Sorry, ma’am. We’ll get you new stuff, clean stuff. No one goes hungry here or has to be cold, but we have rules for a reason. Disease is a very real threat — the unforgiving enemy these days. We can’t take any chances and let a bug in. You’re all getting haircuts too.” He grins.

  “No,” Feral says, shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry, Lass, tweren’t a suggestion,” the women who took her backpack says with a thick Boston accent, and then suddenly hands are on her, pulling her long coat off…

  I start for her side, but Cam draws a revolver and shoves one hand against my chest.

  Her goggles get ripped from her face…

  I clench my fists as my rage erupts.

  Shit. This isn’t fucking right.

  Her beanie is pulled off, blond hair spilling out, and then…

  “No!” Feral shrieks, jerking frantically as she tries to free her hands from the women, but they’re too strong. They ignore her efforts.

  I feel the emotion in my face and fists. I’m shaking.

  I watch their hands grab at her face and she cries out again as they pull at her scarf.

  “Stop! Please…” she screams again, begging them.

  Fuck, I want to kill this fucking old lady. I can see her dead in my hands.

  They don’t unwrap the scarf, they just jerk it, still looped, over the top of her head.

 
“Fuckers!” I shout.

  Feral falls to the ground as though shot, cowering into a little ball, covering her face with both hands, sobbing and cursing unintelligibly.

  I move for her again without thinking, but a rifle muzzle slams into my chest, stopping me dead.

  “Motherfuckers. I’m going to kill you for this…” I hiss, ignoring the pain.

  Something very fucked up just happened and they all know it.

  Cam looks surprised and uncomfortable as he pulls away from me. It’s obvious he didn’t expect this kind of reaction, but I don’t give a shit. This didn’t have to go down like this. We weren’t fighting back.

  I shove the rifle away, glaring at the old man biker holding the weapon. He’s tough but still flinches. He doesn’t have it in him any more than the three bears did back at the video store.

  “Well aren’t you just the baddest motherfucker?” I glare at Cam as I step over and kneel down next to Feral, laying a hand on her back.

  But she jerks free.

  “Don’t look at me,” she cries, and stands up, pushing me away.

  Emily is confused and scared. Little kid, I-don’t-understand tears bunch up in the corners of her eyes. One of the other women takes her backpack and coat too. Her black t-shirt is too big and hangs to her knees. It says, your band sucks in helter skelter blue letters.

  Cam laughs sourly and shakes his head when he reads it while the women just grimace disapprovingly. He still looks troubled by Feral though.

  He’s about to be a lot more troubled when I put my boot up his ass.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” the woman who took Feral’s scarf says with genuine concern, pity even, and then leans over and takes Emily by the hand. “You too.”

  Emily stares at me, and I nod. She nods back, but her expression is worried and sad.

  She reaches up and takes the woman’s hand and then she grabs Feral’s hand too.

  They both look so small.

  And then they let the women lead them inside the warehouse.

  Feral’s shoulders are slumped, she looks beaten.

  I didn’t know she could be more broken.

  I slide out of my letter jacket and lay it over biker boy’s rifle barrel.

  Cam holsters his revolver and folds his arms across his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”