He doesn’t, but I know he wants to. It’s such an easy setup for a cutting remark. It’ll be one final triumphant blow for Richard’s side. They know the problem though with landing a blow is not always from the blatant fall out. No, the real problem with throwing punches is you never know how hard the other person is willing to hit back. Like Christmas trees covered in blood, abandoned dolls and little children left dead along halls, you never really know how hard a person is willing to strike back until it’s too late. It’s too late for them. It’s too late for you. It’s just always too late.
CHAPTER 9
“Any thoughts on how we are going to get this done?” Marxx is staring at the many piles of Risen we have dragged into the cafeteria from our earlier morning rampage. We have smeared long lines of dark gore and blood in the process. It looks like a road map of homicidal roadways with how the streaks arch and cross over themselves. It smells of something much worse.
When they first started appearing, they smelled of death. They made the air heavy with it. Now, the degree of rotting has a different odor that is confusing to the senses. The mixture of a septic tank with the undertones of sickly-sweet acid burns my lungs. I gag as I pull the final bodies into the room as Rhett follows me with the librarian. Why he left her for last, I’m not brave enough to ask. Nor, do I want to venture a guess as to why he is positioning her folded arms perfectly over her chest. Some things with Rhett you just ignore with hopes the memory will fade away. Sometimes, the memories even do.
We stand there the three of us, staring at the many mutilated corpses with pieces of their remains still stuck to our hands and clothing. Somehow we must carry them out into the open field that surrounds the school to burn them, sparing the sight from those who are trying to figure out the same problem above us.
“I’ll pull the truck around,” I say with a sigh my whole body feels and the men nod with Rhett’s eyes still for his librarian.
The cold winter wind is like ice to my flesh. The shock of it pulls me from my exhaustion and clears my head from the fog of stress and the lack of sleep and food. Snow gently swirls in the wind like tornados of frost. It lands in my hair and face, melting and leaving its wet stains behind. It reminds me of tears as if Mother Nature herself is walking with me in my desolate depression.
Aimes would love this. She would be spinning in circles, the center of a winter blending of season and laughter. She would be what this holiday is supposed to be – joyful.
Do you know what day it is? I do. It’s the day I take the final step over the ledge of hope. There are no more rivers of denial for me to swim against. I will no longer wade in the deep pools of self-pity as I have been. This is our life now. One big fight for survival after the next, leaving us never knowing who will be the victim and who will be the ones left to bury them. I scream, they scream, we all scream and when we do, we all sound the same, because eventually it is over for us all.
Sitting in the truck, I want to scream. I want to scream into the dancing flakes around me that seem to mock me with their imagined joy. I want to vent with my voice everything that I can’t put a name to or pin a fault to someone. I want to scream, emptying the well of emotions that is overflowing with the amount that has filled me in just these few hours. I stare at the large black Harley with its dusting of white. The frost has formed veins on the chrome that spread with tiny, webbed fingers. The skull of their club stares back at me from the gas tank. Its smile is more menacing now that the bike has lost its owner. Like a horse gone wild, its gloating over its freedom.
Putting my truck in gear, I ease out of the snow-rutted spot and angle the bed back towards the cafeteria doors. The tires slip on the winter kissed cement, shuddering the beast. Inching the truck forward before trying reverse again, I stare at that skull as we pass one another. It is an instant decision. I’m not even sure when my mind set it into action.
Slanting the long bed, I clip the front wheel of J.D.’s bike sending it to its side in a slow fall. The metallic scraping is satisfying to the bitter seed that is planted in my heart.
Do you know what today is? Yes Aimes, I do. It’s National I’m-Over-It Day. It’s a lot like Independence Day but instead of fireworks we have bonfires of bodies.
Marxx motions me backwards, lining the truck’s bed’s length with the steps into the building. Opening the door for me, he helps me down to the slick cement with a judging look in his eyes. His face is the mask of uncaring he normally wears. He looks to the fallen bike and back to me and asks, “Feel better?”
