Odium II: The Dead Saga

by Claire C. Riley

  We head to the food court first, to check on possible supplies. I’m not expecting much, since most of the food here was fast food and generally the type that would rot pretty quickly, but you never know. Hunting through the large McDonald’s, we find mainly rotten meat and bread, vegetables long since disintegrated into a mush. But there are barrels of cooking oil, ketchup, and salt, which are all pretty damn useful. We drag them out to the front of the store for easy retrieval later on, and head to the next greasy food stand: a Chinese noodle shop.

  There’s the same in here as in the McDonald’s—oil, salt, other sauces. But there are also large cans of vegetables—corn and canned mushrooms and such—which, again, is all really useful stuff. We grab the mass of napkins too: you never know when shit like this will come in handy.

  After several stops, we have gotten a pretty big collection together and realize that we’re going to need to pack up everything we can and head back tomorrow, perhaps bringing back a couple of trucks next time to get as much as we can.

  The base is growing in its populace, and that’s a good thing—for both safety and humanity—but it also means that we need more supplies: more food, more clothing, more everything. There’s a couple of young children there now, and Zee has been talking about turning one of the buildings into a school for them and giving them something to do—perhaps even opening up the training classroom, and some of us with better skillsets helping to train some of the civilians in how to handle themselves and more practical things to do with survival. He thinks we have a real chance at living past this whole bullshit apocalypse.

  It all seems so dreamy, as if he’s living in a la-la land: school, training, survival. I don’t want to believe him, but it’s hard not to when everyone around you is so damn positive. However, I know what it’s like to lose home after home after home, to watch your friends die, and have everyone turn on each other. Most of the people at the base have only lost everything once; I’ve lost it all several times over. I don’t want to lose it again. For the second time in recent days, I realize that vengeance isn’t the first thing on my mind. The Forgotten, the walled cities, it all seems so far away out here, as if none of that ever happened. Of course my face begs to differ, but I think I can learn to live with that if it means being safe, keeping Emily and Mikey safe. Surely I’d be stupid to chase vengeance? To risk my life, their lives, for what? I don’t owe the people behind the walls anything.

  My guard is always up, and the walls around my heart always strong, but despite myself, despite everything I’ve learned to keep myself safe and protected, I can feel myself beginning to thaw.

  Beginning to hope.

  Chapter 38

  Rachel makes a weird noise from the back of her throat and grimaces. “This stuff makes me sick.” She fishes out the last of the vegetables and throws the can across the home department, sending liquid flying through the air. “I’d do anything for some fresh fruit and vegetables right now,” she says sulkily, and pokes the fire in the metal bin with a broken chair leg. “I miss real, fresh food.”

  “Me too,” I reply, continuing to munch on diced tomatoes. “Though these, I won’t deny, are fucking delicious.”

  “You better not have gotten food on my bed,” Nova growls. That’s the only time she seems to get cranky: when she’s tired. Everything else she takes in her stride. She finishes up her rice and beans and heads over to check out her bed. She throws a backward glance at Rachel, grunts, and climbs under the soft duvet with a loud groan of satisfaction.

  Michael comes back from the camping store just then, a smile on his face. “Tons of shit that we can take,” he says, rubbing his hands together by the fire as he takes a seat. “I mean tons. I thought this place would have been cleared out, but shit, this is one of the biggest hauls we’ve ever had.” He grins from ear to ear and it’s hard not to smile back.

  He’s right to be pleased: this place is amazing. I always loved going to the mall. It didn’t even matter if I was just window shopping, I just loved being around so many shops, so many things. It meant that there were choices, and I liked choices. Shit, yeah, I’ll admit I was a materialistic kind of girl, but I thought I’d outgrown it. Looking around at all the things I’ve picked just for me, I clearly haven’t. I refuse to feel guilty about it, though. I mean I did wear the same dirty underwear for years, the same shitty socks, the same roughed-up T-shirt. The only change of clothes I’ve managed are some army camo from the base, which is itchy, and a borrowed sweater from that weird town with the zombie repellent. Oh, and my sweatshirt from the consignment shop.

  To go shopping and pick clothes just for me is a great fucking feeling, and even my conscience won’t spoil it for me. The only shame is that it was summer when the deaders rose from their wormy graves, or wherever the fuck they came from. Winter would have been far better—at least then it would have been easier to find jumpers and thick coats.

  We raided the health food shop for pretty much everything we could get, and then headed to a pharmacy and grabbed all the meds and toiletry stuff we could physically carry. I grabbed some makeup for Max, knowing how pleased she would be, and of course how big a favor she would owe me. I grabbed new boots for Emily from a fancy department store, along with several sets of underwear, and I grabbed Mikey a couple of packs of shaving cream and razors. I even managed to find some Baby Ruths for Nova, which she stuffed in her mouth eagerly.

  After I grabbed things for me, I set about going through the list of things I knew the group needed. Zee had given one to each of us, so we all separated and trawled the mall for as much of it as we could get.

  Medicines, bandages, weapons, camping equipment, maps, radios, batteries (though they were mostly all no good anymore)—the list was endless for things that the base needed to run efficiently. The main thing we struggled to get to take back was weapons: other than some large knives, there was nothing else.

