All the Devils Here

by Astor Penn

  There are still gunshots and screaming, but they seem to be fading into a manageable level of tolerance. In fact, behind me there seems to be little commotion; in front of me there is still a struggle happening behind a row of tents. I think of Raven and where she would be in a struggle. The answer is simple—she would already be out the door, defending her own life before anyone else’s.

  But I have to think about us—she came back for me once, didn’t she? Before I go rushing back out of the camp, I should at least take a better look around.

  There are children. Of course there are, but they’ve been hidden from me thus far. When I see a few, poking their heads out of a tent before a woman screeches at them, I hurry along, for both their sake and mine. No reason to draw any attention to them or myself. I pass them by, heading in the direction of the seemingly only source of conflict in the camp. I hear the shouted conversation before I see the people responsible for it:

  “We’re not here to hurt you.” I latch on to Lyson’s voice first, because there are multiple voices yelling, and his is the only one I recognize.

  “You’ve killed us!” someone yells hysterically within tears. “You’ve killed us!”

  “We’re not infected! None of us are!” one of the men yells, although I can’t quite place his face.

  A chorus of angry voices protest, and with sickening realization I recall my conversation with Lyson—not many armed men, but many men and women, so-called victims, that he didn’t count on rising up against him. He assumed they’d be grateful for their freedom, that maybe they’d all join forces together.

  Now there’s a new mob. I peek around a tent and see it—a circle forming of camp inhabitants, corralling Lyson and his few men together in the center of it. The prisoners have no weapons except for the things they can scavenge from the camp, and I realize most of them have rocks in their hands.

  Do I pity them? Once the first stone is thrown?

  I won’t watch them; I turn away, sliding my back against the heavy material of a tent. Inside, if my ears don’t deceive me over the sounds of many others, I hear a panicked conversation between two people about running while they still can. I take just a few steps away from the tent before my luck runs out—someone grabs me from behind. The grip is only on my coat—I slip out of it easily and whirl around, knife drawn up close to my chest.

  The guy’s not much larger than I am, but unlike many others, he looks calm and determined in the face of the weapon in my hand while he stands with just my coat in his. He drops it, raises his loose-handed fists, and waits.

  “I’m not one of them,” I say. He doesn’t respond—not a disbelieving look or a snort of incredulous laughter. He doesn’t care who I am, because I’m not from the camp.

  There are two options—stand and fight him, but to what point? or run but risk having to run my way through the entire camp, maybe even be forced out of it, and I haven’t finished looking yet. Will I ever stop looking?

  The noise behind us is rising—the mob cornered by so-called victims. Crouching lower to the ground, I prepare myself. I won’t make the first move; I’ll give him the chance to walk away now and spare myself the guilt later of harming this man.

  He doesn’t walk away. Neither do I.

  When he springs at me, I swipe the knife low at his knees, hoping to immobilize him rather than seriously harm him. He dodges it for the most part—it catches and drags in some clothing, but from the feel I can tell I haven’t cut him much. He knocks me to the ground, wrestling with me to dislodge the weapon from my hand. My spare knife implanted in the back of my pants digs into my back, a reminder of the upper hand I still have even if I lose the one actually in hand.

  I snarl, hoping to scare him, but I forget—most these people inside have lived outside too. They know the wild as much as I do, and they won’t be intimidated by the snarling, depraved people from the roads. My hand with the knife is pinned down away from my body, but my other hand is still underneath him. I scratch, pinch, twist, tear—anything that might unseat him. After all, for all he knows I am carrying, and touching him in any way, especially in a way that draws bodily fluids, is dangerous for him.

  I can see it in his face—how uncomfortable he is, how he wishes he could jump off the snarling wild thing beneath him. I almost find pleasure in it; this is me, on my own, surviving once more, and I’m not locked up somewhere pretending to be a civilized patient.

