Remnants Ch. 02

(Jeremiah)

Sometimes it takes more than one bullet. He calmly reloads the rifle, takes aim and fires again, just to be sure.

Green eyes scan the overgrown yard, noting the small footprints, the tell-tale scuff marks. He steps over the still-twitching body, shoulders tense. Sometimes the dead things travel in packs, like rabid dogs, sometimes they are alone. There, over by the barbed wire fence, in the long brown grass, he sees movement. A moment later, a small figure emerges.

He falters as it shuffles into view, small hands raised in supplication, head lolling, face grey, intact. It's fresh, so fresh it barely staggers, and he raises the rifle, trying not to think of it as a child, as someone's sweet little boy. Still, his heart cramps a bit as his finger tightens on the trigger. The thing goes down abruptly, heels beating a tattoo on the dry ground.

Jeremiah returns his rifle to the scabbard on his back, grabs his pack from where he'd dropped it at his feet, and continues down the cracked pavement, dust swirling behind him.

****

Jeremiah enters the dead city, every nerve on edge, everything inside him screaming at him to get out, get out, get out! His eyes rove constantly from side to side, evaluating the risks, searching for danger, for a safe place, although he doubts there's anywhere truly safe anymore.

Motionless cars line the streets, some with doors hanging open like slack mouths, others closed tight like a tin can, windows smashed from rotters eager to get at the soft insides. A few corpses lay here and there, clothing flapping in the wind. Jeremiah presses his hat down on his head, nerves jangling. Even before the bombs he'd hated the city, detested the noise, the crowds, everything about it. Now, his reasons to hate it are different.

His fingers trail along the rough bricks of a building, eyes straining in the gloom. It's dumb to be outside at night, especially here, he knows this, but his ammunition is low, too low, and he must find an old friend, and soon. Memories crowd his brain, memories that he pushes aside, because distraction is dangerous, distraction kills, and despite his earlier thoughts, he does want to live.

It's quiet; too quiet. Fingers tightening on his gun, Jeremiah hesitates, an odd sound filling his ears. It's music, he realizes slowly, wonder filling him. People singing. When was the last time...? For the barest moment he's transported back to a time when music filled his world and made it more bearable. The voices rise and fall, the words incomprehensible, the melody otherworldly, snaking inside his ears, his head.

Suddenly there's a knife poking into his side, a hand tugging on his pack.

"Drop your gun," a harsh voice says, quiet yet firm. Jeremiah whirls quickly and elbows the guy in the chin, knocking the knife to the street.

It's just a kid, a boy no older than eighteen or nineteen, his clothing dirty and ragged. Jeremiah motions for him to get up and the kid does so cautiously. He's thin, like everyone now, only broad shoulders and a wiry build saving him from scrawniness. Greasy brown hair hangs in his face, obscuring his features.

"Gimme my knife," the kid demands, glancing around nervously. "This place is crawling with greyskins."

Jeremiah pauses, and then motions for him to retrieve his weapon. He wonders if the kid will try to kill him. But he only scoops up his knife and hides it somewhere on his person.

"This is a really bad place. What are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for a friend," Jeremiah says, the back of his neck prickling. The singing has stopped, replaced by an ominous silence. He loosens his pistol in its holster, ready for anything. What he's not prepared for, however, is a flood of people pouring from the building.

Beside him the kid hisses in a breath. "We gotta get out of here." Needing no other encouragement, Jeremiah follows him down an alley, hoping he's not making a mistake.

The kid sprints down the filthy alley. At the end a chain link fence looms, but he doesn't even slow down. He leaps onto it and clambers up to the top easily.

"You coming?"

Jeremiah slips his gun back and starts climbing. It's not easy, and by the time he reaches the top and flings himself over, he's out of breath.

The boy's waiting, fidgeting. "This way," he says, slinking along.

Jeremiah follows, full of questions, shoulders tight, sweat trickling down his face. This is nuts, coming into the city. It's even worse than he imagined.

It's eerie, passing darkened, empty houses, yards littered with trash and corpses, doors hanging open, windows broken, and everywhere that damn silence.

The kid creeps into the overgrown yard of a two-story Victorian style house and hurries up to the porch, glancing back at Jeremiah. A worried frown creases his forehead. Jeremiah's boots are too loud on the wooden steps. The boy knocks on the door, a complicated series of knocks that makes Jeremiah shake his head.

