Remnants Ch. 02

"You always were late to the party, Jeremiah." The mocking tone cuts to the quick, and in two strides he's in her face, grabbing her arms, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You have no idea what it was like for me, knowing I'd failed my son, and then having to put a bullet in my wife's brain to stop her from eating me. You didn't have to do that."

"No, I didn't," she spits, trying to twist out of his grip, but he only tightens his fingers, digging into her flesh. "I was too busy trying to stay alive, trying to believe what my lover had told me, that he'd come back for me, and we'd get out of there together." Her eyes shoot sparks at him. "But you didn't come. I waited and waited, until the rotters were at the door, until it was too late, after everyone but me was left. You forgot about me, Jeremiah."

The rage leaks out of him then because she's right. He'd been so consumed with pain and guilt about his wife and son, that any thought of her blew right out of his head. His hands drop and the takes a step back, but she throws herself against him and takes his face in her hands.

"But I don't care," she whispers, her face so close to his. "I don't care, because you're here now, and now is all that matters."

*****

Jeremiah slips into his coat and buttons it, the silence a living thing with teeth. Marie watches him without speaking, but she doesn't have to say anything because it's already been said. Already he's shrugging off the past hour, letting it slide from his shoulders, from his mind.

"Take whatever you want," she says, her voice low and ragged. "You always do."

He doesn't respond. He won't allow himself to be drawn into it. Not again. It's just the way things are.

Grabbing his pack, he quickly empties it, organizing the things he's leaving her in trade and the things he's taking. Ammunition: four boxes of rifle shells and six for his pistols, followed by water (he refills his jug) and some canned vegetables and fruits. He's not greedy.

"That's it, Marie," he says finally, when he's ready to leave. "Is there a back way out of here?"

"If there was another way out of here, I wouldn't tell you." She's standing in front of the unmade bed, her hair wild, and she's opening and closing her fists.

"Marie..."

"Why'd you have to come here? You just used me, like always."

"You're wrong," he says, not looking at her. "I just wanted to trade. You wanted something more from me, like always."

"And what's wrong with that? Do you think I like being alone? Do you think I like it when men come in here to trade and end up taking what isn't for sale? No, you couldn't possibly understand, because you don't care about anyone but yourself. You never did."

Jeremiah shakes his head. It will do no good to argue with this woman. This basement room, while an amazing accomplishment, is not a place to stay mentally healthy. He has had enough of this windowless hole, and he's had enough of her, too.

"Well, I'll see you." He heads toward the door, a little worried about what she'll do.

"You bastard."

He turns around in time to see her grab a pistol and point it at him, the barrel shaking while tears course down her cheeks.

"Get out," she screams while he struggles to undo all the locks. "Get out before I blast you to hell where you belong. I hope a rotter bites your head off, Jeremiah."

He slams the door closed just as a bullet slams into the metal door not two inches from his head. It doesn't punch through, but leaves a large blister, which is quickly joined by six more.

Moving as quickly as he dares, he heads for where he thinks the stairs are, but a shuffling noise from that direction causes him to duck down another hallway. He presses silently against the wall, knife in hand, because being quiet is the only way he'll get out of this place. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he sees a group of rotters shuffle past. How the hell did they get down here?

When they start pounding on Marie's door, Jeremiah knows he can't walk away. Pulling out his rifle, he steps out into the hallway. To his horror, the door bursts open beneath the assault, as if she hadn't reengaged the locks.

Light floods out, illuminating the ragged figures as they move into the room. When he bursts inside the room, the first thing he sees is Marie sprawled across the bed, the mattress beneath her soaked red, but not from the rotters who are fighting over which one gets the prize. The smell of gunpowder is strong, and when he spots the pistol beside her hand, he melts back into the hallway, not sure if he should feel better because her death wasn't as horrible as it could have been, or if he should feel like crap because she killed herself.

Just another sin to add to the load he already carries, he figures, climbing the steps two at a time. He's definitely going to hell.

*****

As night comes on, the rotters emerge, drawn out by the cooling day or who knows what. All Jeremiah knows is that he's got to get out, got to get back to the country where at least he knows how to survive. A glance skyward tells him he hasn't much time, maybe three hours, before full dark. The air has started to cool, finally, but he takes no relief in it. The nights have been getting colder, all the worse because of the heat of the day. He tries not to dwell on the odd weather, because it would only lay another card of fear onto the stack he already holds.

