by Tera Shanley
“Breathe, man,” one of the guards said quietly. “You’re alive.” He lifted up the sleeve of Kaegan’s shirt. “You aren’t vaccinated? We’ll have to do a bite search. You can’t get through the second gate until we’ve cleared you.”
“Okay,” he wheezed.
Another guard, taller than the first, pulled up the sleeve of Colten’s shirt to reveal a deep, gray, pock mark scar that said he’d been vaccinated long ago. As his wind slowly returned, he kicked out of his pants and lifted his shirt for the guard checking him and waited until he gave the go ahead. Another set of gates stretched up before him and as he pulled his shirt back over his head, the giant wooden barriers opened slowly to admit them.
The guard beside him, a young man no older than twenty-two, spoke into his radio. “Advise Dr. Mackey we have someone headed his way. Bite wound, vaccinated, fever and infection from the looks of it.”
“Yep,” came the clipped answer from the other end before the radio dipped into static.
The guard squatted by Colten, hoisted his slight frame over his shoulder, and led the way up a narrow dirt path through the pine forest. Steadying his breath, Kaegan stood on shaking legs and stumbled after him.
The adrenaline crash that followed a near death experience was harsh. His muscles twitched so badly it was difficult to walk straight, and the pace the guard carrying Colten kept was almost too much. He jogged to keep up, but the air seemed thinner, harder to breathe. That or he was worse off than he thought after the fight with the Deads and his run for survival.
Every colony was different, but this one took the cake. The leader, whoever he or she was, allowed giant pines, alders, and spruce to take over the land. Maybe the colony needed it for wind and snow protection. He’d never been this far north before, so that seemed likely. Not many used wooden gates anymore, but Dead Run River seemed to be holding up just fine with them. Quaint wooden cabins dotted the mountainside. People sat on porches, talking in small groups, and some offered a friendly wave as they passed. He nodded greetings, unable to find his voice quite yet, and ducked out of the way as a trio of laughing kids ran down the trail. The rumors about paradise seemed to be holding true.
A sizable cabin appeared through the woods to the left, and a hand carved sign assured him they’d found the medical building. Colten was speaking gibberish against the back of the guard, and when he looked up, his eyes were wild and empty. A sick feeling slithered into the pit of Kaegan’s stomach. After all of the effort to get him here, Colten might still die.
He hopped the porch stairs and threw open the door for the guard. Inside, organized chaos reigned. An older man in scrubs and a baseball cap barked orders while two younger men prepared a room.
The guard, Andrew, one of the orderlies called him, slid Colten from his shoulder and tried to steady him on his feet. The door to a back room creaked open, and time slowed. A creature entered the room, so exotic and dangerous, Kaegan was helpless to draw his gaze away. She looked down at a clipboard in her hands. Her hair was wild, but not unkempt—like a feral Viking from ages ago. It was long, brushing her hips, and the color of milk. Three small braids arched from her hairline to the tips on one side and had been tied with thick leather bands. Feathers had been attached sporadically to a few of the waves. Her long neck dipped gracefully into a green sleeveless cotton shirt that tucked into tight, tree bark colored cargo pants. Her arms were thin but taut with un-flexed muscle that belied her strength. Layers of beaded, feathered necklaces adorned her neck, and a thick leather strap encircled her left wrist.
It wasn’t her hair or clothes that gave her an air of danger, though. No, that came from her face. Pale as moonlight, her skin was nearly translucent. And as she lifted her chin, the sunlight filtering through the window glinted off metal covering her mouth. The bottom half of her face was covered in some contraption that belonged on rabid animals, and when she drew her gaze to his, his heart stuttered. Those eyes. Inhuman, startling, haunting. Almost white irises froze him further—her pupils pinpointed on him and dared him to look away.
She was a witch. Magic lived within a creature such as she.
Colten bolted for her, shaking Kaegan out of his trance. A battle cry screeched from Colten’s throat as he threw himself into her.
