by Logan Keys
When I get to the bottom, having taken several rungs at a time, I snag her arm, lifting her off of her toes. Joelle hisses, showing long, lethal fangs.
She struggles not to bite me, and she’s paler than pale, face drawn. She must be starving. I shake Joelle’s frail body, making her canines clack together. “I oughta throw you overboard, Jo! What in God’s name are you doing here!”
A few tears leak out from her closed eyes, and her bottom lip quivers, threatening to puncture itself on the needles that refuse to retract being so near . . . food. “I thought . . . I should . . . come.”
I shake her again, eliciting more hisses. “Are you crazy? That is absolutely insane. What have you been eating?”
She wriggles free and falls onto her bottom in a clumsy movement so unlike the little graceful vamp. “I brought enough.”
“It’s been a month.”
“I know. I’ve been with the equipment. No one goes down there. But I’m out, Tommy. I’d only planned for a few weeks. That’s why I came above. I’m sorry, okay? I was scared when I heard the explosions. And I worried about you, too. But then I started to smell . . . people. . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the fear that could overtake my sense of duty. “Look, you’ve gone without food for a while before. Get back with the cargo and ride this can to Sweden. Will you do that? You’re practically indestructible, even without food, right? And don’t come out again, not for anything, you hear me? Should be a shorter trip home. Can you make it two more weeks?”
She hesitates at first, but then she sits straighter and nods. It’s obvious her ride as a stowaway has been harder on her than she’d planned for.
“Promise me,” I say.
Joelle wipes her eyes. “I can do it. I promise.”
I hug her goodbye again, then leave without looking back.
She doesn’t call for me. My little Jo-Jo is growing up, doing her part in this struggle.
And now I have to do mine.
When I hop into my boat, I notice Vero waits, eyeing me with concern. But I avoid her gaze and dump us into the water with a splash.
The green water churns around our little boat while the orange sky starts to clear, revealing dark, circling shapes.
I point us toward shore with a sinking feeling that has nothing to do with zombies.
I tell myself Joelle’s a tough gal. She’s more monster than innocent little girl. But she’s my monster.
And I’d just left her behind . . . again.
— 63 —
Uptown, the fighting’s even more fierce; overturned vehicles sit burning, with guards hanging out of the windows and doors.
But their retaliation had been greater.
Citizens litter the pavement, faces frozen in surprise where they’d fallen. Smaller bodies amidst the devastation force me to stare at the back of the headrest instead.
We drive north into “plastic” territory, then up to a building with the Authority’s insignia at the apex. This must be their headquarters.
Despite my confusion, they pull me from the car, hands still bound in front, and bring me over to a waiting group.
Two people with familiar faces—Reginald and Karma Cromwell—stand there like they’ve been expecting me. And between the two leaders of the Authority, in the flesh . . . is Jeremy Writer.
“Liza,” he says, purple eyes wide, “are you okay?”
“How sweet,” the woman says above my yammering, confused questions. “He’s always been a charmer. Gets that after you, Reginald.”
Reginald gives a non-commutative grunt in answer.
“What is going on, Jeremy?” I ask.
“Liza,” he replies in a voice laced with guilt. “Meet . . . my parents.”
— 64 —
Once on shore, I link up with Cory, who keeps shaking his head and staring at his feet. I knew he’d fold, but this . . . how can he not be ready to take back our home?
“Everyone round up,” I yell over the crashing waves as we slosh out from the green foam.
Soft sand sinks beneath my boots. The beach is dotted with soldiers, mostly regular ones; only a few Specials have been sent along to hedge our bets. We’re roughly two hundred strong, and Cory’s ducked his duty, so it’s up to me. Someone has to give operating procedures.
“Vero, I’m field promoting you to sergeant.”
She nods, saluting. I request that she get everyone into formation, then bring me the platoon leaders.
They section off, both men and women.
Women on the front line hasn’t been an issue after the last big war, when a warm body with a gun became the main qualification. Several of our heroes’ names on our great monument before it was destroyed had a “missus” before it. Vero’s proven herself head and shoulders above the other Specials, but men like Sergeant Nolan will continue to spout negativity about women on the front line.
I walk down the formations. They stand at attention, heels pointed toward the water, and all have brave faces that hide their fear well. I don’t need them to have idiotic courage, just regular courage. I want to tell them this, but I instead give each group a passing nod and, looking as many as I can in the eye, will them to be strong.
Team leaders step forward with Vero. They’re leery of me. That’s fine. Diverting their fear from what’s to come is as good a plan as any.
“Private—” I read the name tag of the soldier nearest. “Stagg.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Do you know what I am?”
“Sir?”
“I asked if you know what I am.”
He looks unsure, but shouts, “A member of the American Army, sir. Sergeant Hatter acting platoon sergeant and operations commander for this mission, sir!”
“Correct. But, what I mean is what I am, not who.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Sergeant!”
“What I’m asking, soldier”—and I say it loud enough to get everyone’s attention—“is do you know what I can turn into?”
No answer.
“Anyone?”