I shrug, ignoring his question. Did I feel better? No, not really, but every little moment of private malice takes a slight edge from the overwhelming discord.
The creaking of the bed’s hinges summons Rhett to the door. He is covered in the streaks of blood and thick pieces of blowback from his many kills today and his eyes are dark pools of rage. If Aries were ever to hold a mortal body, Rhett would be the inspiration.
“Let’s get this shit done,” Rhett says with a voice that makes the pit of my stomach clench.
“What did I miss?” I whisper to Marxx with my concerns.
Marxx lowers his head to see behind him without having to turn around. “Law and Chappy made it down with J.D. Upstairs voted he goes in the burn pile with the Risen instead of the one with people. Isn’t going over well with the boys.”
“…and you?”
Marxx raises his head slowly to look to me and says, “He made his choice. He went against the club putting us in danger. He went out alone. He goes out alone.” The face that is staring at me is furrowed with his words. His voice makes the winter air feel warm in comparison. “But that little stunt,” he says nodding to the fallen bike, “might have been ill timed.”
I nod. “Maybe,” I tell him. “It still felt good.”
Marxx matches my nod and a slight smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “Maybe,” he says.
The men have already started to drag the dead out. I watch as Marxx goes to wait by the truck to help lift the bodies into the bed. The men are behind their masks of boredom. Watching them one would think this task was no different than taking out bags of trash, not the bodies of things that once had ambitions for our deaths. The map of gore is now complete as it leads to the truck. It mars the perfection of the snow, and as much as it falls, it can’t cover the tracks they make. The fight against the memory of the dead for Mother Nature and us is a losing battle. The harder we try, the harder they supply us with proof that they are real.
Lawless lifts his head towards me in a nod as he shuts the truck’s bed. “Take them out. Let’s get this started.”
I nod as I watch him walk away. His face is a carving of stone with his features set deep in emotionless lines. He is fighting against the exhaustion that his slumped shoulders and slow stride are expressing for him. His head rolls, stretching taunt neck muscles and his eyes stare skyward longer than they should. I wonder what it is he is asking for from God. What does he pray for when the lights are gone and the nights grow longer than any rope of hope he holds? Is it strength, courage or just forgiveness and understanding?
He looks to me over his shoulder when he feels my eyes on him. He cocks one eyebrow with a silent question and I shake my head. I have too many questions and he doesn’t have the time. I know who he is bringing out next. I know what will be waiting for Marxx and I when we return.
“Rhett,” I call to the mock Aries staring into the back of the truck with eyes that have gone to another place. A dark place of which I don’t want to ever be a guest. “I want his vest. Will you save it for me?”
Awareness comes back into those blue eyes. Their hue brightens as his mind travels back to the current time. “Yeah,” he nods, still not fully himself. “I can do that.” Just as quickly as he rose, he sinks back into the darkness that is Rhett and his eyes follow him into the pit.
“Let’s go,” Marxx calls from beside me in the truck and I slide in with one last glance into the mirror. It reflects back an
image that slices me and steals my breath. Those blue eyes lock with mine and from one corner a tear falls as the doors across from us in the courtyard open. It glides down a face lost in time with neither joy nor sorrow upon it.
Rhett has accepted what has happened as the bodies from upstairs are piled in white sheets all around the courtyard of various sizes and shapes. It’s carved on his heart like the damage done to a tree’s trunk and there is no escape from what he now knows. Death is the only escape left to us. Today is Rhett’s Independence Day, too.
Marxx and I pick a spot a few feet from the courtyard walls. We are still aware of what could lurk and we aren’t willing to take the risk of venturing too far. We hold no tender care for the bodies that I push as he pulls from the truck. It strikes me odd, lost in my mental ramblings where conversation lulls, that these were once someone’s loved ones too, but here we are shoving them out onto the lawn without any thoughts to their memories. There are no white sheets to spare us the sight of them or pay them any final respects. Only the thud and bounce their bodies make as Marxx drops them serves as their remembrance. You don’t pray over what tries to kill you. You pray that it continues to fail.
