by Amy Miles
“Is it?” His voice cracks with uncertainty as he starts to back away but stumbles over a folding chair and hits the ground hard. He leans to the side to rub his bruised ass.
“This place is one of theirs. I tracked them here just a little while ago.”
The potent scent of his fear washes over me in delicious waves and I’m forced to close my eyes as I exhale and step back from him until I reach a neutral place once more.
“Oh crapballs,” he moans and blindly reaches for his bag. When he finds it, he pulls it into his lap and cradles it. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“No, you shouldn’t, but now that you are here I think you might be able to help me.”
“Help? I’m not real good with doing stuff. My last group said I was too clumsy for my own good. Guess I’m all thumbs.”
“That’s okay, Bingley.” I feel my mouth begin to water and I lower my head, closing my eyes as I fight against the need rising within me. He smells good, oh so good. “You are actually quite perfect for the job. Fate seems to be smiling on me for the first time in a while.”
I hear him scratch at his jaw and realize that he has just a hint of stubble growing there.
“I’d like to help you and all, really I would, but I just want to leave if that’s okay. If those things come back I don’t really want to be here, you know?”
“I do.” I skirt along the end cap and move around him, keeping my distance. It is hard to think or remain focused on why I’m here with him so close. My thoughts grow muddy as a new plan forms in my mind, one that should send me running in the opposite direction, but logic is no longer stronger than my internal instinct. “I promise it will be quick.”
“And then we can leave?” He tugs the ties of his bag tight and then places the pack on his back before rising to his feet.
My pulse thunders so loudly in my ears that I nearly miss his question. I count each of his inhales and exhales, feeling the imperceptible electrical pulses in his body. No human can hide from me now. I stand in place, swaying slightly from side to side and I let the feelings of his presence ripple through me.
It is only now that I am here with Bing that I truly understand now how Cable can enjoy killing. The sensory output from this human is nearly euphoric.
“All I need from you is to relay a simple message,” I whisper. My senses are tingling like mad as I open my eyes. I am mesmerized by the steady pulse at his neck as he looks all around in the dark. His image is lit up with a subtle green hue, allowing me to see every tiny speckle of color along his cheeks and nose.
“But there’s no one else here. Who am I supposed to tell?”
“Ah,” I inhale sharply and taste his fear once more. It is less sweet than blood but flavored with an appealing hint of tanginess that makes my stomach twist with desire. “That is what you are meant to believe. You haven’t been alone since you entered this building, Bingley. They have been waiting and watching. If I had not arrived you would already be dead.”
“Oh,” he breathes out. When his knees buckle he reaches out for the shelf next to him, but I make no move to help him regain his footing. “Why are we standing here talking then? We have to go!”
I lose myself to the maddening racing of his heartbeat and relinquish control of my fear as I step closer to him, breathing in deep.
“Go?” I whisper in a hushed voice that sounds unnaturally loud against the vast emptiness of the building. “There is nowhere that you can run to that will be far enough, Bingley. Haven’t you figured that out by now? You are marked for death.”
My hands tremble at my sides as I feel the first of the Withered enter the building. Their approach is slow and cautious, no doubt attempting to understand my presence, but the instant they catch the potency of Bingley’s scent, they become ravenous and I am inundated with their need.
“I can’t just sit here and wait around to become something’s dinner!”
I close my eyes as the Flesh Bags move closer. I can feel them much stronger now, hear their chorus of voices in my head chanting one thing in unison: eat.
I feel myself smile. “The sun has set.”
He stops moving. “So?”
“Night is their playtime.” I tilt my head to the side. “Can you hear them? They are coming.”
A low, fearful moan gurgles in his throat and the scent of urine spilling down his leg soaks the air. Bingley jerks back at the sound of a nearby growl, stumbles over the faux grass mat and takes out an end cap. Canteens and camping utensil sets sprawl over the ground as he scrambles to get back to his feet.
“Please,” he crab crawls backward until he is pressed against a display tent that has a massive tear down one side, probably damaged during the initial panic and looting. “You have got to help me. There has to be a way to escape. Please, don’t let them eat me!”
“Don’t worry,” I say as I move around behind him. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“Really?” He turns toward the sound of my voice. “Thank you—”
The flash of gunfire lights up the small outdoor section and Bingley’s body collapses to the floor. From the far corners of the building I hear the growls and shrieks as Flesh Bags cower back from the piercing noise. I grimace as my own ears ring painfully but I stand my ground as Bingley’s hand flops to the floor. His eyes are lifeless as he stares up at the ceiling above and the small bullet wound on his forehead leaks blood. It is a perfect kill shot.
As I stare down at the boy, I feel none of the remorse or guilt that I know I should. Instead I feel empty, like the lifeless shell of a person that I sense I am becoming.
His death was inevitable. What I told him was true, he was marked for death the instant he stepped foot in Cable’s territory. Killing him now was an act of mercy, but I didn’t do it for his sake. I did it for my own.
I need him to send Cable a message. His death was merely...beneficial.
