“Why do you always write in that thing?” Genny’s annoyed voice signals that the nightly “I’m bored” routine is about to start.
“Why do you always ask me obvious questions?” I close the newest addition to the growing catalog of notebooks as journals that I keep. At first, I looted them as needed for kindling for fires and the many other of life’s necessities that the proper paper items are becoming in short supply. Over time however, they became an escape. A place to jot down what stores were already empty, what places were overrun and where the most unsavory have claimed as their own. I used them to make lists to keep my mind focused when the panic struggled to take over. I used them to make plans should we become in danger. Now I just use them to unburden the thoughts that I can’t share with Genny.
“Um, because there is no one else to talk to around here?” Genny’s comment holds more meaning for me than it does for her. This is not how a sixteen-year-old should be living. Her long brown hair is held high in a throw together of a thick bun style. Strands of hair have escaped, framing her face and long neck. They hang limp without their normal shine and bounce from the recent lack of washing to which her hair was accustomed. Her clothes, a possession that once defined her and her friends, show the abuse of constant wearing with faded colors and shredding.
Friends that she used to spend hours with on the phone texting and calling, making me dread each phone bill, are no longer surrounding her with conversations and laughter. I know sometimes when her mind wanders she is wondering if they are held up somewhere like this unsure of what the future brings, too. This is not the life I had planned for her, and as her mother, I can’t help but feel guilty over her misery.
“That is not true. Mr. Welton over there looks bored to death. I’m sure he would love to hear your positive outlook on life.” My horrible humor is met with an eye roll that would strike a lesser person with shame. As a mother though, I am immune to eye rolls, stomping of feet and slamming of doors.
“I can always call Ginjer over?” It is more of a threat than a question and it has its desired results.
“So tell me Mr. Welton, how do you enjoy your darker mahogany over the plain light pine of your relative here?” Genny drops her voice to a mockery of a serious debate, her face matching the false, dedicated tone. She nods and responds with a deep fascination to the pretend conversation and I smile. Her mood swings can bring me to fits of frustration, but at least she can still find the humor of this life.
I should feel ashamed of using Ginjer as a joke to avoid dealing with a teen’s mood swing, but I have done much greater sins to preserve my survival and sanity than ridiculing my past employer. I used to clean houses to help the days between paychecks seem less bare with the constant demands of supporting a “me generation” youth. This need is how I met the woman that filled my weekends with hidden laughter over her comments about life. Ginjer, with a “J”, as she would always introduce herself as if that made it sound more exotic and herself more important. Neither of which are true.
Ginjer was one of my main “clients”. Her home was always spotless, but it looked better for the neighbors to see a service, as she called me, to come once a week. I was never really there to clean for everything already had its perfect place. I do believe she would measure the spacing between items after I left just to be sure nothing was ever amiss. I was there to fill the long hours of privileged, housewife boredom.
The tanned and toned Goddess did not have children to run amok, smearing prints along polished surfaces. Just a designer dog with more clothes than Genny and I owned put together and a husband who traveled a lot, allowing way too much alone time for Ginjer. I often wondered if that was why the screws were so loose with her thinking or if the privileged really just have a different set of mental tools to work with; a set of much duller tools.
After Allen killed himself on my porch, the images of the many bloody survivors filling the hospital beds with wide eyes and torn limbs began showing up on the televisions. With its tall, scrolling, metal-gated driveway and various vacant rooms, her house seemed like the perfect place to stay until we could figure out what was really going on. When she met us at the gate wearing garlic bulbs like strands of pearls, a spray bottle of Holy Water and had us “help” her remember the Lord’s prayer to be sure we were who we claimed to be, I had started to rethink the idea. I do have to commend the woman for having every legend of lore antidote memorized, though. If she had had silver bullets, she may have shot us.
We had stayed there, the three of us and Mintzy her dog, until the looting had begun, not willing to risk our lives for the no longer valuables the home stored. She stays five “houses” down now in a more established crypt and yes, as if anyone should ever come visit, the original occupants are all perfectly arranged.
“The nights are getting colder.” My voice breaks into the one-sided exchange Genny was holding. “Think any of them are wearing jackets?”
“Mom, that is disgusting! They are wearing them!” Even trained to keep our voices at a lowered hush, she can still reach the octaves of perfect teen disapproval.
“Correct. They are wearing them, but not using them. We can do both.” I have already been eying the different wooden caskets in their stone archways of rooms for which one looks the most recent, providing the best clothing durability.
“I am really not okay with this. Can you at least wait until morning? When the sun is out?” Genny stands watching me, hugging herself under the few rays of natural light that penetrate the building’s roof-top skylight. Her insecurity over the thought of me opening the coffins takes years from her, reminding me of the small girl that once held my hand as we examined the closets for monsters before bedtime.
“Would you feel better about it, then?” I ask her, trying to let her know that what we do now we do because we have to, not because we want to.
“I wouldn’t feel worse,” She tells me, happy to have avoided doing this under the moon’s watch when horrible things feel so much more dangerous.
