Remnants

JACK

Jack checks the pistol for the third time, and Amelia elbows him.

"It's loaded, Jack. Relax." She rests the nose of her own gun on the windowsill and peers out. Jack envies her composure. The bar is surrounded by hungry rotters and she remains cool and calm. He's about to jump out of his own skin, and the wailing back in the storage room isn't helping.

"Why can't they shut up back there? All they're doing is bringing more zombies."

"Cut them some slack, dude." She pokes his arm with her pistol, not exactly the safest thing to do, especially since he isn't sure she's ever shot a gun before. Not that he has much of a clue either.

"I just want out of here," he mutters. Not two feet away what's left of the bartender lies in a growing puddle of blood, one of the first casualties of the attack. No one had even realized the woman was a rotter, not until she'd bitten the poor fool nearly in half.

Jack swallows hard just thinking about it, and does his best to avoid that corner. The splattered zombie doesn't bother him; in fact, it had been his lucky shot to the head that had stopped the thing, but not before killing its victim, unfortunately. Or maybe the dead guy's the lucky one, and the rest of them are the losers.

Amelia, for all her tough talking, lets him take all the risks. Except for doing stupid stuff like look out the window. He's beginning to think her calm is merely stupidity and an inability to take anything seriously.

"Look at that one, Jack!" She points at one of the zombies. "He looks like Uncle Fester. Did you ever watch that show, Jacky?"

He tightens his fingers around his pistol. "Get away from the window, Amelia. We gotta board it up."

"Then we won't be able to see, Jack. Ha, we won't be able to see Jack shit. Ha ha! Get it, Jacky? Oh, come on, laugh. It won't kill you." She flips the long blonde hair that had first caught his eye over her shoulder and sends him her killer smile.

There's a crash behind her as rotting arms burst through the glass, grabbing her neck, her waist, her hair.

"Yum yum," the things chant. One licks Amelia's face, another nibbles at her ear. Blood trickles down her neck, so maybe it isn't just a nibble. She screams, her eyes bulging from her head, arms reaching out to him.

For a moment Jack can't move, transfixed by her screams and the sheer number of rotters attacking her. He raises his pistol too late: the creatures drag Amelia back through the window and she's gone.

The night is abruptly silent but for a solitary dog barking somewhere in the darkness.

*****

In the movies it was a virus that turned the recently dead into zombies, a virus from outer space or created in a laboratory. There's a germ (ha ha) of truth in that, Jack realizes as he trudges down the abandoned highway, pistol tucked into the waistband of his dirty jeans. It's funny, before the bombs fell, he was so fastidious, he never skipped a shower and he never went anywhere with even a speck of dust on his clothing. He'd never even considered touching a firearm.

A grim smile creases his face. Renee wouldn't recognize him now. If she's even still alive. He tries to remember her face, but gives up. She was beautiful, he knows that much. If she's lucky, she died in the first wave of germ bombs.

A sudden wind whips past, tugging at his loose clothing. He shivers, stops to zip up his coat. Winter is right around the corner, although he isn't sure it ever left. The only things that seem to thrive since the Blast are the big, thorny weeds. Even the trees look sick.

He has to stop thinking. Digging in his pocket, he pulls out the old iPod he found the other day in an abandoned car, laughing in wonder that those things even existed anymore. He turns it on, plugs one earphone in and lets the music carry him away for just a bit.

It's a dangerous thing to do, because distraction can be deadly. He can't help it, though. Music was his whole life. He can still see the CDs on their shelves in his apartment, can remember every single cover and band and song.

There's only a little battery power left, so he allows himself a mere two-song distraction. It's not even the kind of music he used to listen to, it's some kind of top 40 bubble gum crap, but it's music and it's better than the oppressive silence that presses down upon him since it happened.

He's stopped searching for his parents, his sisters. They're dead, or as good as. For all he knows they could be rotters--they probably are. His father wouldn't have taken any precautions against the viruses, he didn't believe in that kind of stuff even when the evidence was right in front of his face.

So Jack is alone, and he likes it that way. Amelia had been a pleasant distraction, but thanks to her he nearly got eaten, so no more women. He can't afford to care about anyone. It's every man for himself, and damn the ones who get in his way.