A private steps forward. “Sir, I hear you can turn into a giant, sir.”
Coughing covers some laughs, and my mouth turns down to avoid cracking my own smile. “Well, I suppose it could be worse, fuzzy. Get back in line.”
“Roger!”
I position myself where all of the leaders, at least, can hear me over the wind and the waves. The orange sky makes everyone glow, and I wish we had a flag to help set the mood. My words will have to do.
“Do you know where you are, soldiers?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“When you later take off your boots, the dirt that falls out of them belongs to us. It belonged to our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers. Ladies and gentlemen, we are home.”
Vero steps forth. “Can I get a hooah!”
“Hooah!”
A few smiles open up the faces of a once seasick, pale, and industrious crowd. Life sparks in their eyes, and some inch forward to hear me better.
“I’m no Sergeant Nolan,” I tell them. “If he were here, he’d probably say something about you not needing to live forever, or that the chicks back home love a hero. But I’m not going to say any of that. We don’t need any more stiffs, so this is what you’re all going to do: You’re going to be careful. You’re going to keep from making mistakes. I don’t need stupid bravery or dumb luck; I need quickness, wisdom, and real leadership. Remember your training, and come back in one piece. And that’s an order!”
“Yes, sir!”
For a moment, I let nostalgia overtake me, and the wind quiets. “We can’t lose what’s ours already, soldiers. Not again.” A few look down at their feet. “This place holds our memories, and the Authority took our country withou
t our permission. Now that we’ve returned as prodigal sons and daughters, what are we going to do? . . . I said: What are we going to do!”
“Take it!”
“That’s right! And nothing will stand in our way! For home!”
And two hundred soldiers yell back, “For home!”
Vero and I move into the lead, and she stays close, ready to radio the team leaders with their orders. Once we get near the buildings on the boardwalk, I hold up a hand, and everyone waits.
“It’s quiet,” says Vero.
“Take cover,” I call back.
A faint noise comes from between the buildings—shuffled, dragged feet.
“Stiffies,” someone whispers.
“Lots of them,” Cory adds unhelpfully.
Inwardly, I shudder, but outwardly I give a hand signal that has everyone putting their backs to the nearest building and checking ammo.
The first stiffie walks by, and I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. It’s got on a backpack that looks new and—
“They’re rigged!” I barely yell out before it explodes.
The blast flings me across the street, and I’m catapulted into the next building, feet first. Luckily, the wall was already crumbled from previous battles, so I land on a pile of rubble and I’m less dead than I should be.
Unfortunately, my ears are ringing and my limbs don’t work. More bombs explode, raining plaster down onto my head. I cough and fight to sit up, but everything’s blurred in a haze.
I struggle onto my side, now facing the burning boardwalk, and watch the carnage continue. Somewhere from a safe distance, the Authority’s triggering stiffies strapped with bombs whenever they get close to us.
When the feeling finally returns to my legs, I begin to crawl—the moans of the living are much louder than that of the zombies’—and my hands squish into a pulpy mess of what could only have been a soldier.
My search for surviving team members is slow going with only one leg functioning properly. When I find Defoe, he’s got his hands pressed over a hole in his stomach that’s gushing lifeblood in a steady stream, and Vero’s nowhere to be found, not in time. No amount of Special could help him now, anyway.
Stiffies steadily climb over the concrete mountain to get to us; the smell of blood draws them in like a dinner bell. Smoke stains the air, making my eyes burn. I stay between the zombies and Defoe, firing when I’m certain I have a good shot. At least I can keep him from being eaten . . . alive.
The streets are littered with bodies, both zombies and ours. I can’t spot any movement of green fatigues near me, but I also can’t see beyond the felled buildings to know if the other teams had fared any better.
“Defoe?” I say, but when I turn, he’s already gone.
Another zombie’s gotten close, still wearing a UPS uniform that’s shredded in strings and barely covering his skeletal-thin body. He’s got on a backpack, too.
The explosion knocks me from my perch.
Only this time, when I land, I’m staring up at an orange sky between a swirl of smoke and concrete powder while my vision slowly shrinks.
A steady buzzing in my head wakes me. Feels like I’ve been lying in the same spot for hours. Rolling over onto my belly and dragging myself toward the one single building that’s still standing, I’m truly lucky that the blast had killed the zombies nearby.
My legs are useless, so when I finally reach a window, it’s a struggle to hoist myself up over the ledge. I’m alone now, with nothing but snapping jaws trying to find anything still squirming. I need cover.
A hand grabs mine, and I lift my gun, but it’s only Cory, pale but unharmed, and he pulls me through the rest of the way by my shirt.
I try to ask if he’s been hiding the whole time, but I can’t hear any sound. Cory sits me down in a corner before moving back to the window to headhunt for zombies.
Everything’s in a haze; I feel like a flickering lamp. One minute he’s there at the window, the next, he’s over me shaking his head. His mouth moves, and he gestures emphatically, but I’m unable to hear.
The room spins. When it stops, Cory’s clean and well-dressed, standing at a dining room table.
