Remnants Ch. 03

What's left of the body is only a few feet away, a crumpled, forlorn figure. His skin crawls. The forehead is gone, smashed to bits, gray brain matter spreading from the crater. He swallows hard even though he's seen worse, but this is somehow more awful.

Her eyes are already sunken, the pale blue almost colorless now. The lips have drawn back from the teeth, giving a skull-like aspect to her face. The face. Its face. Greyskin. The long, pale hair he'd loved to run his fingers is yellowed now, coarse-looking like straw. Bile rises in his throat, black, hateful bile that burns with truth. Liam was right: Pearl wasn't real. Gabriel should have remembered there is nothing good, nothing beautiful and innocent in the world anymore, only death and ugliness and lies.

Lifting his foot, he brings it down in the middle of that face again and again, then over the entire body, stomping on it now with both of his boots, grinding that hateful, fake, false body into the ground, until there's nothing left. Nothing left of Pearl, nothing left of the innocent, trusting boy who had wanted to save her. Now who will save him?

Liam's waiting for him, and when they start walking, he rests his hand briefly on Gabriel's shoulder.

"You'll be okay now."

No, I won't, Gabriel thinks, remembering the soft skin and the feel of lips on his own. It makes him retch.

He doesn't look back.

*****

(Jack)

Jack wakes suddenly, rolling off the bed as he does so, falling hard on the carpeted floor. What kind of moron goes to sleep in a bed in a house in a town full of flesh-eating dead things?

He's not sure if he heard something that woke him up, but whatever the reason, Jack carefully slides beneath the bed, not an easy task, as it appears the former owners might have been featured on an episode of Hoarders.

A floorboard creaks, his breath stops. Now he can hear footsteps, not the usual shuffling slide, but a stealthy, cautious movement. But that doesn't mean it's not a greyskin, one of those weird, sneaky ones from the city.

Sweat rolls down his face, stinging his eyes, dripping into the dust in the carpet. The footsteps come into the room, pause as if the person (greyskin?) is looking around. Great. Just what he needs, curiosity. Curiosity killed the Jack? Not if he can help it. Keeping his movements minute, Jack cautiously explores the box closest to his hand.

Cool metal greets his first grope, further exploration reveals it to be some sort of big curved knife, not a gun as he first thought. Awesome.

The feet pause beside the bed, then turn and walk out in the same measured pace in which they entered. Jack lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding softly, knowing he should wait to be sure but unable to remain under the bed any longer.

Still clutching the big ass knife, Jack squirms out and remains in a crouch, listening hard. Nothing. Which means nothing. Whoever belonged to those feet could still be in the house, listening, too.

Holding the blade in front of him, Jack noiselessly crosses the carpet and steps out into the hallway.

Brandishing the machete, Jack slowly creeps down the carpeted stairway. Dust from his too-tight boots puffs up with each step, tickling his nose. He holds his breath, because of all the stupid things he's done today, sneezing would be the dumbest.

He reaches the bottom, pauses, ears straining for any noise. Outside the wind wails, blowing brown leaves against windows with a creepy sound. It almost sounds like fingernails on the glass, Jack thinks, creeping himself out. Wow, that was smart. Nothing like upping the nervous quotient on yourself.

The open door frightens him; he'd closed it before going upstairs. Is the wind strong enough to turn a knob? Jack doesn't think so, and cold sweat trickles down his forehead into his eyes. He blinks furiously, scared, confused and so hungry his belly hurts. He's so sick of this crap, living like this. It's not living; it's slow death, from starvation, thirst, carelessness, the list goes on and on.

And let's not forget death by dead thing! Fun and games for everyone!

Jack creeps closer to the door, hearing voices outside. Can't be rotters, he thinks, then recalls the ones that chased him, and he swallows hard, hoping the machete has been sharpened lately.

He peeks outside, sees a tall, thin man in a wide-brimmed hat and a kid standing in the yard, their backs to the house. Relief zips through him, makes him step out onto the porch.

"Hey," he calls, thanking Lady Luck again.

The man whirls unbelievably quick, and some instinct makes Jack drop to the ground, an instinct he's grateful for when the window behind him shatters.

Now he's pissed. It's bad enough that greyskins want to eat him, now he has to deal with people wanting to shoot him? That's messed up.

The porch floor is dirty beneath his cheek, his hands, and Jack's not enjoying himself. He dropped the machete when he fell, and feels around for it, rejoicing when his fingers close around it.