He stops beneath a twisted oak tree to rest, to try to catch his breath. The thick air makes it hard to breathe sometimes. A crackle of breaking sticks makes him jump, makes him claw at the pistol, heart seizing up. It's just a small brown squirrel, scampering from one tree to the next. Jack drops his hand, wipes his sweaty forehead with a shaking hand. It's the first living thing he's seen since he left the bar (and Amelia, let's not forget her, she of the brilliant smile and bloody ear). At least he thinks it was a squirrel; it had two tails. Animals are just about as scary as the rotters, most of them mutated and just gross to look at.

Jack starts walking again, not really knowing where he's going, because there's really nowhere to go, not anymore. He needs to find some place to hole up for a while, some place where he doesn't have to worry about something biting his head off, a place to get his head together. A piece of white paper flaps toward him and he reflexively grabs it.

It's an advertising leaflet, similar to the ones he used to design, back in his other life. But this one's crap, the lettering crude, the paper cheap.

Looking for Paradise? You're on the right track!

He starts to crumple it up, then changes his mind and folds it carefully, stowing it in one of his pockets. Paradise. Wouldn't that be nice?

He keeps walking, heading towards who knows what, and he keeps seeing the leaflets. They're everywhere, stuck to trees, hanging from fences, and, as he gets closer to the city, stuck under car windshield wipers, as if the car owners will be right back.

Jack zips his coat up to his chin, disgusted. This weather totally sucks. First it was sunny, or at least what passes for sunny now, the sun straining through grimy, thick clouds, then more clouds rolled in, these a sickening yellowish gray, and now slick rain is falling.

His belly clenches with hunger, and he swallows hard. He's got to find some food, and soon. The last thing he ate was a couple sleeves of stale saltines scrounged from the back of somebody's kitchen cabinet. The crackers had made him so thirsty he'd ended up drinking the toilet bowl water, something he isn't proud of, but hey, what can you do?

His thoughts return to the flyers. Someone has to be putting them up, but who? And why? Jack hasn't seen another person in days. Even the area appears to be free of zombies, which makes no sense whatsoever, or maybe it does. Humans equal food. What a nice thought.

As he approaches civilization after so long in the country, his pace picks up and his

spirits lift. The gravel road changes to cracked and split asphalt, both lanes blocked by vehicles. There must have been a huge crash, car after car crashing like dominos. Jack keeps his eyes straight ahead as he climbs through, not wanting to see what's left of the occupants. He has enough nasty things in his head, thank you very much

.

The carnage draws his eyes, however. There isn't much blood, whether due to rain or feasting rotters, he has no idea, just a bunch of bodies strewn all over the road and hanging out of the cars. Women with half their faces gone, men with gaping holes where their bellies used to be, it's horrible. The worst, though, are the children. Seeing them makes him sick to his stomach.

He's more than halfway through the tangle, the exit in sight, when he hears a scraping sound behind him. He runs, Jumping over slabs of asphalt, bodies and tires, Jack knows he can't keep it up. His lungs are already starting to burn. Maybe he'll be lucky this time. He's usually a pretty lucky guy.

It's not just one zombie of course, no, it's three. Three hulking rotters that look pretty fresh are stumbling after him at a good clip. Jack kicks it in the butt and manages a bit more speed although now he's really struggling for breath and he's going to have to stop but if he stops he's dead. So much for being lucky.

The rotters are close enough for Jack to hear their mumbling, and it chills his blood. When did they start being able to talk?

"Stop, we just want to talk! We won't hurt you!"

What the hell? Jack actually slows down for a second before he realizes it, and one of the zombies chuckles, a low, dead sound that makes him speed back up.

Now all the rotters are laughing and grinding their teeth, getting closer and closer. Jack's chest is heaving, his muscles burning, desperate tears standing in his eyes. He doesn't want it to end like this, not by being torn apart by zombies. That's not how Jack should die. It's not how he's going to die.

Up ahead is the warehouse district, blocks of huge buildings that will surely provide a hiding place. He hopes.

Leaden legs, tight chest, head pounding--Jack's at the end, he can feel it, can feel the rotters getting closer, can hear the slap of their feet, the grinding of their horrible, bloody teeth.

At last he reaches the first building, staggers down the alley, fighting for breath, fighting for his life. His feet shuffle in trash, leaves and sticks, thundering in his ears. He tries every door, every single one is locked tight.

