Writing on the Wall (Survival Series)

by Ward, Tracey

  “But they’re all pretty much jerks, though, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, but the thing is, I’m kinda like the leader, you know? Kinda like the King of the Dipshits.”

  “How are you not laughing?” Ryan asks, addressing me but not turning away from the small screen.

  “I am.”

  “I haven’t heard you laugh once.”

  It’s because I don’t. I didn’t realize it until just now, but I don’t laugh, not even at this movie that I love and find so funny. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s always been just me and it feels weird to laugh alone. Or maybe I don’t find things as funny as I think I do.

  “I’m stealthy.” I say softly.

  He snorts and glances at me, or at least at the dark corner where I’m sitting.

  “You don’t like having me here, do you?”

  I take a deep breath then let it out slow. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m not used to it.”

  “To what?”

  “People.”

  “You’ve lived alone for a long time?”

  “The last six years.”

  “Whoa.” he says, sounding genuinely surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? Why didn’t you join the Colony or a gang?”

  I hesitate, hating my answer but knowing it’s true. “I got tired of watching people die.”

  He pedals in silence watching the movie but I don’t think he’s really paying attention.

  “I get that.” he finally says, his voice low. Immediately I remember that his brother just died. Yeah, he gets it for sure.

  “I can’t believe I gave my underpants to a geek.”

  “I heard that.” Ryan says.

  “Heard what?”

  “You chuckled.”

  I grin in the darkness. He’s right.

  “Come sit up here.” he calls. “You’re making me nervous being over there.”

  I slink out of the shadows. I go as quiet as I can but I know Ryan knows I’m moving. We’re both too hyperaware of the world for him not to know. I don’t sit close to him. I don’t even sit close enough to see the screen because I simply don’t need to. By the time the movie is coming to an end I have my eyes closed and I’m mouthing the words silently.

  “Thanks for getting my undies back.”

  “Thanks for coming over.”

  “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “Happy birthday, Samantha. Make a wish.”

  “It already came true.”

  Cue the 80’s music and the kiss over the cake. Cue the candles and the table and the glowing world inside a warm, happy home. Cue the boy and the girl and the love. Cue the silence and the darkness and the guy on the bike watching me.

  Chapter Three

  An hour later we hear the groaning. It’s a sure sign that his blood on the road has been working like a dinner bell, calling in the dead to chow. We both hurry quietly to the windows and look down. The rain is still falling lightly, something I had hoped would wash away his blood and keep the zombies away. No such luck. Through the very thin amount of light peeking through the clouds we can see a small horde gathering outside. I wait for the wolves to take notice, but they never do. They’re already gone.

  “They probably left when the rain started.” Ryan whispers.

  I nod in agreement. “That sucks.”

  “They know there’s blood down there. They’ll never leave. Not unless another target comes along.”

  “We could try to lead them away.”

  “You mean use ourselves as bait?”

  “I was specifically thinking of you as bait, but yes.”

  “Wouldn’t be my first time.” he mutters.

  I glance at him, but I’m not surprised. I’ve done it too. We all have, I’m sure.

  He meets my eyes and shrugs. “Your home, your call.”

  “Do you know this neighborhood?”

  “A little.” he responds vaguely. “If I had to run, I’d make it out. I’m pretty sure.”

  I nod, thinking. It’s tempting. But it’s also dangerous. Sure, he could lure the zombies away from my front door and I’d be safe for the night but who’s to say they wouldn’t lose him and come right back? Obviously the scent of blood and living flesh is strong enough here for them to be swarming. This rain might wash more of it away but how soon?

  “What would your gang do?”

  “We’d kill them. We always kill them when we can.”

  “Do you think we can?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can’t count them. Maybe.”

  “You willing to work with a maybe?”

  He grins. “A maybe, one knife and a busted hand? How could it go wrong?”

  “We can do something about the knife.”

  “I almost want to stick with it just to see if I can do it.”

  “Yeah, well,” I begin, leading him toward the wall beside the door. “I’d rather you didn’t try to get me killed again.”

  There’s a large, discolored drop cloth hanging from the wall. I reach up and pull it aside, unveiling my collection. Ryan’s eyes light up as he whistles at the sight.

  “Joss, I’m gonna be honest with you.” He reverently runs his hand over each tool, all of them dented, dinged, mangled and well used. Well worn. Well wielded. “If you weren’t so hostile, I’d be in love with you by now.”

  I can’t understand that statement and I can’t look him in the eyes. So I stick to what I know. Silence.

  He picks up a weapon, a tire iron. Not your average, store it in the trunk of your car tire iron. This one is long and incredibly sharp at one end, round and blunt on the other.

  “That’s really not the best—“ I begin, but he cuts me off with a smile.

  “It’s perfect.” He swings it around, spinning it back and forth, testing its weight and reach.

  I grab my go to weapon, the most used of them all.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  In answer I whip my hand out. The baton extends to its full length of 16 inches. It’s all steel, all deadly.

  “It’s an ASP.” I reply proudly.

  “It’s badass.”

