“Terry, cover those two,” CJ said. “Especially the bitch.”
The barrel of Terry’s shotgun went back up. It was aimed right at Lucy’s face.
“Don’t call her that,” Will said quietly, but Truman noticed he stood still and didn’t intervene.
“Oh. Sorry.” CJ pointed at Lucy. “But this is good practice for you, Terry. You got to learn which ones are more trouble. You can tell just by looking at her she’s smarter than the rest. Even holding something as a weapon. And the way she’s looking at us now, you know she wants it, even if she’s behaved so far.” He leered at her.
Truman hated him more, but he kept his mouth open and his eyes looking slightly up and over the man’s shoulder.
CJ said, “Oh yeah, that’s it honey, you know you hate us. You know you could take us if it weren’t for the boomsticks, don’t you? And that makes you just about as mad as you can get, doesn’t it?”
Truman thought she might spring, she was getting so tense next to him.
Right as Truman felt certain Lucy would lose all control, and the two of them would be grey paste splattered all over the bulkhead, Will stepped forward, hand on his gun. “Stop it,” he said. “Don’t taunt her. You don’t need to do that. Leave her alone. I said she was under control.”
CJ chuckled a little and held his open hands up at shoulder level. “Okay, kid. We’ll leave your friend alone. But keep an eye on her, Terry. Just everybody hold still for a second while I see what’s going on.”
He stepped past Will and looked in the little cabin. “Okay, kid, get in there and uncover the lady. All of her.”
“You can see she’s not bitten.”
“I can see her pretty face, and her arms, and one leg. Plus, the place smells like rot and sick, just like when someone’s bit and waiting to die. And she’s not even moving. So let’s see all of her. Come on. We’ve all seen tits and ass before.”
Will grunted and pushed past him.
CJ put one foot in the doorway and leaned inside. “Okay. Pull her hair up over her head. Tilt her head. Lift up her arm. The other one too. I can’t see her side. Now turn her over.”
Pause. CJ emerged to stand next to Terry, while Will came out of the cabin.
CJ looked over Lucy and Truman again, before turning back to Will. “We’ll take her to the hospital just as soon as you decide what to do with these two,” CJ said. “It’s up to you, kid. She sure looks worth saving from what I saw. Clean her up from all the stink, she’d be fine as hell.”
Will’s jaw tensed. He always did that. He was almost easier to read than Lucy, Truman thought; this could still end with all of them being shot in the face.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Will said softly.
“Okay,” CJ said. “I won’t tease you about your woman. I know you hill people are touchy about seeing lady parts and stuff. Fuck, I’d forgotten how uptight some of you are. You’d think living out there you’d get more relaxed, swinging from trees naked and shit, but you get like damned Amish or something. But whatever—you got to decide now, or we’ll leave and cut you loose and you can keep going downriver. And I’m no doctor, but I’d say you’ll be throwing her overboard tomorrow or the next day if you do that. If she doesn’t pop up and get you first.”
Will paused and looked at Truman and Lucy, then back to CJ. “Go back up on the dock,” he said. “Just give me a minute to decide.”
“All right. We’ll need a couple minutes to go get collars for those two anyway. But don’t take too long.”
“I won’t.”
Will closed the hatch behind them, and Truman could hear them stepping off the boat, and their muffled voices, along with some others, nearby. The rain seemed to be letting up, too.
Will looked more tired than Truman remembered. Truman hadn’t realized how much the last few days had worn him.
“I don’t know what to say,” Will started. “You heard him. I can’t force you to do anything. I don’t even know what I’d be asking you to do, ‘cause I don’t know where they’d take you, what they’d do to you. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I just want her to be well again. I never should’ve brought any of you. It’s my fault.”
When someone—especially a big, strong man like Will—is about to cry, then you just stay silent a moment, because anything you say would only make him more anguished, or turn him to anger, embarrassment, or despair. For all his physical and mental limitations, Truman still knew that simple point of humaneness, and when he looked over at Lucy’s one eye gazing at Will, he knew she remembered it, too. He loved her so much more than ever because of that, which only made him want to cry as well.
