The door creaked open, competing against the sea of fabric. Jessica's breath caught in her throat. A feminine arm clawed aimlessly through the breach. The door was jammed over a sandal. Her logic flared, either overwhelming her survival instincts or reawakened by them.
She went for the window. Ayla yelped. Brian's headless body kicked the dog to the bedside. Holy fuck—he could still move, still see. This wasn't a person. Ayla went tail to the corner, snapping at an outstretched claw. Jessica hooked his ankle and yanked. Narrowly dodging, her dog wriggled under the bed. Brian collapsed to his chest, flailing for white fur. Jessica started at an elbow—with eight furious swings, she shattered his arms and knees.
The door widened. Jacob slipped through, tumbling to his palms. Mom squeezed but was stuck at her hips.
"Ayla!" Thanks to Brian, the jagged window was mostly clear. Jessica tossed her stick out, then tore her hands and pajamas on the remaining slivers. She fell to the bushes outside the trailer. Ayla barked, panicked, her front feet on the sill. Jacob rushed the window, stumbling through clothes and debris.
Jessica reached though, slicing her forearms. Ayla was almost in reach—of both. Clumsy on her 'floordrobe' minefield, Jacob tripped—yet his descent was perfectly trained on the dog. Jessica punched, hitting nose, chin, and teeth. His bite gashed her knuckles. She punched again, knocking her brother aside. Ayla jumped. Jessica caught her under the shoulders and lifted her out, falling into cedar chips and gravel.
Bloody and limping, the girl and dog fled.
* * *
Out of Bayview Trailer Park and on through greater Southside Nome, Jessica welcomed the rain: it smelled of ash and sulfur. She didn't know what had happened to her home and family, but it was clear it'd happened throughout the city. Fires burned uncontested. Gunfire competed with screams and moans. The Mission hovered near The Spire, shining searchlights and firing missiles. Groups of monsters like Brian and Jacob chased individuals, usually catching, then shredding them.
Backroads all the way, they neared Market Street and found a quiet alley. Ayla worked out her limp—thank goodness it wasn't serious. After the shower they'd been mostly washed of Jessica's blood and Brian's goo. Jessica had tore her nightshirt into strips during the hike, but discovered there was nothing to bandage. Her frost-burned palm, the gashes on her arms, the bite on her knuckles (she'd been sure that was a movie-esque death sentence); her wounds were all gone. The rain? The Black Wind? She didn't know and didn't care.
Jessica and Ayla took refuge in a half-full dumpster. She knew there was no escape tonight. Their only hope was surviving tomorrow.
In the dark, wet and shivering, she cried for mom and Jacob. She cried for herself.
~ 3 ~
Jessica's laws - Kill-or-run
November 29, 4124 — 10:06 AM
"Easy girl, this ain't familiar turf," Jessica reminded Ayla not to wander. The momma-goose liked to run a perimeter, though her circle widened at less apparent dangers such as downed power lines and are-they-aren’t-they dead squirrels.
Downtown Market Street led them through a gauntlet of mid-rise apartment buildings, once over-priced cafés, and Phelps Park, a famous test ground for artificial lifeforms. Year-round, one could enjoy the failure-turned-tourist-attraction with trees varying between spring bloom, summer green and autumn gold. Now soiled by black blood and missile craters, the park wasn't as charming.
Jessica felt even more en guard in the silence. Too easy—where were they? She doubted City Centre had been evacuated, yet the lack of hostiles needed some explanation. If The Mission had the rich under protection, then where were its soldiers? In any case, this was the right place to be. They should be safe or saved here.
They passed a rail station. No blood. No bullet holes. Deep inside, a lone figure laid on a bench. It wasn't moving—that was different. Jessica called Ayla to heel. They ascended the stairs and entered the cool shade. Marble tiles covered the floor in bland, white patterns as faux-wood benches rowed at the front. A massive analog clock showed noon. It must have stopped with the Black Wind. The man looked pale, eyes closed, a wool blanket wrapped under his chin. He laid near the arrival lane. A monitor displayed the next train due at 10:20, for whatever that was worth. Ayla seemed at ease, dropping Jessica from kill-or-run to an equally uncomfortable state. She considered leaving, but this was the first living or truly dead person she'd seen in a day.