"Please, help me." His voice is small and weak; no one will hear him even if there's someone inside who'd even care. Up ahead he sees a window and glory! It's cracked open. Shoving it open with the heel of hand he clambers inside, falling heavily onto cold cement. Ignoring the pain, he yanks the window down, flips the lock and ducks back down, shivering in reaction, adrenaline racing through his veins, making him feel sick.

Just in time, too. He can hear the rotters milling around in the alley, thank God they're stupid. He huddles in the dimness beneath the window until he can't feel his legs, until he falls asleep, curled up on the cold cement floor.

*****

"Wake up. Wake up, dude."

Jack comes awake suddenly, groping for his pistol, his hand closing over nothing.

"Dude. We're not stupid, yeah?" Jack finally looks up, sees a skinny kid with shaggy brown hair and a humongous nose, holding Jack's pistol right at his face. There's more kids grouped behind Big Nose, all dirty with huge, staring eyes.

"Whatyoudoinhere?" This from a hulking boy who sounds like he has marbles in his mouth. Jack shakes his head.

"What? I don't--"

"Dude. Hulk wants to know why you're squatting in our crib."

"I--three of those dead things were chasing me." Jack keeps his voice calm with effort. Who are these scary looking kids?

"Yeah, we seen them out there, snuffling around. You led them right to us." His voice turns accusing, the pistol's barrel poking at Jack. "Them are smart ones, too."

"Hey, I'm sorry about that, honest. I just needed a place to hide."

"Whatwegonnadowithhimnow?"

"I dunno, Hulk," Big Nose says, looking worried. The other boys grumble a bit, causing Jack to start sweating. They're just kids, but there's an awful lot of them and Jack's not at the top of his game, that's for sure.

"I say we toss him back outside, let the rotters have him."

The boys move aside as the waters of Jordan did for Moses. This guy's no Moses, though. He's tall, with broad shoulders and ice-blue eyes. His dirty blonde hair is in multiple tiny braids all over his head, and he's holding a length of black pipe in one hand. Jack doesn't like the look of this kid. He doesn't have the same desperate, hollow look the others do. He looks dangerous.

Jack climbs stiffly to his feet, locking eyes with this boy/man. "Look," he begins, holding up his hands. "I don't want any trouble."

"Throw him back out for the rotters," the kid says again, voice casual, as if he's telling someone to take out the trash. There's nothing casual in his icy eyes, the set of his jaw as he stares at Jack. There's a reddish scar running from the corner of his left eye back to his ear, ruining the perfection of his face.

"You don't want to do that," Jack says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, trying to match the other's casualness. The boy raises one eyebrow, but says nothing, waiting.

"You need me."

Now the boy laughs, as do the others, laughing like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard.

"I'm lucky. I'm the luckiest guy ever," Jack keeps his eyes on the leader. "How else do you explain how I got away from those zombies and found an open window? I'm betting you don't normally leave windows open around here."

"He's got a point, Donovan," Big Nose says after a moment. "You know Curly checks the windows all the time."

"Shut up, Nick." Donovan presses his lips together, studies Jack. "I think you're a bullshit artist."

"Yeah, well, it takes one to know one." Jack flashes a smile at Donovan, who doesn't return it.

"Staythenightthengetoutofhere." Hulk points at Jack and repeats himself.

Donovan crosses his arms, shakes his head. "I dunno, Hulk. I don't like the looks of him."

"I don't like the looks of you," Jack retorts. "I just want to get a night's sleep without having to worry about a damn zombie sneaking up on me. I'm not interested in your Lord of the Flies set up, okay? I could care less."

Donovan nods slowly. "You can crash right where you came in, got it? In the morning, you're out of here."

"Definitely."

Jack waits until the last of them is gone before curling back up on the hard cement, his jacket a poor pillow.

But he can't sleep.

***

The sky's a gray blanket when Jack emerges from the warehouse. His body aches from the sleepless night, his head full of cotton. Not the best way to start the morning.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. It's good to be back in the city anyway, good to get away from those spooky kids. What a freak show that had been.

Jack's belly rumbles, reminding him he hasn't eaten in too long. So--first order of business is breakfast. Shouldn't be hard to find.