Slowly he raises his head. The dusty, worn boots he saw from his hidey-hole under the bed stand inches away from his face.

"Tell me why I shouldn't blow your head off," the man says, his voice rough.

"Because I'm not a dead thing? Because I've got this big-ass knife and I'm not afraid to use it? Hell, man, why do you need a reason? Do you like killing people?"

"No. I don't like killing people." The boots back away and Jack takes that as his signal to scramble to his feet, the machete banging against his leg.

"What are you, some sort of rodeo clown?" This from the kid, who looks a little clownish himself in a bright purple T-shirt beneath one of those ugly puffy coats and filthy jeans. The kid's skinny to the point of skeletal, but Jack has yet to see a fat person, so he guesses thin is the new normal. Goodbye, obesity epidemic!

The guy looks dangerous, with a rifle in a scabbard on his back and a black snub-nosed pistol in a holster on his belt. His eyes bore right into Jack's, hard as stone.

"He's Jeremiah," the kid pipes, earning a scowl from the man. "I'm Zeke. Who are you?"

"I'm Lucky Jack, and this is your lucky day."

*****

(Jeremiah)

The kid falls quickly under Jack's spell, but Jeremiah isn't fooled; this guy is the epitome of bullshitter. He appears harmless, although that means absolutely nothing. Harmless but stupid, Jeremiah decides once it becomes clear that this guy is woefully unprepared. He doesn't even have a coat.

"I didn't see you when I was in the house," Jeremiah says, holstering his gun. Jack laughs, his teeth big and somewhat yellow in his mouth. Jeremiah figures his own teeth look like that, or worse. Dental hygiene got put on the back burner quite quickly.

"I know, right? I'm telling you, I've got luck on my side." Jack runs a hand through his head of black hair, rubs his arms in the night chill.

"Let's go inside," Jeremiah says abruptly, cutting off Jack's bullshit. He pushes past him, Zeke on his heels, and once they are all inside, shuts and bolts the door.

"Help me drag that sofa over here," he orders, grateful that Jack obeys quickly. They push it in front of the door, which is steel with only a small window at the top.

"Jeremiah, I'm hungry," the kids says, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Let's get something to eat," Jeremiah says, guiding the boy into the kitchen, where Jack's pulling stuff out and setting it on the island.

"Preppers," Jack says, tearing open a box of crackers and handing a sleeve to the kid. "Or at least people who put away for a rainy day." He laughs, the noise loud in the quiet kitchen. "And boy howdy, that rainy day has certainly arrived."

"You're funny," Zeke says, giggling. As annoying as Jack is, it's good to hear the boy laugh. Jeremiah decides Jack is okay, although he is still going to keep his eye on him.

Jeremiah insists that Zeke fill his pack with food and bottles of water before they head upstairs to sleep.

"Might have to leave quickly," he says, digging around in a drawer for a can opener. He looks at Jack. "You need a pack, a bag of some kind. We won't carry food for you."

"I'll go take a look," Jack says, and disappears upstairs.

"I like Jack," the boy says, stuffing crackers in his mouth. "You like him, don't you, Jeremiah?"

The man selects a can from the pantry, sets it on the counter and opens it. "I don't have to like him, Zeke. I just have to trust him."

"So you trust him, right? He's funny. I want him to go with us tomorrow."

Jeremiah doesn't answer, just pours the fruit into a bowl, and scoots it across the counter to Zeke who shoves the food into his mouth with both hands. Jeremiah eats his own fruit straight from the can, unable to relax. The sweetness is almost too much, but he eats it all and drinks the juice, directing the boy to do the same.

When they've finished eating, Jeremiah carries Zeke up the stairs. The boy's head lolls against his shoulder. The combination of walking all day and a full belly has resulted in a deep sleep that Jeremiah's grateful for. If they can only get through tonight with some decent sleep, then maybe the boy will begin to look a little better. His thinness worries Jeremiah when he lets himself think about it. Most of the time he doesn't go there.

After tucking the boy into a twin bed in a room obviously designed for a kid, Jeremiah investigates the rest of the upstairs. He finds Jack in the master bedroom riffling through drawers.

"I need some different clothes," he says when Jeremiah pauses in the doorway. "Not only do these duds stink, in my former life I wouldn't be caught dead in these kinds of clothes." He grins. "But now--I think they saved my life, but that doesn't mean I have to like them."

Jack pulls out jeans and a shirt, then underwear, holding them up against himself.

