Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3)

by Damien Angelica Walters

  “Do you believe she loved him?”

  Sugarsin tossed her hairbrush in the bag. “Do you think he loved her?”

  “I should think so, at least to some extent.”

  “Not enough,” she said.

  “Enough, though, to make her a queen.”

  “But not enough to keep him from having her head cut off when he grew tired of her—what a nice guy—but you already know this. It’s in your programming.”

  He smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “On light pretexts, by false accusations, they made me put to death the most faithful servant I ever had.”

  Sugarsin smiled. “Good King Hal said that after he had Cromwell’s head chopped off.”

  “A terrible mistake, that, and one he regretted for the rest of his days.”

  “Well, he made quite a few mistakes during his reign,” she said.

  “Why do you think it so?”

  She tapped one finger against her chin. “Because he had absolute power. If someone said or did something he didn’t like, he had their heads cut off or their guts torn open.”

  Henry nodded. “No one should have that sort of power. Over anyone.” He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Are there many like me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are there many Henrys like me?”

  She shook her head. “No, you weren’t a popular model.”

  “And why is that, pray tell?”

  Sugarsin zipped up her bag and turned to face Henry. The overhead light gave his eyes a mirror-like shine. “Because you’re sort of an ass.”

  “Hmmph. Why did they make me that way?”

  “They try to be as realistic as possible with the programming. I mean, if someone wants Elvis, they want him, not just a lookalike. They can go to Vegas for that.”

  “Is Elvis popular?”

  “Very.”

  “I take it as a personal affront that a singer is more popular than a king. Especially one such as I.”

  “And there you go. Arrogance isn’t attractive, even for a false king.”

  “How presumptuous, then, are you, to find fault with your Prince.”

  Sugarsin groaned, picked up her bag, and pushed past him.

  §

  When she got home, Henry was already in the spare bedroom with the door shut. Sugarsin lay awake for a long time watching shadows playdance on the ceiling. The weight of another person’s presence, even an artificial one, hung heavy in the air.

  §

  She bought him new clothes and took him to the park. Perfect, beautiful children were running in circles, their mothers, all enhanced in some fashion, busy calling out names and setting up picnic lunches.

  They sat below a willow tree, half-hidden by the branches. He watched the children play, laughing at their antics. After a time, he turned. Smiled. “Do you wish to have children?”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  Below the children’s round, cherubic cheeks, high cheekbones waited. Below their slim torsos, perfect curves for the girls and wide shoulders for the boys. And if anything didn’t turn out quite right, doctors were ready and willing to add or subtract where needed.

  She thought of her mother. The secret bottles stashed under the sofa; the liquor-slap of hands before Sugarsin learned how to avoid them; the drunken slurs and at times, the strange men who wandered in and out of her mother’s life, ignoring her young daughter, if said daughter was lucky.

  “I’m not the motherly type.”

  “Why have you neither husband nor lover?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Because I choose not to.”

  “Most people wish to have a companion, no?”

  “I suppose so, but I prefer to be alone.”

  “But now you have me.”

  “Yes, but you’re not real.”

  He said nothing in return.

  §

  She woke in the middle of the night, twisted in her sheets. Henry stood by her bed.

  “I do not wish to be an ass,” he said.

  Sugarsin wiped sleep from her eyes. “What?”

  “I would like not to be a king, even a false one.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No matter. I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep,” he said, and closed her door.

  By morning, she’d convinced herself it had been a dream; she found a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen and a note next to her coffee mug.

  I’ve gone for a walk.

  H.

  He returned several hours later and without a word, went upstairs to his bedroom and shut the door with a quiet click. She curled up on the sofa with a book, but closed it after a few pages and turned on a movie instead.

  §

  She didn’t see him at all the following day, although she heard him moving about in his room, and before she left for work, she knocked on his door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Quite so,” he said.

  She returned home several hours later to find Henry waiting in the living room. He handed her a glass of wine and sat next to her, silent, while she drank. Once the glass was empty, he led her upstairs and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. “Good night,” he whispered before disappearing into his room.

  She gave a small laugh and climbed into bed.

  §

  Another note sat on the kitchen counter.

  I’ve gone out.

  H.

  He returned with a bouquet of flowers, and presented them to her with a low bow.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You are most welcome.”

  He cooked her dinner, using recipes he found online.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked, after he led her to the table.

  “No occasion at all,” he said and poured her a glass of wine. “I wanted to cook for you, so I did.”

  After she ate, he took her hand. “Walk with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside. In the fresh air.”

  They ended up in the park, walking in aimless circles where they’d watched the children play. On their way home, she stumbled on a bit of cracked pavement; he caught her before she fell to the ground and kept his arm around her the rest of the way home.

  When they shut the front door behind them, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. He tasted of lemons. They walked upstairs together, but he pushed her gently into her room and shut the door between them.

