Odium II: The Dead Saga

by Claire C. Riley

  “Twenty feet,” Nova says loudly.

  I roll my shoulders, frustration burning through me, and take aim again. I take a breath, slowly releasing it as I squeeze the trigger again. This time the shot hits the deader’s shoulder—or I presume that was my shot. There’s so many bullets going flying that I could be wrong and mine just slammed into the ground, but I’ll take the shoulder shot for my own because I need this small victory. I’m so focused on taking the next shot that I don’t realize how close the fucking thing gets to us, so when I do fire, the bullet hits its target and blows part of the deader’s face away, the soft tissue sliding away to reveal shattered bone beneath. It isn’t enough to kill it, though, and it continues toward us, its face a crumpled mess of bone and gore. I fire again. This time I must hit something important, because the thing collapses to the ground.

  “Yeah! Take that, fucker!” I hoot loudly and then stop abruptly, realizing that they are still gaining distance on us and there are still plenty more to go.

  However, with the distance between them and us so close, Michael, Nova, and Rachel hit pretty much all headshots, even on a moving target. Occasionally one must go astray and is a body shot, but in less than five minutes the deaders are no more—again—and we all stop, reload, and take deep, panting breaths of stale, rotten, gore-filled air.

  My ears are ringing loudly, my shoulders burning from the effort of shooting, and my eyes are a little twitchy from seeing constant muzzle flashes in the dark, but as I look around and survey the damage—seeing body after rotten body of the dead—I feel a small victory.

  It’s strange how seeing the bones of humans in the other room filled me with such despair and dread, yet seeing the corpses of the dead in here fills me with such animalistic joy. I want to whoop at our victory, rejoice in the fact that we just kicked ass, but I don’t, because that would be kinda fucked up. Instead I look to my other team members. Michael is—as usual—frowning and counting up his ammo, Rachel is staring blankly at the bodies, her face possibly mimicking my earlier expression, and Nova is grinning from ear to ear.

  Wait, what?

  “That was awesome! High-five!” She laughs and holds up a hand.

  Chapter 32

  “Let’s go,” Michael simply says. “Keep a lookout and be careful.” He sets off at a brisk pace and we all follow like little sheep.

  We pass rack after rack of boxes. Michael occasionally grabs one down and roots inside, but it’s all plastic parts for something or paperwork. No food, no ammo, nothing of actual use to us, which makes the whole journey and waste of ammo all the more pointless. We come to the back of the warehouse where there’s another set of doors that look to be barricaded from the inside, given the image through the small glass windows in the doors. I hear Michael huff out an annoyance before turning to us.

  “All right, we need to decide what to do. There doesn’t appear to be anything useful here. The info we had was wrong. So, do we clear the building and keep it as a possible safe spot or leave? Personally, I think we’re wasting time and we should leave.” He sounds seriously pissed off.

  “I think it’s too late to head somewhere else today,” I reply. “I say we secure the rest of this place, or at least a good portion of it. That way we can spend the night here and head back out tomorrow.” I offer up my suggestion, fully expecting him to come back with some smartass remark, but lo and behold, he doesn’t.

  He nods in approval. “Okay, that sounds like a good plan, actually. Everyone else agree?”

  “Aye aye, captain,” Nova snarks and salutes him, still grinning.

  Rachel shrugs, seemingly not bothered either way. Or maybe she is, I don’t know. My adrenalin rush is wearing down and I really want to sit down and feel somewhat safe for five or ten minutes; I’m sure she feels the same way. After all, she’s been traveling on an injury, and that shit has got to be hurting.

  Michael looks toward the door in front of us, I presume assessing what kind of noise it would make to force our way through. There’s no way he can have enough ammo on him to take on another horde like the last one we encountered. He bangs on the door, the sound echoing inside the darkened room. I scan behind us, gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, my samurai safely stored in its sheath on my back. Nothing comes, and it’s not a pretty sight looking at the destruction we left in our wake.

