Remnants Ch. 03

"Where are they taking him, Jeremiah? Where's Jack going?" The boy's voice, full of energy since they started travelling with the man, is now dead sounding, as if he's given up all hope.

And why not? It's nearly impossible to nurture hope in this damned world where the dead walk and monsters roam, where you don't know if you'll still be alive to see the sun rise from day to day. And every time there's even a glimmer of hope, it's crushed, snatched away before you can do more than taste it.

"I don't know," Jeremiah says, remaining motionless until the noise of the truck has completely faded away. "Let's move on."

"But what about Jack? Can't we go find him? We can't just let him go, he's our friend."

The boy's simple logic lodges in Jeremiah's head and he can't banish it. Flashes of his wife and son, of Marie and the man-child Gabriel flash through his mind; he can't bear to have another face up there. He nods slowly and rises to his feet, ready to leave these accursed woods behind, ready to wipe the goo from his boots.

"I reckon you're right, Zeke," he says as they step out of the twisted trees onto the road. "Let's go find our friend."

The smile that spreads across the boy's face makes Jeremiah's lips curve in an unaccustomed way.

****

(Gabriel)

Gabriel crouches in the sharp bushes, watching the group of raggedy men milling around the house. He's not sure if they're rotters, doesn't really care, as long as they stay away from him. If not, well, there are ways to discourage them. His hand goes to his hip, to the Bowie knife in its sheathe. Just stick it into flesh, pull it out, stick it in, repeat. Easy.

The noise level increases suddenly, and Gabriel comes to attention, every nerve on alert. The mob rushes the house, tearing the door from the hinges, breaking windows, making an ungodly amount of noise that will surely alert any other grey skins close by.

Liam grasps Gabriel's shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

Gabriel shrugs off the hand without a word, continues to watch the show. He'll leave when he's good and ready and not a second before.

Liam makes a frustrated noise. "Fine. Stay here. I'll be moving west when you're ready to follow."

Gabriel stays silent, waits until the noise of the other man's leaving quiets before rising and moving toward the houses. Screw Liam. Screw this screwed up world. Better to go out fighting than continue to creep around like a mouse.

His knife makes a shhhh sound when he pulls it out. It feels good in his hand, like it belongs there. Let's try it out, he thinks, coming up behind one of those things milling aimlessly around on the edge of the woods.

The knife cuts like it's butter not flesh, the man/thing immediately collapsing to the street without a sound. Gabriel whirls, barely manages to stab another rotter that comes up behind him. Stinking blood sprays the air, falling on his skin like mist.

In frenzy, he cuts and slashes and whirls and ducks until he's dancing alone in the street, arms like lead, covered in blood, gasping for breath, and every dead thing has Liam's face.

*******

He creeps along the edge of the road, keeping under cover, knife gripped in one fist. He can't remember the last time he stopped to eat, to drink, and his body is beginning to rebel. It's stupid, really, because he has the things his body requires in his backpack, along with bullets and an extra sweatshirt. It's the sweatshirt that he pulls out a few minutes later, the chill of the day having sunk into his bones. Yesterday he nearly sweated to death; today he's in danger of freezing.

Feeling weak, Gabriel opens a can of pinto beans with the opener and eats them quickly with his fingers, eyes sweeping the perimeter constantly. When he's finished, he tosses the can behind him and takes one small swallow of water from his jug. Refreshed, he starts walking again, absently scraping the blood from between his fingers and from beneath his too-long nails. Those nails are really starting to bother him, and he could chew them down, but the knife's a better choice with all that rotter blood beneath his nails. No telling what that stuff would do if he got it in his mouth. He takes a few moments to trim the nails, being extra careful because even a little cut can fester quickly.

Liam is up there somewhere; soon Gabriel will have his vengeance. After that, he doesn't know or care what happens. His entire focus is on finding and killing Liam; that's all that matters.

The wind starts to blow, brown leaves skittering across the road in front of him, hitting him in the face, chilling his exposed face. Gabriel tugs on his cap, sheathes his knife and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Keep walking. Keep the focus.

Even when a mutated raccoon-thing shambles toward him, teeth too big in its face and nearly bites him, all Gabriel has on his mind is killing Liam. As he plunges the knife blade again and again into the furry creature, in his mind it's Liam he's gutting, finally shutting up that hateful mouth, stopping those cruel fists.

Gabriel's head pounds sickeningly. Turning away from the destroyed carcass, he stumbles on through the cold, through the snow that begins to fall. When he falls, it's almost a relief, because he's so tired, he just wants to sleep, to make it all go away for a while, to be warm, and not hungry or scared.

A roaring in his ears--is this what death is like? Noisy? Hands pulling and lifting? Then--nothing.