Chapter 11: Murphy's Law
Rhode knelt in the wrecked bus, which echoed from the chaotic noise outside. Footsteps, yelling. Men were stomping on through, brutish bludgeoning weapons suspended above their heads. From her spot under the seat she could hear their shattered voices, smell the blood on her skin. They hushed suddenly, going quiet. For several seconds all was still but Rhode's beating heart, when the bus leaned gently right on its suspension. Someone stepped on the bus. Oh shit, she thought. I'm done I'm done I'm done. Rhode curled her sneakers under the seat, holding her breath. Step, step. The pat of their leathery skin on metal reverberated through the old bus, first one set and then multiple. Rhode stared down at their approaching legs; three sets of them. She clenched her expended revolver, the thing hollow and useless. The girl was balancing her options when one of the Degenerates began rapping a cut iron against the metal rods that lined the walls. "Come out please! Room service, room service..." He began to mumble incoherently. Suddenly, a pair of hot hands pulled her shoulders, dragging her into the aisle. "Oh ho, boys! Look-what-we-have- found!" Women were like a form of currency to these people who could not give birth to women, and in that way were dying off. Rhode panicked, swinging her fist into the animals groin, making him double over pain, just long enough to pull the revolver from her shirt and thrust it barrel-first at the group. They flinched almost instantaneously. "That's right, fuckers. You know what this is", she bolted, in a ferocious voice that surprised herself. Like they understood, she thought. And hoped. They seemed to, balancing their odds, gripping and ungripping their weapons. The first of them took a step forward. Rhode knew what this was. He was initiating a challenge. At least she rated a threat in their minds. She was doing something good. " Back the fuck up!". She was screwed if they called her bluff too aggressively. It was nothing but a lion's roar or a gorilla thumping its chest. Trying hard to not allow her panic affect her body language, she turned her head sideways, staring hard with a violent, dignant face and tightening the grip on the weapon. Their leader motioned backwards with his head. The degenerates backed away, walking towards the door but not lowering their defense. Finally, the bus wobbled as they got off. She stood there, watching them fade away into the wreckage. Once she was sure they were gone, her stance wobbled, and she slumped backwards on the musty seat behind her, choking on ragged sobs. Too close. Too close. Too damn close. Degenerates left remnants of women exposed on the ground; Rhode had seen them. They were always the same, cut, burned, gashes, pained faces locked forever in rigor mortis. Raped, undoubtedly. Chunks of flesh lay missing in pink, blackened gaps on the thighs, arms and back. Life among Degenerates is as excruciating as it is short. They hadn't caught her. Not now, not ever. Storage rentals. Places where people stored the random clutter and paraphenilia they hadn't the heart to throw away. How ironic it was that this remnant of society was searching for shelter in this place. The lot between the aluminum riveted doors was cluttered with with burned out shells of cars and moving vans, undoubtedly from those who found getting their things priority of getting West, where it was safe. The scene brought back painful memories she was quick to dismiss. As her eyes scanned the doors she rubbed her arm. The bullet hol had healed, and somehow not become infected, but there was a constant, dull ache. "Hm?" She noticed a glimmer of brass on the ground. Getting on her knees, she pinched the object. Her eyes widened as he held the bullet casing. 