  The tap-tapping of the rain on the metal roof is somewhat calming in such a terrifying situation. My heart continues to beat heavily, and when Michael knocks on the doors again, I jump. Nothing comes from inside the room and we take it as a unanimous decision to push our way in. It takes a shitload of effort on everyone’s part. These doors were barricaded real strong, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell happened to the people that did it.

  It doesn’t take long to find out: two bodies sit prone against the wall, the splatter behind them indicating that they chose the quickest route out of this hell. Looking at their emaciated bodies, I wonder if it was the quickest way out; perhaps they starved for months in here before choosing this option. I shake my head sadly. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. They are out of this world, away from the hell and slaughter, and safely kicking it up in heaven—or that’s what I hope for them. Because of all the places to go out, this seems like a darker hell than most.

  We find more deaders trapped in a small bathroom; one is so rotted away, it’s barely clinging to its false life that it can hardly move. It still does, though, squirming its way across the cold tiles floor to us, partially eaten by another one that we find in a stall still sitting on the toilet with its head smashed in and its pants around its ankles. Sadness washes over me in waves. Such a sad end for these people.

  The windows in this room are once again covered by cardboard, and we peel it back to look outside. The storm is back in full force, but no thunder and lightning this time. However, the rain pounds down on the ground, making swamp-like puddles in the fields behind the warehouse. The back is locked up tight with no deaders, but beyond that, I catch stray ones shambling back and forth through the mud. I watch them hypnotically succumbing to the mud and being sucked down to their knees, not having the strength to stand back up.

  “Nina.” Rachel’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to look at her. “Everything okay out there?” she asks, even though she knows it’s not. It’s like one of those things you used to do out of politeness: Hey, everything okay? Good, good, blah, blah. Fucking niceties and politeness don’t mean anything, really, but we get on with it, we nod our heads like everything actually is okay, like we’re holding up fine and none of this affects us. I decide to admit my weakness, my dark thoughts.

  I shake my head lightly. “I don’t know, is it? Will it ever be?” I purse my lips, realizing that it isn’t helping in any way and finally understanding why everyone always says yes that they’re fine. “God, that was fucking morbid.” I give a small, soft laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “Yeah, everything is locked up. We’re good from this end.”

  Without another word, we both head back over to the makeshift camp we’ve set up. This was again offices of some sort. But the two bodies that we found with their brains blown out must have been living here for some time, because it is already arranged into a small bed made up from layers of paperwork with a sheet thrown over it all, probably to avoid any paper cuts—you know how much those hurt. A small table and chairs is set up, too, with more paper on top.

  We found a note left—again—presumably by the dead couple. It’s like a last will and testament, I suppose. Not that that shit matters anymore, but I guess they wrote in the hopes that the world would be fixed by now. It was depressing to think that nothing has changed in the time that had passed since they wrote it, but the letter itself was short, sweet, and to the point:

  To my sweet Julie…my lost princess,

  Momma loves you. I hope that you’re safe. We’ll meet again one day.

  Momma. X

  The other message states simply:


  Jack was here, and it sucked so I moved on to better and brighter places. Rock on Motherfuckers!

  I don’t know which note started the waterworks, but I looked away before anyone saw them.

  *

  I bite into my granola bar, feeling the crunchy oats getting stuck between my teeth. I pick them out with the tip of my finger. With the next bite I suffer the same thing and I have an urge to launch the stupid thing across the room, but beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to food. Still, it’s a pain in the ass and bland as crap.

  I rummage around in my mouth again and grumble out my frustration. Nova snickers and keeps smoking her cigarettes.

  “I used to love this stuff,” I say to her—shit, to anyone who’s listening. I need to speak, and stop getting frustrated with oats for a second. “Always on a damn diet, watching what I was eating, calorie counting.” I laugh. “I still am, I guess, just the other way around. Now I actually want the calories.”

  “Never thought I’d hear a woman say that,” Michael pipes up. He’s slumped down in one of the chairs, his head hanging back and his eyes closed. His gun, of course, is right by his side.

