All the Devils Here

by Astor Penn

  She grumbles something inaudible, and it’s not until her head begins rolling forward that it clicks. The bullet lodged somewhere in her body isn’t a bullet so much as a dart—a tranquilizing dart, and its effects were local. Now they’re spreading throughout her whole body, including her tongue.

  Whatever she’s trying to tell me—probably screaming at me to run faster—it doesn’t matter. We almost run over the man carrying the child—a little girl, I see now. When I stop just a foot from them, the man doesn’t even spare me a glance. He’s looking behind us, toward the van.

  “They’ve stopped,” he says, his voice naturally smooth and calming, unlike the artificial grating one on the recording. He doesn’t need to say why they’ve stopped, not in the presence of a child. She’s maybe ten or eleven. When she tries to peer around his side, he turns her away roughly.

  The last person with them is standing several yards ahead; their group is either smaller than I thought, or there were others not attached to this one that have already disappeared. It’s hard to tell how old the man is—maybe in his twenties, but the man standing closer to me is older. Thirties. Maybe forties. It’s clear the girl with them belongs to neither of them, at least not biologically. The man holding her hand, perhaps old enough to be her father, is of some vague European descent: dark skin, dark hair, and cold eyes. The girl has the orangest hair I’ve ever seen. It’s also the brightest thing I’ve seen in months, and it seems like a miracle it hasn’t gotten her killed yet.

  “We should keep moving,” the other man says. A boy, I think, from his voice. I can’t tell in the dark. I doubt he’s old enough to be the father. “Bryant, come on.”

  But the man, Bryant, is looking over us now. The little girl peers up curiously at us. Behind us, there’s a bang—of a gun or a door. Doesn’t matter which.

  “You need help with her?” Bryant asks. Though his hair is dark, his patchy beard is more silver than anything else, a contrast to his still-young face.

  “No, we’re fine,” I croak. The first words I’ve spoken in a long time, and it’s surprising how quickly it comes back even after you think you’ve forgotten the right thing to say, or how to say anything at all. They’ve been replaced with a different kind of language.

  In my arms, the girl slurs something. I shuffle her in my grip, hoping to provide a look of familiarity with her so the man doesn’t think I’m dragging her off to eat her.

  “She’s not even yours.” It’s an accusation, but there’s not much malice behind it. I guess someone willing to adopt strays shouldn’t be pointing fingers, either.

  “I’m just helping her out.” The words sound strange; I wonder if they’re a little blurred like hers. “She got shot with something.”

  We’re walking, or at least I’m loping along at an uneven but hurried pace, and he’s following us. The other boy keeps a distance in front of us, maybe as a scout. Behind us, the van’s gone quiet. They won’t follow us farther into the woods; too many trees, they can’t drive the vehicle through it, and they almost never pursue anyone on foot, for fear of damage to their suits in the presence of the infection.

  “Then I can help you both out, if you’d like,” the man insists. The only people who are willing to help are the ones out for something.

  “I have nothing of value,” I say, struggling under the girl’s weight. Neither of her legs are working now, and despite her slight stature, she’s still more than a handful, and I’m exhausted. My body doesn’t have sufficient fuel for this.

  This time, when the girl tries to talk, she carefully hisses each word separately. “Both. Fuck. Off.”

  I stop midstride, almost dropping her, but holding her at arm’s length and letting her dangle there pathetically. She looks ridiculous, like a marionette. I just have to pull the right strings. Next to us, the kid looks slightly shocked, or scared, and Bryant chuckles. After a moment in which no one joins him, he gives us another somber glance.

  “Here.” Without asking again, he picks her up so easy in his arms she might as well be a doll. The little girl takes a step back while the other boy in their group hurries toward us.

  “What are you doing?” he hisses. It’s almost funny—Bryant, with all his muscles and huge physique, shouldn’t be bossed around by what appears to be a boy my height and hardly any older.

  “Relax, they’re the least of our problems,” he says over the sounds of the girl’s complaints. “They’re in no position to hurt us. Now let’s move.”