  I can’t stop the chuckle from rising out of my chest. I flip it in my hand, offering the handle to him. He takes it up eagerly to test it out with a couple practice swings.

  “It can break bone, can’t it?”

  “Oh yeah. It’ll crack skulls.”

  “Where did you get this and are there more of them?” He collapses it down then swings it out as I did, snapping the baton out to attention. He laughs when it extends.

  “I found it in an apartment years ago. It was the only one.”

  “Dammit.”

  “I know. I did a happy dance when I found it.”

  He hands it back to me. “You? Happy dancing? I can’t picture it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I’d rather see it.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” I stash the ASP in my pocket and lift the wood from the door. “You ready for this?”

  “I’m always ready.”

  I look back at him, eyebrows raised. “How’s your hand?”

  He rolls his eyes at me and I hate the gesture so much I feel a little like punching him again. “I told you I made a mistake. It was one time.”

  “Your one time mistake almost got both of us killed. It still might.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “No you did not. When did this imaginary apology happen?”

  “Well I meant to say it.”

  I lean back against the unsecured door, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “What?” he asks impatiently.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Seriously?” When I don’t respond he sighs heavily. “Joss, I am so terribly sorry. Please forgive me.”

  His voice is dead, completely insincere. I continue to wait.

  He sighs again as his shoulders slump sli
ghtly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” I say happily, popping up off the door and swinging it open.

  Before I head out into the hall I look both ways like I’m crossing the street. I’ve been blindsided by a zombie before. It’s like being hit by a truck that’s all teeth, drool and stink. It sticks with you.

  “Is this really a good idea?” he whispers as we step out into the hall.

  “Now?” I whisper back sharply. “You’re asking that question now?”

  “I’m just saying maybe we should wait until first light.”

  I know what he’s really worried about; squaring off with Risen with an untested partner. Fighting with the wrong person, or another person at all, can prove fatal. You put your faith in them to cover you in some way but what if they make a mistake? What if they fail you? What do you do then?

  You let the infected have them and you run, that’s what.

  Then you live alone and you keep your mouth and memory shut.

  I shake my head, not willing to let him use this lame excuse. It’s a shady way of saying I don’t trust you.

  “You know why that’s stupid.”

  “Because there will be more of them by then.” he mutters grudgingly.

  “Exactly. If we kill what’s out there now, they’ll work as a deterrent for others. They don’t come around their own stink.”

  “We’re gonna have to clear them though.”

  “No we won’t.”

  “What? Now who’s being stupid? You have to clear them or people will know you live around here. Dead undead on your doorstep is like a Welcome mat to Colonists. Your home could be compromised.”

  “It already is.” I say, my quiet voice dripping with venom.

  He reaches out and touches my arm, stopping me. I make a point of looking up at his eyes and ignoring where he’s touching me even though the contact is searing my skin through my clothes. He does it like it’s nothing and I think to him, having lived with his brother and surrounded by other people, it’s just that; nothing. They probably touch each other all the time. To me, though, it’s everything and it’s almost as beautiful as it is frightening.

  “You’re talking about me?” he whispers, his brow furrowing.

  “Of course I’m talking about you. You know where I live. You know what I have. I can’t stay here anymore. When you leave tomorrow morning, so will I.”

  “For good?” I nod and he shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “You don’t have to do that. I swear to you, I’m not a threat.”

  “Maybe not now because you don’t need anything. But what happens in a month or so when the winter hits hard? What if you need something you know I have? What if your gang loses control of their home and it’s cold outside and you’re desperate? You’re swearing to me that you won’t lead them all straight to me?”

  “Yes.” he says, his eyes hard.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know you. Your word means nothing to me.”

  His jaw clenches as his hand tightens on my arm. He’s angry. That’s great because so am I.

  “I hate the thought of you losing your home because you saved me.”

  I roughly shake off his hand. “You and me both.”

  When we get to the gate at the bottom of the stairs I miss the wolves. If they were still here, the dead wouldn’t be. The wolves would have made quick work of them, shredding them to pieces and leaving nothing but a disgusting, comforting pile of gore and guts. The animals don’t eat the zombies. In fact, most of them stay clear of them, predators being the only ones who attack them. You can tell they’re around when deer go blazing by you down an alley or in the middle of a mall. Birds will take to the skies screaming and screeching like crazy. They’re a natural warning system but even they can fail you. Even the wolves will let you down sometimes.

  Waiting at the gate for us is a group of eight dead. Eight bobbing heads. Eight gaping, moaning mouths that I can smell from here, the thick rot of their insides wafting up and out toward us with each movement. Eight sets of hands clawing through the gate, some clawing through each other not caring if it hurts or if it’s right.

  It’s a lot of them. More than I’ve seen rounded up in one spot lately. They’re disappearing slowly, either being picked off by aggressive animals or by us, the remaining vigilante humans living in the wild. The people in the Colonies should be thanking us, maybe throwing a little of that homemade bread our way now and then for the service we’re performing. One day the outside world will once again be zombie free and they’ll have us to thank for it. The ones who refused to hide behind their walls and tend their fields. The ones still fighting the good fight. People like Ryan and I.