  “Never dieted in my life.” Nova makes smoke rings in the air, her feet up on the table we’re sitting around. “I actually used to be a real fussy eater. I guess that was my diet in a way.” She chuckles to herself, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a bottle of white rum. She unscrews the lid and takes a long swig, and then offers it to me.

  “Probably not the best idea, but what the hell.” I grab the bottle and take a gulp. It burns all the way down, and damn, it feels good. I cough and hand it to Rachel. “I was always more of a wine girl before—well, before.”

  “Snap. That was my poison,” Nova says with a grin.

  “What about you, Rachel? What was your drink?” I ask.

  “I used to love to drink a good rosé wine. I can’t handle it very well, though, anymore, so I’ll pass.” She takes the bottle from me and hands it back around to Nova.

  “Hey, big man, you having some of this?” She holds out the bottle to Michael.

  He doesn’t open his eyes to reply. “No, Nova, you know I’m good,” he grumbles.

  He doesn’t say it with any sort of malice—more like he’s used to being the sober one around these two. It’s funny, until this moment, I hadn’t realized that these three were more like siblings than anything else: the way that they argue and bicker with one another, yet have each other’s backs no matter what. I would hate to piss any of them off for fear that the other two would turn on me. It’s a good thing, I think, to have other people so willing to have your back for you that others will be afraid. I know I have that with Mikey, but that feels different from this.

  I frown, and Nova sees it and smirks. “Michael doesn’t drink. Hasn’t touched a drop in eighteen years…so he says.”

  “That’s because it’s true,” he says, his eyes still closed. “I’m teetotal.”

  Nova hands the bottle back to me but I shake my head. “No, it’s been too long since I had a drink. I don’t want to get drunk.”

  She shrugs and swigs some more back. “Jesus, it’s fucking catching.”

  “Can I ask a question?” I ask.

  “You’re a chatty one tonight,” she laughs.

  I roll my eyes. “I know, I’m not usually. I’m more of a ‘my thoughts aren’t actually appropriate for human consumption so it’s best to keep my trap shut’ kind of girl, but go figure.” I smile. “Why didn’t we run earlier? Why did you waste all that ammo killing those deaders? It seems such a waste.”

  Michael opens his eyes and looks at me. “What if there were people in here?” His eyes stray to the two bodies, which we’ve covered up. “Alive people. Would it have been a waste then? How many bullets would you want us to waste saving Emily or Mikey?” Again, he doesn’t say it with anger; more like he’s used to being asked this question.

  “Okay, I see your point.” I drink from my water canteen, but Michael isn’t finished.

  “At some point, if mankind is going to come back from near extinction, these things—these fucking deaders, as you call them—they’re all going to need to be killed.” He yawns and stretches his arms above his head. “If we’re gonna be the hero in this story, might as well do it right.” He smiles—actually fucking smiles—and I feel my eyes widen in shock. He wipes the smile from his face quickly and closes his eyes, going back to sleeping off the day’s dramas.

  Nova leans her head back against the wall, takes one more swig of the white rum, and closes her eyes like Michael. She keeps the bottle in her hand, though.

  I pick up my stupid granola bar and continue to nibble on it. I’m starved, but this tastes like crap. Maybe I’ve been spoiled the last couple of weeks with all the food at the base. There was a time that I wouldn’t have turned my nose up at any type of food—food was food, and if it stopped the aching in my stomach, I’d eat it. But things are different now. Sure, things are still shitty, but I finally feel like all the pieces of my life are clicking back into place after years of misplacement.

  My arms and back and especially my shoulder are still aching from all the driving I’ve done today, but it felt good to be out on the road, it felt good knowing that I had three people that could take care of themselves—and hopefully me, if I got into trouble. And somehow I always get myself into trouble. I love Emily, but the constant worrying about her is endless and exhausting. I think back to the woman that I ran over—the one they stood in front of the truck and Rachel had forced me to run down. Will they do that on the way back? Surely not. I look across at Rachel. She’s busy staring into the flame of one of the candles we’ve lit.