  Then he walks away, the dangling wild girl in his arms and the sour boy in front of him casting a cautious eye in my direction even when I don’t move. Standing there, I have no reason to follow. That girl isn’t mine—I don’t know her or owe her anything. They seem like a decent sort, even if I didn’t believe that still existed. Surely they won’t do her anymore harm.

  I have no reason to follow. Except I’m traveling on dwindling supplies. And tired. And hungry. And there is a little girl watching me with something akin to hope in her eyes. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen hope, or anyone of such a young age. I imagine the young and the old were the first to disappear in such a crisis. I haven’t seen anyone outside of their forties in weeks, and the last kid I saw was younger than this one, and his cries got both him and his parents swiftly scooped up by a van.

  “What’s your name?” she asks once I take a step forward. She falls to my side, a healthy portrait in a desolate landscape. I feel filthy next to her.

  “Brie,” I say, although I could give any name. She would never know any different, and I used to hate my name. I always said I would change it in a heartbeat when I had the chance—in college, maybe. Now I could be anyone, and I cling to the only thing that is mine, and it’s the most insubstantial thing.

  “I’m Poppy.” The name suits her—a burst of life in a dying world. “What’s her name?” She nods ahead of us to Bryant, and barely visible in his arms, my wilding. I can almost see her glaring from around his arm muscle.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “We just met.”

  “What, like a week ago?” It’s interesting that she asks this, because in new terms, a week ago is a long time ago. It also makes me wonder how long she’s been with Bryant or the boy in front.

  “No, like five minutes ago.”

  Poppy stiffens, maybe in outrage or concern for the girl I’ve taken hostage, but then she bursts out laughing. The men glance at us, eyebrows raised on Bryant’s part but a serious look on the other boy’s face.

  “I’ve known her as long as you have then.” And when she says it like that, I guess I really should let go my lingering feelings of responsibility for her. “Where are you going?”

  “West.”

  “Oh. We’re going south,” she says, and again, there is a cautious eye cast upon me, as if I might stalk them with such information. Eyeing up the bags they carry, each with what must be more than a handful of items in either bag, I wonder just how rich in material wealth they are.

  “Want to walk with us for a while?” she asks as if she’s the leader of the group, and by the way the men hover protectively, maybe she is. Princess Poppy, heroine of some fairytale land.

  “I….” But I trail off. What I want to do, know to do, is run away and keep my distance from people, but if they’re offering me a good meal and a solid night’s rest while someone plays sentinel for me, then I can’t say no so quickly. Physically can’t.

  “You, and your friend, are welcome to travel with us until you’re both back on your feet,” Bryant says softly, even if all signs of life behind us are now silent. The van most likely is back on the road, roaming, at this time. “But we are headed more south than west at this point.”

  “It’s fine. If you’re sure about inviting a total stranger along, then I’ll just stay the night with you.”

  Bryant nods. “Your friend should be up and moving on her own just fine again by tomorrow morning. Ever been given a strong muscle relaxant, kid?”

  He’s addr
essing her in his arms, and she of course says not a word back. Her eyes are rolling into the back of her head. It’s almost unbearable to watch, even in the presence of someone who’s confident she’ll be fine.

  “This just confirms our theory, Bry,” says our sullen-faced friend in the front. “They’re not aiming to kill anyone anymore,” he continues, but a chill grips my arms and legs. It’s difficult to continue walking, but my sweet-faced friend gives me a glance.

  “They’re keeping anyone caught alive, at least for the time being.”

  “Aaron,” Bryant says, cutting him off from stating more of their theory. “We can discuss such things later.”

  I’m unsure whether this is for the benefit of Poppy’s youthful ears or the presence of a stranger.

  “You think they’re experimenting on people,” Poppy chirps up. She doesn’t sound frightened by the prospect, or sound like she’s feeling much at all. Not the timidity of a child, but her voice is too high for an adult. It’s clear like a bell.