Grabbing a box cutter off the floor from where it spilled out of Bingley’s bag, I kneel beside him and tear open his shirt. I keep waiting to feel something, anything, as I press the blade to his chest and begin to carve with methodical precision. Blood trails down his chest where hair will never grow and stains my fingers, but I cut him without a tremor in my fingers.
I killed a boy in cold blood. The words filter through my mind as I wipe the blood off the blade onto his shirt and then rise to stare down at him.
He is nothing more than a victim of bad circumstances, an innocent whose life is forfeit by sheer dumb luck. Perhaps in the days to come, I will mourn his death as I should, but I fear that after I leave this building, I will not consider him again beyond a mere passing thought. Not as a person, anyway.
Though his heart has stopped, I can smell the blood on his forehead and am tempted to lick my hands clean. The thought alone should be revolting, but it is the opposite. It has become my ultimate temptation.
Wiping my hands on his shirt to clean away the blood, I know that I have to go before I do something I will regret. As I turn my back on the boy, I can still see the smooth planes of his chest that meet the rigid crevices of flesh when I carved three bloody words: Let them live.
Without looking at any of the Flesh Bags that creep my way, I walk out of the store and back into the drenching rain. Cable will get my message soon enough.
The only question is: Will he accept it?
THREE
The rain does not let up as I make my way through the deserted streets of the suburb and leave the dead boy far behind me. Forks of lightning streak across the sky in the distance, illuminating the horizon just enough for me to see billowing thunderclouds towering into the night sky. This storm looks like it might stick around for quite some time.
I need to find a place to hole up for a few hours and wait it out but I can’t risk it while still being so close to Cable. His reaction to my message will be unpredictable
and I need to put a good deal of distance between us, even if that means pushing myself to the limit.
As I jog ahead, I try to remember the last time I ate a real meal. My memory of the time after first waking from my coma is hazy, but I can’t quite picture having any food brought to me. In fact, the scent of real food almost seems foreign to me now. Having been fed intravenously for two months my system probably would not be able to handle food in any large quantities, not that they even exist now.
Ignoring my exhaustion and the gnawing hole in my stomach, I set a slow but steady pace heading due south and away from the city. I do not know where I am heading. Only that I need to lead Cable as far away from Nox as possible.
Within an hour, the storm reaches its full intensity, buffeting me left and right as the winds send violent gusts down the road. Rain lashes against my face while lightning draws near constant jagged lines down to the ground. Thunder reverberates through my chest as I search for shelter, but there is none to be found on this stretch of road as fields and hills surround me on both sides.
I hold my scarf overhead to keep my eyes clear to see my path, but it is drenched and sags under the weight of the rain. As the winds howl like a pack of baying dogs, my desperation to find shelter mounts and I decide that the next house or shop that I see will have to be my target.
Small chunks of hail begin to bounce off my head as I peer through the sheets of rain. My pace slows to a labored walk as I push against the winds. Half an hour later I finally spy a two story building off to my right. I plunge through a small gully of rushing water, flailing to mount the other side and then hurry across a broken concrete parking lot in the back. With a weak kick, I jar the lock on the single loading dock door, but it remains in place. After three more kicks the handle comes loose and I am able to slide the door open and then collapse into the darkness within.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at a warehouse style metal roof high above and realize that I’ve found myself in some sort of small market style store. The walls are lined with the odd black or brown wicker basket. Many have been tossed across the floor and trampled. There is an earthy scent on the air as I roll over to my side and push sluggishly up to my feet.
The scent grows stronger as I push through sheets of plastic strips that dangle from a double doorway and into the store beyond. More rows of wicker baskets line tables, small bins and tables line the space. Three sets of refrigerated units sit dark along the back wall. A case stocked with spoiled milk and a large cow sign on top stands beside a smashed cash register. Several of the tables still hold their composting wares in plastic wrapping.
“That must be the source of the smell.”
I wander down the rows, searching for anything that might be edible, but the only things left behind are things that are of no use to anyone anymore: flours, oils and seasonings. One aisle contains baking utensils, pizza pans and aprons. I stare at them longingly, knowing that I’d pretty much give my left arm for a thick crust pizza oozing with cheese right about now.
With my stomach growling and my energy waning, I reach the far end of the store and turn the corner to find a Withered standing still in the aisle. Every muscle in my body goes taut as I come to a complete halt.
It has its back to me and oddly doesn’t seem aware of my presence. Long, baggy trousers sit low on the man’s boney hips. A wide dark stain covers his back side and turns my nose up at the smell. His thin arms stick out from torn dress sleeves, stained and reeking of body odor.
He shifts slowly to this right and then back again to the left. A low wheezing sound comes from him, wet and chunky, like phlegm caught in his throat.
Indecision keeps me rooted in place. If he were a Flesh Bag he would have turned and attacked by now, but what is this Withered doing just standing in the store?
