Still, it is my hare. It was my hard work that captured it, so I deserve to enjoy it. Resolving to leave as soon as I have eaten my portion, I take a seat at the table. The mother and Ivy prepare the meal, skinning the hare, boiling water over the fireplace on a cooking tripod, and salting the meat. All the while, the little boy watches me timidly, afraid to move from his mother’s hip. Every so often I catch Ivy examining me, as if she too has begun to realize our uncanny resemblance. Once, she smiles at me. The expression is peculiar—I can’t remember the last time I saw that face smile. I attempt to smile back out of politeness, but find it impossible.
When the hare is cooked, Ivy removes four plates from a cabinet and places them on the table. Her brother gives everyone a metal fork and knife—two things I haven’t used in ages—while her mother serves the food. We each receive a small portion of meat. To me it doesn’t seem like much, but the family looks at the measly dinner as if it is a feast. Just as I am about to dig in, the three of them join hands, shut their eyes, and bow their heads. Ivy reaches out a hand to me and I stare at it, unsure of what to do.
Opening one eye to peek at me, she whispers, “You’re supposed to hold hands when we give thanks.”
“Give thanks?”
“Yes,” says her mother. “You know, for the food.”
Without warning, Ivy grabs hold of my hand, and in my surprise I yank it from her grasp so forcefully that I nearly tip my chair. Startled by my sudden jolt, both the mother and the boy jump in their seats, but Ivy remains calm. With a steady, reassuring expression, she reaches out again and takes my hand in hers. The warmth of her fingers against mine is a sensation that is almost foreign to me. The boy, following his sister’s lead, tentatively stretches out his arm to join our hands together, and this time I allow it. When we have all regained our composure, the woman begins a prayer in Spanish, thanking God for the hare, for her children’s safety, and—lastly—for sending me to them in their time of need. Although I should probably feel flattered by these final words, I can’t help but feel she’s kissing my ass. She finishes by expressing her hope that God will continue to watch over us and protect us from evil, and finally we are allowed to begin our meal.
Throughout dinner, the mother talks about the gangs and the danger her family now faces without her husband or son present. She complains about her inability to provide for her children and her desire for the baby to be born so she can become a slightly more capable guardian, although a crying baby isn’t exactly ideal for remaining inconspicuous either. I don’t pay her much attention, instead choosing to watch the girl as she eats. Unlike the other two, she no longer seems afraid of me; every trace of the terror I saw in her eyes when I first entered the house has vanished, and instead I see in them my own cold, emotionless gaze reflected back at me. Remarkable.
I gobble up my food quickly, still eager to be on my way. When I have eaten everything on my plate and licked the last remaining oils from its surface, I rise without a word and head for the door. Again, I am stopped.
“It’s got to be dark out by now. It’s not safe to go wandering around during the night. You’re welcome to sleep here. Think of it as a thanks for the food.”
I shake my head. I have stayed long enough—longer than I had hoped. It’s best I get going before these people begin to think of me as one of their own. I refuse to be their caretaker.
“The hare was a gift, or payment for the soap, whichever you prefer. I can’t stay any longer.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep here?” Her voice is saturated with desperation now. “There’s an extra bedroom upstairs with plenty of blankets.”
“Look, I know you want me to stay and help you, but I need to keep moving.”
“Please, my children—they’ll starve!”
“Then teach them to fend for themselves; that’s the best thing you can do for them. Make them into survivors. Send them out to get food, give them weapons to defend themselves, make them self-sufficient. If they learn what it takes to stay alive in this world, they’ll have less of a chance of getting themselves killed.” Then, meeting the girl’s eyes, I add, “Your daughter shows promise. She’s capable of surviving if she learns these things now. The boy is still young, but it’s never too early to start. There’s risk in it—that’s a given—but you don’t have much of a choice. That’s my advice. There’s nothing more I can do for you, I’m sorry.”