  A tense moment passes in which Aaron clearly wants to elaborate, but Bryant refuses, hanging back so he falls in step with us. Nudging her with his hip, he lets her know that she doesn’t need to worry about it. What a lie, I think. Poppy, despite everything, just smiles.

  “Who was it that saved your life when those people cornered you back in Farrow?” she asks. “I’m not a kid anymore. I watched my parents die, didn’t I?”

  Somehow, it’s me they all look at. I must have let out a startled cry at the abrupt admission. Poppy’s face is grim, and despite our cathartic meeting, it seems like the first time she’s looked unhappy.

  “No one so young should be without their parents,” Aaron says. It’s the first sympathetic or near likable thing he’s said. A long moment, tenser than the first, stretches, until: “I guess that’s why you have Bryant to mother you now.”

  Poppy smiles, and by the way she looks up at Bryant, I’m almost fooled. They look at each other with real adoration; it’s hard to imagine they’ve been in each other’s company for less than a few months’ time.

  “So what’s your story?” I ask at last. Bryant and Poppy are drawn to each other for obvious reasons—she needs a caregiver, and he seems to suffer from a righteous soul. Aaron hangs somewhere in the equation; I’m just not sure how.

  No one answers, because, of course, everyone has his or her own story. Bryant is busy shifting our unconscious group member in his arms, and Poppy frowns while Aaron ignores me.

  “I think she’s asking why you’re such a jerk, Aaron.” Poppy is so completely unafraid of him, even though I sense their relationship is more strained than a simple sibling-like one.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks warily.

  “Why are you with them?” I might as well be direct. Save my breath. It’s better used for other things.

  From the way Poppy stares at him intensely, and the way Bryant inversely ignores him, I can tell they’ve wondered the same thing.

  Aaron doesn’t answer, chewing on the inside of his cheek instead. I think even if Poppy isn’t his sister, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t a brother. He was a son once, and possibly a sibling too. I always wanted an older brother, didn’t I?

  Once the question is out there, it can’t be retracted. My feelings of guilt stand in the way of nothing but the truth.

  “We met a while back when large groups were more common in this area,” he says. “The group got hungry and desperate. I was fortunate enough to be able to hide a few rations of food on me, away from the eyes of the self-appointed leaders. When the group split out of fear, I followed them.”

  He pauses. Under our feet, sheets of leaves grow thicker as the trees become constant obstacles. We all allow ourselves to slow down to a more manageable pace, with the threat of anyone following us growing less and less. The leaves remind me that winter is coming, and with it I don’t know how I’ll survive.

  “I knew they didn’t have anything to eat,” he finishes, as if that’s it. It must have been a good enough reason for Bryant and Poppy too. Of course—why do I follow them now? Their resources. I’m the beggar child at their backdoor, and they have every right to be suspicious of me. Hell, if it were me, I’d have threatened to put a knife in their back by now.

  “So you stayed,” I say. I’m letting him opt out of telling me any more of his sob story.

  “So I stayed.”

  We walk long into the night. Bryant’s breathing becomes labored, but mine is embarrassingly more so. Aaron tries to scout ahead and cover our tracks all at the same time. Poppy falls asleep on her feet. When I offer her a piggyback ride, she gives me the most incredulous look I’ve ever seen on such a young face.

  “You’d fall right over.” Her honey-sweet voice has just a slight twang of a Southern accent.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “How long has it been since you ate?” Bryant cuts in. He really is the mother of this outfit.

  “I had half a granola bar this morning.”

  “Jesus. Let’s go ahead and set up camp for the night,” he says, abruptly stopping. Maybe he was looking for an excuse. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  I want to tell them that half a granola bar is a pretty decent meal but bite my tongue instead. Especially when they start rummaging through their bags, and they pull out a few different cans of things like fruits, veggies, and even meat. It’s a real meal.

