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.