With that, I cast one final sidelong glance at Ivy, who reflects my composed expression, and walk out the door into the cool night air. I will never know what will become of them, and I don’t care; it’s none of my concern whether they live or die. Still, I can’t shake the image of that girl’s face from my mind. To think I could have shared her fate, could have been that vulnerable, that defenseless. To think with training she could have been as dangerous as me. As I leave the house behind, a part of me hopes she will survive somehow, because although I have no ties to her I know the roles could have been too easily reversed.
Chapter 8
Just as Ivy’s mother predicted, it is already dark when I leave the house, which means I will need to find shelter quickly. I walk about half a mile before I come across another string of preserved homes, but I decide not to enter any to avoid encountering any more people today and instead take refuge inside of an old unlocked car that is coated with rust from years of exposure to the weather. My father once told me cars used to run on gasoline when he was a kid, said if they still did we might’ve had a shot at using them after everything went to shit, since it’s not like you can just find hydrogen fuel cells lying around. If it wasn’t for stupid sustainable energy I could drive myself the hell out of this miserable town. Not that I even know how to drive, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be that hard to teach myself.
I lie down in the back of the vehicle where there is room to stretch out somewhat comfortably and place my rucksack and katanas on the floor within easy reach. It doesn’t take me long to nod off; the enchanting sound of soft gusts of wind hitting the car’s metal frame mingled with the chirping of crickets lulls me to sleep within minutes.
I wake up the next day in a daze. Mid-morning sunlight streams in through the windows of the car, a strange sight since I am accustomed to rising at daybreak. Startled, I lift my head to peek at my surroundings, but thankfully there is not a person in sight. I curse myself for sleeping so heavily and being so careless—to think what could have happened while I was unconscious; anyone could have peered through the window and found me here, completely vulnerable in my resting state. Annoyed at my own stupidity, I grab my belongings and get on the road.
Yes, I was annoyed. It seems strange, doesn’t it, that a girl with no emotions can feel annoyance? But my father’s dream of purging me of all feelings was just that—a dream; I am human, and therefore I can never become the machine he wanted me to be. Annoyance, frustration, nostalgia, dread—all these things are within my emotional capacity. However, through years of concentration I have banished those stronger emotions that tend to get people into trouble. Anger, sadness, fear, pity, hatred, love—they are all unknown to me. While they used to take control of me so easily in my youth, I have learned to suppress them entirely, and I believe my father would be proud if he were here to see how much I have progressed since his death.
I now have a decision to make—walk west towards the wilderness again or keep going north past ruined neighborhoods. While civilization might offer me more in the way of supplies, I decide to return to the forest to make up for yesterday, this time intending to keep my kill instead of giving it away in an act of complete imbecility.
It is only about a two-mile walk to the edge of the woods. Over the past six years, nature has spread far past the barriers human existence once placed on it, reclaiming lost territory. Tall grass and creeping vines grow on and around most remaining buildings, and deer and foxes roam about streets they would never have dared to wander during the era of man. On several occasions I have had small birds and ani
mals of prey scamper right past me as if I wasn’t even there. The wilderness no longer fears man, not when there are barely any men left to fear.
I cross into the wooded depths, listening attentively to the whimsical melodies of birds in the treetops, the chatter of squirrels, the gentle yap of a fox somewhere in the distance, and the rhythmical tapping of a woodpecker’s beak against a tree. These noises create a symphony of nature around me, and I feel at peace as the sweet music passes through my ears. This was what it was like hundreds of years ago, before industrialization and the great demolition of the wilderness in the name of man and all his aspirations.
The forest is alive with prey today, so I set up five snares in the hopes of catching at least one creature to eat for dinner. When that is done, I move downwind so the animals won’t be repelled by my scent, find a place to sit between the roots of an oak tree, and crack open a can of pears. As I eat, three wood mice scurry by. They’re so close that I could reach out and snatch one if I wanted, but they barely seem to notice me. It’s almost funny how I can be viewed as such a menace by people, but then travel two miles into the woods and become no more of a threat than the wind or the trees. The sight of me does not instill fear in these creatures. They do not panic or cry when I enter their habitat. I am a predator, sure, but there are predators everywhere, and nearly every animal is prey to something. They have become so accustomed to the cycle of life that death does not surprise them as it does humans.