5.56 mm. Assault rifle rounds. Brushing hair out of her eyes, she smoothed the shell with her fingers. It was relatively new. Post war. Her mind raced. Military! The calvary was coming in, finally. This isn't civilian. Things are changing. Her fingers shook with anticipation. Suddenly, Rhode's heart jumped. Booted feet, several sets of them, 30 or so feet away. She rolled silently into the shady, rusted cover of a nearby trailer. Her heart thumped furiously, she strained herself to show her exasperated breathing. Then, the bodies filed by. Loose olive drab military fatigues, flak vests, tan boots, gas masks hanging off of satchel-laden belts. Guns, big ones. Assault rifles. Men, short and tall. Boys, more. Talking. Their speech was foreign, although it was English. Eyes squinting in the dust, faces hinted with exertion. The talk was foreign because they were real. People having comfortable conversation. It was choked though. They were fighting fatigue. Almost panting between sentences. Careful, stoic posture. Rhode squat there, staring. They'll shoot me, or they won't. They'll mistake me for a degenerate. Intelligence. That's what it all comes down to. Gestures, speech. "Wait!" She yelled. The squad of them reacted on her instantly. "Don't shoot, I-" A short one in the front interrupted her. "Crombley?! What do we do?" He spoke with a haste, as if Rhode was about to attack them. A tall one limped into view. Thick arms, a bloody and bandaged leg. This was all too overwhelming. He nodded, displaying approval for whatever the short one decided. The woman rustled through the Marines, shoving the tired men aside. "The test. Don't shoot it." Rhode could hear hesitation as she said "it" "It can talk. The others can't talk." "I've heard gennies talk", a Marine in the back mentioned. The woman's calming voice seemed to calm the man who had control over Rhode's life. He cleared his throat and knelt, holding a revolver at the ready. "What is your name and place of residence?" At his question, Rhode thought hard. Maybe answering this sort of thing robotically was better than a regular response. "Alexis Larrison, River Terrace and Park Street, South Manhattan, New York." The robotic, recited quality of her voice shocked the group. The older one they called Crombley walked to the front of the group. "Dalton, stand down. Obviously, this isn't a Degener-" A bang shot through the air, followed by a chaos, Marines streaming for cover, confused at the use of firearms, confused at the sudden violence, confused by the bubbling hole in Crombley's temple.
Chapter 10: The Quiet and the Reposed
The sun was setting. That is, the orange glow behind the ash is low on the horizon. Rachel rubbed her numb hands, blowing in her palm. She watched the dozen or so sets of feet ahead of her, the black boots stomping in the ash-filled dirt. She was no longer pointman. It wasn't a demotion, no one had punished her. Pvt. Dalton hadn't told his soldier buddies, no one had radioed OpCorps, nothing. It was a self acknowledgment of her failure to protect Crombley. He was carried, a shoulder was lent to him so that he could walk. It was not easy - not because of his weight but more so his pride, which was unflinching and resisted such attempts to help. The sergeant didn't share what happened in that room. He was darkly humorous about it... "What was the first thing when you shot those spics?"
"The recoil of my rifle", Dalton replied. They laughed, enjoying the dark humor. Rachel couldn't care less about Crombley's word choice - societal norms seemed pointless here. Most of the company laughed. All of the company was white. She tried to understand the mannerisms of soldier men, and knew it was at heart a denial of guilt.
Her intense thought was comforting, to be separate from the grim and gruesome surroundings. In a way, Pvt. Grassfield always wanted to see Manhattan, the famous, beautiful city, glorious and dangerous, and wider than life. The thing it was now, though, was something so grotesque and awful it had cost her her soul.
The pointman raised his hand, in a stop signal. The company knelt, pulling their rifles to their hands. A few sets of eyes glowed at them from the darkness, ahead of hunched, aloof figures. The pointman made a movement, a grabbing hand gesture that goes down the face. Ventilators.
Dociles. Rachel heard about them, degenerates of a type. They had been hurt, some form of radiation. They weren't hostile like the degenerates that attacked Crombley, but were like dull puppets, they just wandered, following some unknown incentive. It was a superstition among the soldiers, that this condition could be caught.
Either way, Rachel pulled the gas mask from one of the many large bags that hung off of her gas mask. There was a panic ahead. Rachel stared and listened. "What the fuck happened to this mask?!"
"I'm sorry sir, its not..."