"H-Hello?" The words echoed.
The man stirred but didn't respond.
"Mister, you ok?" Jessica tiptoed, stick thrust forward. After a snore, she poked him. "Wake up!"
The blanket tossed in the air. When it descended a pair of crazed eyes locked on hers, accompanied by the buzz of a clipper. It was aimed at her face. He pulled the trigger—tick.
Jessica blinked twice. Her heart skipped a beat. Ayla bit his other wrist. He cursed and pulled the trigger again, this time at his small attacker. Jessica aimed for his pistol, but instead smacked his shoulder, hard. The clipper clattered on the marble. Ayla continued nipping as the man cried out.
"Ayla, back!" Jessica whapped him flat-side on the ear and grabbed the clipper.
Dad taught her about these. Handheld railguns lacked the potential of their full-sized counterparts, but were excellent target pistols. The telltale noise made them unpopular despite their power. This one had charge but no ammo—lucky for them.
After an unskilled frisk for more weapons, Jessica was at a loss.
"Sorry for startling you, mister, but why the fuck are you sleeping in the open?" The man was unresponsive except for clutching his head and shoulder. "Mister?"
"I hear you, cunt. Kill me and get it over with."
Not what she was looking for.
"I just want to know what's going on."
"What’s it look like?" Now she smelled the alcohol. He looked middle-aged, with life-span being what it was, anywhere from fifty to five hundred. His crow's-feet eyes softened. "End of the goddamn world."
"Gosh, thanks." Jessica sat across the opposite bench, training the clipper's sight on the man. She deactivated the buzz. "Armageddon I get, but Southside's fucked. Where's the people here…the bodies?"
"Like I'd know,” he said. "I woke last night to bombings and lunatics. Passed out here."
"They're not crazy, they're dead."
"I know that much. I didn't just shoot her,” he pointed to the pistol, “guess I emptied it in the bitch. It’s not like I’d never thought about it; Lucy kept coming."
"Charming." Any guilt Jessica felt about hitting the asshole evaporated.
"Don't look at me like that. Panties and bra; you're a local, a survivor." His eyes now sparkled—not with lust or anger, but intelligence. "You know what it's it like."
"How's me naked make me a local?"
"I just seen hell." The man slid a suitcase from under his bench. "Any piece of ass that lasts an hour knows her stuff, you'd be dead otherwise. Living in the toy box is all about survival. Unemployment, broken homes, back streets, knickknacks, bars—you know the drill."
While Jessica set aside the gun and hefted the stick to her shoulder, she allowed him to unzip the suitcase. Ayla wagged her tail, sniffing.
"Name's Simon. I ain't all bad." He scratched the dog between the ears with his injured arm—it didn't appear to pain him. "Let's get you some britches, missy."
"Jessica." Trust wasn't on her mind, but she might as well milk the conversation and situation.
"Good name: the Lord's gift." Simon raised a pair of heavy denim shop-slacks, about ten sizes too big. "Chop the legs and belt the waist. Better than naked—maybe not for my eyes, but for your life.”
"Why?" she said. "Didn't you just get roughed up and dog bitten? Won't you be pulling another gun when I turn my back?"
"Why wait?" Simon raised a pistol between the pants-legs and clicked the hammer.
Kill-or-run. She really should have. Ayla cocked her head to the side.
"Murder, rape, or do I watch your face firs
t when I kill your friend?" He climbed on the bench, gun pointed at Ayla. "You still got a lot to learn, Jessica. It starts now."
The hammer hit with a boom. Broken marble showered Ayla, who barked in fury; the crater was inches to her side.
"Lesson over. Get dressed, there's a box knife in the shaving kit."
"Asshole." Jessica slashed the legs into baggy capris. After finding a belt in the swirl of clothes, she poked a new hole for her waist and waded into the denim. She didn't see any more weapons, though there was a case of .45 rounds. She pocketed the knife.
"Ain't that better?" Simon tucked the pistol behind his back; his attention set on the arrival doors. "Can't be scratching those beautiful legs. If you washed that shit out of your hair, you'd be just my type a hundred years ago."
"As if," she said. "Who’re you waiting for anyway? Everyone's dead."
