When I am as clean as I’m going to get, I head back inside and grab my swords from where I left them leaning against the wall beside my sleeping place. After my father’s death, I took his katana, adjusted the strap of his sheath to fit me, and slung both mine and his across my chest so that they formed an X against my back. Having already mastered fighting with one sword, it didn’t take long to master fighting with two. I also kept his handgun, which I now keep strapped to the left side of my belt. Now, with two swords, two guns, ten throwing knives, and a hundred plus rounds of ammo in my bag, I feel like a survivor.
When I have collected my belongings, I throw the straps of my rucksack over my shoulders and continue on my way. I am constantly on the move; with the amount of thieves and gangs running around these days, remaining stationary is out of the question. Everyday I continue on my path from dawn until dusk, only taking breaks to eat, scavenge for food in any of the vacant little towns I occasionally pass, hunt, or sharpen my knives. My days are cyclical in this way, but that doesn’t mean they are without adventure.
After some deliberation, I decide to head back into the forest in search of something to eat. The woods are good for three reasons: there is plenty of game if you are willing and able to hunt, there is a ton of water if you know how to purify it, and they are so vast and wild that it is easy to hide if you happen to come across another person—or group of people. I would live among the trees for the rest of my life if I could, but there are certain things I need from the “civilized” world that I can’t get here, so I am occasionally forced to venture out into the open. Besides, there are dangers here, wild animals being one of them, so it isn’t exactly a safe haven.
When I have traveled about a mile or so into the forest, I begin to construct my traps, building several snares out of string, twigs, and bent saplings and placing mounds of clover in front of them as bait. If I’m lucky, some critter will find its way into at least one of them. While this obviously isn’t the most efficient way of hunting, I can’t risk firing my gun and alerting every animal and person in the area of my presence, so it’s the only option I’ve got. The only people who use firearms out here are either gangs who have no need to worry about being attacked or imbeciles who end up dead within the hour. It’s truly amazing how much harder life gets when everyone is out to kill you.
With my traps set, all there is left to do is wait. After finding a thick bush to sit against, I use one of my knives to pop the lid off one of my last three cans of preserved fruit and thrust my hand into the sticky goo, feeling the soft peaches squish between my fingers. Pulling out a handful of fruit and juice, I devour the sweet candy ravenously. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, not for lack of food, but lack of appetite. Now, however, I stuff my face and suck the thick nectar from my fingers, careful not to let any of it drip because it is too good to waste. When I have finished my meal, I wait a few more minutes before deciding enough time has passed and I should check on my snares to see if I have caught anything.
I’m in luck—as I return to one of my traps, I find a particularly plump hare ensnared by its noose. Satisfied with my catch, I remove the string from the struggling animal’s leg, break its neck, tie it to my belt, and keep moving.
I have done a lot of killing in my lifetime. The list starts with the man who murdered my father. After that, I was forced to defend myself without his aid, which meant bloodying my sword more times than I care to count. At first I tried to keep track of the lives I had taken, but things like that are better not to think about. I guess if I had to estimate, the body count would be somewhere in the high twenties, give or take. While this may make me a killer, I am not a murderer—this distinction is something I live by. Murderers kill in cold blood; I kill to live. Not once have I taken a life without reason. I don’t attack unless provoked, but when everyone in this world sees each other as a threat, there tends to be a lot of provocation going on. I wouldn’t say I am proud of the blood I have spilled, but I’m not ashamed of it either. I do what I do to survive, and I have survived against all odds.
I walk for maybe an hour before spotting a city in the distance—well, the carcass of one, that is. As I approach the edge of the woods, I take in the crater of gray and black ash in all its glory. Not a single billboard remains; not one skyscraper still stands. The only remnants of this once bustling center of human society are the rubble and blackened ruins—to think millions of people once inhabited this place. As I stand on the outskirts of the wilderness looking upon the vestiges of the civilized word, I muse over what awful offense could have been committed to incite this ruin. What could have been worth the casualties, the destruction, the near extinction of the human race and all other creatures on this earth? Fire and explosions laid waste to the kingdom we worked so hard and so long to build, and what was it all for?
Whatever it was, it does not matter now.
I turn and leave the lost city behind, instead hoping to find a small town nearby with raid-able houses, for where there is a city there must be suburbs. As the sun beats down on my back, I am aware of my own perspiration and the odor that comes with it. I would do just about anything for a bar of soap right now. Hopefully I’ll be able to find some without incident; it would be a shame to have to waste my energy killing someone just for the sake of cleanliness.
After about two hours of walking I spot a cluster of houses in the distance, but the closer I get the more clearly I see that even these few buildings are mostly ruins. Only a few remain mostly unscathed, although even these are missing patches of roof or have shattered windows. The damage to the others is too extensive to risk scavenging there.