I nod, agreeing to wait until the sun’s warmth can chase away the heebie-jeebies for us both.
“Let’s just get some sleep. There is a store that is not crossed off yet that I want to explore tomorrow.” I hold my voice to a neutral pitch, refusing to let her gather any hope from my words. I know what this store holds will not bring me the thank yous and hugs that finding the stash of youth-themed magazines had.
Genny offers no come back of exasperated efforts at the thought of having to “raid” tomorrow. It only proves to me how unsettling the idea of clothes hunting from the dead is to her. I wish I had the luxury not to be unsettled by the things I have had to do, but I don’t. Luxury was something I never had before and I don’t have it now. Now I have the very real fact of a child I must protect from a world that I do not understand.
We settle into the arched alcove we have claimed as our bedroom. Together we had cleared out the cobweb-hugged coffins in this space, using them as a barrier between the open archway and us. We truly sleep under the shadow of the dead, hiding from the dead, with our shredded blankets and limp pillows protecting us from the cold cement floor.
The last thought that always escorts me to sleep finds me again with the guilt that it always carries. This is not the way a sixteen-year-old should be living.
Chapter 3
There is a noise. A sharp, annoying, persistent noise reaching through the walls of our “home”. It reminds me of my neighbor’s yapper and it must mean that she has let it out for its morning duty. The alarm clock will be going off soon signaling the start of my day with blaring rudeness. I stretch, keeping my eyes closed, under the thick blanket of my comforter that I refuse to give up no matter the season. Some things just should not be left up to debate for a groundhog.
Something feels wrong, though. There are no more alarm clocks. The bed barely holds any warmth and the mattress is firmer than I remember.
My comforter that was my snuggle buddy has lost a lot of its weight, making it thin and depressing. The room seems darker than normal behind my closed eyelids, making me wonder exactly what time it is.
“Mom,” And Genny is in bed with me, which seems only to add to my confusion. Confusion lifts from me with the force of slamming into a brick wall when I remember everything. The wall of my panic, sold and forceful jolts me awake.
“Mom, is that Mintzy?” Genny’s voice trembles with fear. The dog only barks at strangers. Someone is in the cemetery with us. At least I hope it is a “someone”.
If I open our door, it will give away our hiding spot to whoever, or whatever, is out there. If I don’t open our door, and Ginjer is in trouble, I can’t help her. The very fact of no windows to keep us safe is now keeping us blind.
Do I risk the safety of my daughter for the benefit of a friend? If I don’t, and something does happen to Ginjer, will I be able to live with it? If I do, and something happens to Genny, will I be able to live with that?
“What are you doing?” My mind is racing with imagined events and Genny’s panic-filled hissing does not help to settle the images.
“I can’t open the door. They will find us if I go out there. They may find you.” Even to myself, my words sound like a coward.
“You don’t even know if someone is out there. Mintzy could just be barking because Mrs. Ginjer is hurt.” Her voice rises in octaves with each word. She is ashamed of me, but if it keeps her safe, I can live with it.
“The only time that dog barks is if someone comes around it doesn’t know. The damn thing just sat there when Ginjer laid on the floor for three hours after falling down the stairs trying to figure out which heels to wear to a party. Someone is out there.” I try to fill my voice with anger to back her arguments down, but I recognize that fire in her eyes. After all, she got it from me.
“If you do not go out there, I will.” Genny’s steady voice matches the look in her eyes. If it were anyone else, I would call their bluff, but it is not. It is Genny. I once admired her backbone and bravery, but right now, I find it rather mistimed and misguided.
“I’ll go, but you stay.” I tell her because caving to her demands seems easier than sitting on her to keep her safe.
“No, I’m going, too.” Her desire to join me is more from her fear of being left here alone than her need to save anyone. That fire of a fighter that was in her eyes is now flickering with uncertainty and losing its glow.
“That is not the deal. I go. You stay. Or we both stay. You choose.” Leaving the option of life or death in the hands of a teenager may not seem fair, but nothing is really fair anymore. If Genny is to survive now, she has to start thinking for herself. Truth is that I may not always be around to help her or counsel her decisions.
“I’ll stay.” It is a whisper of consent.
“If I don’t make it back,” My words cause her jaw to drop with shock, “listen, if I don’t make it back, take the green notebook for a list of stores that we have not yet checked. The purple notebook has escape plans for getting out of the city without being seen. Avoid the main roads. You need to remember this, Genny. Can you do that?”
“I won’t need to. You’ll come back, Mom. It may just be a raccoon or something and here you are going all doomsday on me.” Genny hugs herself, trying to convince herself of her words as much as she is me.
“Hunney, I went “all doomsday” months ago, but I really do hope it is just a raccoon.” I place a kiss on the top of her forehead and grab the last flashlight left to us. If I am going out to meet my death, I want to see it coming.