"I don't give an ass, fix it!" Their volumes escalated. "Shh!", Rachel whispered. They had been caught up in the masks, and forgot the actual danger. The dociles stayed as silent as ever. She clicked the seal button on the mask, which began pumping the fresh air. The filter was dirty, the air tasted of sand and ash. The alley was closed in, the dociles blocking their path. The hesitation and suspense in the air hung as heavy as the ash did. "Fuck it." The sergeant made the hand motion, and the rifles came to life, cracking and spitting lead. The embers of the dociles' eyes burned hot and then were extinguished as the metal tore through the air. They ceased, aiming their rifles cautiously. The pointman gestured for them to stand. "At ease", Crombley said, authoritative and leading despite his circumstances. They proceeded. The Rehabilitators flipped over the clammy bodies, investigating them. Rachel looked away. There was things here she didn't want to take home.
"The recoil of my rifle", Dalton replied. They laughed, enjoying the dark humor. Rachel couldn't care less about Crombley's word choice - societal norms seemed pointless here. Most of the company laughed. All of the company was white. She tried to understand the mannerisms of soldier men, and knew it was at heart a denial of guilt.
Her intense thought was comforting, to be separate from the grim and gruesome surroundings. In a way, Pvt. Grassfield always wanted to see Manhattan, the famous, beautiful city, glorious and dangerous, and wider than life. The thing it was now, though, was something so grotesque and awful it had cost her her soul.
The pointman raised his hand, in a stop signal. The company knelt, pulling their rifles to their hands. A few sets of eyes glowed at them from the darkness, ahead of hunched, aloof figures. The pointman made a movement, a grabbing hand gesture that goes down the face. Ventilators.
Dociles. Rachel heard about them, degenerates of a type. They had been hurt, some form of radiation. They weren't hostile like the degenerates that attacked Crombley, but were like dull puppets, they just wandered, following some unknown incentive. It was a superstition among the soldiers, that this condition could be caught.
Either way, Rachel pulled the gas mask from one of the many large bags that hung off of her gas mask. There was a panic ahead. Rachel stared and listened. "What the fuck happened to this mask?!"
"I'm sorry sir, its not..."
"I don't give an ass, fix it!" Their volumes escalated. "Shh!", Rachel whispered. They had been caught up in the masks, and forgot the actual danger. The dociles stayed as silent as ever. She clicked the seal button on the mask, which began pumping the fresh air. The filter was dirty, the air tasted of sand and ash. The alley was closed in, the dociles blocking their path. The hesitation and suspense in the air hung as heavy as the ash did. "Fuck it." The sergeant made the hand motion, and the rifles came to life, cracking and spitting lead. The embers of the dociles' eyes burned hot and then were extinguished as the metal tore through the air. They ceased, aiming their rifles cautiously. The pointman gestured for them to stand. "At ease", Crombley said, authoritative and leading despite his circumstances. They proceeded. The Rehabilitators flipped over the clammy bodies, investigating them. Rachel looked away. There was things here she didn't want to take home.
Chapter 9: Of Mice and Tom Hanks
Lead wandered. What else to do, but walk? Hunger, and walk. Ache ache ache, left right left. His rifle lay useless in his hands, his feet stepped unsure and careless. The old dog wanders off to die, how was he any different? How was he any different then the old, world weary dog with nothing to gain or lose? He stepped over the ash and under the rebar but he went nowhere, he just walked. He was not lost. How could he? How can you be lost when you have nowhere to go? He was not lost in the physical sense, but in the mental. She was gone. Truly, truly truly gone. Even the best laid plans of mice and men go astray.
He had traveled for miles. Cafes, coffee shops, bookstores, pawn joints, McDonald's... He recognized buildings as he walked, if only subconsciously. "I just felt like running..." He thought, thinking of Forrest... Forrest... Oh god. "I'm forgetting myself again". He stopped with that thought, sturdying himself again. Forrest Gump, was the name of the movie. Starring Tom Hanks. An inky sadness clogged him. Is he okay? Who is okay?
Where is my family?! What about my friends, my coach, my mom, my sisters, Uncle...
Where is Tom Hanks? I want Tom Hanks. I want my life back.