  When he moves his hands from restraining me to choking me, my thoughts cut off and real panic begins. As soon as he grips my neck, it feels like I’ve run out of air already. I futilely try to sneak my one hand up, but it’s pinned, so I finally have to drop the knife to clutch at his fingers.

  I am not gentle; I am rough. I don’t play fair—I try and headbutt him to no avail—I can’t rock him close enough—and when that doesn’t work, I try to claw out his eyes. Still the grip around my neck tightens, and I choke out no air—there is nothing left. My vision swims and my body burns. I think briefly about playing dead, hoping he relents once he thinks I’m gone, but it’s impossible to relax my arms.

  The noises coming out of my throat now are helpless, and all my attempts to kick up my legs under him are useless. He’s too heavy, his privilege of being well fed and provided for here perhaps matching my own, and his awareness of both his placement and his overall muscle mass overcomes me. All I can think is that it’s almost over, it won’t be long now, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

  He stands up, pulling me up with him, and although he doesn’t let go of my neck, in the movement his hands shift and allow me some air. I gasp greedily, sucking in as much as possible. Standing upright, with some limited oxygen feeding my thought process, all I can think is that the man has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, and his cheeks are clean shaven and well defined. He would be considered good-looking by most, but to me he looks foreign, misplaced because his beauty is a well-maintained one, and that just doesn’t exist anymore.

  He’s walking and dragging me with him. Despite not being much taller than I am, he physically lifts me from my feet at moments. I guess he doesn’t appreciate that I am trying to kick him. I don’t realize where he’s headed until I brush against someone else and suddenly people fill my peripheral vision. They swim past my sides, like I’m a fish swimming downstream and it’s a literal parting of the water. I take small joy in that fact that while people leap out of my way so as not to touch me, they also leave a wide berth around my assailant, now cast as an untouchable as well.

  He releases me so suddenly I find myself hitting the ground, and there’s no need to worry about the breath being knocked out of me; it’s already gone. Coughing, I climb onto my knees, letting my full senses come back to me—the noise increases by tenfold, and the sight sharpens into fine detail. I’m in the center of the mob, and Lyson and his remaining friends are only a couple of feet behind me. I’ve been lumped into their group.

  “Found another one,” my assailant says quietly, but everyone hears him well enough. Their eyes harden and look over my uniform, the same as theirs but not, and all they see is a stranger. I glare defiantly back, but inside my heart quakes as I see a clenched fist around a stone not far from me. One of the men behind me moans in misery. The circle closes again, and my captor disappears into the crowd. Maybe they’ll haul him away too, somewhere less public, and put him to his own death.

  “We didn’t come here to hurt you!” Lyson is talking again. Always talking. He thinks he’s a leader, but anyone with resources could be a leader on the road. Here, they have no need for someone’s promises. They have all their promises. “We are not infected!”

  It’s strange, trying to stand apart from them when they so clearly want me to fit in and be one of them. It’s a strange mix of people in front of me—the old and young and the people who wouldn’t survive on the outside for long—and they’re all silent, I realize. The mob is still behind me, Lyson and his men, who all shout and yell for their lives. I am more similar to the crowd, s
ilent, watchful. They wouldn’t claim me for themselves, but I will not be made into the image of the men behind me. If they’re going to kill me, then they’re going to kill a young girl who they cannot be absolutely certain about.

  So I stand as tall as possible and make eye contact with everyone I can. I rotate my shoulder and remember the pain of getting shot while trying to help a little girl. My fingers slide to my wrist in remembrance of a bracelet I once wore there, given to me by a man who didn’t have to die for me. I wince and remember a boy not much older than me who I never had time to understand. But most of all—most of all….

  I lick my lips and remember a kiss—just one, two, three—and think of how there should have been many more.

