Those Who Remain (Book 2)

by Priscila Santa Rosa

“I love you too, Mom.”

  “See you on the other side. But not for a long, long time, okay? I want grandsons.”

  I gulp, feeling like a stone is stuck in my throat. “Okay.”

  She closes her eyes. “I’m ready.”

  Someone else pulls the trigger. Someone else takes her into his arms and hugs her cold body against his chest. He touches her stiff hands. He cries and begs. There is nothing else left here, no one still alive. Two empty shells, dark holes of nothingness.

  I place the gun in someone’s hands. I them tell to take care of… of the body. Then, I walk away. I don't think I even breathe. I can't feel my feet, or my hands, or my lips. I don't care.

  I keep walking, and walking. If I had a choice, I would walk on forever and hope somehow, someway, I stop existing along the way.

  I blink at my front door, unsure of how I got there. The stairs greet me, and no one else. I take off my dirty clothes and throw them in the laundry basket. Laundry. I never did laundry in my whole life. Someone else did that. How pathetic. I sit on the corner of my bed, hands on my knees. The wall ahead of me is the same. Twenty years of movie posters. Collector edition signed posters. All trash.

  I get up. My hands find the corner of a poster. I tear it up, off the wall. The sound is strange, but not terrible. It's curious how ripping apart paper feels like dying. One by one, I rip them off the wall. Rip. Tear. Repeat. When the walls are empty, and the floor is filled with scraps of actors' faces, I sit down on the bed once more.

  The wall is empty, but it still feels wrong. Undeserving. Unfitting. Stupid. Idiotic. Dumb. Incapable. Too slow, too blind.

  The computer goes to the ground, its monitor cracking. The desk follows it. It doesn't help. It doesn't change anything. The wardrobe goes next. Still nothing. My collection of statues breaks so easily; I can't even understand how… Someone kept dusting them off every day without breaking them. DVDs, old CDs and tapes. Comics, mangas, graphic novels.

  Trash. All fucking trash.

  When it hurts too much to throw things around the room, I let myself fall on the bed. My eyes won't close. There is nothing to see, no light shines. Yet I can’t close my eyes.

  I hear Roger's voice sometimes. My body refuses to move. Can I stop now? Can I just disappear?

  The sun hurts my eyes, but they won't close. Then darkness fills the room, but I can't sleep.

  A pebble hits my window. Then another.

  “Danny?”

  That's Roger, right?

  “Danny, just let me in.”

  Did I close the door and the windows? I did, didn't I? I locked it up. Zombies are out there, after all. Somewhere.

  “If you won't let me in, I'm going to climb this tree. Are you there? Danny?”

  The voice fades away, but the possibility of him getting inside scares the hell of out me. I bolt off the bed, out of the bedroom. I'm in the garage, grabbing wood, hammer and nails. I block the front door, block the back door, the first and second floor windows.

  When I'm done, I let out a laugh. For five minutes straight, I can't stop crackling like a crazy idiot. My stomach hurts, my mouth is dry and my eyes sting. My feet take me to the kitchen.

  I drink water from the tap and eat the last chips I hid from…

  Fuck my diet. I eat the chips. Slowly. They taste like shit.

  Eating makes me realize I don't want to die. I want to disappear, stop existing, but not die. I guess that means I need to feel something else. I have to think about me existing, me being alive at some point in the future. Me living on without… without Ma.

  I did the right thing. The humane thing. The brave thing. I should be proud, congratulate myself on a job well done. Rule number one of the Zombie Apocalypse and all that shit. Right? Right? Fuck all that.

  I want my Ma back.

  I don’t have the strength to stop myself from crying like a little boy. Sometime later the tears dry out, leaving me with a massive headache and sore eyes.

  The kitchen walls are my only company for hours. Or days. I’m not really sure.

  The front door cracks and falls down with a bang. I blink and wait, sitting on the kitchen's table. Roger appears with Lily behind him. They look good. They look happy. Or sane. I feel like crap. Did Roger confess his dumb feelings for her? Did she reciprocate? Who am I kidding? I don't give a fuck.

  “Danny? Are you okay?” Roger says while sitting at the other side of the table.

