The Renegade

by Amy Dunne

  The air was finally growing cooler as the sun neared the end of its journey across the sky. Her internal sundial was a more accurate timepiece than any watch. It instinctively told her when to wake up, when to stop walking, and when to set up camp. It hadn’t failed her once so far.

  She hid her backpack and shotgun in the designated camp area and headed down to the lake she’d spotted earlier, with her towel and soap. She cautiously watched the deserted lake area for a few minutes until her paranoia finally conceded to exhaustion and her overwhelming need to wash. The water was a little murky but she only wanted to bathe in it, not drink it.

  Undressing was slightly more difficult and far more painful than she’d expected. First she removed her belt, gun, holster, knife, and sheath, keeping them all close. With a struggle, she kicked off her boots and socks. Her shoulders and back were sore, so stripping out of the black strap top and green shorts was a painful ordeal. They were filthy and saturated in the bald guy’s blood. She’d shed the blue shirt after she’d cleared a safe distance from the town. The back had been covered in sticky blood and gruesome gunk. The encrusted death stains were too much to be saved, so she left it on the road.

  To date, she always bathed in underwear even when she’d been totally convinced she was the only human left alive. Although she’d repeatedly chastised herself for her irrational prudishness, she never gained enough confidence to strip completely naked. Just something about the prospect of skinny-dipping made her vulnerable. But now she knew she’d never be clean unless she stripped off and washed thoroughly.

  Her body was battered, knees grazed and raw from when she’d been forced to the ground. Bruises darkened the backs of her legs. Raw purple finger marks marred her upper arms, and she didn’t need to look at her reflection to know her jaw and face were swollen. “And I got off lightly, considering—” She considered her fate for a moment had she not escaped. Unable to continue because of nausea, she stripped out of her underwear and stepped tentatively into the cold water. She slowly waded in until submerged to her shoulders and barely able to reach the sandy bed.

  Using the soap and her fingernails, she scrubbed harshly at her skin until it burned. She lathered the soap in her long blond hair and dunked her head to wash it out, repeating the process another three times. Soon she began to shiver and her teeth softly chattered. The sky had darkened and the sun verged on setting. It was time to get out.

  She dried her reddened skin with the towel and tied her hair into a bun. “Shit,” she said, wrapping the towel around her body. Why the hell hadn’t she thought to bring some clean clothes? The towel would have to do until she reached camp. It wasn’t ideal, but she’d have to make do. She pulled the boots on, not bothering to tighten or even tie the laces before walking back over to the water’s edge, carrying her soiled clothes. Crouching by the shoreline, she tried to ignore the pain from her legs. Using the soap and lapping water, she scrubbed hard, trying to clean the blood and dirt stains from her shorts and the strap top. The strap top was ultimately more successful to clean because of the black material. With a defeated sigh, she gave up on the shorts. They were going to remain stained, and no amount of elbow grease or determination was going to produce a laundry miracle. They would have to last until she got to the next town and found a replacement.

  After wringing out the clothes, she returned to her gun and knife, grimacing at the grisly state of the knife sheath. Both the sheath and knife needed cleaning, but the thought of touching them flipped her stomach with dread.

  “Come on, pull yourself together. What would Dad say?” she asked herself. Her skin broke out in goose bumps and an icy chill slithered down her spine, neither of which was caused by the cooling air. She flung her sodden clothes onto a nearby rock.

  With each booted step, vivid flashbacks ravaged all of her senses—the sourness of unwashed, sweaty skin, the acrid smell of the fired gun, and the metallic stench of blood. The stifling heat from the day beating down on her, the powerful hands that held and struck her. Worse still—the vivid sensation as she plunged her knife past the initial resistance and into his body. The gush of hot, thick liquid spilling over her hand and down her back. The squelching, gurgling, gunshots, and screaming sounded in her ears in a continual loop.

  She was a killer!

