While he was thus engaged, Dez crouched and got hold of the machete handle, but it was slimed with blood. He wiped his hand on the ass of his jeans, ventured to grip the handle again, but it was still slippery.
Dez eyed the cannibal, whose lips were peeled back in agony. How long would the man lie there grimacing? Further, who was to say that Paul and Stomper weren’t tromping their way toward them right now? Cannibals were voracious; they might not be content with Rikichi and Kenta.
Time was short.
Dez slid his hand up his shirtsleeve, gripped the machete handle with his leather coat, and tugged on it. At first he worried it wouldn’t come free – the edge of the blade seemed to be lodged in bone. Worse, he had realized what Dez was up to and had begun to kick at him, albeit weakly. The cannibal’s blood spurted over Dez’s forearms. Dez ground his teeth, pulled on the handle. The leg from which he was attempting to wrest the machete suddenly jerked down, and for a moment Dez lost his grip.
He covered his palms with his sleeves, grasped the handle with both hands, and yanked up.
The machete slurped loose from the calf meat, and Dez nearly overbalanced. It occurred to him that if the cannibal abandoned the arrow that was lodged in his chest and instead removed the gun from his pocket, he could simply shoot Dez, and then all of this would be over.
The image of the gun firing into his guts was enough to motivate Dez. He gained his balance, took a couple unsteady strides, and stood over the cannibal. The man was peering up at him, teeth bared, a dull glaze of hatred in his narrowed eyes. He wanted with all his soul to murder Dez and would do so in an instant if given the chance.
Dez raised the machete, and the cannibal’s eyes widened.
With a cry, Dez slammed the machete into the cannibal’s throat. The blade had apparently not been damaged when it lodged in his leg because it cleaved through the man’s larynx like a prow through placid waters. He was nearly decapitated by the blow, the arterial spray shocking even to Dez, who had slain more than one creature this way. He turned his head, but not before being enameled in blood.
After a moment, Dez eyed the man’s crimson-stained chest, the fractured bolt poking out of it. He hated to waste a good arrow, but he would accept this trade-off, all things considered.
Dez finished the decapitation, then stood panting. He became aware of Gentry, gaping at him in the bluish light.
“You killed him,” Gentry said, his tone hushed.
Dez wiped the machete on the fabric of the cannibal’s arm. “Thanks for the help.”
Chapter Four
By the Fire
Luck was with them. For once.
After Dez was convinced they’d reached a safe distance from Paul and Stomper, they slowed to an enervated walk. While the dawn wasn’t warm enough to take the edge off the constant breeze, the dishwater sky made it possible to build a small fire at the summit of a tree-lined hill. In short order, Dez shot a squirrel with his crossbow.
Dez and Gentry sat eating before the fire.
Watching him there, shoulders slumped and chest heaving with labored breath, Dez wondered how the hell Gentry had managed to stay alive this long, when so many better men had been slain by predators.
Dez shook his head, marveling. The heap of branches they’d scrounged seethed orange and black like some pagan Halloween ritual. Dez scarcely noticed. Because a thought had snagged in his brain, and as always happened when a thought took hold, he was utterly incapable of dismissing it until his overactive mind was satisfied.
He peered at Gentry from the corners of his eyes and wondered how such a scrawny creature could have lasted two years.
Two years. Dez had flirted with death on too many occasions to number, one of them less than a month ago. And though Dez wasn’t as powerful as, say, a cannibal or a werewolf, for a Latent he knew he was respectable. He could shoot, he could run, he could defend himself when the situation called.
But this man…this scarecrow could barely thread a sharpened stick through a hunk of squirrel meat.
How could Gentry have survived in this sick, violent world?
Then it hit him.
He couldn’t have.
Keeping his tone measured, Dez said, “‘Before you mess up everything’.”
“What’s that?” Gentry asked in a faraway voice. He was gazing hungrily at the frying squirrel meat as though it were the last morsel of food on the planet.
“When I first saw you in the clearing,” Dez went on. “You said to move on before I messed up everything.”
Had a fearful expression flitted across Gentry’s face? “Those maneating sons of bitches were what I was referring to.” He shook his head soberly. “They’d been after us for the better part of two days.”
“How’d you manage to keep ahead of them? That big one moved like a storm cloud.”
Gentry grinned, his teeth yellow and specked with brown. “Fast fucker, wasn’t he? For such a big guy?” He studied his hunk of squirrel. “Shit, man. I still can’t believe we got away.”
“Because I saved you.”
Gentry’s eyes flicked to Dez. “You did at that. Mighty impressive.” His expression darkened, the pale eyes unseeing. “Hope it doesn’t bring the wrath of God down on our heads.” Gentry grunted humorlessly. “’Course, most would say He’s already shown us His wrath.”
Dez frowned, slowly rotated his stick, the aroma of cooked meat wafting over him, making his saliva glands squirt.
Hunger, he thought. Always the hunger.
Gentry turned his stick over, the squirrel meat charred on one side.
“Before,” Dez said.
Gentry appeared not to have heard.
“Before the cannibals showed up,” Dez persisted.
Gentry looked at him. “Come again?”