When the door opens, the kid slips inside and so does Jeremiah, making sure his pistol is within easy reach. A stale stench of unwashed bodies nearly overwhelms, burning his nose. Underlying that is the spicy, unmistakable smell of cockroaches.

"Gabriel, I expected you back sooner." The speaker is an older man with raggedly cut white hair and a nose that looks like it's been broken before. When he realizes Gabriel isn't alone, a pistol appears in his hand.

"Don't do it," Jeremiah warns, keeping one eye on the kid. He places his hand on his own gun.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"I had to bring him, Liam," Gabriel says, sounding a little desperate. "He was over by the church, and they came out."

"Shut up," Liam snarls. He stares hard at Jeremiah. "You're not welcome here. Get out."

"After you tell me what I want to know. Marie Golden. You know her?"

He doesn't miss the expression on the boy's face, the way he tries to hide that he recognizes the name. The older man is more practiced, only a slight widening of the eyes giving him away.

"You're leaving. Right now," Liam says, his intentions clear. Quickly, Jeremiah kicks out, catching Liam's knee with his boot while at the same time elbowing Gabriel in the face. Both men go down.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says carefully, not missing the shiftiness in Liam's eyes. He'll have to watch that one. The kid wears his emotions on his face, and right now he's looking up with shock coupled with something else--admiration?

"You're going to answer my questions and then you're going to give me some food and water. Got it? Now, where can I find Marie Golden?"

"We don't have to tell you anything," Gabriel mutters, dropping his eyes. Jeremiah reaches down and grabs the dumb kid by his collar, jerking him upright. He flinches as if expecting a blow.

"Yes, you do," he says, shaking him hard. It's like shaking a bag of bones. "Now tell me what I want to know."

"Enough." Liam climbs painfully to his feet. "Let the boy go and I'll tell you what you want to know." Jeremiah lets go, steps back, and makes sure his hand rests on the butt of his pistol.

"Liam, what are you doing?" the kid hisses, outraged. "You--"

"Shut up." He backhands Gabriel, his hand making a cracking noise. "You've said enough." Gabriel staggers, catching his balance on the dirty wall. He glares sullenly at the older man, one cheek bright red. He rubs it, mouth turned down.

"Now. Marie Golden. Of course, we know her. Everyone in the city does."

"Where can I find her?"

"Below the Tower, on the other side of Moon's church."

"What the hell is Moon's church?" It makes sense, though, the music had reminded him of the hymns he used to sing, back in the days before the world blew up.

"That's where I found you," the kid puts in, too dumb to stay quiet. "Where all those things came out."

"Things? Those people?"

"Those weren't people," Gabriel says quickly. "We call the smart ones greyskins. Moon's some nutty freakazoid who's found a way to control them."

A chill goes through Jeremiah. "Control them?"

"Enough, Gabriel." Liam steps forward, as if to hit the kid again, only his injured knee makes him stagger instead. "Shut your mouth."

"I don't know how," the kid goes on, backing out of reach. "It's weird. People disappear all the time, and then when you see them later, they're different. Not how they look so much, but how they act. It's hard to tell sometimes."

Jeremiah frowns, not liking what he's hearing. In fact, he's not liking anything about this situation. There's some weird dynamic going on here, one that he doesn't want to get involved in, if he can help it.

"Shut up, Gabriel. Now." Liam clenches his fist, waves it at the boy. "You know the rules." Gabriel shrugs, mouth a thin red line. "Go tell Raymond we have a guest."

Every line in his body screaming rebellion, Gabriel skulks down the hallway, glancing back once, his expression unreadable.

"Who's Raymond?"

"Just one of my boys," Liam says, pride in his voice. "This place is a sanctuary, a safe place."

"How many of you are there?" Jeremiah glances around the room, noting the unlit kerosene lamps, the overflowing bookcase.

"About fifteen. All boys, all orphaned. Gabriel's been with me the longest."

"So you're like their father now."

"You bet." Liam puffs out his chest. "Here they have purpose, protection and most important of all, a father figure to guide them through this hard time."

"Interesting," is all Jeremiah says, following the other man farther into the house. Interesting and...odd. It feels a little self-serving, but perhaps Jeremiah is mistaken.

No lamps are lit; instead, Liam pulls out a flashlight and clicks it on. Cockroaches scurry out of sight, making Jeremiah's skin crawl.

"A flashlight? I'm impressed."