As he creeps along, rifle at the ready, Jeremiah tries to pray, tries to remember the verse that talks about walking through the valley of the shadow of death, because he's in it right now, right in the middle of that valley.

He hears footsteps behind him, and whirls around, finger already tightening on the trigger, squeezing steadily, the rifle jerking in his hands, the bullet finding its mark.

The rotter falls silently to the asphalt, another already taking its place, this one stepping over and on its fallen comrade, mouth gaping, sunken eyes trained on Jeremiah, more dead things falling in behind it.

Returning his rifle to the holster on his back, Jeremiah draws his pistol and starts running west, hoping he's heading the right direction. If he's only running further into the city, he's dead.

His legs ache, he's gasping for breath, and the things keep coming, keep scrambling behind, gaining on him. He's not going to make it. There's a bitter taste in Jeremiah's mouth, because he's not ready to die, not by a long shot. There are two dogging his footsteps, quick ones mumbling words he'd rather not hear. He can feel the beginnings of panic and tamps it down, banishes it from his mind. Panic is a death knell, he might as well lie down and wait for the damn rotters, but no way in hell is he going to do that, because being ripped apart by dead things isn't the way he wants to die.

No, he'll have to take these two things out, and quietly if he can. A gunshot might attract more, which he most definitely doesn't need. Ducking down behind a car in the street, Jeremiah pulls out his bowie knife and waits, every sense alert. Sweat trickles down the side of his face as he carefully slips his pack off, watching and waiting. The hair on the back of his neck rises as the things shuffle close enough to hear what they're saying.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

"It's dinner time!"

He can see one now, its back turned, dirty clothes hanging off its body, skin grey and loose. To hear it speaking is chilling, terrifying.

Jeremiah lunges out from behind the car, plunges the knife into the top of the rotter's head twice, then yanks it out and whirls around just as the other is on him and knocks him to the ground, its mouth yawning, the teeth stained, the tongue ebony as it hisses horrible words.

"Eat you, lick your blood, swallow your flesh, gnaw your bones. Eat you, lick your blood, swallow your flesh, gnaw your bones." The rotter chants the words over and over, its fingers clawing at Jeremiah's clothes, digging for purchase, for flesh.

He struggles to bring the knife up, but the thing's so strong, too strong, and is he going to die? Is this dead thing going to do as it promises?

Its teeth snap together a bare inch from Jeremiah's nose, and he kicks the thing off just enough so that his arm is free, and he chops and chops and thrusts into the inert flesh again and again, until it stops moving.

Climbing shakily to his feet, Jeremiah wipes off the blade on the corpse's filthy pants and sheathes it, breathing hard. Always, though, he's scanning the area, it's why he's stayed alive, this constant vigilance.

Fatigue weighs him down, it's dangerous to be so tired, so bone weary. As much as he hates the idea, he needs to find a place to rest, and soon. Night looms.

Movement just ahead puts him on high alert, and he pulls out his rifle, peers through the night scope.

At first, he sees nothing, but then the figures pass through his sight again and he sees it's a couple of kids. Or rotters? Greyskins? He's not sure, but they don't move like that, they're moving cautiously, not randomly. Swaying on his feet, he sheathes the rifle and heads toward the kids, not thinking about anything but finding a place to sleep and be safe, even if it's only for an hour or two.

****

Déjà vu, Jeremiah thinks as he watches the two boys unlock the door, neither paying much attention to their surroundings.

Creeping closer, he longs for the quiet danger of the countryside. This city...it's clanging cymbals, everything loud and big. City life hasn't changed that much, really.

Slipping past the door, he tests the knob: locked. Maybe a window. Would they be that careless? Jeremiah sincerely hopes so, because he can hear something moving around, shuffling in that uniquely frightening way the dead things have. For all of that, they move quickly and sometimes quietly, especially the ones here. That still puzzles him, a worry he hasn't time to consider but one that won't go away.

Behind the building is a row of windows and trusting that one will be open, Jeremiah quickly checks each one, ears straining for the sounds he heard before. Sweat trickles down his face, each unmoving glass twisting his gut more.