  More than that, they’re stocked on items I would have never thought to grab. When the long plastic tube makes its appearance—Bryant pulling more and more of it out of a bag—I’m not sure what to think. Its presence makes me anxious somehow, some part of my brain telling me it’s not for a pleasant use. I’m half right, but at least it’s not for me.

  Chapter 3

  “ARE YOU sure that’s sterile?” I ask before Bryant pushes the needle under the girl’s skin. Their supplies aren’t professional, of course, but improvised into a crude form of a traditional IV, complete with some kind of pouch of water Poppy volunteers to hold up.

  “You just watched me sterilize it.”

  Sure, I think, the same amateur way I sterilize water. “Were you a doctor or nurse or something?”

  “I was something,” he says quietly, but the way he so easily starts her line, I wonder. “A firefighter, actually. Had to take medic courses.”

  “So rescuing damsels comes naturally to him,” Aaron says, rolling his eyes, disapproving. Bryant playfully swipes at him from the side.

  “Have you had enough?” he asks, nodding toward the can I clutch tightly in my lap.

  “Hm?” The spoon rattles around the top. “Oh yes! Of course. It’s the most I’ve had in ages.”

  “I figured.” He smiles, or grimaces. “I don’t know which of you looks worse: you, or your friend here.”

  She has bones that stick out like hair; they poke me as I cushion her like a bed, her head resting on my chest and her back curved into my stomach and lap. It didn’t seem right to dump her on the ground and let them prick her with needles. I feel better touching her—but I also feel responsibility I know is not mine. The need to protect her after dragging her into this is strong, even if I truly believe they mean her no harm.

  I don’t trust my instincts anymore, so I ground myself by holding onto her, which seems ridiculous, because I was the one who saved her, and she was the one who seemed so sure she didn’t need saving. There’s a long, red cut that starts right under her chin and disappears under her shirt, mostly healed but starting to scar. It doesn’t look like something inflicted by another person but by something with claws. Until I feebly cleaned her off with a rag they supplied me, it was not noticeable under the caked layer of dried mud on her skin. It looked as if it might be intentionally painted on as camouflage.

  “Where’d you say you were from, Princess?” Aaron asks, watching me as I slide my knife between my fingers. I tense.

  “New York.”

  “The city?”

  “Yes.” />
  “But that’s not where you’re from,” he suggests, and rightly. “Your accent is wrong, plus you don’t have the entitled princess act down pat like you would if you were brought up in the city.”

  I’d like nothing more than to smack that kid’s dirty face as hard as possible. He must see it on my face; he grins at me.

  “I’m from the Midwest. I go to school in the city.” I wince. “I went to school in the city.”

  “So you are a princess. My apologies.”

  Bryant tells Aaron to knock it off; the boy finally breaks eye contact with me, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to look away first. Despite the chill, I’m flushed. I roll my arms under the girl’s body for warmth. She is now my human blanket since I sacrificed my blanket to cover her.

  “You’re headed west to go home, then?” Bryant asks.

  “I didn’t hear from my parents in time before they cut the lines. I have no idea what’s happened to them.”

  Bryant cuts off Aaron’s possible response before I can slap him for whatever he wants to say. “The likelihood of them being anywhere you can find is….”

  “Slim to impossible. I know. But—” I pause, because I always thought I could rationalize why I wanted to search for them. “—but when I made it out of the city, I didn’t know where else to go.”

  That’s the truth, and when we strip away our privileges and personal identities, what else do we have left?

  “When do you think she’ll wake up?” I ask. No need to dwell on how stupid my plan is.

  Bryant shrugs. “Obviously, she’s not in peak physical condition. She’s as malnourished as you are, and those darts are loaded with enough tranqs to put down a grown man in better condition.”

  We fall into sleepy silence. Poppy’s head is pillowed on one of his meaty thighs; she’s already sound asleep and nearly a mirror image of my damsel. I’m not sure if I can sleep here with them. It’s why I came with, to be able to fully rest instead of my fitful moments between consciousness, but it’s different. So strange to be sitting with others.