"We're not." He withdrew a thin device from his suit coat. A holo-monitor blinked above it, expanding as an opaque, white square. "We lost national calls straight off, but the local signal didn't cut out till morning."
"Fascinating." The fact that he made no effort to disarm or restrain her was encouraging, but Jessica wouldn't be surprised a third time. "Learn anything?"
"No." Simon zipped his suitcase and kicked it towards the doors. "Time to get going—thanks for the wake-up, in any case. Where are you heading?"
"The Spire."
"Good choice if you want to end up another ghost. City Centre ain't so quiet on its own. They had to go somewhere—maybe there."
"Where're you going? Shouldn't we stick together?" Jessica felt conflicted between her distrust and her intuition telling her Simon was harmless.
"You and the pup would get me killed." He checked the load on his pistol. "You got the stuff, but you're too reckless for my liking. Don't trust anyone, Jessica."
"You trust me fine. You've turned your back more than once."
"Because you're fucking obvious. A sweet ass with a silly stick. You ain't hurt no one that wasn't about to hurt you. Time to drop that shit. I'm sure we're not the only survivors and others won't be as nice as me."
"Nice. Right." Jessica sat back on a bench, summoning Ayla to her side. She was curious about who he was waiting for—where he was going. "Any more advice?"
"Yeah." Simon sipped from a silver flask. "Get creative. Easy will get you killed. No supermarkets, malls, hospitals, or police stations. Go small. Donut vendors, pawn shops, your grandma's basement. If help's coming, it'll find you, not the other way around."
The zip of a rail train filled the station, arcing down from its raised track. It seemed like a death trap to Jessica, but Simon sounded as if he knew all the answers. When the train hissed to a halt the arrival doors dinged open. The station's platform was just beyond. She stood to get a better look.
Simon hustled through the doors, suitcase in hand. "Chelsea!" A silhouette shuffled from the capsule. It was a girl about Jessica's age wearing what might have been an orange sundress. Shredded, stained black and red, it hung loose off a shoulder. The girl clutched a rifle, which she aimed first at Simon then at Jessica. The girl fired.
The ill-aimed shot pinged the back wall, setting Ayla off. Her protests echoed though the lobby. Jessica ducked behind the sliding doors, stick raised at her shoulder.
"Sweetie, it's ok." He dropped his case and wrapped his arms around Chelsea's waist. The gun fell to the platform. Jessica’s stomach turned—Oh God. The walking dead had lost their humanity in their twisted appearance, but the girl's blood dribbled crimson, the gore of her cheek a lively hamburger. She collapsed in his arms.
"Simon! Can I—"
"Stay back! I got you, sweetie. Daddy's got you." He walked Chelsea backwards into the train, her heels dragging between his legs. After laying her sideways on a long bench, he retrieved his luggage and her rifle. To Jessica he said, "She'll be ok now, just go."
"I-I'm sorry."
A stupid thing to say.
With another ding, the arrival and train doors closed. Jessica saw a final glimpse of Simon whispering, smoothing the girl's hair. He didn't look back. The rail train sped away. The monitor said it would run the loop before diverting towards the marina.
Father and daughter.
She pounded a frustrated fist against her leg before walking to the exit. People were still alive. Not many, but there was a chance, a future. Hopefully, they'd all make it out, no matter which paths they chose.
~ 4 ~
Raid at Tabby's
November 29, 4124 — 10:37 AM
Simon was right. Get creative.
It'd been necessary to go this far half-naked, but it'd be insane to keep going hungry, barefoot, with an empty clipper and a plastic stick. Where were the guns?
Department stores, police stations—they'd probably already been hit, or were full of god-knows-what. Pawn shops, mom and pop hunting stores, drug dealers—that was the ticket. Time for a detour.
Jessica didn't run with a bad crowd (she never really had a crowd), but her time with Dillon had given her a few contacts she wouldn't have otherwise. Tabitha Holmes was one of Nome's biggest distributors of a good time. A businesswoman to the core, Tabby was something like eighty years old but kept her thumb on the youth's pulse. Pot, coke, nano-drugs, weapons, she could score a kid anything for a price. Police payoffs made her untouchable.
Jessica hoped Tabby was dead. If not her, then her boyfriend-bodyguard, Ivan. The dealer lived nearby or she would have picked something easier—and safer.
