by P. J. Post
I just stare after Feral. This whole time, I’ve never seen her face. What did everyone see? What doesn’t Cam know?
His tone is humbled, but still direct. “We’re holding it together here. Like I said, you’re welcome to join us,” he continues.
“What you just did…deserves payback, you know that, right?” My voice is nearly a whisper.
Cam just looks at me and then his gaze follows Feral and Emily back toward the doors of the warehouse. “Yeah…”
I’m so pissed I can barely think straight, but we’re not going anywhere, not right this second. “And what about Brad?” I ask. “Are you just going to let that slide? Is he going to, or his daddy?”
“Will, that’s his father, and Brad, let’s just say when it comes to scavenging, they ain’t the sharpest tools in the shed. I think it’s fair to say where y’all are concerned, they miscalculated.”
“I think I broke his knee.”
“Shit happens.”
“Yeah, it does. Keep that in mind.”
Cam looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t catch your name…”
I try to look tough, glaring at him and then I look back to the darkness of the warehouse doors where Feral and Emily disappeared. “Nope, you didn’t.”
He shrugs and lets it go. “Are the girls your sisters?”
I shake my head.
“Are you and the girl with the…” He points to his face. “Are you together?” he asks.
I don’t know what to say; only what I want to say — yeah, we are, so fuck off.
I turn and take a step closer, staring into Cam’s eyes again — making sure there’s no misunderstanding. I’m so angry my voice is barely audible. “If you hurt her again, no joke — I’ll end you.”
§§§§§
An hour later I’ve been stripped, ignored as I explained that I don’t have any goddamned lice while they gave me the treatment anyway, hosed off with freezing water and given some faded denim overalls, a white wife-beater to wear and some pink and blue argyle socks. They bleached the fuck out of my shoes, but let me keep them. They’re still wet.
They shaved my head. I understand they have to treat everyone the same, but I traded them my hair for my backpack…and the promise not to cut off Cam’s nuts.
I can be pretty convincing when I need to be, which is a good thing for Cam, because I fucking meant it.
A young, once-upon-a-time-gang-banger they call Paco turns out to be the leader of the welcome committee. He’s wearing faded skinny jeans rolled up over well-worn work boots and a Fanta t-shirt under an antique bomber jacket with some nineteen forty's pin-up chick painted on the back. He’s tall, has dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark complexion — but, out of everything, it’s his disposition that’s the darkest.
“Yo, that’s better, Ese, you don’t stink so bad now,” he says as I walk back out into the common area.
I ignore him and look around, past the fires they have burning in drums throughout the warehouse and at the supplies along the perimeter, taking inventory. They’ve posted as many guards inside as I saw outside. They’re organized and determined.
Maybe this isn’t the worst place to hang our hat.
I can’t escape the irony though; I’m still carrying my shoes.
They divide their camp into separate areas for men and women. The children below teenage years stay with the women and the older dudes are with the men, even married couples sleep apart — and everyone works. They live out of wagons and tents loosely organized in a circle, including a supply depot, munitions, the food stores and medical teams, around a large open common area.
Paco says they can get the whole show on the road in less than an hour.
I’m not sure I believe him because there are a few thousand people here and a shit load of wooden wagons, boat and farm trailers, and carts to load, not to mention getting the horses ready to pull them.
I wonder if this was the army that looted the area before we got here. If not, we have company out there.
Turns out that Cam isn’t in charge, but he’s the main dude — the enforcer. The guy in charge is some old fart named Hauser, but he stays out of view, giving orders from the shadows. Apparently, he’s pretty fucking important. Everyone claims he saved them, personally. The whole place has an unsettling cultish vibe to it, but given the circumstances, maybe that’s inevitable.
I’ve got mixed feelings about being here and I’m still worried about Feral and Emily.
“What’s with the bag?’ Paco asks.
“I’m special.”
He glares at me.
“Can I have a coat?” I ask.
“Don’t need a coat for what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Work, Ese, work,” he says, laughing.
I stop long enough to put my sneakers back on and then follow him through another set of large overhead doors to a fenced in area between this building and the next. They’re working with the horses here. We walk over to the next warehouse and the stink hits me as soon as we get near the open doors. This must be their make-shift stable and it’s full of horses and other livestock, mostly wagons with chickens, goats and a few sheep.
“That’s the staging paddock,” Paco says, pointing back outside. “We’re cleaning and making repairs. We’ll be leaving in a few days. It’s a wagon fixin’ and shit sweepin’ time, boy. Ever worked with horses?”
“Fuck no, do I look like goddamned Farmer fucking Jones?”
“Don’t walk behind them; they kick like your Mama. But you better figure it the fuck out, pendejo,” he says, and then points to a tall man dressed like Farmer fucking Jones, and then he turns and walks away, laughing.
“Fuck you!” I shout after him.
He laughs harder and then he’s gone.
Paco’s a dick.
