by Annie Walls
Still shivering, but feeling much better, I reluctantly look in a mirror. The only visible injury is a yellowish, purple spot along the right side of my face and neck. Bruises are a lot easier to endure than airbag rash. I would still have the bruise for another week, at most. After dabbing rubbing alcohol on my stitches and smoothing on a little ointment, I leave my locks loose so they’ll dry. My body aches, needing rest, but my mind keeps turning over the events of the night.
Events that include a diverse group of people living here. Glinda’s flirtation with nasty guys. Rudy’s fight. How sexy he is, and how I figured out that he is most certainly aware of it. The famished on display. The foul guy I punched and the attractive one who saw me do it. The guards patrolling from the rooftops. Guido. The laughs, drunks, and cheers. I’ve always wondered what other people are doing to survive. Even though it’s not at all what I expected, these people aren’t just surviving, they are living.
Chapter 17
Getting back to the room, I find Rudy lounging against the wall with his legs crossed at the ankles, playing the guitar. Eyeing me as I drop my pack and crossbow at the foot of the bed, I see he’s cleaned himself up, and thankfully, put on a long sleeved T-shirt.
“You feel better?” he asks, taking in my cleanliness.
I smile, “Lots, but my body hurts. I need rest.” I pause – if I ask him how the fight went, that’d feel like a lie, so I settle with, “How are you feeling?”
He shrugs, resting his guitar against his leg. “My ribs hurt. My friend, Mac, checked them out. No bruising so far. He was going to introduce himself, but you weren’t here.” He raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. I’m about to ask him who Mac is, but he continues, “Get a little too jostled in the crowd?” I purse my lips, not liking that his implication is true. “The look on your face just told me what I need to know.”
He searches my expression, looking for something. He looks down at his guitar and says, “I don’t care you went, but I just didn’t want you to see that.” He looks back up at me, digging in his pocket, and holds out his hand, “It’ll help with the aches.”
Two white pills sit in his palm. I swipe them gratefully. After downing them with water, I think about him telling me he was in jail when the outbreak happened. Now, he’s fighting, and seems ashamed of it. “Thank you. For everything.” He nods, accepting my gratitude. “Besides, I don’t think any differently of you, Rudy. Trust me.” I smirk, “You were toying with Russell. And the women.”
“Got to give a show, but I wasn’t really into it,” he says, with a small grin that turns to a sigh. “It gets old.” I sway on my feet. “You should lie down.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, and plop onto the bed, laying my head on the pillow as he starts strumming again. This time, he plays familiar sounds from the old life, a Led Zeppelin song. His fingers expertly glide along the neck, forearms bulging. Every now and then his half closed eyes peek down at the guitar, and then back up at me. It obviously relaxes him, and he plays as if it’s second nature.
“You’re so humble about the fighting,” I say. He stops playing to shrug. “Oh stop, you know you’re good. The crowd was cheering for you. The way he was hitting you in the face? I can barely tell you just came from a fight,” I argue lightly, even though my lids are heavy. Leaning the guitar against the wall, he ignores my comments and changes the subject, “Guido offered to ask some guys to come with us to the base.” I take this in. The numbers will be good. “We would have to plan, and see what they can do. Guido won’t send his front people.”
“That’s good, better than just us I suppose.”
“Yeah, it’ll probably take a while to get everything organized and planned. You should learn to shoot,” he says, slowly thinking it over.
Not liking his suggestion, my stomach drops just thinking about it. I chew my lip, “I get to help?” I ask. That’ll be something at least.
“You’ll have to – I have to fight a couple times a week. It makes Guido money, so that’s what he asks for in return. In addition, we’ll both be able to shower.” He glances at me.
“I can’t believe you’re going to keep fighting. What if you get seriously injured, and can’t go back?”
He shakes his head, “I’m not worried about that.”
I laugh, “Ah ha! Not so humble now, are you?”
He laughs with me. “Guess not, but you should sleep. We can go to the marketplace tomorrow.”
I’m curious about the marketplace, but can no longer hold my eyes open. I fall asleep as Rudy plays a Johnny Cash song.
