The Aftermath

by Jen Alexander

  I am ready to rest without a weapon and not stare over my shoulder.

  Four hours later, I am still walking, the sun rubbing viciously on the back of my neck and a heavy pain coiling in my stomach. I know I’ve traveled at least ten miles. Every muscle in my body feels as if it’s been beaten to a pulp. My skin is on fire. And I’m still inside The Aftermath. Tears squeeze through my squinted eyes and spill down my dry cheeks like rain trickling through dirt. This is the first time in my memory that I’ve cried, and it hurts, both physically and emotionally. I slump against a tree, not caring that the rough wood chafes the skin on my sunburned back.

  And then I see it.

  Through the maze of trees, something glints in the sunlight. For the longest time, I gape at it. Breathe and stare. Swallow and breathe. The knots in my belly loosen and swift fluttering replaces them. “Please...” I whisper. I don’t realize that I’m on my feet and running until I break through the trees and find myself on the road again.

  Several hundred yards in the distance, a silver fence stretches across the landscape. The only intact fence I’ve ever seen in The Aftermath is the one around the recreation yard of the jail. Perhaps this fence will be the one that secures my freedom.

  I don’t care about the soles of my feet or my tired legs. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, pumping my arms and letting a hot breeze blow my hair from my forehead.

  When I reach the gate, I curl my fingertips in the metal and fall against it. In the thirty-nine months of my life that I can remember, I cry for the second time.

  Several minutes pass before I’m able to calm myself down enough to think rationally. I pace the fence, looking for a way out—a torn part to crawl under, a latch, anything. Twenty feet above me at the top are coils of razor wire. This puts scaling the fence out of the question.

  I sift through the pack of weapons I took from April until I find a pair of rusted pliers. I run my fingertips along the bottom of the fence. I am about to start pulling at a corroded section of the metal when a male voice behind me says, “You do know escape is against the law, right?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “That’s what you’re doing, right?” the boy continues.

  I grip the fence so hard, it feels as if the thin links are making indentations on my bones. Silly, frightened character. That’s what I am, because though he may not see it, I am shaking furiously, hoping against hope that his name appears on Olivia’s map in green and not red.

  Even then, that wouldn’t mean that I’m safe.

  “Well?”

  What would Olivia say? Three years of her playing me and I have no idea how she’d respond. I loll my head back. Stare up at the rolls of barbed wire. Sweat drips between my shoulder blades, like lava drizzling down my flesh.

  “I was curious,” I say slowly. “And I wanted to see what was out here.”

  This isn’t how Olivia would have me respond. No, not at all. Olivia would taunt him—ask him why he cared. Then she’d reach my hand for the Glock, even though his gun or knife is probably already trained on the back of my head. Maybe I’d win—I usually do when Olivia’s in control—but as she made me shoot him down, I’d picture myself on the ground instead, and feel nothing but regret.

  Now that I think about it, I’m glad I don’t answer like Olivia. Olivia seems to enjoy putting my life in danger.

  “You were curious?” I hear the sound of his feet shuffling in the dry grass for a few seconds, and then he says, “Okay, turn around.”

  The last time someone told me to turn around, that person died, tearing violently at the crown of her head. I hadn’t understood why she would fuss over her head when the wound was on her chest. But now I know we’re controlled by some technology that’s been placed within our heads. Maybe she felt it as she were dying.

  Will I be ripping at my skull today?

  I swallow hard and turn. My fingers tangle in the metal behind me, and I hold on to it for comfort before I lift my gaze to his.

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  Gray eyes stare back at me. Dark gray eyes partially hidden by a messy mop of dark hair.

  I know this boy. He is the reason I’m here right now and not unresponsive, trapped in a room over a bar with three other characters. He’s the boy from the elevator.

  “You,” I breathe, but then I catch myself, biting into my bottom lip so I don’t give myself away.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the...” Letting his weapon arm drop to his side, he tilts his head and gives me a challenging gaze. “What are you doing out here?”

  Why is he still asking me questions? Shouldn’t he be threatening to attack me again or trying to rob me or something, anything, other than simply staring at me? His lack of movement gives me an opportunity to size him up. He doesn’t look like any flesh-eater I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t look like a Survivor, either. Though he’s several inches taller than me, he’s nowhere near Ethan’s height. I try to remember ever seeing anyone in The Aftermath wearing clothes that didn’t look like tattered rags, but this boy is the first person who comes to mind, in his black boots, cargo pants and black T-shirt that he fills out rather nicely.

  I’ve also never met a Survivor, or a flesh-eater for that matter, with meat on his bones.

  “Too scared to speak?” he taunts.

  “Funny.” I flash him my teeth in what I can only hope is a smile of confidence. “I’d almost think you were the one frightened of me.”

  But there are beads of sweat trickling from the tip of my nose and between my parted lips. I’m trembling so hard that I’m afraid I might vomit. Then he’ll know I’m the one who’s terrified. I’m the one who can barely stand up straight.