Farmer Jones is directing traffic, men and women leading horses to different places in the warehouse, lining them up and putting bridles or whatever those things are called to pull wagons with on them — yokes? Fuck, I don’t know.
I lean against the door jamb, trying to get a little fresh air and then pull a cigarette out of my bag and light it.
Part of me is happy they found us. I told Feral I was going to dump her with the first safe group — these people look safe, even better — they look like survivors, but not crazy ones like Carlos or the Cart People.
At the same time, I can’t shake the pile up back in that neighborhood I met Feral in. This many survivors, with food and supplies, they’re way too big a target to just slip through the cracks. I wonder how the Cart People would deal with them.
Shit, I’m feeling closed in again — claustrophobic.
I take another drag and step back outside and see Emily between the horses and wagons leaning against the building a little further down. She’s wearing coveralls, just like mine, a yellow sweatshirt and the same hiking boots she had before. She’s got a white coat tied around her waist by the arms.
Her curly blond hair is a buzz cut now and looks much darker.
She’s got one leg up, her foot flat against the brick wall she’s leaning on like an angst ridden teenager. She pulls out a cigarette and a book of matches.
Where did she get matches or cigarettes?
My first instinct is to slap that shit out of her hands, but what the fuck, why? What’s the new age to smoke now? To drink?
To murder?
There are no rules, not anymore.
It’s the Lord of the goddamned Flies.
There’s only survival and even that’s measured in days or weeks — the best any of us has managed so far is a couple of months.
I watch her light the cigarette and immediately cough as smoke erupts from her mouth and nose. She spits and leans her head back against the wall and tries again.
She persistent.
It’s funny, kind of cool and sad all at the same time.
No one is even glancing sideways at her, much less bothering to stop her.
I push off the wall and slowly walk over.
She looks up and spots me walking toward her. She stares back, all pissy like, with that same expression Feral uses and then blows smoke at me before feigning indifference and watching a few guys changing a tire on a boat trailer nearby.
Then she’s taken by another coughing fit.
When I get to her she’s green.
I grin.
“Gimme,” I say as she disappears under my shadow.
She looks like she’s going to be sick.
“What?” she asks, cocking her head and trying on her best pout.
“You going to toss your cookies?” I ask as I take the cigarette from her.
“What’s that…”
I kneel and catch her as she heads for her knees, holding her gently as she pukes up what probably began the day as canned corned beef hash.
I slip behind her and sit down, letting her rest on my leg as she dry heaves.
I finish the cigarette as I pull out a bottle of water, spin the top off and hand it to her.
Emily takes a deep drink and then sets the bottle on the ground before leaning back against me. She wraps my hand in both of hers and pulls my arm around her like a blanket. She nestles her head against my shoulder while we watch the men work on the boat trailer.
“How are you feeling?” I ask and hug her a little tighter.
She squeezes my thumb and hiccups.
I laugh and she giggles under her breath.
“Let’s not do that anymore, okay?” I ask.
“Okay,” she agrees in a tiny voice.
I toss the butt out into the horseshit of the make-shift corral and imagine her posing again, trying to smoke, ignoring nausea — not giving up. She’s six going on twenty.
And then my eyes are suddenly wet. I look away, past the horses and the line of wagons. She’s too young for this. We’re all too young for this shit.
I remember Denise and the way the morning frost covered her skin, blue, gossamer and ugly.
I feel a tug on the strap of my overalls.
I look down and Emily smiles up at me. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see. We got each other.”
“Yeah, we do, Punkin’,” I say, sniffing back the tears. “How is she?”
“She made me promise not to talk to you about her,” Emily says.
“Is she okay?”
Emily nods, and then shakes her head.
I need to figure out a way to reach Feral. We need to talk about the whole scarf thing from earlier. This sucks.
But for now…
I surprise Emily, standing up and then picking her up and throwing her over my shoulder. She squeals and giggles, slapping at my back.
She’s a little kid again.
I turn to carry her back inside to one of the fires to warm her up, when I see Feral standing on the far side of a line of supply wagons. She’s in shadow and I can’t make out her face clearly, but she barely pauses before she turns and disappears.
I stop and set Emily down. She looks up at me and shrugs too old for her years again.
I miss Feral and it hurts.
It’s just that fucking simple.
“So you’re Billy Badass,” a voice says behind me.
I turn to see what’s going on, hoping it has nothing to do with us. Unfortunately, the guy is talking to me. He has a few friends with him. They’re all wearing high school property of sweatshirts and blue and khaki chinos.
Great, they’re a club.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re the new guy that sucker punched Brad. Brad’s one of us.”
I sigh.
Here it comes.
“So are you all on the welcome committee too, or are you here to teach me a lesson?” I ask.
“I heard you were a smartass.”
“Just a heads up; I’m not a very good student…”
“Get ready to eat shit.” He bounces lightly on his toes and the first punch is so fast I barely see it coming.
I’m on my ass before I know what’s happened, my jaw throbbing.
“Leave him alone,” Emily shouts as she charges, but he grabs her by the front of her overalls and tosses her aside.