Jeremiah spins on his heel and slips inside the bathroom, clicking on the flashlight he'd brought upstairs. He only leaves it on long enough to peruse the medicine cabinet, which is filled with bandages, medication, and ointment. He sweeps it all into his pack, intending on sorting it downstairs.

This place is amazing, he decides, scratching his neck. All of a sudden, he feels gross, dirty, filthy, and decides he will change clothes and then find some for the boy.

"Guess this was our lucky day, huh?" Jack says, grinning from where he lies on the bed in his new-to-him clothes. "Not sure you're gonna find anything to fit you. This guy was pretty short."

Great. Jeremiah finally settles on changing his shirt, layering on a T-shirt, long underwear top and then a flannel that he finds in a bottom drawer. He also changes his socks ("Geeze, you should've done that a long time ago") and puts a couple pair in his bag, which is bulging now.

Comfortable, Jeremiah goes back downstairs to keep watch. He can't get complacent, can't ever forget that death could happen at any moment. He isn't sure he'd welcome it anymore.

****

(Gabriel)

Gabriel plods along behind Liam, feeling dirty. It's not just his clothes or his skin, the filthiness is inside where he can't wash it off, where it will stay forever. He feels sick most of the time now, unsure as to whether it's mental or physical. He guesses it doesn't matter.

Nearly at the end of his rope, Liam tries to be patient, but the heavy sighs and scowls he sends Gabriel's way are a telling sign of an impending explosion.

Not that Gabriel cares. If a rotter lurched out from behind a tree, he's not even sure he'd raise his gun to protect himself. He sure as hell wouldn't do it for Liam, the bastard. Gabriel's not sure he'll ever forgive Liam for what he did. Not just with (Pearl) that thing, but all the petty cruelties he inflicted on the boys under his care. Maybe he should slip away while Liam's asleep, take the extra bullets, be on his own, try to find the dangerous man who'd told him he deserved better. Maybe he should put a bullet into his own head. Gabriel can't rouse himself to even bother talking to Liam. What would he say? What is there to say? Nothing, nothing, and nothing. His life's a big nothing with nowhere to go and no one to see. Tears prick his eyes, a lump rises in his throat. He misses her. No. How can he miss a thing?

"Wake up!" Liam smacks Gabriel on the back of the head, bringing him out of his funk of self-pity directly into rage.

Raising the stock of his shotgun, he slams it into Liam's face, smashing it over and over until he falls to the ground and then Gabriel stomps the body into the grass, screaming his rage. When his anger is finally spent, he looks down to see Pearl looking back at him, her big blue eyes filling with tears, her hands upraised. Then, her face begins to crumble, the teeth falling in, the eyes sinking back into the skull, and Gabriel screams.

And wakes up on the cold ground, a cold sweat on his brow, the dark and cold night pressing down upon him. Shivering, he huddles farther into his lonely sleeping bag, cold from the inside out.

*****

As they move farther away from the city, resentment builds within Gabriel with each step he takes. Why is he still following Liam, still obeying him? He isn't a child, isn't under anyone's authority now. He remembers the dangerous man telling him he deserved better, and decides he's right.

That night they make camp in a small clearing not far from a small town Liam wanted to avoid. "Too many weirdos in there," he'd said, glancing at Gabriel. "We're better off staying away."

Gabriel hasn't spoken to Liam since that night, that horrible night when his world went dark, and he has no plans to break the silence. As soon as the time is right, he's gone.

While on watch, Gabriel stares at the old man lying in his sleeping bag, mouth open, skin sagging, and knows he'll kill Liam when it's time to go. Kill him while looking into his eyes. Yes. It's good to have a plan.

(Jack)

"What's that?" The boy says suddenly, startling Jack out of his thoughts. He'd been thinking about his parents, something he normally avoided doing and welcomed the distraction.

"This?" Jack smoothed the flyer he'd been staring at and shrugged. "It's stupid. There's no paradise anywhere, not anymore."

"There is," Zeke said, pulling out his own copy. "Me and Jeremiah, that's where we're going. Paradise. Right, Jeremiah?" The kid waits for an answer, his face hopeful and so very young. Jack wonders how long that hope will last.

Jeremiah nods slowly, his expression difficult to read in the light of the fire.

"Well, good luck with that," Jack mutters. He starts to crumple the paper, notices the boy watching, and folds it instead. He shoves it into a pocket in his backpack, although he'd rather throw it into the fire. His fingers close around an ink pen and his heart lightens a little. He pulls the folded paper back out. Now the kid's really excited, getting up from his spot next to Jeremiah and squeezing too close to Jack.