  He regains his composure, narrowing his eyes. The corners of his lips pull up. For a moment, he lowers his long eyelashes against his slightly sunburned cheeks and looks down at the grass, like I’ve embarrassed him. I flinch when he lifts his head and weapon at the same time. “Please, you’re as short and thin as a twelve-year-old. Now...why are you playing around at this?” He shakes his gun at the gate, drawing my attention to it.

  His weapon is small and sleek and black. No surprise there. But the barrel is flat, and four metal probes extend from it. My gaze flicks from his hand to the fence. When I shift from the heat, he shakes his head, moving near me with both hands on his piece.

  He is mere steps from where I stand. So close I can almost feel the probes sinking into the side of my neck.

  “Careful now. You know what this is?” He jiggles the gun around, stares at it almost lovingly. When I don’t acknowledge his question, he says, “Electroshock. Tech Arms Special Edition. Only a thousand were made in twenty eighty-three.”

  “Twenty eighty-three?”

  He stares at me as if he’s expecting me to continue, but when a long moment of silence passes between us, he lifts an eyebrow. “The year.”

  Coldness washes over me. The year 2083? It’s 2039. My ID card says I was born in 2023, so it has to be 2039, right?

  “And?” I ask. My voice is icy and hard. Good. Let him think he doesn’t bother me, that I’m not frightened out of my sunburned skin.

  “And I can control whether I hit you with fifty milliamps or five amps. It has a motion detector. You run, it finds you. But—” he waggles his thick eyebrows “—you run away from me and I’ll probably just crank the full five amps into your skinny ass.”

  I glare at him. “Obviously I’m not running, but if you want to do it, go right ahead.”

  He grins. Squats down with his head cocked to one side as if I am a joke. I droop back against the fence and slide my body down the hot metal until I sit on the grass. It’s rough and scratchy against the backs of my legs but much better than standing. I draw my knees up to my chest and stare at him. Part of me wants to test my luck and just run. I thi
nk that must be the sadistic portion of my subconscious still linked to Olivia.

  “So you’re going to electrocute and eat me? Or do you have some other plan? Because I’ve already had the hell shocked out of me. There’s not much else that will surprise me.”

  His mouth quirks up—there’s that sardonic expression again. “I’m not into you like that.” Gray eyes skim my body, from the worn soles of my shoes to the bruises on my knees and finally to my green eyes. He’s studying me with that confused expression again, and it makes the tiny hairs on my arms and legs stand on end.

  I hug myself tighter. “Then why not let me go?” My voice is low, shaky.

  “I will.” He shifts the electroshock gun between his hands. “As soon as you tell me what you’re doing here,” he says.

  “Strange request from someone whose name I don’t even know.”

  “Declan. Satisfied—”

  “Claudia.”

  “You’re sneakier than I gave you credit for.” He sneers. “Do we really have time for this? Just...confirm who you are already.”

  Sneaky? We’ve been in each other’s company for less than fifteen minutes and he thinks he already has me pegged? “I just confirmed it for you,” I say stubbornly.

  “You’re making my job really, really difficult, you know.” He points his weapon at me. “Tech Arms. Fifty milliamps. Does that make it easier for you to remember?”

  As if I could forget the power of his electroshock gun. My heart beats wildly, but I somehow manage to evenly reply, “I don’t break, Declan. My name’s Claudia Virtue.”

  “Come on, you’re seriously going to pull that gamer crap when I’m holding a gun on your character? Why would you refuse to confirm who you are—who’s playing this character—when I could so easily hurt her? Just tell me already.”

  But he has hurt me already—I’m just not going to mention that to him. If he isn’t going to admit to seeing me before, I’m not bringing it up, either—maybe it’ll be useful down the line.

  When I refuse to say anything, focusing instead on a bald patch in the grass right by my left foot, he moves in closer. One step. Two more. His boots make a solid thud each time, and I swear it’s in rhythm with my heart. He crouches down again—this time right in front of me. I have to fight to catch my breath.

  “What’s your Gamer ID?”

  This is something I don’t know. Up until just a moment ago, I wasn’t even aware Olivia had a Gamer ID. All those times I witnessed her flipping through the multiple game screens and not once did I have the brains to look for something like what he’s asking for. I was too concerned with the map and the location of flesh-eaters.

  “117908.” It’s the code that Olivia had typed into her tablet. A lie that sounds so confident, I come close to believing it myself.

  I gasp when he tucks his calloused index finger under my chin. I yank my arms away from my knees and pull myself farther into the metal gate, hoping I’ll dissolve through it. Then I could take off running. Then I could be free of this boy and, maybe, this game.

  Declan lifts my face, tilts it so far up that the uneven tips of my hair brush my sweaty shoulders. There’s little space between our lips and noses and foreheads—just a few inches between my eyes and his. Gray eyes that are dangerous and mocking and something else.

  Questioning.

  Accusing.

  “There are no Gamer IDs,” he whispers. “Wait...you really are Claudia Virtue.”

  * * *

  We stare at each other for a lifetime. He doesn’t flinch. I don’t breathe. This boy has me figured out after mere minutes, and I can’t help but wonder if I was so obvious to the two kids I met on the way here.

  “Of course I’m a character—this is a game.”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” he says harshly. “Now, don’t move.”