With the final body freed from the truck, Marxx lifts his hand to help me down. My feet slip over the slick remains of the blood and he has to brace me to keep me from falling. He winces as my weight connects with his hands and I fall gracelessly into the pile of bodies. My arms keep me from landing fully into the face of the male at the top of the pile. His left eye is punctured from his death and it leaks grey, putrid fluid down his cheek that now dots my own face with the force of my landing. His ribs crack under my palms and it sounds like twigs snapping, but my stomach knows it something much worse and reacts accordingly. His shoulders bounce as I press on him to escape and the motion swings his arms upward placing his hands on my hips like a lover welcoming me. Hands scoop me up and pull me against a warm chest before my screaming can start.
Lawless whispers into my ear, “I figured if I ever caught you cheating on me it would be with a better looking guy.” His breath is warm against my neck. It eases down some of the hysterics that were climbing up from the dark well of my mind. His words might have held a teasing nature but his arms vibrate with how tight he holds me to him. “I got you,” he whispers.
Marxx wipes away the clotted wetness from my face with the sleeve of his shirt. At the rate the day is going we will be burning our clothes, too. “Sorry, Hells,” he says to me. “My arm gave out.”
“I’m good.” My voice shakes. My body shakes. My mind and soul are riddled with crevices that threaten to splinter my mind, but I’m good I tell him. Like Chapel with his bruises, I’m good. Marxx and I nod at each other. Neither of us is willing to push the topic.
“I’m gonna’ take the truck back,” Marxx says, he is still nodding as he climbs into the cab. I can almost hear his mind working against him with petty insults for letting me fall.
“Let him go,” Lawless says feeling me try to turn in his arms. “We are all too thin right now for apologies or pity.”
“…but it wasn’t his fault.”
Lawless shrugs, loosening his arms around me. “Point of view,” he tells me and I look to him. His dark brown eyes sway to me and a smile slowly spreads across his face. The smile that has always been his get-out-of-jail-free card still works. My lips curve despite my mood and I roll my eyes at him.
Patting his arm, he releases me from his safety net. I watch him slip back to being the protector as he scans the horizon for any threats.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, watching him stare into the tree-dotted line around us.
His tongue swipes across his teeth as he does his trademark, sharp inhale. His hands slide into the pockets of his leather vest as he shrugs his shoulders. “Hell if I know, Helena. There is not a whole lot of thought process to this.”
“I was asking more of the big picture. What happens now?”
He never looks at me during our conversation. His eyes are too busy as they roam over the surrounding landscape to glance in my direction. “I can’t see a “big picture” right now. I’m just trying to see to the end of today. Just let me get through today. We’ll figure the rest of the shit out tomorrow.”
I nod with his answer, respecting the honesty of his words. The truck’s loud engine rumbles towards us and I watch him pull further into himself. His face sets into the bored, stone-like features the club wears when hiding their thoughts from the world. His hands come out from his vest and clasp at his waist, waiting for the others to arrive. The only tension he shows is the flexing of his arms as he grips and releases his fisted hands, but even that slows as the truck comes to park beside us. He asked to just let him get through today. I would have asked to just let me get through this. The rest of the day can’t possibly hold anything more heartbreaking than what we are about to have to do.
Rhett and Chapel pull the wrapped body of J.D. from the bed of the truck. Lawless rolls his head at the sight, stretching his neck as he fights against his emotions. I reach out to him but he side steps my hand, sparing me a brief glance as he heads to help carry the body. I watch, feeling like an intruder, as the four men carry the sheet-wrapped body away from the other pile. They look everywhere but at each other, relying on their once-tight bond to let them know what the other is thinking. They once moved and acted in perfect sync with each other, silently reading the other man’s motives and moods from the many years they have survived as a family. Everything may feel like it is falling out from under us, but watching them I remember Rhett’s words. “We survive because we are together, not because of you or me or anyone else alone, but because we take care of each other.” Now, with the people inside the school drawing lines in the sand, each other is all we may have.