The sound of a twig breaking nearby causes me to whip my head around. Heavy tramping follows. No animal would blunder so carelessly. Drawing my swords, I crouch behind my oak tree, peering around it just enough to see without being seen. A group of four stands a few yards away, three female and one male. Their ages appear to vary from mid-forties to late teens, but they don’t appear to be related. Each is armed with a rifle and a knife, making it easy to guess their purpose here. Although their group is too small for them to be a gang, it is possible that they are a faction of one.
I remain hidden as the leader, the woman in her forties, halts the others with a swift flick of her hand and motions toward an unsuspecting deer grazing in the distance. She aims her rifle as the others watch tensely, awaiting the kill. Before I can blink, a deafening shot rings out, sending the birds flying and the wood mice scurrying for cover. Fucking puta, I won’t catch shit now.
Luckily for them, the woman hit her target. The four of them hurry over to where the young buck lies dead with shouts of excitement and praise for the huntress. I half expect them to begin butchering the deer right there, but instead they string it up and begin dragging it away. The fact that the woman used her rifle only confirms my suspicion that they belong to a gang, so I decide to trail them at a safe distance to see where they go.
I follow a few dozen paces behind them as they trample loudly about, alerting every animal and insect in the area of their presence. Sticking mainly to the foliage, I creep silently to remain unnoticed. As they drag the bloody buck behind them, they screech and holler with joy and bloodlust.
“We gonna eat good tonight!” cries the man as he jumps up and down gleefully. “I can’t wait to see the looks on they faces when they see what we got.”
“Boss is gonna be real happy with us when he sees this beaut of a buck,” says the youngest girl, clapping her hands wildly.
“Do you think this is going to be enough for the group?” asks the huntress in an accent much subtler than those of her peers. “I mean, sure, it’s a big one alright, but do you really think it can feed the whole lot of us?”
The whole lot of us. So they are part of a gang, and a pretty large one at that, it seems. I wonder if they could be associated with the gang Ivy’s mother mentioned. It’s pretty likely considering their close proximity to the house; gangs generally spread out so they don’t encroach on each other’s territory, so it’s rare to find two different groups in the same area. I decide it is probably a bad idea to follow these people much farther; if I were to trail them to their camp, the chances of being spotted would increase exponentially.
But the deer looks tempting. I could easily catch up and dispatch them without making enough noise to alert anyone else in the area. With the way they’re frolicking about, they would never know what hit them. It would be over in just a few seconds. A few seconds and I would have an entire buck, four hunting knives and rifles, and whatever other supplies they might be carrying. There would be no wrong in doing it, either, because they are gang members and gang members are never good people.
Then again, what use could I possibly have for an entire buck? I could never finish it on my own, and there’s no point in letting good meat spoil. Besides, say I did decide to attack, what’s to say they won’t notice me approaching and send out a warning signal to the others? I could end up just like that woman’s husband and son, and for what? They can keep their deer. It isn’t worth the risk.
After following them for about half a mile, I decide their camp is far enough away that it won’t be much of a problem. Marking the area in my mind as a potential danger zone, I vow to stay far away from it. As I double back to check on my snares, I realize there is a very slim chance that I have caught anything. I should have killed those assholes just for destroying my chances of finding a decent meal.
But when I return to my traps, I find I am in luck—four out of five of the snares have captured something—a rare occurrence. I kill the struggling and squealing animals one by one and tie them each to my belt. Three squirrels and another hare make up todays winnings. It’s more food than I know what to do with; there’s no way I’ll be able to eat everything. For a moment I think of that young girl, Ivy, and of her haggard face and gaunt figure. I remember her thin, bony arms as I look at my thick, muscular ones and her frail body that is practically half the width of mine. Given the chance, she could survive—I know she could. My father gave me that chance when I was her age, so maybe it’s up to me to do the same for her. I fed her yesterday, sure, but could that really be considered helping, or was it simply an act of charity? Before I have time to change my mind, my feet carry me in the direction of the small green shack.