Two hours later the sun's beating down on his head and Jack's starving. Seriously starving. His head feels like it's about to float away, his belly twisting sickeningly.

At least he hasn't seen any zombies. Odd, but Jack's not complaining. He doesn't think he has enough strength left to be running from things that want to eat him. Not that he'd provide a very substantial meal, being mostly skin and bones anymore. At least he hasn't seen any of those damn leaflets. As soon as the thought crosses his mind he spots one fluttering on a light pole. It's tattered, barely readable, still annoying as hell.

Suddenly dizzy, Jack staggers, his fingers snagging on the paper, pulling it down, falling down, sidewalk rushing up to meet him--

*****

Consciousness returns to Jack slowly in minute increments, beginning with his sense of smell. His nose twitches, bringing in the familiar smells of home. Home?

Jack's eyes flip open. No, he realizes slowly, not home. His home was never like this.

He's lying on a soft bed in a dim room, the only light being filtered through a pair of frilly curtains on the opposite wall. The room's small, and from what he can see, the walls are covered with flowery wallpaper.

"You're awake."

The voice is soft, yet it makes him jump, every nerve on edge. Something is very wrong about this. A small figure appears at his side, and now he sees that it's a girl with long blonde hair and odd, faded blue eyes. Her features are delicate, her skin nearly translucent. She's wearing a light blue dress, one with long sleeves and a lace collar.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"No, I--" He has to stop because a bowl of soup is suddenly thrust beneath his nose, the lovely smell of chicken soup filling his nose. Without another word he grabs the bowl and begins shoveling it in, amazed at the complex flavor. How long has it been since he ate something like this? He can't even remember.

The girl stands by the bed while he eats like a pig, broth running down his chin, staining his shirt, but he doesn't care because there are noodles in this soup. Noodles!

"This is amazing," Jack manages, his belly full to bursting for the first time in forever. The girl smiles and takes the bowl and spoon from him. He stares at her, trying to figure her out, why having her near makes his skin crawl. Too late, he wonders what was in that soup.

"I'll tell the Reverend you're awake," she says, turning to go.

"Wait--where am I? And where are my clothes?"

"Your clothing has been burned. They were dirty. New clothing will be assigned to you if the Reverend decides you're worthy."

"Worthy? Hey, wait a minute--"

The door closes softly after her, the click of the lock loud, and Jack is alone. He gets out of bed, not caring that's he's naked, and does a quick search of the small room. He's standing at the window contemplating breaking the glass when the doorknob rattles behind him.

Jack snatches the sheet off the bed and opens the window, punching the screen out. As it falls, he quickly knots the threadbare sheet around one leg of the bed, convinced that it's not in his best interest not to meet this Reverend Moon, whoever he is. Relying on his luck, because it's all he has, Jack swings his legs over the windowsill and begins lowering himself down the side of the house just as the door bangs open.

Two men thrust their heads out through the window, looking down at him silently, with vacant expressions. Jack finds their stares unnerving, and loosens his grip on the sheet so that he slides down even faster, his bare feet barely touching the smooth siding of the house.

One of the men disappears from the window and Jack gets a bad feeling in his gut. Sure enough, the tension in the sheet abruptly slackens, sending him hurtling down. Luckily the window above the back yard, which although has dead and dying grass and plants, is still a softer landing than the sidewalk would have been.

Jack rolls as he lands, his fingers grabbing at the sheet, which has followed him down. Jumping to his feet, he jets out of the yard, the air cold on his skin. There's a wooden privacy fence surrounding the yard but that poses no problem, because the gate is wide open and he hurtles through it and then he's on the street, still running as hard as he can, the sheet flapping behind him like a white tail.

By the time he slows, stitch in his side and his lungs burning, the house is far behind him and he's in the warehouse district again, which is really annoying because no way in hell does he want to meet up with those Lord of the Flies jokers again.

Tying the fabric toga-style around him (yay for frat parties), Jack pauses to get his bearings. There's a faint scent of the river beneath the usual reek of rot and sewage, and it's toward this he starts walking. He could really use some fresh (fresher) air, and then maybe he can find a way out of this damned warehouse district and into the main city where there's hopefully some food.

It's not long before clothing tops even his desire for food, the wind whipping through the buildings, his feet sore from walking on the cracked cement. It's slow going, because if he cuts his foot, he's dead.