  I nod. “Yeah.” I'm still holding a potato chip in my hand. It's the last one; I don't want to eat it yet. “Yeah, I'm cool.”

  The two trade looks like I'm crazy. Which I'm pretty sure I am. How can I not be crazy? I ruined everything.

  “We were worried,” my friend continues. “You didn't answer when I called you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Having my mouth move makes me feel the wetness on my cheek. Oh, that's right, I'm crying again. “Wanna chip?”

  “Danny… I think it would be good if you stayed with me for a few days. Okay?”

  I think I'm smiling. My face hurts enough. It must be because I’m smiling. “Sure. Sure.”

  “I'm going to grab some clothes for him,” Lily says, obviously eager to leave my half-naked, depressed, and dirty presence. I don't care. “Be right back.”

  “How long since… How many hours…” I sob as my fingers crush the last chip into tiny smaller crumbs. “Never mind.”

  “Three days.”

  I shake my head. “No. That's not possible. What about… What about… A memorial. That's what people do, right? A memorial? When this stuff happens, people do that kind of shit.”

  “I tried to tell you. The town did a memorial. It was very moving. The council took care of the preparations. Everyone was there. Was it okay to let them do it? Should I have waited for you?”

  “What? No. ‘Course not. That's excellent. Awesome. Glad I didn't have to go. Talk about boring social shit, am I right?” I think I'm laughing now. It sounds more like a dying cat to my ears.

  Lily comes back with a sports handbag. Roger takes the empty bag of chips from my hands and pulls me up. I'm feeling a little dizzy, and a whole lot weak, like I just ran a marathon. Somehow I end up hugging my friend. Or he's the one hugging me; I don't know. It's too embarrassing to think about it.

  “Roger, she's… Ma is….”

  “I know, Danny. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He pats me on the back. Any other day I would think this was awkward as hell, but right now I just want to get everything out of my throat. So I can breathe again.

  “Fuck. S-She asked me to do it. And I did it. I shot her in the head. She's gone. I don't know what to do. I don't know—”

  “It's okay, just cry out. We are here for you.”

  When Dad died I didn’t cry. I made him proud. I did my duty and carried his coffin to the cemetery, ignoring the fear, my sweaty palms and the dread in the pit of my stomach. I promised him I would never leave Ma’s side. Ever. So I tried to make her smile with stupid jokes. I provoked her with swearing so she could lecture me. Between wasting time with Roger on the shooting range and helping her out, I felt fine.

  Back then I congratulated myself on being reasonable, logical and psychologically ready enough to deal with death without falling in pieces. I wasn't a little kid anymore, and accepting his death was proof of my maturity. I was a smart young man, tough and ready to face the harsh realities of life. Just like Dad said I was.

  But I’m not any of those things.

  The Girl in the Forest VI

  December 22th, Tuesday, 8 am

  I wake up shivering. My coat is two sizes too big and lets the cold inside. My feet are wet from the fallen snow. Peter’s head rests on my sore shoulder. After the ditch, things went from bad to worse. Pete’s sprained ankle slows us down. It’s still swollen and, without my shoulder for support, he can’t walk properly. After a whole day of trying, we finally managed to get out of the ditch and grab our backpacks again.

  We don’t find any more monsters, so I deci
de we can rest under a fallen tree. Turns out, not a great idea. I wasn’t counting on snow falling during the night.

  “Pete. Wake up.” I grab him by the armpits while he uses the tree for more support. “Tell me what direction we need to go.”

  He blinks. The tip of his nose is deep red and his lips are almost blue. My own face probably isn’t all that different.

  “Pete, we need to move. You said the town was near. Which direction?”

  He takes out his compass from his coat’s pocket. The needle spins, slows and then points north. Peter raises his hand. “There.”

  My shoulder hurts from carrying him for hours. We move even slower because of the snow, which soaks my shoes and toes. I guess a pair of boots would’ve been a better choice, no matter how cool the sneakers looked.

  It has been days since he fell, and there’s no sign that his injury is getting better. At this rate, we won’t ever find this town before freezing to death. Our breakfast is nothing but berries and a few nuts, again. I really want a greasy slice of cheese pizza right now. Or hot chocolate with marshmallows.