***
I wake up the next day, feeling even better than before. After downing an antibiotic, I almost elbow Rudy to wake him until I see how he looks when sleeping. He sleeps on his back, and his big limbs easily take up the bed – the reason I sleep in a ball. His peaceful look makes me smile, lacking the animation his face normally shows, and his brown hair is tousled about. The stubble on his jaw grows thicker as days pass, and his mouth’s partly open.
Despite all the fighting, his nose is straight. Small scars from past fights etch his skin. A small, wide one dresses his lower lip. One much longer goes from his lower jaw to underneath the chin, his stubble efficiently covering it up. A chipped tooth adorns his bottom row of teeth. The scar on his right eyebrow no longer allows hair to grow, splitting the eyebrow in half. He might get another scar on his left eyebrow, the cut is scabbed over now, and it’s wider than the scar on his other side. Very small imperfections, not even noticeable unless you look closely. It doesn’t take away from his handsome face. It enhances his masculinity, as if he needs it. The small flaws have history and give him character. Flaws I want to know about, and could grow quite fond of if I’m not careful.
Jesus. This chivalrous barbarian is beautiful. What am I getting myself into?
Not wanting to stare any longer, I pull my gaze away, coming to a stop on my notebook lying haphazardly in the floor. He has it? Why would he want that? I suddenly want to know what’s written in there.
Flipping through, there isn’t much. Written logs of my zombie escapades. A few notes about Jim, my neighbor. A couple a drunken rants, I smile, remembering. One of the crinkled pages features: Who is better? The Sex Pistols or The Ramones. This question really depends on the person answering. I make quite an argument on how The Ramones were the first punk band. The Sex Pistols didn’t have as many songs, but they were still angry, rebellious punk gods, while the Ramones were just a fun, party punk band, but also great! A list of my favorite books makes up a few pages. The last entry is about my discovery of the running zombies, the zombie that surprised me when drunk on tequila, and the one my arrow got stuck in, and I drove it in with the hatchet. I’m relieved that I didn’t mention Kale, Harley, Bridget, or Nadine.
On one page, I rant about how I want everything to be normal again, and how I wonder where the souls of the people who turn to zombies go. My rant says I think the souls turn to ghosts to haunt the living in their nightmares. A flush heats up my cheeks, because reading this, he wouldn’t know it’s a drunken rant. I remember asking Rudy if he believed in ghosts, making the heat in my face spread, remembering his answer. Closing the notebook suddenly, I don’t want to know how pathetic it is.
Do the souls get stuck to watch and feel their bodies decompose, all the while having an uncontrolled, insatiable craving? I guess that’s why I like killing them, just in case. No one deserves that fate.
Rudy’s first words suddenly come back to me, “You are lonely, aren’t you?” This is not a good feeling I’m having right now. At least nothing else in there is personal. I had the good sense to keep it all locked up in my head. Why would he want to read this? There’s not very much in here. It dawns on me the reason he helps me. He thinks I’m lonely. Maybe I am, but I don’t like pity.
I ignore his, “I’m Rudy and damn sexy” sleep mode, and elbow him. He grunts from the depths like a bear. I scoff, “Rudy.” I shake him a little as he stirs.
“Hm
m?” he manages. Guilt shames me. This is probably the first deep sleep he’s had in a while.
“Well, I hope you’re awake. We should take Guido up on his offer, but we should start planning ASAP. I’ll even fight in the betting ring if I have to.”
Slowly gaining awareness, he sits up, looking around. I hold the notebook up. When he spots it in my hand, his neck blazes. He blushes. Again. I smirk as I hand the notebook to him.
“Sorry –” he starts, but I hold up my other hand.
“Don’t be, but I don’t know why you’d want to read it. It’s dumb. And anyway, a man who was possibly a stripper in the old life, practically sex on feet shouldn’t be allowed to blush.” I narrow my eyes at him as he takes the notebook.
My mouth almost drops. “You’re not finished reading it?” I ask.