Finally, just as he's about to lose hope and most likely his life because he's tired, so damn tired his hands are trembling, the window gives, and he pulls it open and hoists himself up to the sill. Inside it's dark, and quiet as he wiggles through the opening.

His boots are loud on the cement floor--too loud. He closes the window and locks it, turns around slowly, reaching for his pistol at the same time.

A body thuds into him, knocking his hand away, driving him to the floor. He struggles, punches flesh, his blows hard and precise. It's not a rotter, the smell that of sweat instead of dead flesh. His attacker is big and strong, but inexperienced with fighting and it's that inexperience that allows Jeremiah to subdue him quickly with a punch to the face that sends the kid hard to the floor. Jeremiah looks down at the gasping hulk of a boy, and puts his boot on the boy's chest, puts some of his weight on him.

"I didn't come in here to make trouble, kid."

"Gonnakillyoudead." Heaving mightily, he unbalances Jeremiah and scrambles to his feet, his big fists clenched.

Jeremiah regains his balance against the cold wall, doesn't draw his gun, not wanting to make this any worse than it already is, and he can see that it's bad. He doesn't want to hurt this kid, doesn't want to fight, he just wants to sleep.

But the kid won't stop, he just keeps coming, swinging those fists, growling like an animal, driving Jeremiah back, trying to get him to the ground, punching his face, his belly with such force that Jeremiah fears for his life.

His hand closes over the hilt of his knife as he falls hard to the cement and the kid's hands close over Jeremiah's throat and start to squeeze. His vision goes black around the edges, he can't breathe, he's going to die--

"Aggh!" The kid rears back, eyes wide with surprise, fingers plucking ineffectually at the knife buried in his chest. Jeremiah retches, eyes watering, and struggles to his feet, watches as the boy crumples to the floor. Blood pumps from the wound when Jeremiah yanks out the knife.

Wiping the blade clean on the kid's pants, he returns it to the scabbard and takes out his pistol instead. No more messing around, he just wants to be left alone to sleep so he can get the hell out of this damned city.

"Hulk? Where you at?"

Jeremiah melts back into the shadows, eyes tracking the figure moving toward him. It's another kid, this one skinny with a big nose. No weapon that he can see, although that means nothing.

"Oh. Oh shit. Oh shit!" The kid stares down at Hulk, his mouth working, his hands shaking, on the verge of bolting. This is when Jeremiah steps into view, pistol pointed right at the kid's head.

"You killed Hulk." The boy's voice is full of bewilderment, tears pooling in his eyes. "You killed Hulk."

"I didn't want to," Jermiah says, wondering why he's trying to defend his actions. He'd had no choice, but that doesn't make it right, doesn't make it any easier to swallow. And this boy looks about to fall apart, his big eyes filling with tears, his nose twitching, looking very young.

Just as Jeremiah takes a step toward him, intending on what he doesn't know, the kid swings at him and Jeremiah's finger moves and the gun roars, tearing a hole in the boy's throat, and he crumples to the cement floor without a sound, red sheeting around him, the boom loud, too loud.

None of this should have happened, he thinks, looking down at the two young corpses. The cynical part of him tries to justify his actions, murmuring that he was only defending himself, but in his heart, he knows the truth: he's a murderer of children and every dead child has his son's face.

*****

(Zeke)

The boy huddling beneath the porch shivers. For the last hour, the rotters have feasted on the people left inside the house. All he wants to do is get away from the sloppy wet sounds, the crunching, the sighs and grunts. Thrusting his fingers into his ears hasn't done anything but make them bleed. He can still hear everything.

He's dead if they smell him, so he's covered himself with the cold dirt, digging down as far as he can. Several fingernails are broken, and maybe one of his fingers. His teeth chatter with cold, or terror. These things aren't much like the ones he used to watch at the movies--those were relentless but stupid and slow. The ones feasting upstairs are quick, sneaky, and worst of all, they talk.

Finally, when he feels his sanity start to slip, there's a sudden mad rush above his head, rotters stomping and shuffling across the porch and down the steps, snarling like animals. He lies still long after quiet descends, until he can stand the claustrophobia no longer and scrabbles out from under the porch.

He must squeeze himself out on his back between the stone step and the ground, a painful process and slower than he'd like. Only his lower body remains under the porch when he hears a sibilant voice.