He had traveled for miles. Cafes, coffee shops, bookstores, pawn joints, McDonald's... He recognized buildings as he walked, if only subconsciously. "I just felt like running..." He thought, thinking of Forrest... Forrest... Oh god. "I'm forgetting myself again". He stopped with that thought, sturdying himself again. Forrest Gump, was the name of the movie. Starring Tom Hanks. An inky sadness clogged him. Is he okay? Who is okay?
Where is my family?! What about my friends, my coach, my mom, my sisters, Uncle...
Where is Tom Hanks? I want Tom Hanks. I want my life back.
Chapter 8: Degeneration
"Spread out and search." Crombley gestured into the doorway. It used to be a hotel, Rachel noticed. She and Pvt. Dalton advanced through the dirty lobby and into the hallway, brushing aside curls of wallpaper that were hanging off the destroyed walls. The place was silent, save Dalton's breathing. "Calm down", she commanded, in a hushed tone. The others came in from behind, anticipation obvious in their movements.
A shuffling sound piqued her curiosity from across a rotted door, a small little nudge, a flashing strike in the muffled darkness that remained in the carcass of the inn. She had just begun to relax, but now she was active, her muscles tensed and prepared. The door was cracked open, and she knelt, holding her face away from the opening while she prepared to enter. It was a common knowledge of the Rehabilitators to never peek, lest a hot blade or stinging needle meet your gaze. Instead, she aimed the barrel of the M-4 into the room, gently and procedurally opening it, standing slowly as she moved. With a hardened poise she scanned the suite. Lice ridden beds, shattered and green-stained windows... A grey corpse lay strewn against the bathroom door, with dissolved skin and exposed, rotten flesh, glowed dully in the red sunlight. Another victim of radiation poisoning. Fortunately, Pvt. Grassfield nor her squad showed any suffering of radiation - diarrhea, vomiting, loss of hair... Dalton came in from behind, his face going pale at the sight of the carrion, before stuttering a few words. "Fatal radiation sickness...", repeating Rachel's previous guess. "My Geiger is silent", he added. "We're fine." Then, a noise echoed through the shelled rooms... A piercing yell, almost too high for the ear to hear. A whistle. "Rachel!", Dalton yelled. They began to sprint. Rachel made it first, dashing into the room, gun poised. Two... People? No, not people. Degenerates. But she was unsure. She was lost in confusion... They were bringing red crowbars unto Crombley, his arms crumpling under every blow, defenseless and sprawled out on the floor. Two bursts of fire ripped through the room, tearing holes in Crombley's attackers' chests. The private rushed in behind her, his face a medley of fear, anger, confusion, and ultimately, disgust. If this were a old war, she would be shot. Dalton moved quickly to Crombley, the two talking incoherently. She knelt by the two degenerates... One looked around 30 or so, a very long age for a degenerate, especially. His Latino skin was covered and dirt and stained in fresh blood. His eyes were soulless. She eased herself. Those were the white, milky eyes of a monster, not a person. The other was a young man, around in his twenties, obviously a native New Yorker. She frowned. Fuck this. Fuck all of this, these bombs, this wreckage. Here he was, one of those guys in the bar at 10:00 on a Saturday, yelling with his buddies and playing pool... Here he was, a disfigured animal lying in a puddle of his own damned blood.She stood, bile rising in her throat. Dalton walked with Crombley, his leg obviously broken. He didn't look angry. In fact, she doubted he had noticed her indifference. The private did, and he gave her a look as he strode, it said "you should be shot". Well, this, my friend, is not an old war.