  §

  He liked to brush her hair and when the strands were tangle free, run his fingers through it over and over again. He whispered to her in French, laughing at her frustration when he wouldn’t translate, wrote poem after poem, and read Shakespeare aloud, an anachronism she found amusing. He made her desserts topped with whipped cream. He massaged her back and shoulders when she got home from work.

  One night, after a game of Scrabble, she took his hand and led him upstairs into her room. Later, in the dark, she rested her head on his chest listening to the absence of a heartbeat.

  “Are you going to be an ass now that you’ve gotten me into your bed?” she whispered.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Milady, we are in your bed.”

  She slept a dreamless sleep, and in the morning, he brought her a cup of coffee exactly the way she liked it.

  Sugarsin smiled on the outside and trembled on the in.

  §

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Lulu called from the doorway.

  Sugarsin looked up from the mirror, a tube of eyeliner in her hand. “A customer?”

  “I don’t think so. At least I’ve never seen him here before. He’s tall with reddish hair?”

  Sugarsin’s hands curled into fists. Maybe Lulu was mistaken. The dressing room door slid shut behind her without a sound. She stepped into the hallway and paused before the curtain, peeking out between the panels.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  She tightened the sash around her robe and stepped out
into the club, dodging offers of drinks as she moved to Henry’s table.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I wanted to see where you worked.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I walked, of course.”

  “Okay, well this is where I work. You can go home now.”

  “I would like to see you dance.”

  “No. Not here like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is my job, okay?”

  “I do not understand.”

  She lowered her voice. “I don’t want people to see you here.”

  A bouncer came over to the table. “Is there a problem here?” He folded his arms over his chest, his brass-plated knuckles gleaming under the lights.

  “No, there’s no problem. He was just leaving.”

  Henry lifted his chin, but stood up. He gave her a curt bow. “Good evening, both of you.”

  “New boyfriend?” The bouncer asked when he walked away.

  “No. He’s no one. No one at all.”

  §

  She didn’t speak a word to Henry when she got home, simply walked in and went upstairs to her bedroom. When the door clicked shut, a cold chill traced its way up her spine. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and felt his presence just beyond the door.

  “What have I done to anger you so?”

  “Nothing.”

  Everything.

  She flipped the lock and waited until he walked away.

  §

  “I wish you would speak to me. I love you.”

  She bit back a laugh.

  “What is so amusing?”

  “You’re a robot, okay? You aren’t real. You can’t fall in love. Did you really think we were going to walk off into the sunset together?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why are you so afraid to feel?”

  She stalked out of the room, her hands shaking.

  He came up behind her later while she stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the shadows in the yard. His arms wrapped around her, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  “I am sorry I upset you.”

  Tears blurred her vision. She never should have taken him out of the house or let him into her bed or make her breakfast. It had to be a default in his programming. He couldn’t possibly feel. It was a cruel joke.

  “If I were real, would you let me in?” he whispered.

  But she didn’t want anyone to let anyone in, real or not. That led only to tears and heartache and loneliness.

  She turned and rested her head on his shoulder. The tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hands curved around his back, and she ran her fingers over the spot concealing the on/off switch. One push would turn him back into a statue. Into nothing.

  No one should have that sort of power over anyone.

  One little push.

  Running Empty in a

  Land of Decay

  The first few miles of any run are the hardest. Your muscles protest and your lungs scream, but once you push past all the hurt, you get to the good part, the part where the world zips by in bright flashes of color and your conscious thoughts fade away. In that zone, you hear, but don’t hear; see, but don’t see. You breathe in and out, moving forward. Moving on. You might even try to catch that elusive four-minute mile. You don’t look back or pause to gaze at the scenery. You just head for that finish line, whether it’s an actual line, a mile marker, or the end of a street.

  When I run now, with the pedometer clicking away the steps and the miles, I pretend everything is normal. I pretend I’m not running away, even though there’s nothing left to run away from.

  But I can’t turn off my thoughts anymore.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of the dead. Months, maybe a year, maybe longer than that. Hard to tell; time is funny now. They’re nothing more than a few scraps of putrescent flesh lingering here and there. They came with limited mileage, like running shoes.

  It’s been even longer since I’ve seen anyone alive.

  The streets here are clear. No cars. No rotting bodies. No potholes. My feet keep moving, the rhythm steady and sure.

  Mike always said running was my obsession. That obsession saved my life more than once. More than the gun I still carry in my backpack, even though I don’t need it anymore. Curse me for a fool, even when all I saw were bodies, bloodstains on pavement, and torn clothing blowing in the wind like farewell handkerchiefs, I kept running, hoping I’d find someone else.

  And then I didn’t have a reason to stop.