With hinges that no longer fully support the weight, the stone door grates along its porch when I swing it open. The sound seems to be louder than I remember. It shouts without words into the night Look, we have another one over here for all to hear. Mintzy’s barking is rapid and clipped. It echoes in the night air giving it the illusion that it never ends.
From where I stand, peering though the sliver of a crack of our door, I can see down the row of many family crypts. The moon is high but not full, providing the shadows with the ability to grow tall and menacing. There is nothing that quite inspires bravery in a person like the dark, thick shadows of a graveyard.
Refusing to turn my back on the shrouded darkness, I close the stone door of my new home with my back, filling my head with the pleadings for it only to be a raccoon. I used to think I was brave. I would creep down hallways with a wooden baseball bat raised high overhead, investigating odd sounds in the night in our house. I would walk with my head high and the metal keys of my car wedged between the fingers of my fist through dark parking lots after long hours at work. As I stand here, shaking to my core, I know that anything I may have encountered then has no comparison to the monsters I may meet now.
My tennis shoes seem to have developed an amazing skill of finding every limb or dry leaf. They send the sounds of their betrayal into the air. My feet seem to stumble over raised roots or uneven cement edges that I have never noticed until now. It would be almost comedic if it were another, not myself, creeping through the tall stone crypts searching for what is going bump in the night. Being as it is me, I don’t find any of it funny. What I find when I finally reach Ginjer’s “home” is even less of a gag reel and of course, it is not a raccoon.
“Why can’t it ever be a raccoon?” I ask myself from my shadowed shelter.
There are three of them illuminated in the dark by the provided moonlight. They are standing still with only their heads moving and I know from watching these monsters work that they are trying to find a way inside. They are not mindlessly beating on the door like you would expect. They do not moan or make unnecessary noises giving clues to their next move or nature. They are more frightening to watch than any movie screen has ever provided, because they are plotting, thinking and waiting for the answers to come to them. Answers that always do.
Their clothing still looks new, missing the signs of numerous attacks upon others. I hope this means that they are not as adept at death as some of the others have been. A skill they seem to pick up on well by stalking us as they now try to watch Mintzy through the stone walls with their dedicated stares. Their heads follow the barking dog as it runs up and down the wall from the inside and I wonder why Ginjer has done nothing to silence him. As their heads turn to me following the dog’s path, I realize my mistake at being lost in thoughts for another when my own life is at risk.
I know the moment they become aware of me with their eyes sliding along the stone pathway to me. I know because one of them growls from the depths of his throat. He seems to smile at me and my spine goes to water with the sight. We are in a stand-off, each waiting to see what the other will do now that they have discovered me. Their bodies are held stiff and ridged, ready for the attack if I should attempt to run. Their eyes survey me, looking for a weakness and a threat that may harm them. I hold none and they know it. Their resolve for victory makes my heart thud so loudly I am sure they can hear it.
If I turn to run, I will lead them back to Genny. That is not a risk that I am willing to take, but I know I will not survive if I attempt to fight them in the open like this. I have seen what they have done to grown men twice my size with no effort. They are stronger than I am. I am alone, making me that much more vulnerable, but they don’t have a child to protect like I do. That fact alone is what provides me with the need to live each day. It provides me with the strength to fight for each day.
I know that if I don’t run, they won’t run. They prefer to stalk their prey, drawing out the death either for their pleasure or with hopes to tire us out, making us easier to kill. They have all the patience, because they have all the time. They do not become scared, or frightened of things that may happen resulting in plans destroyed by panic. They keep their emotions in check until the last moment, right before they attack. That last moment that is always our death and their de
light.
I need a plan and I need one now. They are already figuring out how to take me down and are spreading out to surround me. They will not rush me like a pack of wild dogs. They communicate somehow, silently, bringing down their prey with group precision. I have become the center of focus for this group and with each of their steps forward, I feel one of mine backwards.
My feet stumble where theirs glide. My body grows sweaty with panic while they stay calm. My mind is racing as I look for anything I may use against them, or for a way out, I find nothing and then it finally happens. I trigger their attack.
Tripping over a hidden step that lies in deep shadows, I feel my body tumble backwards. Lightning flashes in my mind when my head bounces off the cement, blinding me with pain. I sense their shadows over me, jolting me conscious for the attack. The first male launches his body over mine, almost like a shield from the others, but it is not chivalry. He just wants the first bite.
His hot breath rolls over my face, turning my head from the weight of its rankness. His skin is perfect, unmarred by death and such a contrast to how monsters appear in fiction. His desires match those monsters perfectly though with his jaw wide and eyes blaring with hate. There is no confusing what he is as he struggles against me.
My extended arms brace the flashlight between my hands, using its metal as a guard against his mouth. His hands tear into my clothing, trying to pull me to him. With thin ribbons of pain, I can feel his nails discovering my flesh. The smell of my blood will cause them to fight harder amongst themselves for me; for any small morsel of my warm flesh that they can scrape free. I am running out of time. I need that plan, now.
The Risen: Remnants Page 2