  Complaining won't change anything, so, with my jaw tight, I keep on moving, carrying Peter the best I can. For his part, he tries to walk without my help a few times, each almost ending with his face smashed against the frozen ground.

  He huffs and puffs, grunting every few minutes. Neither of us is happy with how things are going. I bet he thought the woods would be the end of our troubles and dangers. Maybe because he was with his dad before, but I get the feeling Peter doesn't realize we are always going to be in some sort of danger. Mrs. Patterson told me that things were bad all over the world, not just here. She said the government ran away, and let us fend for ourselves. Things aren’t going to be okay. Ever.

  I could tell Peter all of this, but I don't think he'll believe me.

  Today isn't the right time to argue. I still feel guilty about the whole ditch incident. Mentioning his Dad was low. I still don't know why I did it. I guess part of me resents that he got to see his Dad, say goodbye to him. My parents are probably dead, I know that, but maybe I should have looked more for them. I’m scared I made a big mistake leaving Whitefield.

  The fact that Peter knows for sure, saw it for sure… I don't know. I shouldn't envy him, but I do.

  By midday, the sun melts what is left of the snow on our path. We stop to rest. The pain in my shoulder is worse now.

  “You okay?” Peter asks, leaning over a tree.

  “Yeah.” I look around and spot some accumulated snow below a rock. I take a handful and kneel in front of him. “Here.”

  The snow goes on his injury. At first he winces, but then opens a smile. “That's cool. Thanks.”

  “It’s going to help with the swelling.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  I stare at the ground. “My mom was a nurse.”

  “Cool.”

  I collect a few berries from a nearby tree and bring them to Peter, so he can see if they are not poisonous. We eat in silence. I delay the question I need to ask for as long as I can, messing with the backpack and changing my socks to the last clean and dry pair I have.

  Then, after nothing else is left to do, I ask him. “So… How long until we get to this town?”

  It's a fair question, since we've been walking around the woods in the cold and damp for so long, but I know Peter will take this the wrong way. He takes everything the wrong way.

  “Why? Do you think we are lost? If you think I can't take us there, just say it.”

  “No. I just think… You said we were near the place. That was a week ago. If you don't know where it is, it's okay. I just need to know.”

  “So you really think we are lost. And it’s my fault.”

  “Just tell me the truth, Pete.”

  He opens his mouth, but I place a finger on his lips. Something is moving nearby. I hear leaves shuffling and grunting. With a hand, I signal him to stay put. My shoes loudly crush the frost-covered ground, making me wince.

  I follow the direction of the noise. In a clearing a few feet from us, a man carries himself with a hand on his right side. Behind him, I spot a trail of deep red blood on the snowy field. He doesn't seem like the other monsters, since the bleeding wound bothers him enough to make him drag his feet around. He’s small, but bulky. He finally sits down next to a tree, eyes closed. I stay low, hiding behind a few bushes.

  Something about his face bothers me. He's wearing a uniform, but not one I used to see on our military: it’s too colorful; full of pockets and with a big red star painted on his chest.

  A red star.

  I gulp. The mall. The bald professor. This guy.

  Oh crap.

  I'm about to run back to Peter and get us far away from here, fast, when his body clashes against my back. “What is it?” Peter asks with a hand on my shoulder. “What's going on?”

  Before I can answer, Peter spots the man. He opens his eyes wide, then a deep frown forms on his face. “This… This is the guy, Laurie. He's the one that shot Dad.”

  He tries to get up, but I snatch his wrist and force him down. “No, Pete. What are you doing?” I whisper.

  Peter frees himself from my grip. “He's hurt, I can take him.”

  “What… No, Pete. You can’t kill him.”

  “Why not? He killed Dad!”

  His shout runs shivers down my spine. I can't let him risk us like that. That man, hurt or not, is dangerous. “No. You can't. Just leave him,” I insist in a hurried whisper.