  She fell to the ground dry retching, her stomach empty. Sweat poured from her clammy body as powerful tremors washed over her. Stinging salty tears streamed down her cheeks. Through blurred vision she could see the stains of blood on her hands from the knife. Freaking out, she submerged the knife in the grey water. The more she washed, the more her hands and the blade became covered in blood. Bordering on hysteria, she scrubbed the blade with her fingertips and watched, horrified, as the grey water clouded pink as still more blood covered her hands and the blade.

  Would she ever be able to wash the blood off her murderous hands?

  Her hands would remain tarnished with blood. She’d killed two survivors. Billions of people died because of the Red Death, and yet she’d killed two of the only survivors. “I’ll never kill anyone again. Never, I swear it,” she said hoarsely, the twilight air silent as her promise was spoken.

  She no longer wanted to live in a world full of death and decay. What was the point? She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one. She’d kept the promise to her dad for as long as she could, but now she wanted out. Whatever was after death had to be better than this.

  She raised the gleaming red blade and hitched a shaky breath.

  A high-pitched, distressed yapping preceded a firm nudge of a small wet nose. Startled, Alex dropped the bloody knife into the shallow water. The familiar fluffy face and two brown eyes looked up at her. Feeling foolish, she winced at the sharp, throbbing pain in her left hand. On inspection she discovered a fresh gash spanning the width of her palm. “Ouch,” she said. But at least there was a rational explanation for all the blood. She must have sliced her hand on the blade while cleaning it. Sheathing the knife, she walked over to her clothes and wrapped the black strap top around her hand. She would need to clean and bandage the wound properly.

  Woozy, she sat on a rock. “I was actually going to do it.”

  The puppy nudged its head under her arm and wriggled its body up through the gap onto her towelled lap. Placing its front paws onto her bare chest, it stood up on its hind legs. The tiny wet nose, followed by the little tongue, lapped the tracks of her drying tears. A quiet whimper accompanied each ticklish lick.

  A few minutes later, she was well and truly drenched in puppy slobber but felt marginally better. “It’s okay. I’m better now.” The puppy cocked its head. Alex got the distinct impression it was trying to decide if she was telling the truth. “Honestly. I’m good. Thank you.” She used her uninjured hand to wipe her face. The puppy accepted a well-deserved fuss and its small bushy tail wagged happily. “I thought you’d left me. Where did you disappear to?” Alex asked, tickling the furry belly. After a few minutes, she stopped tickling and scolded softly, “Don’t do that to me again. Okay?”

  The puppy rolled over onto its front and regarded her sulkily. It yapped twice.

  She smiled. “There’s plenty of time for belly rubs later. It’s getting dark and I need to set up camp and clean this mess up.” She held up the makeshift bandage and grimaced at the dark, sodden material. “And I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” The puppy wagged its tail, forgiving her. It yapped in reply. She gathered her things and looked down at her new little companion. “Lead the way. The sooner I make camp, the sooner we eat.”

  *

  The sky grew dark, and familiar sounds of life began to stir around the intimate camp. Crickets sang, birds cooed, leaves rustled with the gentle evening breeze. After trying to clean her wound, which was hard with only one useful hand, she struggled to dress in clean clothes. Making the campfire was relatively easy, even with the poor dexterity of her bound hand. The flames were for light rather than heat because the evening air remained tepid.


  She debated what to feed the puppy. Dog food was not a necessity she’d seen fit to carry. Having never owned a dog, she wasn’t sure if there were specific foods that were harmful to them. In the end, she decided on a little boiled rice and some tinned salmon. Harmful or not, the puppy wolfed it down in seconds. Feeling extra generous, she shared some of her portion, too.

  Both sated, she used the remainder of the light to clean her handgun. The crackling fire, the lively sounds of nature around her, and the weight of the furry head rested on her thigh made her grateful to be alive and more content than she’d been in weeks. As the flames died she packed up her things and climbed inside her tent. The puppy followed eagerly at her heels.

  “This is as far as you go, fluff ball,” Alex said sternly. The puppy stopped in its tracks. “You get to sleep in the porch tonight.”