  “Why did you make me kill that woman? Surely there must be another way?” I ask her.

  Her eyes look up and meet mine, and they’re filled with such dark sorrow that my heart aches for her. “There isn’t,” she says simply.

  “But why would they keep killing their own?” I ask, taking a quick glance at Nova’s drink. God, I could do with that now. The feel of the woman’s bones crunching beneath my wheels is as realistic as if it were happening right now.

  “If you stop, you’re done for. They’ll take your equipment, they’ll take…whatever they can and whatever they want, and they’ll kill you if they don’t get their own way.”

  “Hence the woman in the road,” I say quietly.

  Rachel nods. “It’s not like I wanted you to have to kill her, but if it’s her or me, there’s no question of who is coming out of this alive.” Rachel looks up at me quizzically. “What did you do before all this? You know a lot about the infection—the zombies. How they’re made. Do you know how to stop it?” She looks almost angry when she says the last part.

  “What? Stop it? Don’t be stupid. There’s no way to stop it. You just have to live and survive.” I shake my head, annoyed. “What kind of question is that, anyway?”

  Rachel looks away. “I’ve heard that there are people trying to find a cure, is all. If you know anything, then you should tell someone.”

  I shake my head again, rolling my eyes just for the sake of rolling them. “I don’t know anything about a cure, or anyone who is trying to make a cure, so I sure as hell wouldn’t know who to go fucking talk to about it. As far as I know, there is no cure. Death is the trigger and death is the only cure in that same respect.”

  I look away, my teeth grinding in frustration and anger. I know what she’s saying, and I get it; and maybe it’s the naïve part of me, but I still find it hard to believe that people would turn on each other so much. It makes no sense: in a world where we all need to stand proud and help one another, we’re going around slaughtering.

  Is any of this really worth saving? Maybe the zombies were God’s way of wiping us out. What other excuse could he have for letting things get like this? I’ve never been what you might call a believer, but this is definitely hell, and the deaders are hell’s minions unleashed upon the earth, which means there
must be a counterpart to it. A heaven of sorts.

  After everything I’ve seen and experienced, humans have been far worse than the deaders. At least the deaders have no choice. They can’t help themselves: feeding and killing is their only thought process.

  What excuse do we humans have?

  Chapter 33

  The next day seems to have cleared away a lot of the storm clouds, and we finally get to see a hint of blue sky for the first time in many months. Of course it literally is just a hint, but a hint is all we need to give us the small boost that maybe winter is coming to an end. Well, at least at some point in the future.

  We load back up, taking the very meager supplies we find—stupid things like pens and paper for the kids back at the base, some cleaning supplies from the janitor’s closet, toilet paper. Like I said, stupid things really—though you can never have enough toilet paper. Yes, it’s the small things that please me. Don’t judge until you’ve had to wipe your ass on leaves. We still haven’t found any food or weapons, which is the important stuff. We talk about where to head to next, the map stretched over the front of an old car.

  “It just makes no sense. The warehouse is right here on the map.” Rachel points again.

  “Well, this is a warehouse,” I offer, to which I receive a glare from Rachel. “What? I’m only saying that . . . well, why the fuck did you think food was in there, anyway?”

  “We bumped into a trucker a couple of months back,” Michael says as he sharpens his knife on a rock. “He told us about this place he was heading to, somewhere that he used to deliver to. He gave us the address, circled it on a map, said if we ever get to the area to look him up,”

  The act reminds me of Mikey and I feel a little homesick, which is stupid and weird because I haven’t had a home in a long time, and we don’t intend on staying at the base, so what the fuck am I getting all weirded out for? Or maybe I do want to stay at the base now, bury my head in the sand and pretend that the Forgotten and the walled cities don’t exist. And I’m still talking to myself, so I better stop before everyone thinks I’m weirder than they already do. I shake my head to clear the fog.