Remnants Ch. 04

(Jeremiah)

When it starts to snow, Jeremiah knows they're in trouble. The snow's grey and heavy, with a metallic smell. They need find somewhere to hole up, somewhere he can start a fire. The boy's lagging, his small reserve of energy nearly depleted. Jeremiah's not sure how long he can carry him but scoops the kid up and walks faster while the thick snow continues to fall.

He almost might believe in God again when a building comes in sight, a dilapidated barn a short way off the road. Praying that it's empty of greyskins and people, Jeremiah stumbles toward it, his shoulders burning with the effort of carrying the boy, his legs like noodles.

He shoves open the door and nearly falls through it, summons up his remaining strength and sets the boy carefully down so he can look around. Zeke curls into a shivering ball, silently crying.

The barn's not big, and thankfully its empty, there's even a round bale of spoiled hay in one corner that he kicks open, spreading it around before going back for Zeke. He lays the boy in the hay, and lies down with him, pulling the hay up and over them both. It's some time before Zeke stops shivering.

In the morning, Jeremiah leaves the boy sleeping and steps outside into the sickly light. His heart sinks when he sees the dirty snow piled up at least a foot deep. Thinking of the boy's tattered tennis shoes, Jeremiah curses himself for not trying harder to properly clothe him.

It's quiet, an ominous quiet, not the peaceful silence of a snowy morning. No, this silence is heavy with danger. His gut churning, he goes back inside and shakes Zeke awake. Tries to shake him awake, but the boy only moans and turns over on his side. When Jeremiah pulls down some of the hay from around him, he's dismayed to see flushed cheeks and that the boy's shivering hard.

Dammit. Jeremiah pushes the hay back up around Zeke and tries to think of what to do. He can't carry the boy, the snow's too deep and he's too tired, too weak. He needs a good night's sleep and good food. Both have been missing for a long time.

This on top of Jack brings a surge of despair. Digging through the meds he'd thrown in his pack, Jeremiah hopes against hope there's something that will help. Aspirin, ibuprofen, triple antibiotic, other junk that's totally worthless. He's got no antibiotics, it's getting colder, he needs to make a fire but how can he do that without burning down this barn with wood as dry as dust?

Jeremiah leans his head against a pole and closes his burning eyes. Is this your idea of a joke, God? Bring us to shelter but then cut down the boy like so much grass? And what about Jack? Who were those freaks? Is he even still alive? I want to pray to You, I want to believe that You are with me, the need is like the hunger twisting my stomach, but the words won't come. Can You still hear me? Can You just--help me, please?

Finally, he straightens and begins gathering kindling. He'll make a fire near the door, cook some cornmeal cakes, maybe open one of those cans of beans, try to get the boy to eat and drink, maybe dissolve one of the aspirin tablets in a little water.

His wife always said that a fever was the body's way of fighting off infection, that if you gave something to stop it, then the infection would get worse. She'd always refused to allow their son any painkiller unless the fever was extraordinarily high.

Remember this gives him a little hope, and he starts feeling a little better. All he can do is his best. He hopes his best is good enough.

(Jack)

Jack opens his eyes slowly; his lids feel caked together and he wants to rub them, but he can't move his arms. What the hell?

He's lying on his side in a room of some kind, the hard floor digging into his hip and shoulder, his arms painfully tied behind his back along with his ankles. Stretching his neck, he sees the back of someone else, and another nearest the door. It's freezing in this room, and dim, the only light coming from a window near the door, the glass coated with grime.

The room smells like shit, literally. If he's not mistaken, the guy nearest the door has shit his pants. Jack rolls onto his back, stares up at the ceiling while twisting his wrists, moving his feet, trying to loosen the bonds.

Suddenly the door bangs open and dark figures crowd inside, carrying what looks like a body. Acting on some instinct (that lucky instinct) Jack scoots backward until he runs into the wall, suddenly frightened. Hadn't his father said that human monsters were worse than anything else? A trickle of sweat tickles his cheek.

The figures don't speak, only shuffle farther into the room, their silence disturbing. Someone whimpers, and then cries out from a boot in his gut. Jack clamps his teeth together, squeezes his eyes shut. Something thuds heavily next to him and then the door slams shut.