  He shakes his head and steps out of the bushes, limping. He’s so focused on getting revenge his ankle doesn’t even stop him. Biting my lip, I follow him. The man is passed out, wheezing every now and then. Peter kneels next to him, and places a hand over the gun hanging from the man’s belt.

  I gasp, as the man grabs Peter wrists to stop him from taking the gun out. Peter twists his arm free and takes a step back, eyes wide with surprise.

  “What have we here? A pair of dumb kids lost in the woods.” His smile creeps me out. He points the gun at us. “How lucky.”

  I bite my lip and bring Peter closer to me by the arm. “Just leave us alone. We don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “You tried to take my gun.”

  I gulp. “But you still have it. So just let us go.”

  “Normally I would leave you alone. But you see, I’m pissed off. And dying too.” He lets out a hoarse laugh, and wheezes. His gaze wanders, unfocused. “Fuck that town. Fuck everyone.”

  From the corner of my eye I see Peter frowning. He still wants to kill the man. This is bad. “Look, you don’t want to waste bullets on us, right? There are a lot of monsters in the woods. Save it for them.”

  The man coughs, and smiles again at me. “True. Good point, little girl. But I still need your stuff, so drop your pretty little backpack on the ground for me.”

  The gun in his hand shakes. His forehead is beaded with sweat, his eyes blink a lot and he can’t really run after us. He may be a grownup, but I’m small and quick. We can survive this.

  “No.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

  “I said: no. You are bleeding out. In the cold. You are going to die pretty soon, gun or not. You can’t hurt me or my friend. You don’t have the strength. Just lower your gun and we won’t take it.”

  His dark eyes watch me closely, his lips curl downward, but lowers his gun. “Do I know you from somewhere? I’m starting to think you are worthy of wasting some bullets.”

  Somehow, I manage enough courage to ignore him and turn to Peter. His blue eyes are focused on the wounded man. I offer my shoulder for support so he can get up. “Pete, come on.”

  He ignores me, forcing himself to walk in front of the man. The guy looks up at Peter with a smile. “You don’t even remember me, do you? You… You are monster. You killed my dad. You killed him.”

  The man laughs, blood flowing from his mouth. He spits it on the ground. “I killed a l
ot of people, kid. I need more details.”

  “The mall. You killed him in the mall. You shot him in the back.”

  The laugh is nothing more than a series of coughs and wheezes now. “I see. I remember now. The boy scouts. So, you are planning to avenge your dear old dad, then? Strike me down. Kill the beast.”

  “Yes.”

  “Big tough guy, huh? You really think you can kill me?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  The wounded man offers the gun to Peter. I run to them and place one hand on Peter’s arm. “Pete, stop. He’s dying. We can just leave.”

  Peter pushes me away and takes the gun. He points the weapon against the man’s forehead, who just laughs. “Go ahead, kid. Kill me.”

  “I will.”

  For a minute he just points the thing. His hands are trembling. Peter closes his eyes, then tosses the gun on the ground and lets out a scream. He’s crying again.

  “Of course you can’t. What about you, little girl? Can you do it?”

  I stare at the man, not sure why he’s so intent on baiting us to hurt him. “I don’t have any reason to kill you.” I turn to Peter. “We are leaving.”

  For once, Peter listens to me and places an arm over my shoulder. We start to move when I hear the click of the gun. I stop, hair standing up on the back of my head.

  “No reason, huh? Are you sure?”

  We turn to face him. He raises the gun and pulls the trigger. The sound hurts my ears. Peter goes limp, dragging me with him to the ground. I fall on his body.

  His… lifeless… body.

  “Pete. Peter. Pete. Peter!”

  I shake him. I slap him. I try to ignore the black hole where his right blue eye should be. I try to pretend my fingers are not soaked red. He’s dead. I know he’s dead, but I can’t stop. I call for him. He doesn’t answer. My fingers travel across his cold face. My eyes water, and my vision blurs. I punch Peter’s chest, trying to make his heart keep going. Like Mom taught me.

  But he’s dead. He’s dead. Dead. Like Mrs. Patterson. Like Mom and Dad.

  My screams and pleas stop. The man’s laugh echoes through the trees. With wet cheeks and quivering lips, I get up from Peter’s body and face his murderer.