“I thought this was better than where we were,” he says.
I look down to see I’m dressed in a suit and tie, too. “Not this again! Send me back!’
“I will. Chill out. This was the only way to communicate with you, since you can’t hear.”
Like I trust this bastard. “Send. Me. Back.”
And with a sigh, he does.
Again he tries to say something to me, but I’m fighting to stay conscious. Cory points at the window, then at me, trying to convey probably something very important.
And then we’re back at the dining room table. “Would you just listen!” he yells.
Vero appears this time.
“What’s going on?” she asks, looking down at her dress in surprise and disgust. “Where are we?”
I ball my hands into fists, ignoring how good it feels to have control of my body again. “Cory’s head,” I tell her.
Cory makes a frustrated sound. “Your boyfriend’s hurt.”
She looks at me, then at Cory in question. “What?”
“Take this as an SOS,” he says, and we return to the present.
Smoke burns my throat. The building’s caught fire while we were in the fake universe.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” Cory’s lips are easily read this time.
“Go,” I say, only feeling the words. “Just go.”
He looks at me in question.
“Go!” I try to yell.
He shrugs, then jumps through the window, disappearing into the smoke.
Slumping against the wall, I try to look at the bright side. At least I won’t be eaten. No, I’ll burn to death long before that. At this, a laugh rumbles in my chest. A Tommy Ripley-Hatter barbecue.
My eyes drift shut.
— 65 —
As a child, I’d only had one other fear besides trains: The Nutcracker. Or, more accurately, the giant Mouse King in all of his rat-like glory. He left me with nightmares for weeks after watching any rendition of the favorite seasonal production. And since my mother so often danced as Clara, I’d had to watch it nearly fifty times per Christmas. That is, until she was too old to effectively pull off the role, or so she said.
Each opening night, I’d develop an anxiety fever from waiting for when he would appear. Even though I’d seen the Mouse King plenty of times without his costume on, the role was so well played and terrifyingly passionate, it was frightening. He’d get up on that stage, drawing me in until my heart beat so fast and my palms had gotten so sweaty.
At that age, it was easy to picture the evil mouse eating me in my bed.
Upon seeing Reginald Cromwell, leader of the Authority, I’m reminded of the Mouse King. Firstly, because he resembles some sort of rodent. Secondly, because he wears the leadership role like a cloak upon his shoulders.
Karma, on the other hand, is a vision of pure plastic, richly dressed and blinking at me like I’m some dinner guest and not a revolutionary gripped tightly by guards at each arm. That’s what they’d called me on the way over: “Liza, the revolutionary.” I didn’t know whether to deny it or embrace it.
Karma’s depiction at the wall must be of an older version, before she’d undergone work. Now, she’s poised without moving, or even seeming to breathe.
Reginald strokes his non-augmented mustache. There’s a vibe coming from him, tendrils of anticipation, which makes me search Jeremy—his son—for answers.
None are given.
Instead, we’re put back into separate vehicles and driven even farther north. Through the area where the explosions had removed half of Anthem, it seems; the heart of the big bang. Our car has to veer around the devastatio
n that’s taken out entire roads.
Farther on, there’s less of anything except the wall on this side. But before it sits a sprawling mansion that’s breathtaking.
Amid the bright green grass and the red roses stand white marble pillars upon which a third floor balcony enables visitors to gaze at the city from the home’s strategically placed hill.
This lavish, colorful setting faces Ash City in contrast, its effervescence saturating.
The idea that the Cromwells live here in opulence after leaving the bloody streets of downtown is disturbing. Journee’s face comes to mind. His handsome features were so still when I’d pulled him from the water, making him a stranger for the lack of humorous, cocky expressions I’d come to know him for.
Breathing is a chore with the thought of him being gone.
We’re let out of the car, and Jeremy remains separated from me. I’m given my own room, albeit with a guard outside. And even though it’s nearly morning, I’m told to wash for dinner.
No one cares to answer any of my questions.
The door’s promptly closed and locked in my face.
Now, with plush red carpet beneath my feet, it’s a far walk from one side of the empty room to the other. Oversized furniture, ornately carved wood . . . it all makes me feel so small. My hands drift over the silk bedspread, the velvet curtains, and the silver vanity; it’s like a dream, a vision born out of blood and smoke. An ethereal palace built upon the backs of a forgotten humanity.
That such things have made it through to the end of the world is astounding.
Giving in, I shower, secretly hating myself for enjoying the hot water on my skin. Such luxuries make my emotions erratic. Tears would offer me release from the threat of the day, the sadness, the fear, and the adrenaline that would wear off to a dullness. Instead, I hold them in, standing limp beneath the spray, clinging to relief.
“Live to fight another day” may seem brave, but I’m a coward. I’m just happy to be alive. The thought is selfish, but brief. I only relax for a moment before everything is rushing back: Nate, and the twins . . . all fighting, or worse, while I’m busy sudsing my hair. But these images are quickly banished. To continue will make me crumble. I’m a glass house right now, and there are cracks already.