But Dez had grown very still, his own length of squirrel meat hissing and bubbling fat and dripping into the fire.
Gentry shook his head. “I thought we was goners, for sure. That Stomper, he don’t leave many folks behind. What’s the saying? Dead men don’t—”
“—tell tales. Why did he kill the boy and his father first?”
Something new came into Gentry’s eyes. “Just lucky, I guess. You’d rather he offed one of us?”
“You were closer.”
Now Gentry did turn his full attention on him, and the smile became flinty. “At first I was, sure. Look, would you rather I stayed there front and center like a….” He trailed off, seeing Dez’s expression. “What’re you tryin’ to say? I’d soon enough hear it.”
“They never went for you.”
“Hell they didn’t.” He brought up an elbow and tapped it with a quaking finger. “Threw me down’s what they did. Woulda killed me if I hadn’t—”
“Out of the way,” Dez muttered to himself.
“How’s that?”
Dez stared into the fire, his skin taut. “Paul. The archer. He threw you out of the way.”
Gentry was on his feet, moving faster than Dez had seen him move, and gestured down the length of his body. “Oh yeah? And who can blame that big bastard for casting me aside? Would you want a bag of bones like this or a boy in the prime of his—”
“They weren’t following me.”
Gentry’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“They were following the trail, but they weren’t following me.” Dez looked up at Gentry. “They were meeting someone.”
Gentry’s mouth worked. His eyes flitted to the left, as though he considered fleeing. “I don’t know what you got against an old man, but I got enough on my plate without you—”
“That’s how you’ve stayed alive.”
“Goddamn you, boy, you’ve had your brains scrambled to shit.”
“How many?”
Gentry’s scowl deepened. “How many
what?”
“How many people have you gotten killed?”
“To hell with this,” Gentry said, lifting his stick, which glowed a brilliant red.
“They say they’re protecting you, but the only reason the cannibals let you live is because you lure food for them.”
“Goddamn you, I’ll tell you something—”
Gentry swung the blazing branch at Dez’s face. Dez just had time to throw up an arm before the fiery tip smacked his leather sleeve and sparks exploded over Dez’s face like an errant firework. Angry wasps stung his temple, but he couldn’t worry about that because the seething red tip was flicking back at him, at the side of his face. This time Dez had no time to protect himself, so he thrust himself backward off the log, the fiery tip tracing an icy line from his underjaw to his earlobe.
“Stomper!” Gentry bellowed. “Paul!”
Dez completed the backward roll, came up with his machete, but Gentry wasn’t coming for him. He was scurrying toward the edge of the summit, hands cupped around his mouth, his voice lusty and more resonant than it had been all morning.
“Stomper!” he shouted. “You gotta get up here!”
Gentry’s head swiveled around, but by that time Dez was halfway to him and closing, the machete gripped in his right hand.
“Now don’t you even think about—” Gentry’s mouth snapped shut, apparently realizing he was beyond keeping the fiction alive. Without another word he darted down the slope, and as Dez gave chase he saw how nimble Gentry was, how well he navigated the hillocks and washouts. Earlier, Dez had been too fearful of the cannibals to notice, but now that he saw Gentry moving, he couldn’t believe how dullwitted he’d been not to see it before.
How’d you stay alive this long, a hectoring voice demanded, behaving this stupidly?
But Dez’s mind, for the first time since awakening in the small hours of the night, was calming, his thoughts lucid now, purposeful.
I am alive, Dez thought. And I’ll still be alive when night falls.
He was gaining on Gentry. Despite the man’s terror-fueled agility, Dez was faster and more athletic by far. Dez descended the hillside in vast, swooping leaps, his boots grabbing the sparse grass with ruthless efficiency.
“Stomper!” Gentry yelled, but his voice was stitched with panic. “Help me, goddammit! This maniac’s gonna—”
Dez leaped at him. Had Gentry the clarity of mind to turn at that moment and defend himself, he would have found Dez vulnerable: his legs splayed, his belly and chest unprotected, both arms spread wide as if skydiving.
At the very last instant, Gentry did glance back. And in that moment Dez imagined what Gentry saw. A powerful body clad in black leather and faded denim, a lunatic grin splitting his face, the uneven hair forming vengeful spikes against the heather-colored sky.
And, of course, the machete.
Gentry flung up a forearm and Dez hacked it clean through at the elbow. They landed in a heap on the grassy decline, Gentry’s severed stump jetting like a scarlet flamethrower. Gentry was trying to scream, but the words were indecipherable and no more than a choking gurgle. Dez pinned the spraying arm with a knee, seized the man’s remaining wrist with his left hand, and with the machete, tore down at Gentry’s head. The greasy gray-blond hair parted down the middle, then gushed burgundy. Beneath Dez, Gentry’s body convulsed. A buzzing rip sounded as the man voided his bowels.
Gentry gaped sightlessly as a single rivulet of blood wended its way from the wounded cleft of his forehead to collect in the cup of his left eye. But the dying man never blinked, only stared up at Dez.
Careful to keep the hemorrhaging stump away from him, Dez pushed to his feet, braced a bootheel on Gentry’s foam-covered chin, and yanked loose the machete.