A shuffling sound piqued her curiosity from across a rotted door, a small little nudge, a flashing strike in the muffled darkness that remained in the carcass of the inn. She had just begun to relax, but now she was active, her muscles tensed and prepared. The door was cracked open, and she knelt, holding her face away from the opening while she prepared to enter. It was a common knowledge of the Rehabilitators to never peek, lest a hot blade or stinging needle meet your gaze. Instead, she aimed the barrel of the M-4 into the room, gently and procedurally opening it, standing slowly as she moved. With a hardened poise she scanned the suite. Lice ridden beds, shattered and green-stained windows... A grey corpse lay strewn against the bathroom door, with dissolved skin and exposed, rotten flesh, glowed dully in the red sunlight. Another victim of radiation poisoning. Fortunately, Pvt. Grassfield nor her squad showed any suffering of radiation - diarrhea, vomiting, loss of hair... Dalton came in from behind, his face going pale at the sight of the carrion, before stuttering a few words. "Fatal radiation sickness...", repeating Rachel's previous guess. "My Geiger is silent", he added. "We're fine." Then, a noise echoed through the shelled rooms... A piercing yell, almost too high for the ear to hear. A whistle. "Rachel!", Dalton yelled. They began to sprint. Rachel made it first, dashing into the room, gun poised. Two... People? No, not people. Degenerates. But she was unsure. She was lost in confusion... They were bringing red crowbars unto Crombley, his arms crumpling under every blow, defenseless and sprawled out on the floor. Two bursts of fire ripped through the room, tearing holes in Crombley's attackers' chests. The private rushed in behind her, his face a medley of fear, anger, confusion, and ultimately, disgust. If this were a old war, she would be shot. Dalton moved quickly to Crombley, the two talking incoherently. She knelt by the two degenerates... One looked around 30 or so, a very long age for a degenerate, especially. His Latino skin was covered and dirt and stained in fresh blood. His eyes were soulless. She eased herself. Those were the white, milky eyes of a monster, not a person. The other was a young man, around in his twenties, obviously a native New Yorker. She frowned. Fuck this. Fuck all of this, these bombs, this wreckage. Here he was, one of those guys in the bar at 10:00 on a Saturday, yelling with his buddies and playing pool... Here he was, a disfigured animal lying in a puddle of his own damned blood.She stood, bile rising in her throat. Dalton walked with Crombley, his leg obviously broken. He didn't look angry. In fact, she doubted he had noticed her indifference. The private did, and he gave her a look as he strode, it said "you should be shot". Well, this, my friend, is not an old war.
Chapter 7:Amatuer Practitioner
"Lead," Rhode said, chewing leftovers over the weak fire solemnly. "I'm leaving the city." I couldn't help but to glare. "Leave... the city? Why? How?"
"I don't want to die here." I set down the water jug I'd been drinking from. Since the water collection, a dire mood set upon us. That is, more dire than it usually is. Our source of water had been compromised. If one Scavenger had found the pool, then others could, also. As far as moving, she was right. We needed a new place... "Where to, then, Rhode? Where would you go? What could be better than here? We have water, and shelter-" My eyes looked at the cold, half-rawed meat in my hands "-and we have food."
"I'm leaving." I set my hand on my forehead, a little dizzied. I was talking like a normal person again, and I felt it coming again, that painful cloud that drifted from it's burial spot in the back of my head to my conscious, a sharp pain setting itself against my mind, blaring away my thought for a few seconds. "-and it's getting warmer again. The ash is clearing. I am going to leave the wreckage. What if they're are others like us, with a cam-" I stared blankly, I could feel it, like a haze setting itself over my vision. "Shut the hell up, damnit! You keep bitching on and on and on! Can't you just shut your mouth for once?" The bitterness of my words had a sour taste to it, and I could feel their sting. She snapped back, her face twisted in anger. "You think I give a shit if you go or not? 'Cause I don't!" She stood up, snatching a few water bottles, a red maddened look in her eyes. The blackness started to cloud around my eyes, closing over my focus.
I heard the slap, my face hitting the crumbled concrete, and the thunderous clapping of her feet, walking away. I let the dark take me over, I couldn't stand to watch her go.
Chapter 6: Confrontations
It was another loud night, with all of the soldiers yelling, betting their now-worthless paper money on card games. Rachel sat there, polishing a heavy M-4. She stared into the fire, unsure. Tomorrow, they would cross into
From the faded metal catwalks of the bridge, the famous
The city stank. Ruptured sewage lines lay exposed by the fractured asphalt, and a acidic cinder smell burned her nostrils. She was creeping at point, her eyes flickering across every shadow, every secluded corner that held danger. The rest of the team walked behind, their stances posed as they were trained, but loudly, without awareness.