She screams in anger when she hits the ground.
I slowly slide backward and begin to get up when a shadow falls on the asshole, someone in black, wearing a long coat like cowboys wear.
His legs buckle like he’s been hit from behind and then as he’s falling; the tails of the long coat fly as legs wrap around his neck, forcing his head down and around — his body follows. Shadow and Avenger end up on the ground. He’s on his back, one of the Shadow’s hands in his hair, and the other is holding a six-inch knife to his right eye.
He’s terrified.
I think he’s right to be.
“You can thank me later,” Feral says through a black and white, checkerboard linen scarf tied tight around her face.
“For what?” the guy snarls.
Even through his fear, he’s still a douche.
“Saving your life,” she hisses and pushes him away as she spins back to her feet.
When she stands up, she stands tall, full of pride — confident. She’s wearing black ski goggles and black leather gloves with the fingers cut out of them. She’s shaved bald.
Her head is shaped beautifully.
She doesn’t look beaten any more, and even though that should be a good thing, it scares me as much as any of this shit does. Her mood swings are getting more manic.
The guy gets to his feet and points at me. “He’s a pussy. You didn’t save shit. You’re both cowards, sneaking up on us just like you did Brad. Now we’re going to kick both of your asses. Come on guys.”
Feral shakes her head.
I’m on my feet now and have a better idea what I’m up against.
I spit out blood. “You sure you want to do this?”
He and his friends look around nervously and pause.
Feral shifts the knife to her other fist.
Emily is back on her feet as well, wearing the anger of someone much older. “Kill him,” she whispers.
Christ.
The guy shifts his attention to Emily and then back. Maybe he’s wondering if I could — or would.
His confidence seems to be draining away.
I’m still pissed about Emily, but she’s fine and the last thing we need is Cam and his toughs down here fucking with us again. We might not stick around, but leaving needs to be on our terms, not this asshole’s.
Maybe I don’t need to kill everyone.
“Okay, I get it. You took a shot, let’s call it even. What do you say?” I ask and hold my hand out.
Feral turns away in what looks like disbelief. I guess she thought I was going to go off on this ass-clown.
Emily steps closer to me. “But he…”
“We have to play nice. We’re new. I’m not hurt, you’re not hurt — it’s okay.” I ruffle her hair and stare at Brad’s buddy with narrow eyes. I hope he gets the message. He still thinks we’re in school, measuring our dicks with our fists.
I look around and it starts to make sense.
This group of refugees has been together for a long time, maybe from the beginning, and many of them, the sheltered ones, like this guy and his buddy Brad, Tammy and their dad, haven’t had to face the end of the world yet. Their time is coming.
Everyone’s is.
I step close and lower my voice. “Steer clear of us, got it?”
“Or what?” he asks. He glances back at his friends and I see that same goddamned look in his eyes, the same one I saw so many times back in high school — that, I can’t let my friends think I’m weak look. Everyone would push back, giving the bully space in the hallway to kick some poor kid’s ass that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This asshole has no idea what it means to be strong.
He grabs the
front of my coveralls and pulls his arm back for another punch.
I reach sideways and Feral pushes her knife into my hand. I barely feel the handle before I’m dropping down and twisting, throwing my other arm up and using the torque from my shoulder to break his hold.
I keep twisting, spinning completely around and then pivoting away until I’m coming up under the guy standing behind Brad’s bud, his biggest baddest looking friend. He’s got a scraggly beard, a plain face and slightly dull brown eyes.
He looks kind.
He looks slow.
By the time he understands it’s too late.
He sees the knife arcing up.
His eyes grow wide.
He opens his mouth to scream, turns away, and then closes his eyes as he raises his hands to defend himself.
None of it would have mattered.
I spin the blade at the last second and punch him in the shoulder with the hilt, hard enough for him to stumble and trip.
He screams as he hits the ground.
His friends scream as well, shouting surprised curses. They think I’ve stabbed him.
And yet they do nothing.
I hold the knife against his nose and keep my voice low. “You know I could’ve killed you. Let your friends know, I’m not someone you want to fuck with. If we play again, I’ll fucking kill you, all of you. Got it?”
He nods like a wide-eyed Hagrid bobble-head.
I stand up, reaching for Emily, and as I turn back I realize we have an audience. The refugees watching are all new faces. The word will spread fast enough and then I’ll have to deal with Hauser, which means dealing with Cam.
It is just like fucking high school.
I feel Feral’s hand in mine as she takes her knife back. Her touch, that connection, cuts through the adrenaline rush, and I’m instantly giddy.
She takes my arm with both hands and pushes me back inside the main warehouse, ignoring the crowd. It feels good to be this close.
“Thanks for saving my ass,” I say to her.
“You didn’t need any help, just keeping on my toes.” She squeezes my arm, but doesn’t look at me.
“Nice move, anyway. What’s with Ninja-girl?” I ask.
“Would you believe yoga and years of gymnastics?” She spares a quick glance.