  The puppy wagged its tail, tried to get past her, and when it failed, yapped loudly.

  “Only humans allowed past this point.” She folded a jumper and laid it down as a makeshift bed. “Sleep well.” She zipped the door, positioned her weapons within easy reach, and climbed inside her sleeping bag. The darkness normally comforted her, but tonight she felt on edge. In her mind’s eye she could easily picture Dave creeping up on the tent. Every rustle in the undergrowth stoked her anxiousness.

  Scratching started and made her jump. “Stop that,” she whispered in the direction of the door. She tried to ignore the little claws that scraped against the thin material. The puppy would have to learn its place. She was determined not to give in. It was a battle of wills and she was prepared to wait it out.

  Finally, the scratching stopped. With a triumphant grin she closed her eyes and snuggled down deeper inside her sleeping bag.

  The wailing started a few seconds later. It was the most sorrowful sound she’d ever heard, and it got louder by the minute and showed no signs of stopping. If Dave, another psychotic survivor, or even a hungry pack of wild dogs were in the vicinity, that wail was a big calling card. She gave in.

  “Fine!” She crawled to the door and zipped it open. In a flash, the puppy leapt inside the main compartment and danced around her in a fit of happy prancing and tail wagging. “Shush. It’s just for tonight,” she said, zipping the door up. “And you’d better be toilet trained.” She lay down in her sleeping bag and rolled on her side to face the material wall with the sole purpose of ignoring the puppy.

  The puppy clambered over her, sniffing, licking, and barking until she finally gave in completely and allowed it to crawl inside the sleeping bag with her. After wriggling around and repeatedly kicking her in the stomach, the small body finally settled.

  “If anything other than breath leaves your body inside here,” she said, fighting a yawn, “I swear I’ll make a pair of gloves out of you.” The puppy’s reply was a little contented snore. “You make a terrible guard dog,” she said, gently ruffling fur, grateful to have someone to talk to other than herself. “I suppose it’s good that one of us can sleep after everything that’s happened today. I’m knackered, but I’m too scared. What if he’s coming for revenge? What if there are more of them—too many to fight? Every time I close my eyes, I see them. See what I did to them. I had to defend myself, but…” She gulped down the bile seeping up her throat. “I’m a murderer.”

  Chapter Five

  The night felt like it would never end and Alex questioned if she’d ever sleep again. When she finally succumbed to exhaustion, nightmares dug their claws deep into her and refused to let go. One nightmare changed seamlessly into another, and another, each dragging her deeper down until she was drowning in despair and terror, too close to the bottom to break the surface and wake. And then came the final nightmare.

  Her dad was with her in the middle of a deserted street. At first, she was ecstatic to be with him—he was alive and looked like he had before he’d gotten sick. She wasn’t alone. Her hope soared and her face ached from smiling. But something was different, wrong. He looked bitterly disappointed.

  “Dad, I’ve missed you.” She rushed to hug him but he spun her around, grabbing her from behind, his nails digging into her arms. She didn’t understand what was happening. The sound of laughter made her look up. Dave, Carter, and the bald guy stood a few feet away “Let me go! They’re going to hurt us.” She tried using the self-defence techniques he’d taught her, but he knew them all and easily blocked them.

  “Let’s have some fun,” Carter said, stepping closer.

  “Me first,” Dave said, flicking open a penknife. “Me and her got some unfinished business.” His words sounded thick through his broken teeth.

  “We’ve all got unfinished business,” the bald guy said. “She sure did a number on your teeth.”

  “Yeah, well I’m going to return the favour,” Dave said, gnashing his splintered teeth and gums. Blood oozed down his chin, making him look demonic.

  “No!” she cried, but no matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t break free of her dad’s hands. He was offering her out and they were so close—but then she remembered the knife, and as she stabbed it backward she heard her dad’s animalistic scream, his grip releasing her. She spun around and watched as he fell to the ground, blood pouring from his stomach and pink tears streaming from his red eyes. He was weak and frail, like the last time she’d seen him.