  The base was stocked with guns and ammo, but we had blown through a large load of it on this trip, and every subsequent trip was going to be the same; the ammo that was reserved wouldn’t last too long. And weapons were just as important as food in this world.

  I finish my tomatoes and grab my tub of cooked rice. After starting the fire, we boiled some rice and pasta. Trying to fill the hole inside of us with something relatively healthy and filling was always a difficult task, and that was something that wouldn’t change until spring and summer, when the base could grow some of its own food.

  “Pass me some more of that,” Rachel says, still sulking. “I hate this food, it makes me sick,” she pouts.

  “It makes us all sick,” Michael says, still grinning as he spoons some of his own canned vegetables into his mouth. It seems nothing is going to put an end to his good mood.

  “No, I mean, it really makes me sick. I’ve had a headache for the entire damn apocalypse because of this disgusting food. I need something fresh and crunchy.” I hand her a bowl of the rice and she stuffs it in her mouth, still frowning hard.

  “This is better than the stuff I was used to eating,” I say around a mouthful of sticky rice.

  “Better than what most of us are used to,” Michael says, raising an eyebrow at Rachel’s sulking.

  “I’m going to bed,” she says, standing and taking her rice with her, clearly not liking being judged by Michael.

  We made our base in the home department store, the ones where they have the stupid beds made up to showcase their best duvet covers. I always thought it was stupid, but I’m grateful for it now—or I will be as soon as I’ve eaten and head to my bed.

  Michael shakes his head and dismisses her tantrum. “She’s spoiled.”

  “It sounds like she’s had it pretty rough,” I say, thinking he sounds like a total dick. So what if she wants fresh food—don’t we all? The only difference is that most people don’t bother to say it out loud. But we’ve all been there and we all understand.

  “Spoiled!” Michael repeats.

  The room dims as both
Rachel and Nova turn off their camping lanterns. His disregard of what she’s been through pisses me off, and I can feel my temper beginning to grow.

  “No seriously, she’s been through a lot,” I say, trying to swallow the rice that seems to be forming into a solid lump in my throat.

  Michael looks up from his food, his jaw working. “She’s had it easier than most,” he says darkly and slams down his food. “I’m going to do a perimeter check.”

  He stands and storms off, and I rack my brain trying to work out what’s up his ass. I remember her story about what happened to her—the whole dog and getting behind the walls only to find that it was a testing facility. That sounds pretty fucking horrendous. The more I think about it the angrier I become, and even when I climb into my deliciously comfy bed with the floral bedding that reminds me of a life before all this, I can’t sleep; I’m that angry.

  I can hear Rachel and Nova lightly snoring and I turn over, tugging the covers around my neck, feeling warmer than I have in weeks. The pillow is so damn soft and cozy, my face sinking into it and smooshing my cheeks. It’s amazing, the feel of the clean bedspread on my skin, the smell of newness. But I still can’t sleep. Michael’s words have struck a chord, hit a nerve, and all the other stupid fucking cliché things you say to describe it when someone royally pisses you off.

  I throw back the covers, plant my feet in my Doc Martens, and head off to find him. I need to know what he was talking about. I swear to God, though, if he is talking about her cozy life behind the walls, I will go psycho on his ass.

  I traipse the rows of shops in search of him, eventually finding him in an old music store, rifling through the CDs and humming to himself as if imagining the music on each CD. He doesn’t see me when I come in, and under other circumstances I would have tried to jump out and scare the crap out of him. But not today.

  “What did you mean, she’s spoiled?” I say, making him jump anyway. I don’t take any satisfaction from it, though.

  He breathes heavily. “It doesn’t matter.” He continues shuffling through the CDs but doesn’t hum anymore.

  I walk to him, standing on the opposite side of the rack he’s looking through. “It does matter. You said she was spoiled. From what she told me, she had it as bad as the rest of us, maybe worse. So now I’m thinking you either judge us all that harshly—maybe me for living behind those fucking torturous walls—or you know something I don’t. Something it sounds like I should damn well know.”

  His shoulders slump and he continues to avoid eye contact. “It doesn’t matter now. It makes no difference to you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Well now you definitely have me all kinds of interested. I need to know what kind of people I’m working with—what kind of people I’m living with.”

  We don’t say anything for a minute, the silence becoming thick between us; I continue to stare at him and he continues to avoid my gaze. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

  “I shouldn’t have fucking said anything. I love that woman like a sister,” he says and shakes his head.

  I tilt my head to the side. “Well, you did—now fucking spill it before I go and ask her myself.”

  I let the silence swallow the rest of my unspoken words. I was beginning to trust these people, beginning to think of them as my little substitute family, but it seems that this little family has a dirty secret.

  “She didn’t just live there and then escape,” he says darkly, his face finally looking up to meet my gaze. “She was helping them.”

  He says the words, but I don’t understand them. Now I’m not a dumbass, but trying to piece together what he’s trying to say to me is like completing a jigsaw with some of the pieces missing. I scratch at my scalp, puzzling everything together.