They hadn't seen any, not yet. The people of the city were well hidden. They found more evidence - torn and looted bodies, papers covered in scribbles, and feces everywhere. The observant among them saw short glimpses of the human trash, running from buildings and shadows. Suddenly, a sharp scream echoed from a nearby alleyway, shrill and recognizable. "Rachel. You're up. Need help, remember the whistle", said Crombley. Asshole, Rachel mumbled under her breath. She slowly moved to the alleyway, easing her eyes around the corner.
On the crumbled ground, two of them lay, one crying over the other. The lower one, with darker hair, obviously female, showed a bleeding puncture on her arm, her eyes clenched shut, visibly unconscious. A gunshot wound!? Slowly, she raised her assault rifle at them, preparing to fire. If these degenerates learned the use of firearms, they couldn't live to spread the knowledge. Sobs kept coming from the male, and she hesitated. His face was pained, fatally sympathetic for the gunshot victim. She watched, intrigued and disturbed. The male blacked out, eyes still open on the concrete.
Rachel carefully approached the two, checking the others' wound. It was a woman, of only 15-16, and a lump formed in her throat. These people weren't animals, they were the next generation of mankind, and they were people. She felt the wounded woman's pulse, half expecting the ragged, irregular thumping of a degenerated human. Each second, the lub-dub sounded purely. Children! She stepped back, her face morbid.
She held her rifle up in the air, firing several shots, the loud cracks ripping through the air, somehow not disturbing the unconscious and wounded. She then turned, jogging quickly. The agent walked back to the street, dizzied and shocked. "Grassfield!" Crombley barked. "It was just a… dog, sir."
Chapter 5: Watered
Night. For the whole of my life, sleep was a thing to be feared, but an obvious necessity. Hiding spots, dark corners, and experience were necessary to rest, to disguise the helpless meal you become. At first, the procedures were easy to imagine. No fires, no food smells, and dark places. With this basic common sense, I was able to survive long enough to learn the feel of the city - the paths of the hounds, the common targets of scavengers, and the watering holes.
Now though, Rhode was here. To not be awakened by the harsh red sun or the emptiness but a shake of a hand was such an incredible, flowing feeling. "Get up, asshole." My eyes peeled open to see Rhode standing overhead, holding a cutiron over her shoulder. Her methods of self defense were creative and improvised, but the weapon she held now was a jagged length of iron, which was surprising. She was smirking, not genuinely happy but proud to be in control, being my personal dirty-mouthed alarm clock.
I awoke, starting another day as usual, feeling run-down as usual, and having nothing to drink as usual. She, however, showed another phenomenon in the city, which was general hygiene. She pulled a ragged brush through her dark ashy hair, and I failed to see the point. I couldn't help staring. As she stared blankly at the concrete wall on the side of our shelter, she looked at me, with her signature "what, haven't you seen any of this before" face. The truth was, I hadn't. At least, not in this life. I resumed tying my hole-ridden boots.
Water was one of the most challenging aspects of life in the city. The only water sources that remained were dirty city water and underground aquifers. The latter was a much more dangerous, but more healthy (if that makes sense) choice. Today, that was our target. With the sewer system ruined, collapses, holes, and hollow ground became the norm.
Rhode jogged ahead, which was unusual. Usually, she stayed behind, watching our back. Her eyes seemed to penetrate everything, and you can see it in her dark eyes, the wariness, the acknowlegment of the surrounding ruins. I fell to a stop near the manhole, crouching by the iron disk that covered it. I'd found this hole long ago, and I had it marked with a shred of pink shirt. It was the fastest and safest route by far, and my survival depended on it.