"Don't be," Liam says. "It's our last one, unless one of the boys finds more batteries next outing."

A runner lines the center of the hallway, dulling the sound of their boots and sending up puffs of dust that tickle Jeremiah's nose. He can smell cooking meat now and his mouth waters. Here, in the interior of the home, lamps are lit, brightening the room. And keeping the roaches away, he hopes.

The room is small, formerly a bedroom most likely, with a square table shoved against one wall. Boards cover the single window. It's stuffy, and too small for the number of bodies crowded inside. Boys stand around talking quietly, all skinny, all dirty, all staring as Jeremiah comes in with Liam.

"Boys, we have a guest," he announces, clapping his hands quietly. "Don't be alarmed. All is well."

Jeremiah watches Liam approach each boy and talk to them, his expressive face full of smiles, like a benevolent Santa Claus. It's bizarre. This entire situation is bizarre.

"Let's eat, boys," Liam says finally, as a short, stocky boy with greasy locks brushing his shoulders enters carrying a large bowl. Seeing Jeremiah, he stumbles and nearly spills the whole thing on the floor. Only Gabriel's quick action saves dinner.

"Take it easy, Raymond," he says, steadying the bowl, his eyes hard on Jeremiah. What is up with this kid?

The boys make a tight line around the table, watching as Liam ladles thick stew into mismatched bowls. Spoons of all different sizes lie on the table, each kid snatching one as he takes his bowl.

When Jeremiah receives his portion, he nods his thanks, stirs it curiously with the too-small spoon. Chunks of meat and bits of unidentifiable vegetables float in a brown liquid. When he brings a spoonful to his mouth, a gamey, sour taste explodes on his tongue.

"You don't want to know," Gabriel says quietly, sitting on the floor next to him. "Trust me. Just eat and thank God you've got something to eat."

"Wasn't going to ask." Jeremiah takes another bite, unwillingly trying to identify the contents, even though he's sure Gabriel's right, he doesn't want to know what he's eating.

"What's it like out there?" The boy speaks in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard. He stirs his stew, overgrown bangs hanging in his face. "Outside the city?"

Jeremiah considers what to say, wonders if the kid can handle the truth, living in what's basically a monastery. Could he even survive outside this little world?

"It's different," he says finally, spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl. "Wild. Dangerous, but in a different way. Quieter."

"It sucks here," Gabriel mutters. "I want out so bad."

Jeremiah's shoulders tense. He knows what the kid's going to say next, what he's going to ask. "No," he says, hardening his voice. "I travel alone. Your place is here." He gets up and walks over to the table, not wanting to see the disappointment on Gabriel's face. It's true, he doesn't need anyone holding him back, someone else to worry about. Been there, done that.

***

It's simpler than he thought to find Marie. Once he finds the church (Moon's church, they called it), which is only a few blocks away from that house of weirdness, it's easy to get to the Tower, which is an old high-rise hotel. The streets are quiet and empty, the back of his neck prickling constantly as he creeps along the street. Empty cars, trash, corpses. The same things he's been seeing since he entered the city. And the smell--he's looking forward to fresh air, that's for sure.

After seeing all those people?rotters? pouring out of the church, Jeremiah's in no mood to dally, and he gets as far away from that place as he can, Gabriel's words about Moon and that he can control the dead make him even more jumpy. The sooner he gets his ammunition and gets out of this hell hole the better.

He approaches the hotel slowly, calmly. As eager as he is to get under cover, he knows that haste will only cause him to make mistakes. This place is huge, at least twenty stories. No glass remains in any of the windows that he can see, the blackness like blind eyes. Carefully, fingers tight on his pistol, he enters the Tower.

Dead, stale air seasoned with sewage greets him, and it's a moment until his eyes adjust to the low light. Broken tiles and glass crunch beneath his boots, too loud in the stillness. Sweat trickles down his face. This is a perfect place for the dead, too many places to hide. As if hearing his thoughts, a figure lurches out of the shadows, broken face snarling, grey hands outstretched, ready to grab and tear. One shot and the thing goes down, face gone and that nasty, rotten smell fills the air. Jeremiah's head whips around as he looks for more, where there's one, there's ten more, and it's only a matter of time, a few seconds, before they converge.