“Dead,” Colten screamed.
And it clicked. She wasn’t a witch. She was a Dead. Or at least mostly Dead. A cold, clammy wave washed up Kaegan’s skin until it touched his neck and lifted his hair. Rumors about Dead Run River housing monsters weren’t rumors at all.
Colten had landed hard against her, splaying the creature against a desk, and she stretched her neck toward his face as an inhuman snarl came from her. The tendons in her neck flexed as she gnashed her teeth from behind the muzzle, and her eyes filled with such hate, it rocked Kaegan back on his heels.
The doctor was the first to reach Colten, and he pleaded for help as he tried to pry him off the thing. Kaegan rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his friend’s waist before pulling back. The knife Colten had pulled from his belt slid from the belly of the monster with a sickening sound and dripped red.
“Oh God,” Kaegan whispered as she dropped her gaze to the growing red stain on her shirt.
The creature brought stunned eyes back to his. “God had nothing to do with me.” Her voice was soft, melodious, and sad. Unexpected from such a terrifying being.
Colten fought like an animal, and Kaegan gripped his wrist until he dropped the weapon. The doctor slammed a first aid kit into the Dead’s chest.
“Take care of it outside,” he barked before turning to help another orderly wrestle Colten into a room.
If he were able to take his eyes away from her, he would’ve missed the sadness that washed over her features for a moment before she turned her back and left the building.
“Who was that?” he asked the attendant in scrubs who stood beside him.
“Not who…what. That,” he said with a sigh, “is Soren.”
“She’s hurt.”
“Not bad enough to kill her. Don’t waste your concern on the undead,” he said with a friendly pat on Kaegan’s back. He turned and said over his shoulder, “They’ll kill you the minute you do.”
Undead.
But, she talked. She looked hurt when the doctor dismissed her. She’d been stabbed and didn’t kill her abuser. How could something with human traits, feelings, be undead? And how had she come to be?
Colten thrashed against the medical bed the doctor had managed to press him into, and the older man in the ball cap slid a needle into his shoulder. Seconds passed before his sick friend went limp. His mumbling quieted, and the staff wasted no time in cutting the leg of his pants to expose the injury that had caused the fever.
Kaegan turned back to the door and narrowed his eyes at it. He’d been in this situation at least ten times before. There was nothing to do for Colten but wait for the doctors to do all they could for him. With one last glance at the team working feverishly on Colten’s leg, he strode through the door and into the sunlight.
He wasn’t sure which direction she went, but a mother clutched a child to her legs, and they both looked up the trail. The woman’s expression screamed disgust, while the boy of no more than ten exuded curiosity from the safety of the woman’s protective arms.
He lengthened his stride and jogged to catch up. The reactions of the colonists were all similar, leading him deeper and deeper into the heart of Dead Run River. Maybe it wasn’t willingly housing the Dead after all. The mysteries surrounding the girl mounted by the minute. Finally, he came to a point on the trail where it thinned, as if people didn’t use it as much. No one offered clues as to where she’d gone, and the deeper he traveled into the woods, the louder the song of the birds. Sunlight permeated through the canopy of thick branches and leaves, leaving the forest floor speckled with yellow light. The grass grew higher the farther he walked, as if no one lived near there. As if no one took care of this corner of the community. On and on he wal
ked, not sure if he was headed in the right direction.
And then he saw it. An archaic tree stood stoically against the backdrop of woods and fence. In its branches, someone had built a home of sorts. It had three walls and a partial roof, and the fourth wall was open, overlooking the woods on the other side of the fence. A hammock swung in the breeze inside the tree house, and a handmade ladder leaned against the trunk. In the branches, Soren crouched with her back to him.
A slick sound came from her as her arms moved with some unseen work. Pit, pat, pit, pat. Red ran in a steady river from her seat on the branch to the forest floor below.
“You’re not vaccinated,” she said in a low voice.