  Mike and I survived the first few months barricaded in our apartment. A lot of folks left San Francisco in the beginning; most of the dead followed suit, following the food source. We took turns making supply runs, up until the day he came back with a bite on his arm. I pretended he was immune and wouldn’t die, but he wasn’t and he did.

  When Mike reopened his eyes, he wasn’t there. The stranger wearing his face staggered toward me, all gnashing teeth and furious hunger.

  I shot him in the head. I could barely see through my tears, but I didn’t hesitate. He’d made me promise not to.

  Before he fell to the floor, I saw a flash of the real Mike deep inside; for one quick second, his open mouth wasn’t a gaping maw of destruction, but a smile.

  At least I’d like to think so.

  It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does, nothing except my shoes hitting the pavement, one after the other, and the breeze, thick with the salt tang of the ocean.

  I left my original pair of shoes, flecked with blood and gore, next to Mike’s body. I picked up this pair a couple of hundred miles back. Funny how no one touched the running stores; I guess they didn’t realize the importance of good shoes.

  I’ve left shoes along the way, every three hundred miles or so, always with the scuffed toes pointing east. I left one pair on the edge of an empty water fountain in Utah, another next to a cornfield in Kansas, and still another by a railroad track in Missouri. I left the pair that gave me a blister in Kentucky, right before I crossed into Virginia.

  I forget where I left the others. It’s hard to keep track. Everything is the same: empty streets, vacant houses with broken windows, the awful silence.

  And the sick-sweet stink of rot.

  Except here. The breeze floats by again. Salt and sea. No decay. I pick up my pace. It’s not a four-minute mile or even a fiver, but it’s brisk enough.

  I should’ve left notes in the shoes, so anyone who found them would at least know my name. Except there’s no one left. I know that, even when I pretend I don’t.

  The roar of the waves crashes in on the quiet, a lullaby beckoning me forward. I’ve never seen the Atlantic Ocean in person. I know it’s colder than the Pacific and grey-green instead of blue, but there are no memories here. No Mike, no gunshot echoing off the plaster walls, no running from the dead with their bloody mouths and reaching hands, and no useless hope.

  I sit down on the curb, my muscles quivering, and unlace my shoes. My last pair. I leave my socks and the pedometer on the pavement and tie my shoelaces together in a double knot. I set them next to the socks, but after a few seconds, pick them back up. What’s the point?

  A knot tightens in my chest; tears blur my vision. I scramble to my feet. With a shout, I throw the shoes up, over my shoulder. A series of dull taps fills the air.

  I spin around.

  Caught by the laces, the shoes are hanging from a dead power line, swaying back and forth.

  I was here, they say.

  And no one will ever know.

  I turn away, the tears flowing down my cheeks. Eventually the laces will rot and the shoes will fall. I hope they land pointing in the right direction.

  The sand, warm and cool at the same time, slips between my toes as I make my way across the beach, walking now, not running. The water shimmers in the sunlight. Maybe it will wash everything away. All the miles. All the blood. All the hurt.

  After that, maybe I’l
l move into one of the beach houses, gather supplies and books, and relax for a decade or three. Or maybe I’ll stay in the water and head out until the waves spill over my head. Until the undertow tugs me away.

  I don’t know.

  But I’m not running anymore.

  Scarred

  Violet carved her hate into her flesh one name at a time.

  Her skin was riddled with scars, some barely visible, others dark and ruddy. The oldest, the first name, was on her right ankle, above the knobby bone. It revealed a halting progress, with many gaps in between the lines and curves.

  He suffered for a long time.

  §

  Anthony looked up from his dinner plate and smiled. “This is really good, babe.”

  “Thank you. I wanted to make something special for tonight.”

  The cooking classes were her idea. Anthony had been worried about the knives, of course, although he hadn’t said anything with his mouth. Only with his eyes. The first time his hand had touched one of her scars, he’d paused, his eyes curious. Concerned.

  She’d looked down at her hands. “I had a…problem when I was younger, but I’m better now.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “Nothing,” she’d said. “Nothing at all.”

  A breeze blew in through the open windows, fluttering the curtains, and the late spring air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Children’s voices called out, and their neighbor’s dog barked several times, a deep, growling sort of bark. She and Anthony grimaced at the same time, caught each other, and smiled.

  “Happy anniversary, babe,” he said.

  “Happy anniversary.”

  She smiled and twisted the ring on her finger. The year had passed so quickly, yet seemed a lifetime. Anthony had asked her to marry him on their sixth date. Crazy, perhaps, because they’d barely known each other, but she’d said yes without a second thought. Three weeks later, they were standing hand in hand in the courthouse promising forever, a promise she intended to keep.

  Mrs. Anthony Cardno was a good person.

  But Violet isn’t, and you know it.

  That wasn’t true. She was a good person. Sometimes she got…lost. That was all. But it was all in the past. She was better now. So much better.