Chapter 8: Will
This really was his fault. They’d all be back home if it weren’t for him. Well, not these two—they’d be out somewhere, doing whatever zombies who don’t eat people do. Just milling around and being content, Will guessed. But now they would be rounded up by whoever these jackasses were—and what? Put to work? What could they do? Will wasn’t sure, but he felt pretty certain it wouldn’t be anything nice. He doubted they had zombies picking flowers or writing philosophy books.
Shit, why did people always arrange things in such fucked up ways? Worse—why did he always step right into it? He should’ve known better by now. He should’ve minded his own business back home, then he wouldn’t have been sent into exile, dragging the other three along with him. He should’ve sailed right by these jokers, too.
What did that guy mean, calling him “wild”? He was normal. These people were the strange ones.
That hardly mattered, though. Blaming them wouldn’t change anything. He had to sit down with two dead people and decide together. One look at Lucy and he knew no one was going to tell her what to do, even if Will wanted to—which he didn’t. That’d just make whatever disaster followed even more his fault, if he made the decision on his own.
Will studied her now and she appeared alert again. She’d really looked out of it when the other men were around. And her emotional restraint when they were calling her a “bitch” and daring her to attack? Damn—Will knew from being around her how incredible that was. For a second there, he had been sure it would end with him either scraping her and Truman off the bulkhead, or with him hauling ass out of there after she tore the heads off those two jerks: he would’ve put even money on both outcomes, too. Lucy would know to use the furniture as cover, and that kid Terry looked too scared and nervous to get a good shot off before she brained him with the pan. But she’d played it better than that, and Will was grateful. That guy CJ was right about one thing—she was a smart one. She knew it was better if they thought she was a regular zombie. Good for her. It didn’t remove the difficulty they were in now, however.
Will sat down at the small table. Lucy and Truman shuffled over to stand across from him. They needed to hurry up, so Will tried to start the conversation again. “I should just tell them we’re leaving,” he said. At least he wasn’t getting choked up this time. Maybe they could continue and make their decision.
Truman seemed to appreciate the urgency of the situation and spoke up. “That would be selfish of us,” he said. “We can’t ask you to do that.”
“You want me to tell them you’ll go with them?” Will asked. “I can’t. That’d be wrong. I’d be the one being selfish. We have no idea what they’ll do to you.”
“I know,” Truman said. “I can’t choose, either. Someone is selfish and someone is hurt no matter what we choose. I’m sorry. I’ll do what you and Lucy decide.”
Will had hoped Truman would come down in favor of staying in the city. He had to admit it to himself—it was what he wanted; he just couldn’t bring himself to say it, that he’d sacrifice the two of them for Rach. If Truman had been in favor of it, that sure would’ve made it easier. Will didn’t feel too good about having Lucy decide. But if she chose to leave this city and not submit to their rules—well, that was probably his fault, too, for nearly blowing her away earlier. More s
tupid choices and actions on his part. Shit just kept piling up, didn’t it?
“Lucy?” Will asked quietly. “What do you want us to do?”
Lucy looked at Truman for a second. When her gaze returned to Will, it had that extra intensity she sometimes had. Usually you could tell there was some reservoir of rage boiling over behind that stare. This time, though, it was something else: concentration, like she wanted each syllable, and the thought behind each word, to make it to her lips without loss of focus or strength. She craned her neck forward before opening her mouth.
“Truman and I want to leave because we are afraid,” she said very slowly, and Will’s heart sank. He bowed his head, resigned to abide by her choice. He would take more punishment for his foolish errors, and accept more guilt for the harm they did to others, like Rach. It was a pattern he was getting used to.
“You want to stay because you love her,” Lucy continued. “Fear is selfish. Love is never selfish. I want to stay.”