She moved by me, keeping on ahead, missing the hole. "Rhode!" I barked. She darted quickly around. "Here", I said. I could feel Rhode's embarassment, and it was so confusing, why anyone could care about that. I pulled the manhole cover off with the nearby tire iron. The fact that she missed the hole reassured me about it's inconspicuous nature. It was a hidden place; I was sure of it. Rhode lead herself in first. I couldn't shake the impression she was trying to prove her worth. She was more valuable than anything I'd ever had.
Rhode gave me something to live for. Not just empty survival, alone, but with another person to impress and insult and bicker with. Life had felt so pointless alone. Staying alive for no other reason but to fulfill instinctual goals. That emptiness was filled by that other person. It made me feel like I had a future, that things could get better.
I held my breath, anticipating the awful smell of the underground, and descended. Rhode had already struck a glowstick, the pale light barely illuminating the tunnel. She looked tense and ready, as always. There was a wierd sense of domination as I strode lesiurely down the crumbled sewerway. This tunnel had always been familiar - it's molded, crumbling concrete walls a cozy reminder of the relatively fresh water that awaited. I liked to think of it as waiting in line at the water fountain. Then again, I liked to think of everything in this new world as something else. I hated it.
The recent rain had seeped into the passageway. The ground is unbearably slick, and had rotated a full 10 degrees when the earth shifted. It was like walking on a Pam'd frying pan held at a 45 degree angle. Any sealing or insulation had long since failed, so the newly wet 15 year old waste flowed freely. Rhode had a feeling of disgust about her, I could tell. Or maybe it was happiness, as it was harder than usual to see her emotion in the dark. "There is pure water...here?" Rhode said, holding back gags. "Last time I checked." I was silent. Such a natural and quick response felt awkward, ironically.
Finally, the putrid and slick tunnels led to the spring - a pool where ruptured water lines supported a small body of water. Easily the cleanest water I've seen, the water was almost pure. Still, a small pinch of my dwindling water tablets (now, it was crushed into a near fine powder) had to be popped into each bottle. We began to scoop the water into milk jugs and water bottles, and setting them aside. Rhode was a bandit, scooping up the water as if it were stolen loot. I severely doubted she hadn't seen as much in one place before.
"I am a GREAT person!" Rhode and I froze. I slowly turned around, setting down my water jug and pulling down my rifle. Rhode didn't hesitate to smash the glowstick into the ground, extinguishing it. "I am so charming, and attractive. Damn, I get the... I... I get the ladies! More ass than a toilet sea... seat!" It was a man. Not a man, but maybe a human, a Scavenger. His voice was so rough and broken. He followed us.
Now though, Rhode was here. To not be awakened by the harsh red sun or the emptiness but a shake of a hand was such an incredible, flowing feeling. "Get up, asshole." My eyes peeled open to see Rhode standing overhead, holding a cutiron over her shoulder. Her methods of self defense were creative and improvised, but the weapon she held now was a jagged length of iron, which was surprising. She was smirking, not genuinely happy but proud to be in control, being my personal dirty-mouthed alarm clock.
I awoke, starting another day as usual, feeling run-down as usual, and having nothing to drink as usual. She, however, showed another phenomenon in the city, which was general hygiene. She pulled a ragged brush through her dark ashy hair, and I failed to see the point. I couldn't help staring. As she stared blankly at the concrete wall on the side of our shelter, she looked at me, with her signature "what, haven't you seen any of this before" face. The truth was, I hadn't. At least, not in this life. I resumed tying my hole-ridden boots.
Water was one of the most challenging aspects of life in the city. The only water sources that remained were dirty city water and underground aquifers. The latter was a much more dangerous, but more healthy (if that makes sense) choice. Today, that was our target. With the sewer system ruined, collapses, holes, and hollow ground became the norm.
Rhode jogged ahead, which was unusual. Usually, she stayed behind, watching our back. Her eyes seemed to penetrate everything, and you can see it in her dark eyes, the wariness, the acknowlegment of the surrounding ruins. I fell to a stop near the manhole, crouching by the iron disk that covered it. I'd found this hole long ago, and I had it marked with a shred of pink shirt. It was the fastest and safest route by far, and my survival depended on it.