"What are you doing? Can you draw a tree? What about a flower? I used to have a dog, his name was Fluffy."

The friendly feeling Jack's been enjoying disappears. He doesn't want to talk, just wants some art therapy.

"No, sorry," he says, the desire to draw leaving him as quickly as it came. He frowns, sticking the pen and paper back in the pocket and zipping it shut. He gets up then and walks a little way off, like he has to pee, just so he won't have to see the expression on the kid's face.

When he comes back to the fire, the kid's rolled up in his sleeping bag, and the man stares into the fire.

"I guess you think I should have drawn something for him," Jack says after a while, poking the fire with a stick. Sparks light the sky for a moment before fading away. It's cold, but not too bad next to the fire. At least one side is warm.

"It doesn't matter what I think," Jeremiah tells him in his calm voice. "Pleasure is hard to come by anymore, so I understand why you'd want to keep it for yourself."

If anything, this makes Jack feel even more like a prize jerk, but he says nothing, because there's nothing to say. It just sucks, that's all.

-28-

(Jack)

Jack's travelled with Jeremiah and Zeke for a number of days now, and he's come to the conclusion that the man might be nuts. Or at least close to it. But who isn't, Jack admits, scratching his patchy beard. What he would give just to have a decent shave! And a shower. Yes, a nice hot shower, so long he uses all the hot water, would be awesome. Incredible. Impossible. Why does he keep thinking about stuff like this? It's just stupid and futile, just like everything in this screwed up world.

Shoulders slumped, he's staring at the ground while he walks, and bumps into Zeke and Jeremiah. What the hell are they doing, stopping in the middle of the road to stare at the sky?

"Look, Jack," Zeke says excitedly, jumping up and down a little. "The sun's coming up."

If Jack squints, he can maybe see a bit of red and yellow shining through the thick cover of nasty clouds. The sky's at least getting lighter, so maybe that's good enough.

"Yeah, it's beautiful, I guess," Jack tells him, shoulders his pack again, and starts walking. Walking, walking, walking. The nice boots he'd gotten at that house are going to wear out soon with all this stupid walking they're doing.

A sickly forest rises alongside the road, trunks twisted, branches pleading and reaching for the sky, bark oozing. What's the season? Jack has no idea. The weather fluctuates from day to day, unbearably hot one day, freezing the next. It's nuts.

He supposes the only good thing about being out in such a rural area is they haven't seen any greyskins or even other people, who knows which one would be worse.

Even as he thinks that, he hears a noise from behind him. Before he can process it (giant bees?), Jeremiah's yanking Zeke off the road, yelling back at him to get out of the road.

Jack stumbles after them, risking a glance back, and sees a semi-truck barreling down the road, and he's so stunned that he stops to stare.

The truck is purple, the windshield dirty except where the wipers have gone, the engine a horrible growl. He can't stop staring; how long since he's even seen a working vehicle? So long that he feels like an African tribesman horrified by the dragon coming toward him.

Wait--that's what it is, Jack realizes, coming back to his senses. With a wordless cry, he turns and plunges into the undergrowth, Jeremiah and Zeke nowhere in sight. Panicked, because the truck has slowed, He runs heedlessly, slimy branches scratching his face, pulling his hair, the soft ground sucking at his boots, trying to hold him back.

Why is he so stupid?

Lungs burning (can't forget that asthma, no sir), Jack can't run any longer, can't breathe, the pack on his shoulders like a ton of bricks, where's his luck now? He's surrounded by twisted trees now, menace heavy in the thick air. Bending over, he fights for breath, fights to calm down, telling himself he's safe, and please don't leave, Lady Luck, I really need you now.

His vision goes black around the edges, he sits heavily on the mossy ground, the wetness immediately soaking through his jeans, chilling him. Dimly he hears voices, can't rouse himself to care much. Maybe it's a rotter; would getting eaten be better than suffocation?

Darkness licks at his consciousness, a welcome darkness if it means he can breathe again. Just let it end.

****

(Jeremiah)

Zeke's fingers dig into Jeremiah's arm as they watch from the trees. They'd been too late, fighting through the swampy ground, only to see the group of raggedy people drag Jack out of the woods. Jeremiah considers a full-out rescue, even pulls his gun from the holster, but when the truck door opens and three more people jump out, he returns his pistol to its place on his hip.