Will looked at her in amazement. She didn’t smile—she never did. Well, sometimes he thought she did, but it always looks more like a snarl. But right now, she just kept up that concentrated gaze, and Will had even less certainty about what the hell that meant. You never knew what was up with her. There was no way to know why today Lucy sounded like a Valentine’s Day card, when most of the time she drifted around like a wraith who didn’t quite remember what it meant to be alive, but knew she resented those who still were. What she said reminded Will of something else, too, but he couldn’t quite recall where it was from, exactly. But whatever it was, whatever bright corner of her mostly-darkened mind she’d retrieved it from, there it was, laid before him with finality.
“Are you sure?” was all he could ask, though he knew from observation that once Lucy said something, that was that; she’d never discuss it or regret it. In this way, she was the opposite of him and Truman. That kind of certainty and simplicity must be a nice feeling, he thought, even as his heart filled with the strangest gratitude and wonder.
Lucy nodded and slipped her hand into Truman’s. “I’m sorry, Truman. If you wanted to go, I would,” she said, turning toward him.
Truman looked at her. “I know,” he said. “You’re better at choosing than I am.”
Will normally gave them privacy for their displays of affection; it was just too weird—and a little gross, to be honest—to see them acting like that. But now he stared at them, trying to understand them better.
Understanding never came—just a slight tinge of joy added to his awe.
“When Rach is better, we’ll come and get you and take you out of this place,” Will said. He didn’t really know if that would be possible, but he wanted it to be, at that moment. He wanted to give them hope. Most of all he didn’t want to feel responsible for more harm to the people around him.
“I hope so,” said Truman. His voice had an accusatory tone to it that Will had never heard before.
Will stood up and came closer to them. He still didn’t know how to approach Lucy, but he knew he had to say something more, had to offer her something for the gift she’d given so freely and unexpectedly. Looking in her eye, Will wondered if she had even expected it herself, before she said it.
Perhaps she sensed his need, and his indecision, because she put her hand lightly at the back of his neck and leaned toward him till their foreheads touched—hers so shockingly warm and reassuring against his wet, clammy skin. Her perfect blue eye had some special depth to it, just inches from Will’s: no warmth in its seemingly bottomless pit of blue—but its very dry, cold sharpness somehow let him know how much lay hidden behind it, and how much of that secret store was as beautiful as it was terrible, as lovely as it was awful. Her skin was so soft he could barely feel it, like down or cotton, though the pressure she put on his forehead and neck seemed more solid than any grip he’d felt, like nothing could shake it loose. For that one moment, everything about her was comforting.
“Thank you,” Will whispered.
She pulled his head down farther, and he assumed she kissed his forehead, though it was hard to describe it as that, her lips pressing against him in another impossibly light yet forceful touch.
“You’re welcome,” she said as she released him and let him stand back up. She leaned against Truman. “Done talking. Too hard. Said everything. Tell them we’re ready.”
Will went back up on deck to tell the strange people their decision, as though it had been his. They’d understand even less than he did what had happened, so he would explain it to them in their terms and give in to their demands, even as he cursed himself for doing so.
Chapter 9: Lucy
Lucy hated people second-guessing her, especially if they were right. That dickhead CJ got way too much correct about her—how angry she was, how smart she was, how she did know that she could take him and his little friend and rip their throats out. Too close in here for their shotguns to help, either, and they’d never get to their automatics in time. She wouldn’t have ripped their throats out though, as wet and exhilarating as that sounded—God, it’d almost be like being reborn. But no, using her teeth would’ve gotten her killed—getting in too close and giving them too much time. She’d probably have smashed the cute, younger guy in the side of his head—swinging the pan up from the side would take them by surprise—then she would’ve gutted both of them with the knife she’d hidden in her other hand. Yeah, at least CJ didn’t know everything. But still—way too much for someone who’d just met her, and that infuriated her just as much as he thought it did.