At the top of Phelps Park she marveled how the crabapple blossoms survived the Black Wind. Across the street a row of two-story cookie-cutter houses had seasonally confused trees of their own. It was popular landscaping near the park, adding to property value. She and Ayla stopped in front of a three-car-garage behemoth, 211 Euclid Drive. Its tall birches blazed red and gold, framed by a palm tree and sapling pine. Jessica had only been to the home once; it wasn't a pleasant memory.
She searched for movement around and within the house, peeking in ground level windows. The basement glass was spray-painted black. Options aplenty, she didn't want to be shot or eaten—she rang the doorbell, empty-but-buzzing clipper in her left hand, stick in her right. No response. Ayla piddled on the lawn.
"Stay sharp, girl." She hoped the security system was on silent alarm. Jessica smacked the living room window with heavy swings, eventually clearing a hole.
Her heart jumped to her throat as she lifted Ayla through the breach and onto a daybed. Her friend hopped off the cushions and walked slowly, sniffing the couches, entertainment center and coffee table. Facing the main hall, she wagged her tail, panting a smile.
"Good girl."
Inside, Jessica ran her toes through soft carpet, enjoying the brief comfort. An upright piano sat near a fireplace. The curtains were forest green, complimenting light beige walls and earth-tone furniture. The main hall was all hardwood. A banister led upstairs—another staircase under it would lead down. Still seated on the comfy daybed, she resisted the temptation to nap. The terrible night in the dumpster had left her far more exhausted than rested.
The choices were difficult. She'd been trying to think army, think SWAT. She needed to secure the area, room by room. Kill-or-run. It'd be impossible to do anything else beforehand. After that she could raid Tabby's wardrobe for armor. She was taller than Jessica, but had a similar figure. Leather or vinyl, and hopefully shoes. The dealer should also have guns somewhere. Knives were worthless and she didn't need another stick. A fresh battery and magazine of clipper rounds would be good enough for those other people Simon warned about. Sometime during all this, the kitchen demanded a visit, absolutely. She and Ayla were running on fumes. Eventually it'd fuck with their heads; even fresh water was a luxury at this point. Then, finally, Jessica could consider some rest—she wasn't sure about that either. They could push to The Spire in an hour, but there was no guarantee they'd be saved. Same deal with Shannon's Jetty and The Mission's ground base. She needed tim
e to think.
Jessica unlocked the front door, and crackied it open. Ayla then followed her upstairs, sniffing all the way. Five rooms. Three were bedrooms, one a bathroom, the last an office. All were empty. She entered Tabby's bedroom. Across from a gothic four-poster, she opened a large walk-in closet, at once envious and disappointed. Jessica locked the bedroom doors and lifted a window. Underneath, an awning protected the front porch.
"Ayla, be good, let momma know."
She'd like to pack a suitcase, but all she really needed was a jacket and boots. Designer shredwear hung next to low-cut bodices, leather one-pieces and a plethora of vinyl pants. Nothing seemed good for running. Simon's baggy denims had more than a heads up on the skintight micro-minis and lacy-goth skirts. However, anything would be an improvement over her sports bra, so she settled on a sleeveless, shiny black turtleneck. She stretched the midriff over her head and chest, ridiculously flattering. Jessica smirked, feeling like a gymnast—she hadn't guessed her boobs were that much bigger than Tabby's.
On to outerwear, she flipped through suit coats, heavy motorcycle jackets and fishnet half-tops. Then she found it—perfect—a common, black leather jacket. It was out of place in Tabby's collection; perhaps from her youth or the prize of a poker game. The straps and buckles were useless. Jessica box-knifed them and the cuffs. It fit loose and the ventilation wasn't half bad, at least until her first mad dash.
The shoes and boots, all too small; the biggest disappointment. The old hag was a size six and Jessica was an eight. Not like barefoot didn't have advantages, but it wasn’t comfortable or smart.
Objective complete, mostly.
Jessica avoided the bed, both for the temptation to pass-out and the ickyness of what stained the sheets. A silver picture frame slide-showed the 'Best of Tabby' in clubs, parties and in bed. When a photo of Dillon appeared, Jessica smashed the frame with a snarl.
Anatali: Ragnarok Page 2