Although the area is quiet, I know there is a possibility that some of the better-preserved homes are inhabited, so I draw my guns as I open the first door and peek my head inside. Fortunately, nobody comes to greet me. I conduct a thorough sweep of the house to make sure I’m not in for any surprises, but after only a few minutes of inspection I realize there is nothing worth taking. The kitchen is filled with old and rotten food and the bathroom is empty except for a man’s decayed and stinking carcass, which seems to have birthed several generations of flies and maggots. The stench is too sickening to bear for long, so I rush out before my body forces me to regurgitate my breakfast. A few flies follow me and try to find a meal in the dead hare that bounces against my thigh, but I swat them away and move on to the next house.
After rummaging through two more homes and being forced to quit them either from the reek of decay or complete lack of supplies, I have all but given up hope of finding anything in this area when I come upon a small green cape with a partially-collapsed brown shingled roof, two boarded up windows, and a mismatched red door. It looks like more of a shack than a house, and it’s not in the best condition either, but I decide to search it anyway. With my guns in hand, I press my ear against the door, but hear no movement inside. Deciding it is safe to enter, I kick the door open and am surprised to hear a frightened shriek.
A few feet in front of me, huddled close together, stands a family of three—a girl, a young boy, and their very pregnant mother. The woman holds a kitchen knife in her trembling hand, its tip pointed at me, as the children cling to her with wide eyes that stand out against their grimy faces, which are caked with dirt. She takes a step away from me, pushing her children behind her with her free arm, and jabs the knife in my general direction in a gesture warning me to stay back.
“Please,” she cries, her lip quivering. “Please don’t hurt us.”
Chapter 6
I determine within seconds that these people are no threat to me. The boy, who I would estimate to be about six years old, is far too young and small to know how to defend himself. His sister appears only a few years older, and she too seems just as vulnerable. Even the mother with her tiny blade would have no chance of harming me with such a large, swollen belly slowing her down. But my father taught me it is better to be safe than dead, and although I am almost completely sure they pose n
o threat, I can’t be entirely certain.
I glance at each of the dirt-covered faces in turn, then at my surroundings. The room we stand in is bare—a small wooden table and five chairs are its only furnishings. Five chairs. Could there be two more people in the house? Maybe, but they probably would have come to their family’s defense by now if that were the case. I look back at the children. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such thin, frail beings in my life. Their mother too is gaunt, and if it weren’t for the baby in her stomach she would probably be all skin and bones as well. Surely it wouldn’t be a crime to put these people out of their misery, but a blessing. In the state they’re in now they probably won’t last another two weeks.
But I only kill to survive, and they aren’t my responsibility. Nature will take care of them eventually.
“P-please,” stammers the mother, tightening her hold on the knife as tears well up in her eyes. “We don’t have much, but you can take whatever you like. There are a few cans of beans and some bottles of water. Take them. They’re yours. Just don’t hurt us,” she says, gesturing toward the children with her free hand. “They’re only kids. I’m pregnant. Please.”
“You can keep your food,” I say after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t suppose you have any soap.” With all the dirt and grime on their faces, it seems unlikely that they are washing.
“Soap? Yes. Yes. We have one bar left that we’ve been saving. Ivy, darling, go get the soap for this nice young lady, okay? Go on, sweetheart. Do as Mommy says.” Her voice shakes with apprehension as she sends the frightened young girl to fetch the soap. For a moment I consider the possibility that the girl might come back with a weapon, so I slowly return my guns to their holsters and rest my right hand on a throwing knife. The mother takes this as a good sign and lowers her knife, seeming to relax slightly. The little boy beside her has begun to cry, so she tries to soothe him with gentle coos.
“Sh, baby. Everything is going to be okay.” She turns to look at me with raised eyebrows, as if to ask, “It is, isn’t it?”
I nod curtly to let her know I have no intention of harming her or her children as long as they don’t try to harm me. The young mother’s brown eyes remain fixed on me for a while. After a moment’s hesitation, she decides it is safe to speak.
“What’s your name?” she asks. “How old are you?”
I ignore her.
“I can see you’re very young. You can’t be more than a teenager. Are you all alone?”
Again I think of the two extra chairs at the table and wonder if this is a trap. Surely there couldn’t be an ambush waiting for me if I were to say yes, could there? I imagine two large men bursting through the door to defend this woman and her children. Deciding it is best not to answer, I remain silent.
The mother stares at me expectantly, but when she realizes I have no intention of answering her questions she continues tentatively. “My name is Angelica. This is my son Oliver, and you just met my daughter, Ivy. We’re—”
“I don’t care what your names are,” I say, hoping the girl will hurry up so I can leave before this woman tells me their whole damn life story. It’s a funny thing—people like to talk when they feel their back is against the wall. They try to draw out the slightest bit of sympathy or pity to save themselves, as if making themselves seem more human, more real, will stop a person from killing them.
“We’re alone too, my children and I,” she says, growing bolder now. “We didn’t used to be, but a few weeks ago there was an incident. My husband—” She breaks off, choking on her words. “My husband and my oldest son were our providers. We were getting low on food, so they went out early to go find some, but they never came back . . . I think—I think they must have run into a gang and—”
I all but tune this woman out until the word “gang” piques my interest.