  There is nowhere to run; I am caught unmoving, and moving is life. There’s still one knife buried under my shirt at my back, but what good would it do? I don’t want to hurt anyone unnecessarily, and there are too many to get far. They stand, facing me, unflinching, and I face them right back. I will not beg or cry, even if the itch in the back of my eyes is there and my mind is screaming unfair. I’m not a part of Lyson’s group—I wish I had never laid eyes on any of them—and I wish Jackson were here with his plan, a plan that didn’t involve drawing attention to ourselves. Because these are people who once were on the road, and they know. They know, even with no weapons to defend themselves, that there are always materials around to use. So they pick up stones and form a tight circle. I am standing in the last spot I would have imagined—all those cautionary tales they told us in school. Where am I now? What have I done to deserve this? Weren’t those stories about the minds of a group being turned into something inhumane? Will everyone deny what they’ve done later?

  But then it ends. All of it. It’s like the world stops, and all of my rushing thoughts freeze. There’s a flash of her while I desperately search for a look of sympathy from anyone. Wyles wasn’t lying. She’s here, right here in front of me.

  It’s like pulling the scraps of an old photograph back together long after they’ve been ripped apart; just flashes of her—her braided hair—her dark eyes—her full lips. In between two people’s shoulders, then over the top of someone’s head. She keeps moving, dodging people to get closer, and even though she is still a ghastly illusion, I’m sure it’s her. She’s here. I’ve made it.

  When I open my mouth to yell for her, nothing comes out. The crowd is parting, and I see more and more of her, but she’s stopped coming any closer. She’s frozen, looking straight into my eyes, a mere few yards from me. I take a step forward and stop, not because of the crowd, but the look on her face. It’s not antagonistic or happy. She just looks shocked.

  “Raven!” I call. I take another step forward, but the front of the crowd closes marginally again, warning me from moving any farther. “Raven!”

  But she’s just standing there, staring at me. I wonder what it will take to shock her back into action—if I could just reach her—touch her—then she would be forced to recognize me, that I’m here. I made it here.

  “Raven!” I yell again after a long moment. Nothing is happening. She’s still there, and I’m still here, the smallest distance in between us and yet it feels like the farthest. My heart could explode in the knowledge that she is in fact alive and well and safe—all things I desperately clung to because I couldn’t face any other belief at the time, not when I had so little—just four walls and nothing to replace the woods and the people in it.

  It is painful to be so far from her now. Seeing her, not touching her. Painful. Heart wrenching. Why doesn’t she come to me? Why won’t she claim me and deliver me from the hatred of the masses? Surely one word from her and they would let me through to her.

  But she doesn’t say anything, and the circle closes again, tighter and tighter until she disappears from my view once more.

  “No!” I shout, knees giving out. I fall into the frost and hardened mud of the camp, and when I feel that itch in my eyes this time, I can’t do anything about it. The tears come, and I can’t stop them. I’ve never cried in front of anyone besides my parents; long ago, when sentiments were still allowed, I refused to let others see anything of me. Not my fear or my weakness. It wasn’t theirs to see; now hordes of people can see it, and they are not kind, they are not moved by the same emotional stimuli they once knew.

  It’s not the first time I’ve asked myself whether or not I thought Raven used me to some extent—whether or not she ever truly felt anything for me. Out of all the things to convince myself of, this was one I let slide through the cracks of my armor. Yes, of course she cared for me, the same as I cared for her. I couldn’t keep myself going on just the belief that she was alive, but also that she cared for me. Of the worst things that could happen to me, of all the revelations to have, this is the most harmful: that she is alive and uncaring.

  I wish she was dead instead.

  Behind me, Lyson and his men are quiet finally. They must have accepted what is now inevitable. I don’t bother getting up; instead I allow myself this weakness. I curl my hands around my knees and draw them up like a little girl, and for the first time since leaving my dormitory room, I feel like a little girl.

  “There are children present,” someone says. At first, I think they’re referring to me. They’re not, of course—I am plenty old by new standards, and this nine-year-old boy holding the hand of a girl no more than five are the babes who need protection. Not me. Haven’t I been telling myself that? That I no longer need anyone’s protection?