  “What have you done?” he asked over and over again, disbelief turning into desperation, until a coughing fit shook his body. Black gunk splattered the ground from his mouth. “I don’t want to die. Don’t let me die,” he said, lifting a hand beseechingly.

  She stumbled to his side and gagged. Half his face and skull were missing from the bullet—but she’d not shot him, had she? He writhed in agony. How was he still alive with half his face missing? She tried to staunch the scalding blood from his stab wound, but her hands slipped and slid off his skin.

  “How could you do this?” he asked.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

  “You killed us.”

  “I…” She couldn’t speak. His hand raised and his index finger pointed beside him. Horrified, she followed the direction. Her mum lay next to him, dead, with a gunshot wound to the chest. Her red, cloudy, unblinking eyes, as if made of glass, bored into her accusingly. Beside her mum lay Dianne. The part of her face that remained was decomposing and shrunken, her mouth open in an eternal silent scream, her front teeth broken and missing. Brain and bone fragments splayed across the concrete behind her, cooking in the day’s heat. The gaping hole in her head matched her dad’s.

  But she hadn’t fired the gun.

  The familiar coolness of the handgun caressed her hand and her index finger twitched on the trigger. She flung it away from her and it landed next to Dianne. One of her legs was missing, savagely torn off below the knee. Unable to stop, Alex followed the smeared trail of blood until she found what was left of the missing leg.

  The puppy was feasting. It wagged its tail and barked playfully to her, its muzzle slick and oily with blood as it gnawed the bone.

  She screamed and couldn’t stop.

  She sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, her hoarse screams finally subsiding to pathetic whimpers. There would be no more sleep. She couldn’t unsee the visions of her dad, mum, and Dianne, so she cried until there were no tears left and her eyes burned. Rubbing her chest, she tried to relieve the agony of her broken heart. The images and feelings were raw and vivid, scorched in her memory like a real event. She’d never forget.

  The puppy went out once to relieve itself. She clenched her handgun and torch, poised to shoot anything that moved or came out of the dark. Nothing appeared, so she and the puppy returned to the tent to wait out the rest of the night. She kept her torch on, needing the light, and moved the puppy beside her, intent on staying awake until dawn.

  The tweeting birds and light burning through the blue material of her tent convinced her it was safe to venture out. Traumatised by the visions, she couldn’t bring herself to analyse the dream. Yeste
rday’s events paired with the nightmare had taken their toll physically, mentally, and emotionally. She summoned up what little resolve she had left to crawl out of the tent, managing not to disturb her companion.

  Her body had seized up, making the most mundane of tasks difficult for her sore and stiff limbs. She built another fire and considered the day ahead. The sun was already hot, and by midday it’d be unbearable. Judging by the amount of pain she was in from sitting, it was unlikely she’d cover much ground. Plus, the camp was comfortable, well hidden, and near the lake. As she boiled some water for a mug of coffee she made the decision that they would stay here for one more night.

  The bitter coffee perked her body up. Having a swim in the lake to cool off and stretch her muscles was far too appealing to ignore. After some rustling, the groggy puppy emerged from the tent, giving a halfhearted wag of its little tail in greeting.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.

  The puppy plodded over to her and licked her right hand.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” She boiled more rice and used the leftover canned fish, presenting the meal. “So, tomorrow we’ll leave. In the next town, we’ll scavenge around and see what we can find you. Your own food, bowls, brush, and hopefully a book that’ll tell me how to keep you alive. The only thing I’ve been responsible for was a houseplant named Walter. He lasted less than a month. And I’ve never had a pet before.”

  The puppy stopped eating and looked pointedly at her.

  Alex held up her hands in defence. “Okay, jeez. I’ve never had a small, obnoxious canine companion before. Better?” The puppy didn’t bother with a response and returned to eating its food. “So, some kind of book would be useful.” The puppy rigorously scratched its side with a hind paw, only to fall over. Unsatisfied, it used its teeth to nibble the spot.