She moved by me, keeping on ahead, missing the hole. "Rhode!" I barked. She darted quickly around. "Here", I said. I could feel Rhode's embarassment, and it was so confusing, why anyone could care about that. I pulled the manhole cover off with the nearby tire iron. The fact that she missed the hole reassured me about it's inconspicuous nature. It was a hidden place; I was sure of it. Rhode lead herself in first. I couldn't shake the impression she was trying to prove her worth. She was more valuable than anything I'd ever had.
Rhode gave me something to live for. Not just empty survival, alone, but with another person to impress and insult and bicker with. Life had felt so pointless alone. Staying alive for no other reason but to fulfill instinctual goals. That emptiness was filled by that other person. It made me feel like I had a future, that things could get better.
I held my breath, anticipating the awful smell of the underground, and descended. Rhode had already struck a glowstick, the pale light barely illuminating the tunnel. She looked tense and ready, as always. There was a wierd sense of domination as I strode lesiurely down the crumbled sewerway. This tunnel had always been familiar - it's molded, crumbling concrete walls a cozy reminder of the relatively fresh water that awaited. I liked to think of it as waiting in line at the water fountain. Then again, I liked to think of everything in this new world as something else. I hated it.
The recent rain had seeped into the passageway. The ground is unbearably slick, and had rotated a full 10 degrees when the earth shifted. It was like walking on a Pam'd frying pan held at a 45 degree angle. Any sealing or insulation had long since failed, so the newly wet 15 year old waste flowed freely. Rhode had a feeling of disgust about her, I could tell. Or maybe it was happiness, as it was harder than usual to see her emotion in the dark. "There is pure water...here?" Rhode said, holding back gags. "Last time I checked." I was silent. Such a natural and quick response felt awkward, ironically.
Finally, the putrid and slick tunnels led to the spring - a pool where ruptured water lines supported a small body of water. Easily the cleanest water I've seen, the water was almost pure. Still, a small pinch of my dwindling water tablets (now, it was crushed into a near fine powder) had to be popped into each bottle. We began to scoop the water into milk jugs and water bottles, and setting them aside. Rhode was a bandit, scooping up the water as if it were stolen loot. I severely doubted she hadn't seen as much in one place before.
"I am a GREAT person!" Rhode and I froze. I slowly turned around, setting down my water jug and pulling down my rifle. Rhode didn't hesitate to smash the glowstick into the ground, extinguishing it. "I am so charming, and attractive. Damn, I get the... I... I get the ladies! More ass than a toilet sea... seat!" It was a man. Not a man, but maybe a human, a Scavenger. His voice was so rough and broken. He followed us.
Rhode tensed. Waves of panic echoed everywhere. The wet footsteps of the man slowed. A disturbing, loud laugh blasted from the darkness. His eyes could see through this ink, his senses heightened past a regular man. "My pretty little leaves…" Somehow, I could feel the primal man rushing at me, and I rolled silently to the left.
"I love… my sweet lovel….lovely…" I gripped my rifle; my knees shaking. The distinct scratching flare of a match lit up. "Pasty pasta! Oh, boy, my pasty pasta…" A searing heat filled the chamber, a stream of flaming aerosol through the moist air.
The degenerate was engulfed in flames, the hot fire licking up his ragged clothes. He just stood there. He didn't claw at the air or scream, but stood there, burning alive. He finally collapsed, the clammy flesh making a dull slap on the moist concrete. Rhode was still standing there, holding the smoldering match still. I watched her. I hadn't felt scared in so long. Everything before seemed so much fiction, but here was someone who would miss me, and vice versa, or at least would notice and feel my death. She held the spray can with slightly trembling hands. I unsheathed the cutiron and brought it upon the degenerate with a sickening crunch, in case. Stupid as they may be, they had the cognitive capacity to play dead and strike the unwary. I made a hand gesture, "lets go", it said, I beleive.
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