He wiped it on Gentry’s quivering breeches, checked the man’s pockets, and found a silver lighter. He raised it to better illuminate the engraving he spied there.
An ornate letter E. A closer look revealed thorny vines twined around the letter.
Dez had never seen the symbol before, but if he ever made it to the Four Winds Bar, he’d ask the patrons if they recognized it.
Without a glance at Gentry, whose convulsions had ceased, Dez pocketed the lighter, turned, and made his way up the hill, where he devoured both portions of squirrel, his and Gentry’s.
Part Two
The End of the World
Chapter Five
The Bastards from Baltimore
October 21st
I wish this were a work of fiction.
Would that the past two years had never happened, that the world, as imperfect as it was then, could be restored.
But it can’t. Nothing can be the way it used to be.
Two years ago, on October 17th, the world ended.
As I write this today, my story is yet to be completed. Granted, it could end with a slit throat as it almost did last night with those cannibals, but as of this writing, I’m still alive. I’m still surviving.
Gloria Gaynor would be proud.
The irony is that by the time you, my reader, find this, I could be long dead. As I’m stupid and sentimental enough to tote these notebooks around with me – eight of them filled so far, each one a hundred and fifty pages – if you’re reading this account, it either means I had to jettison the backpack or you’re discovering it on a corpse. Or I guess it could mean you captured me and plan on killing me.
If that’s the case, fuck you.
If not, let’s go with the notion that you found my backpack because I had to abandon it. And let’s imagine I’m still alive because I hate to imagine otherwise.
The will to live is uncanny. So many times over the past two years I’ve been close to death. But because I’m a bullheaded pain in the ass, I didn’t give in to despair, didn’t acquiesce to my fate.
Acquiescence isn’t my strong suit.
Neither, apparently, is staying focused.
Isn’t it funny how we as a species seem to excel at not talking about the most important things? We’ll discuss the weather, our favorite sports teams – I’m talking past tense here, of course, since for two years no one has played any sport except killing each other – or perhaps our favorite foods. We were shallow before the world ended; I’d like to say we’re better adjusted now, but I can’t.
So let’s talk about the end of the world.
Of all the countries I would have bet on to destroy humanity, I never would have guessed the one that actually did. If you’re finding this record, you’re presumably a survivor and know about how everything went down, but just in case you’re from some distant future discovering these notebooks the way paleontologists used to unearth brontosaurus bones, let’s see if you can pick which one of these countries ruined everything:
North Korea.
Russia.
China.
Iraq.
Have you guessed yet? Okay, that wasn’t exactly fair, as the answer is None of the Above.
It was the United States.
Of course, that’s not really fair, is it? It wasn’t our government that orchestrated the launch of the six bombs but rather a cadre of extremists working in conjunction with some rogue scientists at the Applied Physics Lab at Johns Hopkins University. Heard of the Applied Physics Lab? I hadn’t either, not before the bombs were launched.
When we finally did learn who was responsible, we realized the extremists had been planning the end of the world for years. That they were able to keep their plot a secret speaks to their devotion. Or to the obliviousness of the American government.
I mean, Johns Hopkins wasn’t exactly in the middle of nowhere. It was in Baltimore, for God’s sakes, and the plot involved more than a dozen leading professors and scientists, as well as a hundred or so individuals employed by Four Winds Aerospace.
Four Winds, of course, is where the apoc
alyptic event got its name.
I’ll talk about that later.
Again, I’m going on the assumption that whoever is reading this is reading it in the distant future, which means it’s important you know as much as possible about how the world ended. With that in mind, let’s dispel one notion right now:
The missiles were not nuclear.
A group of Johns Hopkins professors, it turns out, was on the cutting edge of biological warfare. And genetics, particularly the study of human DNA.
Yet ‘the cutting edge’ doesn’t do their research justice. Wherever the edge was, they were about fifty steps beyond it, and light years ahead of the rest of the world. Had they used their insight for positive ends, who knows what they might have accomplished? A cure for cancer. An end to world hunger. No more infant mortality.
Instead, they devoted it to eradicating the human race.
Let me provide a little context.
In the year prior to the apocalypse, nuclear tensions had escalated. Rogue nations had acquired the wherewithal to blow up the world, and the supposedly civilized nations had amassed arsenals that could blow up the world a thousand times over.
I won’t lie. It was scary.
The professors at Johns Hopkins found it even scarier than the rest of us. And the extremists at Four Winds Aerospace found it intolerable.
Let’s face it. Deep down, the human race is – or was – pretty goddamned selfish. Oh, we talked about empathy, but when it came down to it, we wanted our lives to be better, wanted our children to be safe. If you asked a man whose life meant more, his or his neighbor’s, he’d don a Zen-like mask and claim that all life was sacred.
But if he had to, he’d cut his neighbor’s throat to survive.
The group at Four Winds Aerospace – and believe me, I’m loath to give them any credit – they understood man’s hypocrisy. They recognized the threat of nuclear annihilation, and they knew it would only take one itchy finger, and the world would be plunged into another dark age.
The Raven Page 3