He jumped at the sound of her voice. “How do you know?”
“I can smell it.” She slid him a loaded glance and then turned her attention inward again.
She hadn’t gone the way of the ladder, and he pulled himself into the tree, careful of his aching ankle as he climbed higher and higher until he sat on the limb where she was perched.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned. Her hands were red with her own blood, and her shirt was lifted until it covered only her chest. Her stomach was flat and taut as she pulled thread tight to close the wound Colten had made. A row of raised, angry looking scars stretched low over her left hipbone.
He swallowed so his curiosity would stay lodged in his throat, and it sounded very loud in the quiet that stretched between them. “You shouldn’t be doing that on yourself. Here, let me.”
Her voice was muffled behind the muzzle. “You aren’t vaccinated,” she repeated.
“Are you contagious?”
She gave a curt nod and pulled another loop through her flesh.
“Are you airborne contagious?”
Settling her inhuman eyes upon him, she stared for a long moment. “No. The virus hasn’t mutated like that. At least not yet. I’m contagious from my mouth, just like all the other Deads.”
Kaegan made a show of looking up and down his red splattered arms. It wasn’t his blood or Colten’s that bathed him in crimson. It was that of the Deads he’d fought. “Your blood won’t hurt me then, so I’ll take my chances. Please, it’s the least I can do after my friend did that to you.”
Her eyes narrowed like she was suspicious he’d push her from the branch if she got too close. Something about it made him so sad. It must be an awful life to live as a monster.
“Fine,” she muttered. Her voice was muffled, and an irrational piece of him wished he could talk to her without the muzzle. If it was there, it was put on her for a reason though, so he left it alone.
She stepped lightly over him and leaned against the trunk of the tree, stretching her back so he could reach the skin of her stomach better. Hesitating, his fingertips hovered just above the pale skin near her ribs. It felt dangerous to touch her. Not fatal, but dangerous in some way he couldn’t understand. Like if he touched her, he wouldn’t be the same afterward. Maybe she was a witch after all.
He plucked the dangling needle from the air and straddled the branch. Her skin was soft, warm…alive. Not what he’d expected and his vision of the monster wavered. Her ribs showed when she breathed, and though it was common to be underfed in these times, still, it made him sorry for her hunger.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. Not like it would hurt you. I don’t feel things like you do. Pain is just a small discomfort for me.”
“Are you immortal?”
Hurt washed over her face, and she looked away and shook her head slightly. “No and I’m glad for it.” She turned serious, unsettling eyes to him. “Who would want to live more than one lifetime like this?”
Her words were an ember in his gut, igniting as it settled in, burning through him until a dull ache formed at her sad question. Who would indeed? He’d seen how people here looked at her in just the short time he’d been here. One lifetime would be more than enough if he were in her shoes.
Four more stitches did the trick. They weren’t straight, and they’d likely leave tiny scars, but it was only the third set he’d given in his twenty-six years. The others had winced in pain, but she breathed steadily, chest rising and falling as she looked expressionlessly out over the gates to the woods beyond. When he turned to see what she was looking at, three Deads shuffled slowly through the trees beyond the safety of Dead Run River. Where he looked at them with disdain, she looked at them with a wistful look in her oddly colored eyes.
She was probably the most frightening creature he’d ever encountered. Why then was he tenderly cleaning her skin with a cloth like she was a friend instead of the enemy? He’d lost his damned mind, that’s why.
The people here looked at her warily for a reason. He knew nothing about her, really, and he’d treed himself with a Dead with little thought to his own safety. She’d been right when she’d accused him of not being vaccinated. One nip from her, and he’d turn within minutes. And it wasn’t just his own safety that was at risk. If he turned, the entire colony could go down within hours.
She frowned and dropped her gaze to his chest. Could she hear his erratic heartbeat? “Thanks. It’s been years since someone helped me with my stitches.” She was giving him an out. Dismissing him so he could go on his merry way and survive her.