  “How do you wanna do this?” he asks. “Kill who we can through the gate? Open it up and try to shove them back into the street? Let them start coming up the stairs and pick ‘em off one, maybe two at a time?”

  “If we had a gun, I’d say kill ‘em through the gate.”

  “But we don’t.”

  I shake my head sharply. “Nope, we don’t. So that’s out. I don’t like the idea of getting out in the open with them where they can surround us.”

  “Right, going into the street is sketchy. We’d also have to push them back which means close contact in close quarters.” He looks at me with a grimace. “I sort of hate that.”

  “Me too.” I agree heartily. “But opening the gate and letting them come at us means close quarters too and we both have melee weapons. Can’t really get a good swing in this stairwell. Especially not side by side. We might accidentally hit each other.”

  He smirks. “Tell me how much that idea bothers you.”

  “At the moment, you’re more inconvenient to me unconscious or dead than alive.”

  “I’m glad you’re warming up to me.”

  I snort derisively.

  “So…” he says slowly. “What do you want to do?”

  I sigh and rub my hand over my eyes, feeling tired. “Go back upstairs, eat dinner and watch another movie.”

  Beside me I feel his chuckle as much as I hear it. We’re pressed in tight together standing in front of this door with sixteen pair, wait, no an odd fifteen (someone’s missing one) opaque eyes staring at us.

  “What are we having for dinner?” Ryan asks.

  “Homemade waffles, hot off the skillet.”

  “With fresh strawberries?”

  “And whipped cream.”

  “Scrambled eggs.”

  “And bacon.”

  “Lots of bacon.” he says emphatically.

  My mouth is watering. I regret playing this game. My cold carrots and potatoes are going to taste especially bland now.

  “Let’s get this over with.” I glance at him questioningly. “Shove them back? Get the range to beat their heads in?”

  He nods once. “Sounds good. On my count?”

  “Go.”

  “Three… two… one!”

  I unlatch the gate and we kick it out toward them. It connects with the two that were pressed against it and shoves them back into the throng. They all jostle loosely, one falling down completely. I’d rather he’d stayed vertical because now we’ve got a potential ankle biter to worry about.

  “Crawler on my side!” I shout to Ryan in warning. “Watch the floor.”

  “Got it! I’ll cover you while you take him out.”

  As we push the horde back, avoiding snapping jaws and clawing fingers as best we can, I keep an eye on the floor. The group tramples over their fallen buddy, reluctantly giving up ground to us as we push them back with weapons held out against their chests. I have to let my mind go blank as we get this close to them, as we intentionally touch them. I can feel the texture of their skin beneath the remnants of their clothes. It’s waxy and disturbing in its cold malleability. I worry my fingers or knuckles are going to sink into their flesh, tearing through the skin and driving right down to the bone. And they wouldn’t even flinch.

  They’re hideous and strong, stronger than you would
believe, but they’re also clumsy as hell. They push back against us hard but all it takes is a swift kick to the knee and they stumble, making it easier to push them. You have to be careful not to get overzealous though, or you end up with more crawlers.

  I have nightmares about crawlers.

  When this one’s head is in sight and the horde is almost out the second doorway and into the street, I step quickly to the side, leaving Ryan exposed on his left. I don’t like doing it, to him or myself, but this guy on the floor has got to go. I lift the ASP and line up the shot like a golfer. When I swing the steel ball at the end toward his temple, I know it’ll do its job. People I can’t count on, but steel is a faithful friend. The resounding crack! that echoes through the entryway and reverberates all the way up my arms tells me this Risen is no more.

  I quickly fall in line beside Ryan again to help him push the remainders outside. Once we’re clear of the doorway we spread out slightly to give each other room but we keep our backs to the wall. You learn that real quick, alone or with an army. Keep your back defended.

  The dead heavily favor Ryan, probably drawn in by his injured hand and the blood readily available at the surface of his skin. Five of them move to surround him while only two stick with me.

  “Hell.” I mutter, not liking his odds.

  It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I shouldn’t care if he makes it or not, but I do.

  For the second time today I play the reluctant hero.

  I step away from the wall and take a huge swing at the zombie closest to me. He goes down quickly, the side of his face soundly bashed in and turned quickly to gray mush. I ignore the other one who’s on me and I hurry to Ryan. My back is exposed and I feel naked in the cold night air, rain falling over me, matting my hair to my face. I take a quick, hard swing at the kneecap on one of Ryan’s zombies. It drops to the ground, unable to hold its weight on the badly broken leg. They don’t feel pain, but a broken leg is still a problem for them. It’s like chopping off a hand. Whether they feel it or not, that limb is now useless.

  I do the same to another zombie, a young boy, only this time I take out his leg at the shin. The bone pops out through his skin, spraying his black tar blood over the sidewalk. He topples over. I want to say it bothers me brutalizing a child, but it doesn’t. Live in this world long enough and the dead are just that – dead. It doesn’t walk like a child or talk like a child so it’s pretty easy to accept that it’s no longer a child. Moral qualms put to rest. If you’re uncomfortable with that, go join the Colonies.