  “She was one of the scientists. One of the original scientists,” he says quietly, looking toward the doorway with a nervousness I’ve never seen on him before.

  “Rachel?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “She’s a scientist?” My head’s still cocked to the side like a dog looking for a lost ball. “Don’t be stupid.” I laugh again.

  Michael doesn’t laugh, though; he continues to stare at me, and one by one the missing pieces clink together. “She’s not a scientist as such, but she’s damn clever . . . or they thought they were.”

  “She was working with them? Testing on people?” I ask, my stomach feeling queasy.

  Michael nods, shame washing his features. Shame that he told me—told her secret—or because of something else, I don’t know.

  “But she had no choice, right? I mean, she wouldn’t really test on innocent people,” I add on, my voice barely a whisper.

  Now Michael laughs. “Of course she had a choice, and she chose to test on people. She’s not a bad person. She was trying to stop it, stop the reanimation.” He looks away, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away the words he’s telling me.

  I grip the CD rack. “Jesus, she’s really a scientist,” I say, more to myself than to Michael.

  “Yeah. I mean, she was always an army brat, but her specialty was always chemicals, hence the bomb-making skills.” He looks away. “I really shouldn’t have said anything, I don’t know why I did, she’ll never forgive me, I’ve just carried all this around with me for so long.” He taps his chest. “It hurts sometimes, when I think of the things she did, and then having no one to talk to about it.”

  It all makes a bit more sense now in some ways, though I still can’t picture Rachel in a lab coat and working with test tubes and chemicals. But we were all different people before this happened.

  “You can’t tell her you know. She’s not right in the fucking head. All she wanted was to be the hero in this story, but…” His words trail off.

  “The hero?” I shake my head. “This isn’t a story, Michael, this is real life. There are no heroes here, only survivors.”

  “I know, I know, but she’s messed up. All those chemicals messed her up. It’s not really her fault—everyone just went along with her, thinking she knew what she was doing.” He throws the CDs across the floor angrily. “They used her. They made her worse.”

  “So why did she leave?” I ask, dumbfounded. “She said she left. I mean, if everything was going so wonderfully with testing on humans, why the fuck did she leave?”

  “Because they took it too far,” Rachel says quietly.

  I look up to the doorway. She’s standing there with a gun in her hands, and fear flashes through me. She’s going to shoot me for a second time—only this time, no one’s going to save me.

  Chapter 39

  Nina.

  “So, what? Now you’re going to kill me? You didn’t manage it the first time, so what makes you think you can this time?” I bite out, anger burning through my words. Probably not a good time to let my inner bitch out of her cave, but fuck it and fuck her if she thinks I’m going down without a fight—or at least without a couple of shitty remarks.

  “Because there’s no one here to save you this time.” Rachel looks at the gun and then at Michael. I glance at him, seeing his gaze fixed solely on Rachel.

  He holds up his hands. “I want no part in this.” He backs up a couple of steps.

  Rachel looks unsure of what she wants to do, and I play on that. “You don’t have to do this, Rachel,” I say. God, I sound so cliché I want to vomit on my own words.

  She shakes her head, and even from this distance I can see her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. “I know, but I can’t have you telling everyone about me. They’ll all hate me.” She chokes on her words and clears her throat. “I’m not a bad person. None of us were, we just wanted to find a cure, to stop this thing.” She gestures around us.

  “Of course not,” I say as calmly as possible, even as my temper is begging me to go take a running jump at her face. “It’s just one of those things that happens: one day you’re thinking up a cure, the next you’re sentencing innocent people to death.” I shrug with a bitter snarl.


  “It is!” she snaps back loudly.

  “Bet it would have felt pretty damn good if you would have been able to cure everyone, huh?” I glare. “Wiped your dirty conscience clean.”

  Rachel’s gaze seems far away. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “We didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I mean, there seemed to be no cure at all. But then someone came up with a great plan, and it really was a great idea and it seemed doable, it just meant....” She looks to her feet. “It just meant infecting an embryo.”

  “A what?” My eyes bug out, I know they do. I can feel them wanting to pop right out of my head. “A fucking baby!”

  Rachel shakes her head quickly. “No, just an embryo. Not a real baby.” She looks up at me. “The cure didn’t work on babies. We tried.”

  I gasp, loudly enough for her to flush red in shame. “You infected children? Babies! You mean you killed children? Turned them into deaders?” I sob, a weird, strangled sound coming from the back of my throat, which I have no control over.

  “I know that sounds bad, but if we could have found a cure, or at least found out why people turn into these things, it would be worth it. Every death would be worth it to end it.” She speaks quickly, the words spilling out of her mouth. “But when that didn’t work, we thought maybe if we grow a baby already infected with the virus, that maybe, maybe that baby could hold the cure in its DNA.”

  A hand flies to my mouth to hold in my gasp of hatred and repulsion for this woman and her horrible team of wacko scientists. “You grew a zombie baby?” My heart thuds in my chest, reminding me of my mortality and of the ease with which she could kill me any second now. But I can’t stop the words from leaving my mouth. I can’t stop the anger and hatred for her; they pour from me in waves of disgust. “How could you do that? Why would you think that that would work?”