  Someone picks me up like a child, though—with just one hand under my arm. They haul me to my feet and drag me away. I don’t turn to look, but I’m sure they have Lyson’s men behind me. I don’t bother asking myself where we’re headed—I can see the wide open gates in the not-so-distant future. They’ll take us outside, then, and I almost smile at this. Let them step outside their walls of fortune and squirm in the guilt of dealing with problems they’ve either forgotten or never had.

  We march out of the gates, and I realize I am a prisoner once more, and Wyles was the nicest, fairest of all the ward keepers. My keepers inside the facility would have kept me alive, whereas being taken prisoner out here only means one thing, because there is no time for prisoners. It’s stupid. It was inevitable. My hands are unbound, though, and while I am certainly outnumbered, I have my last knife behind my back, the third buried in the bag I left at the tree.

  I could run for it. The only guns they have are the ones taken from Lyson’s men, and I have to wonder whether they have much ammunition left or if many of them can fire a gun with any accuracy. I highly doubt they’d pursue me, or if they did, not for long.

  They might. How would I feel if someone destroyed my peace of mind? They think we’re carriers, at least one of us, and we’ve brought the plague down on them. If I try to escape, will their rage see them through? Will they hunt me down and kill me for the loss of their peace?

  I would. That’s not the reason why I don’t run, though. I let myself be led, foot stumbling after other foot, because my will is broken. If I had more time, maybe I could repair it, because don’t we all promise ourselves we’ll live only for ourselves and no one else? I thought I was strong enough to keep going alone if I had to, if I truly never found Raven again; I’m not sure now. Everything feels hollow—my head, empty of all thoughts, and my heart, devoid of feeling even the slightest thud. I need time to feel like myself again—self-efficient and angry. Except that requires running. Moving is life. Moving is freedom.

  But I can’t even summon the strength to look backward one more time.

  They won’t go into the trees; that’s too far for them. When we stop, whoever’s leading me thrusts me to my knees, their hand still squeezing the top of my arm painfully tight. The soft thuds of other bodies hitting frigid grass come from my right and left; I never did count how many of Lyson’s group survived the raid. Not a lot, it seems. It was a fool’s mission.

  If I expect to feel the muzzle of a gun pushed into the b
ack of my hair, it never comes. The hand around my arm disappears, and now is the moment to flee. There could be someone standing right behind me, I’m not sure, but one thing I am sure of is that this is my last chance to make a run for it, regardless of how far I think I’ll make it.

  My father used the phrase “or die trying” frequently. There was no sentimental message plastered before it, just “or die trying”—it wasn’t succeed or die trying, or win or die trying. In this moment, I see my father, shrugging at me in his armchair in front of the television, the epitome of American laziness, but he would smile at me and say Live, or die trying.

  I owe it to my parents to get up and run, regardless of whether or not I believe they’re still alive. I choke down my tears, reach for the heart that still mechanically beats, and brace my hands in the dirt. I’m going to count to three and bolt, leave this camp behind and convince myself it burnt to the ground with everyone here still inside it. I won’t think of a single person here ever again. If I just count to three and run.

  One. Two.

  The muscles in my body are taut, ready to spring, when I hear a voice. It’s frail, not the voice of a leader, but the voice of someone who spent their days bent over old books and sipping tea, smoking too many cigarettes. The voice of someone well lived into old age, and it’s not a voice that is familiar anymore. The voice is also female.

  “You’re going to get up and go back wherever you came from now,” she says slowly, like her mouth is full of cotton. It’s the sound of someone thirsty, and I wonder just how well-off this camp actually is. “We won’t shoot you unless we catch a sight or whiff of you again.”

  The ground shifts around me; the men are fidgeting, ready to fight but never ready to surrender to peace. I hope they stay down, don’t cause any more trouble, and yet a smaller part of me hopes they do resist. If they get killed here, it’s one less thing I have to worry about when I run for it.