All those plans of how to take them out were just a pleasant bit of hindsight, however. She’d left the frying pan and the knife on the counter before shambling up on deck. It was sometime in the middle of the night, and still raining lightly. Lucy stood with one foot on the gunwale, wondering how she was supposed to spring to the dock as the boat rocked back and forth. She eyed the four men there—the two who’d come on board, and two more whelps like that Terry kid. They just stared back at her, CJ standing firm and frowning, like when he first saw her, the other three shifting uneasily.
She thought the three young ones would piss themselves if she said, “Get over here and help me, assholes.” Unfortunately, she was somewhat more certain CJ would shoot her in the face at that point. He was thinking it already, she knew as she watched him through the mist.
At least the cold drizzle felt good on her face, after the close, sick smell of the ship. And what was that other smell out here? There was the tar on the wooden planks of the dock, and a fishy, weedy smell from the river, but something smoky, too. Hell—the spoiled, lazy pricks had real cigarettes. Already this place was full of surprises, but Lucy very much doubted any of them would be good—at least not for her.
No, her days of being treated with some respect were over—her answer to Will had made sure of that. And the consequences were already becoming abundantly clear. She contemplated slipping and falling right into the river to be swept away, or maybe just down to the deck to sprain an ankle that would never heal. They’d no more lift a finger to help her than you’d try to do anything for a moth with a broken wing. As she paused, Will scrambled up next to her and took a surefooted jump to the dock. He turned back toward her.
“Come on,” he said as he extended his hand down to her.
Lucy eyed him too. So different than the men on the dock, but still part of their kind—so needy and so confident all at the same time. She swayed with the rocking of the boat as she considered the moment they’d just shared. Will second-guessed her, too, but not very well: she knew he hadn’t expected the answer she’d given. Good. People like him were so used to getting what they expected, so much in love with being right, so smug and self-satisfied about it, that half of her good feeling came from surprising him. The other half? An even split, she figured, between the pride of knowing she was better at suffering than they were; a grateful thrill that he finally trusted her—the kiss had seen to that, and had felt more delicious th
an any blood she’d ever tasted, so cool and moist, with just the tiniest hint of his sweat and fear and need; and a strange, compelling awe at knowing he and Rachel were better at living.
Yeah, she’d made the right choice. Will wasn’t perfect, but was good enough that he deserved a chance to screw his girlfriend some more and raise a bunch of babies to be as imperfectly good as they were. It had to be this way, as much as she had an increasing taste and fear for how bad it was going to get.
Lucy clasped his forearm with her hand, as his fingers wrapped around her wrist. He was strong, for one of them. That made her feel good, too. With a nod he yanked her up and over, and she was on the dock next to him. She stumbled into him, and she could hear the others’ surprise. “I never want to get that close to one of them.... Yeah, not without a collar or a muzzle.... Shit, she’s right next to him! What the fuck’s wrong with him?”
“Shut up, you knuckleheads,” CJ growled. “I told you all to be quiet. Hill people’s just different. So shush. You learn by watching, not talking. And you three got a lot to learn.”
Lucy gave the three younger men a glare. She relished their fear. Maybe this place was full of soft, weak people and it wouldn’t be so bad. A sideways glance at CJ and she thought no, she’d never get that lucky. There’d be plenty of bastards smart enough to make life wretched and degrading. There always were. Besides, weak people were a threat, too: they herded together, and thought even less of what they did and why. That made them the most dangerous of all, in some ways.
Lucy turned back toward the ship and helped Will pull Truman up onto the dock as well. He was all that had made her hesitate below. She didn’t know if he could make it, being around harsh, brutal people. But on the other hand, he was smart in his own way, and he was so docile it might actually be easier on him. They’d heap more shit on him, sure, but they wouldn’t be so skittish around him that they’d blow him away in a panic. Probably just make him push a broom around for fat, lazy people half as smart as he is. He’d be okay, and probably wouldn’t get as angry over it as she’d already gotten. How’d that saying go? The weak shall rule the earth? Something like that. It seemed true in his case.
Dying to Live: Last Rites Page 5