Muffled sobs and moans break the silence, except for Mr. Shit His Pants, whom Jack figures is probably dead. The guy who got kicked keeps crying, noisy sobs that quickly get on Jack's nerves. What good is it to bawl? Better to add that energy to finding a way to escape.

In the dimness, the guy who'd been dropped rolls onto his side, facing Jack. From what he can see, it's a kid, not a kid like Zeke, but older, like in his twenties maybe, maybe younger. Thinking of Zeke and Jeremiah makes Jack's chest hurt, and he shoves the thoughts away, concentrates on the dirty face in front of him.

The guy's covered in blood, Jack realizes, his stomach churning. Now he can smell it--rotter blood. If there'd been anything in his belly, it would have come out by now. As it is, he can't help gagging.

"What--what is this place?" The kid mumbles, head whipping around in a panic. "Why--what is going on?"

"Not so loud," Jack hisses, sure that if they make too much noise, someone's going to come back and that won't be a good thing. "I don't know what this place is, just got here myself. All I know is we're in trouble."

(Jeremiah)

Nothing. There's nothing he can do but hold the boy while he shakes and shivers, while he stares up at Jeremiah with glassy eyes, while he calls for his momma. Jeremiah dribbles water into his mouth, but he's not swallowing anymore. The water runs right back out, wetting his shirt.

The truth of what's happening hollows Jeremiah's belly. His eyes burn, his arms ache from holding Zeke so tightly. He can't lose his son again; there must be something he can do. Wracking his brain, he comes up with--nothing. The boy needs antibiotics, a doctor, a hospital, all things that vanished with the first round of bombs. He tries to pray but words fail him, and he can only let the hot tears fall.

After a while the boy goes still, and Jeremiah finally sleeps.

(Jack)

They come for Mr. Shit His Pants as silently as they'd brought the kid, only this time they take the sobbing man as well.

"No, please, help me! Someone help me! Please!" The odor of urine fills the room, adding to the pleasant atmosphere. Again, they don't say anything, but one of them gives a dark chuckle that sounds very familiar to Jack.

"Oh shit," he whispers after the door has closed. "Shit shit shit." He's heard that chuckle before, back in the city when he was running from those talking greyskins. Redoubling his efforts to loosen the ropes around his wrists, he starts to sweat in the chill room.

"We gotta get out of here," Jack hisses, tugging and twisting. The kid does the same, cursing under his breath. If it wasn't a waste of energy, he might do the same. At last there's some loosening, and then a bit more, and then yes! Thank you, Lady Luck! Jack's got one hand free, and then the other.

Quickly, even though his body groans with stiffness, he sits up and yanks at the knots around his ankles. The kid's getting panicky, his breath coming faster, practically blubbering, so Jack scoots over and picks the knots enough for him to get out.

It's a sloppy tying job, which is lucky for Jack and the kid (whatever his name is) and in a short amount of time they are both free and on their feet. Jack goes over to the window and peeks out but can't make sense of what he's seeing. It looks like a housing development, one that's been let go too long without maintenance.

The houses are close together, shacks, really, cheap plywood and particle board thrown up into semblances of walls, tarps as roofs, even branches. It's the people that catch his attention, though. All are dressed in rags, as if the weather doesn't affect them, and all are grey-skinned. It's the grey skin that confirms Jack's suspicions--these aren't people, they're all dead.

"Oh, no," he breathes, the bottom dropping out of his belly. "We're in the middle of a freaking zombie town."

Beside him the kid's losing his mind, and not quietly.

"I gotta get out of here, they're gonna eat me, I want my mommy!"

"Calm down," Jack says, fingers snagging on the guy's sleeve, but he's too late. He can only watch helplessly as the guy bursts outside, screaming bloody murder. And that's what happens, of course. The kid gets about halfway across the clearing before he's buried beneath a mountain of ragged greyskins, with more coming at a run. And why not? Free food!

Feeling sick to his stomach but at the same time blessing his luck once again, Jack slips out and runs in the opposite direction, grateful for the distraction. Sucks to be that guy, for sure.

(Jeremiah)

The fire burns for a long time, sending a plume of greasy black smoke up into the steel-grey sky. The snow has finally stopped but shows no sign of melting. Jeremiah stands in the grey snow and watches until the fire burns itself out, until the embers cool, until he can stick his hands into the ashes.