Cursing himself for wasting a bullet, Jeremiah hurries to the stairs and yanks it open. Fresh, cool air washes over his face, startling him. Fresh air? Puzzled, he moves into the stairwell, letting the door shut behind him. This place is getting to him, he's making stupid mistakes, like shooting that rotter instead of using the knife. Now he can hear them, milling around behind the door.

Suddenly the stairwell is flooded with light, sending shards of pain into his eyes. He flings up his arm, startled.

The ratcheting of a shotgun, loud in the enclosed space, makes him freeze.

"Don't move." The voice is female and strong, accompanied by cold metal jammed into his gut. "Who the hell--Jeremiah? Is it really you?"

"Hello, Marie." He finally opens his eyes and smiles at the woman, familiar, yet not. He supposes he must be the same, only a faded photograph of before.

"Well, I'll be damned. This is pretty much unbelievable." Lowering the shotgun, she shakes her head, a grudging smile on her face. It leaves quickly and the shotgun comes back up.

"What are you doing here? Are you alone? What do you want, Jeremiah?" Her blue eyes are hard, as hard as they were the last time he saw her, hard to hide the hurt, he knows this, knows he's responsible.

"I'm alone," he says, taking off his hat and rubbing his tired head. "I just want some place to crash for a bit, and I need some supplies. Ammunition. Food and water if you have it."

"You know I do, or else you wouldn't be here." Turning on her heel, she descends the stairs, leaving him to follow, or not.

She's thinner than the last time he saw her, of course, her blonde hair cut to her ears, the way she holds the shotgun practiced and easy. He'll have to step careful now, watch what he says.

At the bottom of the stairs, she waits for him, mouth an impatient line.

"I wish you hadn't riled up the rotters, Jeremiah. I would have thought you'd know better."

"Will they be able to break down the door?" He stays close behind her as they trot down the hallway, finally stopping outside the boiler room.

"Eventually," she says, unlocking the door and holding it open for him.

It's amazing, what she's done to this place. The walls are lined with boxes and cans, bedding and so much stuff that for a second, he's in awe. In one corner is a double bed, neatly made, with a bookcase beside it. There's also a camp stove and jugs of water. She's been here a long time, it looks like.

"Marie, you're amazing."

"Ha!" She locks the door, sliding bolts, lowering a bar, before turning to face him. "I've always been amazing, Jeremiah," she says, hands on her hips. "Why has it taken you so long to realize it?"

He slides his pack off to the cement floor, muscles in his face bending stiffly. How long since he smiled so much?

"I waited, you know," she says, her voice soft. "The whole place was going to hell, people fleeing, and what did I do? I waited. It was almost too late by the time I realized you weren't coming for me, that we really weren't that epic love story I wanted."

"Marie, I--"

"Don't. Don't say it. I know you had to take care of your family, but it would have been nice to have been on your mind, too."

"You were. When it happened, you were the first person I thought of, Marie. I swear it." It's not really a lie, not completely. She did cross his mind while he and his wife raced to the school, but of course Jeremiah chose his family over his lover. As would any man, he reasons. An extramarital affair was just that: extra.

She stares at him. "Where's your wife, Jeremiah? And your son? Did you save them?"

"I--I tried." He drops his head. "Aiden was at school. He--I got there too late." Jeremiah grits his teeth, remembering the way his wife had screamed when they finally reached the elementary school. The building had taken a direct hit, instantly reducing the brick building to nothing more than smoking rubble.

"And your wife?" Her implacable questions stir up the pain, the guilt again.

"She refused to leave." It's all he can say, the only words he can force past the stone in his throat.

"Refused to leave with you. I can understand that, after she found out about us." Marie nods. "You tried to persuade her to leave, using your logic, but you didn't count on a mother's heart, a wife's rage. What was she doing, digging in the ruins? Hoping that it was a mistake, that he could have survived? That's what I would have done, no matter how hopeless. Not you, though. You couldn't handle the guilt of being too late to save your son, and so you left your wife. What happened to her, Jeremiah? Is she still alive? Did you go back for her? What did you do?"

He says nothing, black shame making him tremble. He's forgotten this about her, the way she could see right through to the ugly part of him and make him hate himself, make him question every decision, every choice.

"You went back when the guilt finally became too much, and you found her, right?"

Jeremiah shakes his head, speaking with effort through stiff lips. "No, I didn't find her. There were no--living people there. Not anymore." His fingers caress the butt of his pistol, the pistol that's become a part of him, the strongest part. The only part he can depend on.