"A boy, oh joy, oh yummy, a tender boy. Yum yum yummy yummy!"

His blood chills and for a moment he can't move, can't breathe. He'd known the rotters were sneaky, but--

"Hello, dinner!" A bloated, greenish face appears upside down over the boy's, mouth spread in a smile that is all stained teeth. One of the eyes is cloudy, the other red.

"Aggh!" Screaming, the boy squirms and twists, arms flailing, but it's no use. The thing's cold hands close around his head, its mouth opening wide, all he can see are those teeth--

Suddenly the rotter's head explodes, gooey brains and blood raining down upon the boy's face. He squeezes his eyes shut as the dead thing falls partly on top of him, the rotten stench of it making him gag.

"You all right, boy?" It doesn't sound like another one, but he doesn't open his eyes, thrusts against heavy weight, gagging and crying. The man/rotter kicks the body off, and then roughly yanks the boy out from beneath the porch.

The boy opens his eyes. It's a man in a brown and stained wide-brimmed hat, a thin, dark beard covering most of his face. There's a black pistol in one big hand, still smoking. Not a cowboy gun, like in the books the boy remembers reading, but a black square-nosed gun.

"Are you all right, boy? Did it hurt you? Scratch you anywhere?"

"N--no, sir."

The man laughs quietly. "No need for that, boy. Just call me Jeremiah."

"I'm Zeke. Is--is it dead? For real?" He scrambles out from under the porch.

Jeremiah pulls the boy to his feet. "Yeah."

Zeke bites his lip. "I--are they all dead?" He remembers the cornbread the lady gave him, only minutes before the attack. She'd seemed like a nice lady.

"Don't think about it anymore," the man tells him, gently guiding him away from the house. "You got any supplies?"

The boy shakes his head, fighting tears. "Not really."

"All right. I'll go inside and have a looksee around. Grab some water and whatnot. You stay here."

Zeke sinks down into the dead grass, too weak to stand. He buries his face in his arms, trying to put stained teeth out of his mind. He thinks about the stranger instead, how he'd shown up not an instant too late. It's a miracle, one Zeke is quite willing to believe in.

"I got a few things," Jeremiah says when he comes out of the house. There's a streak of red across the top of one of his boots. In his arms he carries a sack of cornmeal and a big plastic jug of water. "Not much left, those things really tore it all up." He doesn't mention the family, and neither does Zeke.

"Guess we better stick together for a while." Jeremiah hands the jug to the boy, who takes a long drink. "Those weren't your folks, were they?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No. I--I don't got folks anymore." Tears prick his eyes, and he blinks furiously.

Jeremiah hefts the sack over his shoulder and starts walking. He doesn't say anything or even look back to see if Zeke is coming.

The boy caps the jug and hurries after his savior.

******

(Jeremiah)

Jeremiah regrets saving the kid for a minute, knows he should have let the rotter have him, but again his son's face hovers before him, big blue eyes full of tears and he couldn't do that, couldn't bear to have another weight added to his shoulders. He considers abandoning him somewhere, placating him with lies of coming back, because it would be better for Jeremiah without someone to watch out for. Then the kid slips his small, soft hand into his and he's ashamed of his selfish thoughts. When had he become so hard-hearted? He hadn't been kind to Marie, but there isn't room for kindness in this world. Kindness gets you killed.

Or maybe not, he thinks wryly, glancing down at the small figure beside him. The boy hasn't said much, his hair still crusted with guts, his eyes too big in his thin face.

A flutter in the corner of his eye makes him whirl, pistol in his hand. It's just a piece of paper, somebody's trash.

Zeke grabs it, presses out the wrinkles, then carefully folds it and stows it away in a pocket. He says nothing about it, and neither does Jeremiah.

Later, the man sits beside the fire, rifle at the ready. The fire should keep the dead away, providing he doesn't fall asleep and let it go out. Beside him, the child cries out in restless sleep, twisting on the rocky ground. It can't be good for that little body and mind to be in constant fear. Perhaps he ought to put the child out of his misery. A scrap of Scripture floats to the surface, something about Jesus and the children--or is it a song? Jeremiah shakes his head at himself, banishing the past. He remembers that small, shuffling figure, the way the heels drummed for too long on the baked earth, and knows he can't do it. Not in cold blood.