There are only a few bones left: a leg bone, the skull, an arm bone. The fire has eaten the rest. He chooses the skull and sets it carefully in the snow, washes off the black ash. He hates the smallness of the skull; it doesn't seem real, or fair. But what part of any of this is fair? His eyes burn, but he doesn't let the tears fall. Tears are useless. Only the promise to find Jack keeps him from eating his gun.

Jeremiah carefully wraps the smooth skull in one of Zeke's shirts and sticks it in his pack. Then, with a deep sigh, he starts walking, to continue looking for Jack, and then onto Paradise.

(Jeremiah)

He stumbles along, following the road, pack heavy on his back, his head bowed. The cold is here to stay, every day grey and silent but for the disturbing cries of mutated birds. The snow has obliterated any tire tracks, leaving a long expanse of dirty snow stretching in front of him. He tries not to look too closely at the numerous animal tracks that clutter the snow. There have been some odd noises from the woods lately, and the quicker he gets on past this section the better.

Moving quickly is hard, though. Every step is like stepping through molasses, too much of an effort, why doesn't he just lie down and go to sleep? What's the point of all this anyway? Paradise isn't real; it's what he couldn't tell the boy, but now, he can admit to himself that a small part of him had hoped he was wrong, that the boy's optimism would be justified.

A fluttering piece of paper attracts his attention. It's nailed to an electrical pole, the edges tattered, barely readable, but it's a twin to the one in his pocket; the carefully folded flyer that the boy had found when they first began travelling together.

You're on the Right track to paradise!

Sure. More bullshit, but Jeremiah can't help the small flicker still burning deep inside his chest. The human spirit lives on hope. It's the first flyer he's seen for quite some time, so maybe he is on the right track. Only time will tell.

Glancing at the sky, which boils with dark clouds, he quickens his pace, needing to find a place to shelter from the coming storm and try to get his head together, if that's possible.

(Jack)

Jack's breath plumes in the cold air, reminding him of that last cigarette he'd smoked with Amelia right before they'd holed up in that bar. Why is he thinking about her? Shaking his head, he clears his mind for the task at hand, which is to get a far away from this weird gathering of smart things before he's eaten, like that poor fool who'd lost his head. Literally.

A laugh bubbles up inside, inappropriate laughter that nevertheless feels good, but will get him killed if he makes too much noise. Not only are these grey-skinned things smart, but they are also quick, and with full bellies, no doubt they have way more energy than poor starving Jacky-boy, who longs for his missing backpack.

He's not far enough yet from the town?encampment?, still close enough to hear their feeding frenzy. There's so many of them, he can't see how one skinny guy is going to keep them occupied for too long.

The snow's deep, each step buries his boots almost to the top, and he's fleetingly grateful for the tightly-laced footwear and for the two pairs of woolen socks encasing his feet. If only he'd been smart enough to remember mittens; his hands are freezing. He flexes his fingers constantly, as if that will stave off frostbite.

It's not a good idea to follow the road, but the thought of moving through the woods and perhaps meeting the owner of the misshapen tracks he's been seeing makes his heart beat too fast. Getting eaten by a mutated coyote or badger just doesn't sound like too much fun for Jack, thank you very much.

He wonders about Zeke, and Jeremiah, wonders if they came back for him or just went on their way. The smart thing, the likely thing, is that they are far ahead of Jack, still searching on that fool's errand. Paradise. What a crock. Still, he recalls the hope in the boy's eyes, that child-like certainty that it exists. It won't take long for him to lose that, Jack thinks.

He used to be an optimist, and why not? He was lucky all the time, lucky at work, with women, in life. It was awesome. Until those idiots in Washington began clamping down on citizens and deciding that yes, we are going to bomb North Korea and China, the hell with anything but vengeance. Jack remembers the last thing he saw on the television before the grid went down. The president, looking a little worn in his customary blue suit but still confident, standing at the podium, reassuring the American people that despite the unemployment rates, the health insurance fiasco, and the attempt to ban guns, he still had it all together and not to worry, if the damn Republicans would just get their heads out of their asses everything would be ok.

How'd that work out for you, Mr. President?

It's exhausting thinking about all that, and Jack's tired enough without adding to it. Food is once again at the top of his must-have list.