He made for the branch below him but stopped as the same hurt he’d seen earlier took her eyes.
“You get stabbed often?” he asked.
“You’d be surprised. Tell your friend to go for the brain next time.”
“Oh, she’s got zombie jokes,” he said with a surprised chuckle.
Her eyes crinkled like she was smiling beneath the muzzle, and his fingers itched to unlatch the damned thing and throw it to the forest floor. Her smile might be terrifying, but what if it wasn’t?
“Get away from her!” a shrill scream echoed through the woods. A petite woman with dark hair and eyes and a furious countenance raced toward them. “Get away from that Dead!”
He’d been on his way down but stopped. Stubbornness at being ordered away by a stranger made him straddle the branch below Soren.
“Who are you?” he asked, cocking his head.
The woman panted as she skidded to a stop beneath them. “Who am I? I’m Z’s handler. Who are you?”
“Z?” He lifted his face in question to Soren, but she was looking away. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them like she was shutting down.
When she wouldn’t look at him, he shook his head. He was in way over his pay grade. He didn’t understand the dynamic here, didn’t understand why Soren was here or how she had even come to be. His head swam and he stepped to the next branch below him. When he hopped to the forest floor, the tiny woman sank her claws into his arm, and he yanked away.
“What do you think you’re—”
“Don’t,” he said. His anger was sharp and hot, and he didn’t have to answer to anyone, especially some woman bent on belittling the creature in the tree. Soren was different and dangerous, but surely she didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Z. Oh, he could guess what Z meant. They called her Zombie.
For the first time in his life, he pitied a Dead, but something in him said she didn’t need him to be her champion.
“Bye, Soren,” he said.
“Bye,” she said quickly, swinging a startled gaze to him.
He looked back twice as he walked the trail back to civilization. Both times, despite her handler shrieking at her from below, her eyes stayed riveted on his retreat.
Chapter Three
SOREN LEANED AGAINST A BRANCH that jutted through her canopy house. Her legs dangled from the edge of the open wall and slowly, she drew one knee to her chest. A clear, gray dawn was just peeking over the horizon. Above her, stars twinkled in the still dark sky—winking, as if they knew something about her destiny that she didn’t.
She didn’t sleep much, and when she did, she never dreamed. Dreams were reserved for humans, she supposed. Seamus had always told her a
bout his dreams growing up, and she’d been enamored by them. He said they were like a movie playing in his head, and since she’d never actually watched a movie, it sounded magical and mysterious. She’d give a finger, maybe two, to have a dream.
The breeze picked up, and the weapons tied to the wall behind the hammock clanked against each other. A warrior’s wind chimes. She inhaled the crisp, clean air and tried to imagine the world before the apocalypse. The old timers described it well, and she’d listened as a child. Her old journals were full of drawings of what she imagined the world looked like before Deads trolled the land.
Her newest drawing was of Kaegan.
It was a charcoal sketch of the first time she’d seen him. He’d stood in the middle of Dr. Mackey’s waiting room staring at her with surprised gray eyes the color of a dove’s breast. His hair was longer and had been tied into a leather band at his nape at some point, but in his skirmish to get through the gates safely, some of it had fallen forward into his face. She hadn’t a guess at the color of his skin because it was drenched in the pungent blood of Deads. His dark eyebrows matched the color of his unruly tresses, and they lifted in pity when he pulled his friend’s knife from her belly.
He was a fighter. It wasn’t the scars on his skin or the limp in his gait that told her so. It wasn’t the thick beard he’d grown between colonies. It was his size. He was massive. A behemoth. Giants of modern times must have birthed a son as gargantuan as their lineage, because his shoulders were wide enough that he would have to step sideways through a door. He was tall enough that he’d have to duck any standard entrance, and muscle, thick and intimidating, pressed against the blood-moist fabric of his shirt when he drew his ragged breaths.
He could kill her or anyone else he pleased with no weapons and little effort.