Curiosity gets the better of me and I circle around to a side aisle. I duck down low when I reach the end cap and look up at the Withered and realize why he is unaware of my presence. His ears have been cut away and his eyes have been plucked from their sockets, leaving ghastly empty holes. I can see no signs of bite marks anywhere on his exposed flesh.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, covering my mouth with horror.
This was not the work of a Flesh Bag, but of a human. The cuts are too precise.
I slowly rise and step up to the man, feeling a profound sorrow fall over me. Even though I know it feels nothing, I can’t leave it to just stand here. Grabbing my gun, I flip the safety and put the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger. He collapses into a heap and I turn and walk away, leaving him to whatever peace a thing like him can find in the afterlife.
Soul weary and exhausted to the point of near collapse, I stumble back toward the loading dock and shove a stack of crates across the plastic draped doorway to put distance between me and the Withered. The sounds of hale striking the roof are much louder here, but it helps to drown out the growling of my stomach. Rain has begun to come in under the back door where parts of the lower half chipped off when I forced the door to roll on the rusted track. Water trails toward the center of the room where I stand. I look around me for anything that I can use to create a makeshift bed. I am beyond being picky at this point.
Settling on two pallets to keep me up off the floor and some old grain sacks, I stack my bed and then remove my wet clothing, hanging them to dry on a shelf before sinking down onto the hardest bed that I have ever slept on.
The storm rages for hours as I toss and turn, plagued by nightmares and stiff muscles. When the morning finally arrives, the storm proves to have only weakened slightly and I am forced to remain indoors. Stretching out my back, I rise from my bed and go in search of a toilet.
I dress in damp but decidedly drier clothes and spend the next two hours ransacking boxes in the warehouse. All of the food spoiled long ago. Discouraged and unwilling to waste any more energy, I plop down onto the floor and listen to the rain. It has been a constant sound for so many hours that it’s nothing more than white noise.
I used to like the rain. Now it makes me worry.
Will Cable come looking for me despite the storm? Surely he has no reason to fear it.
Sitting up, I realize that neither do I. Wind and rain can’t hurt me. I have slept, albeit fitfully, and feel stronger than I did the day before. It is time to move on.
Wrapping my scarf around my neck for when the clouds decide to finally break, I turn back one last time and out of the corner of my eye I spot a silver shine under a shelf. Hurrying over, I kneel down and stretch back toward the wall and pull out a small homemade jar of peaches.
“Oh, sweet mother of sweetness!”
The brown sugar alone should give me the extra boost of energy that I will need.
Using the edge of my box knife to break the seal, I unscrew the lid and tip the can up to my lips. Streams of juice pour over the edge of my lips and down my chin but I swallow as much as I can. Then I scoop out the peaches with my finger and eat down to the bottom.
My stomach rumbles with appreciation as I toss the jar aside and watch it shatter against the wall with a sense of apathy. I have never been someone who damages other people’s property, even during my more rebellious days, but there is no one left to care.
Opening the back door, I stare out into the dismal gray. The rain falls heavily, but the sky no longer rumbles with thunder. Despite the heavy cloud cover I wrap my scarf around my face to conceal my eyes with the fabric and head back out into the storm. Deciding that no one apart from Flesh Bags would be stupid enough to be out on the road in a deluge like this, I make my way toward the highway and climb the steep embankment. Pushing up over a rusting chain link fence, I land several feet back from where a concrete bollard stands between me and the main road.
Spread out before me is a mass of abandoned cars, shattered windshields, and nothingness. Nothing moves. Nothing walks. It is as if every Withered has vanished fr
om this place.
“I bet they’ve all been mutilated by some sick human or eaten by those Flesh Bag bastards.”
Never before have I wanted to see the moaning and rotting Walkers so badly. Surely they haven’t all been turned into Flesh Bags. If that is the case, then Nox and the people who have remained behind at the hotel do not stand a chance against such a force.
My only hope is to draw Cable’s attention away, but where is the safest direction to head?
Knowing that there must be a road sign somewhere in the distance, I break out into a jog in search of one so that I can consider my options. After leaving St. Louis months back our small band of mismatched friends had a purpose: get as far away from the military as possible. Then I was handed a new destination when Cable spoke of his brother stationed near Nashville, TN, but now I have nowhere that I have to be and no one waiting for me.
A northern route could potentially lead Cable to follow me into some desolate arctic landscape where no one would get hurt, but countless would be injured along the way, not to mention Cable’s army would grow along the way. If I continue south, the heat and sun will be a major deterrent for both him and me.
As I stare up at the road sign I feel utterly indecisive. I can just as easily head toward Knoxville and down through the Smoky Mountains or jump state lines and loop back up toward Kentucky. The only thing I know for certain is that I need to avoid heading west during the late spring storm season. The last thing I want is to survive a man-made apocalypse only to be taken out by one of Mother Nature’s tornadoes.
“Nox would know what to do.” I rub my hands along my arms to warm myself up. The rain isn’t nearly as cold as it was when I first stumbled across the Flesh Bags a couple short months ago. Spring has already begun to shift into summer and with it will come an insufferable heat that will be pure misery to endure.