He pauses, “No.” He doesn’t clarify anything, but rises to put it in his leather duffel. He turns to me with glorious bed head, staring at me while inching closer. Whatever thoughts run through his head make his eyes brighten. “You think – I’m sex on feet?” His voice deepens by the end of his question. He stops in front of me, toe to toe. He is huge. I have to look up at him.
“Uh, well, everyone does.” I swallow and my gaze shifts around the room awkwardly because he stands so close. “Were you a stripper?”
His gaze turns thoughtful. “There was that one time in college....” Trailing off at the look on my face, he bursts out in rich laughter, dimples deepening his face. “I’m teasing.” I don’t know why I’m relieved, but I am. “Why do you ask? Want me to give you a show?” The way he asks me, sounds like he wouldn’t want anything else in the world. A private viewing would definitely make my day.
Looking back up at him, it dawns on me he’s still teasing me. Humor twirls in his earth tone gaze. What’s his game? I ignore his teasing, getting back to the subject at hand.
“I saw you working the crowd. You obviously know your, uh, effect on people.” I stop to breathe and get a handle on myself. “It just surprises me you blush.” I shrug as if it is no big deal, but I see an opportunity to tease him back. “I make you blush,” I say with a smirk, even though I don’t believe this is the case. It works. I’m rewarded with a colorful neck and a shifting of feet.
He surprises me by saying, “Maybe so.”
I’m stunned and blink up at him.
He steps back, bending to pick his bandana off the floor. As if it just occurs to him what I was saying before, he says, “You don’t have to fight. Guido wouldn’t let you do it anyway. He’d want you to…” he says, letting me come to my own conclusion. Remembering the way Glinda scrutinized me makes me think Rudy is telling the truth about this.
Just to see what he’ll say, “I’ll do whatever I have to, to help.”
“What? No, you don’t have to do that! Besides, I wouldn’t let you.” He stares at me hard from under his arms as he ties his bandana in place.
“I don’t have anything else to offer.” I decide to ignore his barbaric, I’ll take you to my cave implication.
A snort. “Sure you do. You don’t know how to hot wire cars? I saw you pick a lock at the drugstore, and no telling what else you can do. You have plenty in that brain of yours. If you need to, use your knowledge.” He looks me straight in the eyes.
I hardened my lips. He figured that out when I was going to take a car. This guy doesn’t miss a beat. Maybe he sees something in that notebook I don’t. Shrugging him off, I don’t want to affirm his assumptions. “Let’s get started.”
***
We go to Guido’s place, which happens to be the top office overlooking the Clap Trap. Bigger than it looks from the floor downstairs, it opens up like a loft. The windows facing outside are boarded up and partially concealed with red drapes. The rest of the color scheme is black and off white. Some red and gray accents dot the room to bring in color. Graffiti covers the walls like art, much like in the Clap Trap, with tags I can’t make out, except for the caricatures doing obscene things – some of them being cartoon zombies. Even though the colors are a little weird, that isn’t what amazes me. Cigar smoke wafts around, so thick I can see it sticking to things. Under the cigar smoke, the aromatic scent of pot and sex is evident. At least I don’t have to smell Guido’s breath.
The king-sized four post bed catches my eye. My guess is, it’s looted. A form on a bed post writhes frantically. My stomach threatens to release itself as I take it in. A woman. A famished woman, naked, tied around her legs, waist, and neck to the post with a fine red cloth. The silky piece gives the appearance of blood. Her makeup is done in an exaggerated fashion, complete with small rhinestones in an intricate pattern from eyes to temples. She’s gagged, opening her mouth wide as she tries to bite through the gag. Her darkened, bloody eyes widen when she sees us, and she struggles in her binds. Her breasts, five sizes too big for her body, slap together as if she’s doing it on purpose. Her female parts on display are no longer pink, but graying with decay.
Bile rises in my throat, making it burn. My eyes sting. I swallow uselessly.
Guido chuckles, drawing my attention to him, lounging in a bright red Speedo while a girl rubs his feet. From behind, she doesn’t look any older than sixteen. The brunette wears a see-through robe with nothing underneath. When I glance at Rudy, he avoids my gaze. I’m starting to see why he only comes here when he needs something.