  And I listen. Stupid, really, because he pulls something navy blue from his bag and pushes a button on the bottom of it. Every muscle—every nerve—in my body tightens, leaving me as still as a corpse. I hold my breath. He swipes the flat, triangular-shaped tip of the object across the top of my head, and my skull tingles. I grit my teeth. At any moment, I’ll likely be a corpse.

  After about a minute of sliding the blue thing back and forth over my crown, he presses the button again and tosses it back into his bag. Air rushes out of my lungs in a low hiss. He’s not going to kill me. At least not at the moment.

  Declan sinks down in front of me on his knees. He’s still too close for my taste.

  “You’re actually sentient,” he says incredulously.

  “You said that before.”

  “How?”

  “I was...I was injured.” There’s no point lying to him—at least not completely—so I inhale a deep breath and add, “Something happened about a week and a half ago that woke me up.”

  If he recalls being the one who struck the blow that brought about my sudden ability to control myself, he doesn’t show it. His expression is void of any emotion as he studies my face and head. “And your Cerebrum Chip is still linked.” This is not a question, but I nod anyway.

  There’s a name for why my brain is so wrecked. And there is a boy sitting right in front of me who knows exactly what it is. “Who are you?”

  “Declan,” he says.

  “You know what I mean. You’re not a character, are you?”

  “I’m...I’m a moderator.”

  “A moderator.” The word sounds funny when I say it, and I narrow my eyes at him. I repeat the word a few more times as I wait for him to explain what it means.

  “I make sure everything in The Aftermath goes exactly the way the game’s creator envisioned it. I work for LanCorp.”

  If there were even the slightest chance of him letting me go, it’s gone now. My heart breaks a little more. I’ve been chased by flesh-eaters and starved to the point of wishing for death, yet somehow this is the most hopeless I’ve ever felt.

  “Oh,” I say.

  He laughs then. I gnash my teeth together as the sound of his voice rubs over me like sandpaper. He’s making fun of me. And I hate him for it. I curl my hands into tight balls, hoping it will help control my violent trembling. “That’s all you’re going to say. Oh?” he asks.

  I slam my fist into the center of his nose. He sprawls backward, clutching his face. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  I stumble to my feet and kick out at him. My foot strikes his stomach hard, knocking the breath out of him. He rolls over on all fours, and I take off in a sprint. I hear him behind me, wheezing. Cursing. Threatening horrible things. “So you have something to remember me by when I’m dead,” I say over my shoulder.

  He tackles me before I make it fifty yards, pinning me facedown. I struggle wildly. This only makes him dig his knees deeper into my sides, and I scream in agony.

  I feel his torso lower down on me. His weight numbs every part of my body. “Stop moving.” His lips touch my right ear—the mutilated one—and I taste bile in the back of my throat.

  I thrash harder, whipping my head until it catches him in the mouth, and he swears. If he’s going to kill me, the least I can do is hurt him first. Suddenly, I feel the cold metal probes of his electroshock gun press into my scalp.

  “Quit. It. Claudia,” he says between clenched teeth.

  This can’t be how it ends for me. I’m unsure if this makes me a coward or sensible, but I don’t want to die today. My breath hitches, and suddenly I’m inhaling heavily. Sucking in rasping, broken breaths that shake my entire body.

  The noises coming from me are so loud and pitiful, I almost miss what he says next.

  “I’m not going to kill you, because I need your help. Do what I tell you to do, and I’ll personally show you the border.”

  This from the boy who hurt me. This from a
boy who will, without a doubt, hurt me again if I provoke him. This from a boy who works for the people who took away my ability to think for myself.

  “And if I don’t?” I ask, surprising myself by saying exactly what Olivia would say in this situation.

  He laughs again, but this one isn’t teasing like before. It’s harsh. Serious. Lethal. “Don’t, and I’ll turn you in, and you’ll die a horrible death. Decide now, Virtue.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Declan does not wish me dead.

  At first, I do what he’s asked me to do. I stop moving. I lay with the left side of my face against the ground and replay his words over and over in my head. Do what I tell you to do, and I’ll personally show you the border. There’s still a chance I’ll get out of The Aftermath. A jolt of excitement rushes through my body, but it quickly turns toxic, squeezing my insides until I feel nauseous.

  No, Declan does not want to kill me. Instead, this boy—this moderator—wants my help.

  He wants to use me for something.

  I dig my hands into the grass. “Turn me in to whom?” My voice is strained.

  “Don’t make this hard on yourself.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, that’s common sense. It goes right along with the threat I made a couple minutes ago.”

  He shifts his body, and I moan as the bulk of his weight settles onto my lower back. I mumble something even I don’t comprehend.

  “I’m going to let you go now,” he says in a tone that reminds me of an adult admonishing a small child. “Just because I’ve no plan to kill you doesn’t mean I won’t electrocute you if I have to. Understand?”

  I grunt.

  As he lifts his body from mine, I release a long breath and roll over onto my back. He juggles his precious electroshock gun from his left hand to the right. I lash my foot out at him, aiming at his kneecaps. With almost unbelievable grace, he steps out of the way, then stretches out a hand to help me up.