“Gang? What gang?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never had many gangs in this area. We always thought we were safe here. But now, without them, we have no one to protect us . . .” Her voice breaks, and as tears spill down her dark face, an ugly grimace takes the place of her previously fearful expression.
I haven’t seen a person filled with this much emotion in years—not since my father’s death—and I am overwhelmed as the memories and rage suddenly come flooding back to me in an unforgiving torrent. I struggle to regain my calm, to purge myself of these unwelcome feelings, but I am suffocating. I need to regain control. I need to get out of here now.
I whip around and hurry for the door, but a startled voice calls me back.
“Wait! Where are you going? Ivy has your soap!” shouts the young mother.
I stop in my tracks, trying to slow the current of thoughts and memories and emotions that now course through my brain like a river. Aware of my heaving chest and rapid breathing, I focus first on controlling myself physically by drawing deep, soothing breaths and relaxing my tensed muscles. Once I have control of my body, my mind follows suit and I am calm and collected once more. I turn back to the family and walk toward the girl, who holds out the bar of soap. Snatching it from her, I remove my rucksack so I can place it inside. As I rearrange some cans in order to find a place for the soap, I hear the girl whisper, “Look, Mama, she has food.”
Although the words were clearly not meant for my ears, I glance up from what I am doing to scrutinize the child. Her scrawniness makes her appear older than her age, which I can only guess is about eleven or twelve years old. She is an exceptionally unremarkable little girl, really, and normally I wouldn’t think much of her, but something about her strikes me as familiar. I study her features, trying to determine what it is. Those narrow brown eyes, that hard face, that bronze skin, that firm jaw, those black curls—suddenly I realize I am looking into a distorted mirror. She is me, but thinner and frailer than I ever was at that age. There are subtle differences, sure, but not many. My eyes remain fixed on her as I am entranced by the likeness between Ivy and I.
“I’m so sorry,” says the mother, her face reddening. “Don’t mind her.”
“You don’t have much to eat, do you?” I ask.
“No. No, we don’t.” Then, as if feeling that some explanation is necessary, she adds, “I’m in no condition to go out there, and my children are too young to be out on their own. They don’t know how to defend themselves or scavenge or hunt. My husband wanted to teach them, but now . . .” She trails off, unable to continue. When she meets my gaze again, her eyes are filled with desperation. “I know I have no right to ask you this, but we’re starving. I can’t even feed my own children. We’re living on one can of food a day between the three of us to ration what’s left of our supplies. I know you have no reason to help us, but I’m begging you. Could you spare something, anything? It doesn’t have to be much, and it would mean the world to my children and me. Please.”
I almost laugh. She can’t be serious. I came in here and had the decency to spare her life and the lives of her kids and not rob her blind, and here she is asking me to hand over my supplies. Un-fucking-believable.
I make the mistake of catching Ivy’s eye again. As I look at this girl who bares my face, I realize things could have been very different for me if my father hadn’t prepared me to live in this post-apocalyptic hell. Ivy was never given that chance. In a different world, she might have been just as capable of survival as her doppelgänger. I know it would be better to let nature take its course and allow these people to starve to death because it would ultimately shorten their suffering, but part of me struggles to accept this. After all, although my supplies are dwindling, I possess more food than I need at the moment and, unlike them, I am capable of getting more.
But my father taught me never to aid beggars. Natural selection, he told me, would eliminate the weak and create a new superior race of survivors—a race made up of people like me. If we gave up our supplies to help the needy, we would lessen our chances of survival and defy nature. These people don’t belong on this earth, I realize. It’s a
miracle they’ve even lasted this long.
For a moment it is as if there are two different voices inside my head vying for power. I weigh the pros and cons in my mind, but there seems to be no clear choice. My heartbeat begins to quicken as that same sinking feeling starts to return, and I know I will lose control soon if I don’t make a decision. On an impulse, I untie the rope securing the hare to my belt and offer the plump animal to the young girl. Both the children’s and the mother’s eyes light up in astonishment as I present my kill to them.
I regret my choice instantly, but it’s too late—Ivy snatches the hare from my hand before I have a chance to withdraw it. She grins from ear to ear, staring at the animal as if it is the most precious gift she has ever received. As I look at her, any and all feeling of regret washes away. There is no doubt in my mind that they need this hare more than I do.
Chapter 7
I am about to leave when the mother’s voice calls me back.
“You’re going? It’ll be dark in a few hours. Where will you go?”
“Don’t know.”
“There are bound to be other people out. It’s too dangerous.”
“I think I’ll be alright.”
She stares at me, an expression of worry etched deep into her haggard face. Then, casting a glance at the fat hare that her children are still admiring, she says, “At least stay for a while and help us eat that rabbit. It’s yours, after all.”
For a moment I ponder over her persistence. Why does she want me, a stranger who possesses the ability to kill her and her children upon a whim, to stick around so badly? Could it be that by giving her that gift of food I made her think we are on amicable terms? Or maybe she sees me as a means of protection, as a source of nourishment, as a replacement for her husband and son. Little does she know I care nothing for her or her children, and whether they are fed or kept safe is none of my concern.
The Deadly Nightshade Page 3