(Jack)

The road goes on forever, an endless grey snake twisting past deformed trees and abandoned farms, beneath a steel-grey sky full of boiling clouds. There's a ditch on either side, a puddle of dirty water at the bottom of each, and Jack's so thirsty he stumbles over for a drink, not caring if the water is bad (which it most certainly is), he needs water now, and then he sees a leg resting in the water. Nothing else, only that white leg, right below the water, and just like that Jack isn't thirsty any more. Nothing like a rotting body part to take your mind off things.

Jack admits that he has been lucky so far, far luckier than most people, he's sure, but how much longer will luck carry him when he has no water, no food and none in sight? He can't eat the snow, he's not stupid, although his mouth cries out for it.

He keeps trudging along, alert for the sound of that big truck, for whatever mutated creatures might lurk in the forest, for somewhere to rest, waiting for his luck to kick in. He almost misses the driveway, it's so covered in dirty snow, just a slight break in the woods.

At the end, there's a small house with a big red barn behind it, no tracks of any kind leading in or out, and so Jack decides it could be a place to hole up for a while, if his luck holds. He can't do anything about his own tracks, though.

It's time consuming, slogging through the snow, each step harder, each step feeling like the last one he can take. Night has fallen by the time he reaches the small farmhouse, not that there's too much difference from night and day any longer, but it still makes him extra cautious, even though his body's crying out for rest and warmth and most of all water.

Stupidly, he goes right in the front door, which opens easily beneath his hand, and steps inside. At first, he doesn't understand what he's seeing: wrapped bodies cover the floor, laid out side by side. Then the stink hits him, and he ducks back outside, gagging.

What the hell? What is this place, a makeshift funeral home? Jack sags on the porch, sick with the knowledge that he's going to die. And soon, he thinks, stumbling down the steps. He's being stupid; he ought to go back inside and look for water and food, but the thought of having to step over those mummies--he's not sure he can handle that. Call it too many bad horror movies or just natural squeamishness, which you'd think he'd be over by now, especially after stripping that corpse back in the city, but Jack has really had it up to here with dead things of all kinds.

He goes around the side of the house, peeking in windows until he finds the back door, which is also unlocked. The back porch is bare and cold, and he steps through a flimsy door into the kitchen, which reeks of dead, so much so that Jack can't decide which is worse: breathing through his nose and having that odor in his nostrils, or through his mouth and tasting it. He decides to alternate, hoping for an old tin of mints or at the very least a tube of toothpaste somewhere.

The kitchen looks ransacked, but Jack searches the cabinets anyway, scoring with a couple of cans of corn and, way back in the pantry, a bag of macaroni noodles. Plus, a gallon jug of distilled water. Yeah! If he wasn't so hungry and thirsty Jack might dance a jig, but he riffles through drawers for a can opener instead, mouth dry.

He goes out onto the back porch, where it's cold but at least the stench is not as bad and sits on the floor with his meal. In his previous life he'd hated canned corn, but now the yellow kernels and macaroni soaked in the sweet liquid are like a gourmet meal. He washes it all down with water and he's good, belly full, thirst slaked.

Jack starts feeling sleepy, even the thought of sleeping in this mausoleum not enough to stop his eyes sliding shut. Just a short nap.

(Jeremiah)

He crouches in the snow, aims the rifle, and picks off one, two, three greyskins as they stumble toward him, arms outstretched. The fourth, though, ducks and puts on a burst of speed, startling in its quickness, in this sign of intelligence, and reminding Jeremiah of the remark Gabriel made about the smart ones. Then the thing is almost upon him and there's no more time to think, there's only the pistol in his hand, his finger on the trigger.

The shots echo in the silence, sure to bring more of those things. Jeremiah picks up his rifle and takes off at a jog, eyes roaming, alert for any more danger. He won't be able to sustain this pace for very long, but hopefully by the time he needs to slow down he'll be in the clear.

Glancing behind him, the road is empty in the receding light. The wind picks up, ruffling his hair, particles of ice stinging his cheeks. Time to find shelter. Head down, he walks on, pack weighing him down, his nose running, eyes watering from the wind.

He starts noticing footprints, follows them without thinking much about it. They lead him down a narrow lane, a small farmhouse at the end. There's a big red barn behind it, a rusting truck parked haphazardly beside the house.