Chapter 9
I will offer them the three squirrels. That will be enough to feed them for the rest of the day, possibly even well into tomorrow. Then maybe I will give the girl one of my knives—I have ten of them; surely I can make do with nine. I could give Ivy and her brother a quick lesson on the best time of day to go on supply runs and how to avoid being seen. I could show them how to defend themselves against someone twice their size. I could make Ivy into a survivor, and maybe even her brother and mother too. It would only take a day for them to learn. I could leave there tomorrow confident that I have given Ivy the same help my father gave me.
The sun is just beginning to set as I travel the three or so miles back to the house. By the time I reach it, dusk has spread its deep violet hue like a blot of poison upon the darkening sky. I recognize the red door and ugly green color of the cape even in the dimming light. It looks just as I have left it—not a creature seems to stir within. I decide not to startle them this time and knock to alert them of my presence. As I strike my fist against the door, it swings open slightly, but no one greets me. I call out to identify myself, but no one calls back. Slowly and quietly, I draw my guns; the feeling that something is wrong is too strong to ignore. I slip in silently, unsure of what I will find, but prepared for a fight.
As I enter the living room, I see that the cabinet doors have all been flung open and one of the five chairs is overturned. Not a single can of food sits on the shelves.
“Hello?” I call again. “Anybody home?”
All is quiet in the house. They must have taken all their supplies and left. Maybe something spooked them, or maybe my visit yesterday showed them how vulnerable they were here. I sigh as I take a seat in one of the chairs. I’ll never know what happened to them now—if the mother lived to have her baby, if the children ever learned to fend for themselves,
if Ivy became the survivor she had the potential to be. But maybe it’s better this way. I mean look at me, returning to this family’s house to feed them. What was I thinking coming here? Sure, I could have given them my squirrels, could have taught them what I know, but then what? Would I have stayed longer than just today? Would I have developed feelings for them, cared for them? These questions send shivers down my spine. I do not care about people. I can’t. Nothing good ever comes from caring about people. Putting my guns on the table, I place my head in my hands and stare at the floor as I curse myself for being so damn stupid.
I have resolved to get up and leave when something catches my eye. A single scarlet drop sits on the dark wood floor, barely visible in the dim light. At first I am not even sure if I have seen it right, but I spot another one a few inches away, and then suddenly there is a trail of them leading into the next room. I pick up my guns and slink on tiptoes, following the red drops. As I round the corner to the next room, a long sigh escapes my mouth as I rest my back against the wall and take in the scene.
Two bodies, one of a little boy not more than six years old and the other of a young pregnant woman, lie mangled and bloody. The mother’s eyes are still open, but the light in them is long gone. In her limp fist is the same blade she had threatened me with only yesterday. From what I can tell, the fatal wound was the large gash across her stomach, like someone thrust a knife through her pregnant belly. Directly behind her is the child—Oliver. He sits slumped over with a slit throat, drenched in his own blood and probably that of his mother too. The gray walls, the wood floor, and even the white lace curtains contain the evidence of this massacre. I walk through the sticky crimson pools to examine the bodies closer. The metallic stink of the blood hangs thick in the air, so heavy it is almost suffocating. I crouch down and touch the mother—Angelica—I touch Angelica and feel her cold, pale cheek. I press my finger firmly into the red and purple spots on her body—a trick my father taught me to determine time of death—but the areas do not discolor; she has been dead for more than twelve hours now. She couldn’t have been killed long after I left. Whoever did this must have seen the smoke from the fire used to cook the hare coming up the chimney. And I had given them that hare thinking I was saving their lives, not ending them.
The Deadly Nightshade Page 4