Rhett returns to where they have placed the body with a gas can that sloshes as he strides towards them. The red paint that is used for warning purposes tries to give one last clue as to what may happen once the match is sparked. The smell of the gas cuts through the acidic wasting of flesh. I have to bite my tongue to keep it still as protests expand in my chest like air. I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to see what is about to happen. I don’t want to say good-bye to the man who has left me torn in two with my feelings for him. I lock my feet to the ground, refusing them the steps they want to take towards the sheet, but I don’t try to hide the tears I feel licking their way down my face.
Chapel inhales, steadying his voice. Its deep pitch carries over the sounds of mourning from the inside the courtyard that play the perfect backdrop of a melody. “Gone is our Brother, a piece of our hearts. A silver tear to remember. A silver tear to pull us apart. Your memory we will cherish. Your body we now bury.”
Lawless lights his cigarette, drawing a long inhale from it. The tip glows red as the heat travels through the ashes. He flicks it onto the sheet and exhales the thick smoke as the fire sparks to life. I watch the flames take J.D. They roar and snap, devouring the man who held the heavy burden of holding us together. A burden that in the end was too much to bear. In J.D.’s eyes, when he lost Lawless, he lost his world. Staring across the flames, I see the same fears on Law’s face through the hazy heat and it’s mixed with the bitterness of one who is left behind.
Rhett doesn’t stay to watch the flames. He heads towards me with the same red warning can and splashes the pile near me, covering them with flammable liquid. My eyes bounce from the burning fire to the fire that is about to burn, not sure which is going to be worse. It’s a crescendo of anguish with the splashing being the beat of the drum. Striking a match, Rhett lets the little stick fall and the heat soars instantly. It’s shocking how something of such a small size can cause such havoc. Like a wave, the flames flow forward overtaking the pile, covering it in the orange and yellows of itself. Rhett doesn’t flinch from the heat. He doesn’t step back from the black smoke that stretches upwards like long fingers reaching into the sky. The smoke that looks like souls fleeing from the twi
sted forms they have become. He stares into the flames at a woman who still wears a pink cardigan over her dress. Her blonde hair shaken loose from Marxx’ treatment lies around her and catches the fire first.
The flames climb up her, slowly swallowing her body, but Rhett stares on. He stares at her the way the men are staring at the fire across from us. The same mixture of remorse and remembrance swirls in his eyes. Me? I’m just watching it all because if I stare at any one thing for too long, I might just dance in the flames myself.
CHAPTER 10
The greatest threat to a person’s sanity is not always the monster they invent in dark corners staring back at them. Sometimes, it’s the eyes of the people who think you are the monster staring at them. Right now, as we return to the courtyard, all eyes are on us. Maybe it’s the bloodstained clothing that has more crimson than the original designs intended. Maybe it is the exhaustion that is stealing the color from our skin. It might be the black leather vests that shine brighter than normal with the layers of gore that clings to them or the vest that I am cradling like a teddy bear to ward off evil thoughts. Then again, it might just be Rhett. He has that effect on people. The words he dropped as the men lifted J.D.’s bike from its fallen position most likely didn’t solve any of the trust issues the others seem to be having with us.
“How did this happen?” Lawless asks, staring at the dark Harley. He is looking for any imperfections in its frame. His fingers float over the high gloss of the metal searching for spots his eyes might miss. Marxx looks to me, cradling his arm, and we exchange a silent moment of plotting.
“Must have slipped,” Marxx says shrugging and it’s a simple cover up lacking any flare or in-depth planning.
Rhett looks to the other bikes and back to the one that stands in the center of their circle. I can almost feel the skull’s eyes staring at me with blame. “Just his?” Rhett asks with a voice that holds more accusation than question. He looks at the crowd who are standing across from us like a divided line of battle. “Just his?” he asks again, but that is not the question he is posing to the group.
The Risen (Book 4): Courage Page 6