“Yo, Rudy. See yew brought chicka, see how she admired tha gift yew bring me,” Guido says, as he kicks his feet and the girl stops. “Git on out,” he smacks her butt. When she gets up to turn around, I notice she’s not sixteen, but pushing thirty. She’s already had a child, judging from her droopy boobs and c-section scar. I’m sad to think the child is more than likely not of this world anymore.
She doesn’t look at us as she leaves. Guido stands, strutting to the zombie woman, and then cupping her lower parts. My stomach drops. Seriously wanting to get out of here, I don’t glance back at Rudy. I know he did it for me. “I guess yew here to tawk bizz, yeh?” Guido turns back to us looking slyly at me. Nasty fingers pull at the hair at the zombie’s crotch and then travel to squeeze her breast. Obviously wanting some kind of reaction to his disgusting behavior, I don’t give it to him. The zombie struggles at his assault, more wanting to bite him than because of Guido’s actions.
Rudy’s face takes on an annoyed look. “Stop trying to shock us with your sick fetishes. And we want the help. We’d like to get started on the planning.”
Guido ignores Rudy’s fetish comment. “Wut duh hurry? Yew go in, git yew peeps, where dim dead ‘ems go? Might go here, if it cold outside? Wut yew think ‘bout that, Rudy?”
Rudy peers at me sideways in a silent question. I shrug because it doesn’t make a difference to me. Rudy goes to run a hand through his hair, and remembers his bandana, the green one. “So, you want us to wait until it gets cold?” Rudy asks to clarify.
Guido nods, “Yew be done wit tha ring by then. Chickie want to help? She show me wut she got, make her time here go fast. Young, make a lot of cash off ‘er.”
I start to say something but Rudy jumps to it, “No. I didn’t bring her here to get passed around.” His fists clench to balls, going white knuckled. Guido checks me out with renewed interest.
“Yeah? Must be sweet, if yew don’t wanna share.”I roll my eyes. What a joke.
Rudy steps forward, but I stop him, “Save it, Rudy. He’s just baiting us for his own amusement,” I warn him, looking at Guido. Rudy seethes violence, so he’s not thinking clearly.
Guido laughs at something I don’t get, but he says, “No worries. Yew fellas will be out in the morn, ‘bout twenty of ‘em. Got 'em round up, yew see? They ready fo yew. Enjoy Mago and Pappers in the eve.” He laughs as Rudy grabs my hand and propels me out of the room.
When we’re down the stairs he whirls, “If you don’t want that, or anyone else picking at you like fresh meat, don’t take any showers. Minimum only.”
Looking at him indignantly, I say, “I’m
not going to end up smelling like garbage. I can take care of myself, besides I don’t think showers have anything to do with it. I don’t think anyone will bother me.” I remember Stinky, the guy I punched, and know this isn’t true.
He shakes his head, “You don’t know half of it, Kansas.” He stares at me for a minute, “Are you going to ask me about the zombie?” He means the female zombie in Guido’s loft.
“No, I told you already. What you did, it was to help me. It’s the same with the ring. I already feel terrible that you have to do it because of me. You are clearly uncomfortable with it. Why would I rub something like that in?” I shudder, “That’s disturbing. What if it comes loose in the middle of the night? He doesn’t, you know, have sex with it, does he?” I ask as I grab his arm to get going.
Rudy peers sideways, “I don’t think so, but I don’t let myself think about it.”
“Yeah, I think I’m just going to let that stay a mystery.” I’m unable to resist, “You sure know how to pick them. Was that the certain type you had to get?”
Shaking his head, his mouth twists in disgust. “Could have been a midget zombie for all he cares. He likes them as fresh as possible. Come on, let’s visit the marketplace. Your junk might come in handy. You’ll need something to trade if you see anything you want.” He grins.
“What the hell would I want from there?” This genuinely spikes my curiosity.
“I have an idea, but I want to show you first.”
Chapter 18
As suspected, there’s a side entrance in and out of the Clap Trap. The door looks worn out from use, and hangs open, not closing properly. Rudy stops and jiggles the handle, bending down to inspect the mechanism keeping it closed. His fist hits the outside and the mechanism pops back out.
