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 Manhattan, the final stage of the "National Rehabilitation" operation. They would kill the "degenerates" to leave room for colonization. Rachel just wanted to leave, to rid the city of the bastards and go home. Nervously, she moved a toothpick from each side of her mouth.

From the faded metal catwalks of the bridge, the famous New York City skyline was blackened, the once beautiful buildings now mostly steel bars and vines, their flesh stripped off the bones and thrown to the ground. The catwalks were horrifying, the dead water below visible through rusted out holes. Rachel was ahead, one hand on the creaking rail, and another held at the handle of her rifle. Her eyes stayed above, looking at the skeletal remains of the United States.

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.

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.

Chapter 4: Good Religion

Again, I found myself hidden, aware and prepared, the crumbled closeness of the city around me, rifle in hand. The hounds were our prey-undomesticated dogs who dominated the city. Unlike most other species whose population were harmed by the bombs, the hounds reproduced wildly, and could outnumber and surround anything willing to cross their path. They traveled in swarms, massive packs containing hundreds of the beasts. Rhode stalked silently behind. Somehow, we worked in unison, communicating intentions with nods and body language, despite the years of intense isolation. Hounds were near, their presence was a tangible and loud emotion, a feeling of fear, repulsion, and excitement. The barking and whining squealing from their snouts was obvious as it echoed through the cement. They moved with a fast pace, with the young and healthy in front and the old and frail behind. The latter were our targets. Because of the hounds' extreme metabolism, a wolf would reach maturity at only a year, and die from old age in three. We were moving through an alley, only ten or so feet from the yapping jaws of the hounds. Running quickly while crouched, we observed the dogs by glancing through breaks in the rubble. The dogs turned right, moving into a side-street, an unexpected move that caused the elderly ones to stumble. I slid into the street, naturally aiming the wood case of my rifle towards the closest dogs. After seconds of slow, pure adrenaline I fired, the slug slamming into the dog's thigh. The pack continued unaffected - their lack of empathy was key to survival. We watched and waited. The snarling mass of the pack faded into the rubble and darkness, leaving the lone corpse. Rhode quickly looked to me, then we jogged in a slight crouch, still aware of the remaining danger. Some packs follow behind others, to further glean the benefits of numbers. We crouched by the carcass. Rhode glanced at the bloodied corpse, looking vaguely disgusted. The mannerisms of civilized people were still hard to decipher. One thing was apparent, however. The intoxicating rush of victory. That we had tracked, hunted, and killed a beast was a thing of euphoria. The crackle of a fire by Rhode's shelter was a double edged sword. It was a thing of comfort - to be blinded in the darkness in a city full of predators was a nightmare invoking experience. It also provided warmth, which was welcome in the normal frigid air. The irony, though, was the light. It was a beacon, a flare for malicious animals and the degenerates. Rhode sat across the blaze from me, nibbling with surprising viciousness at a leg of hound. Talking to Rhode was awkward. It had always been something I'd avoided, but for some
reason looked forward to. I was relieved when she finally broke the silence. "Who are you?" I thought on that for awhile. It was never something I really thought myself, rather, I only considered the pressing matters of survival. From the deceptive comfort of the fire, I reflected on myself. I'd never done anything evil, but I hadn't done anything good either . This was simply because I didn't have any opportunities to do so. In all honesty, I didn't know who I was. "I don't really know", I admitted. I suppose she appeared disappointed. "Who are you?", I said. I wanted mainly to shift the focus off of myself. Her response seemed almost prepared. "My name is Alexis Clarisson , and I'm not a degenerate, and..." She swatted her hair, her face suddenly quiet and subtle. Her matted bangs sweeping back over her eyes. It was silent again, and I stared blankly at the fire. I had nothing to say, and neither did she. The silence was so loud.

Chapter Three:Rhode

For hours, it seemed like, we sat there. The dirty light of the sun began to filter into the hole, illuminating her face. We sat there and stared, eyes locked in a gaze that lasted for minutes. Pure astonishment, spiced with joy but soaked with fear, were her eyes. To decode to emotions was a rusty skill, and one I felt suddenly uncomfortable using, and I looked away, into the scarred rubble of the room. Suddenly, she stood and walked over to me, her face inches from mine. From her side came a clenched fist, and she piled it into my jaw, the unexpected blow knocking me on my ass.

At first I was confused, dazed on the floor. But it started to come to me, understanding. I shot her. Looking up, she simply stood there, staring back down at my freshly bruised chin. Anger and confusion flushed across her face, and she turned around, looking sheepishly embarrassed and infuriated. She stomped out of the hole, out into the dirty air. I anxiously rubbed my chin, feeling the bump that was starting to form. There was power behind that blow, despite the frail appearance of her arms.



I could still see her standing outside, fuming and awkward. She was constantly rubbing her hands through her hair, combing through it with her fingers. She! I couldn't believe it, only gawk, but it was undeniable. There was a woman here, unnamed and alone, who wasn't hostile or angry. It was a concept I would have to learn to swallow. I stood up, feeling a new urge to pat the dust off my jeans and straighten my hair, to look presentable, I mused. It was a ridiculous concept. Hearing my footfalls, she turned around, analyzing my face. She didn't look like she expected me to be angry, which ticked me off in a way, just perplexed, searching for words.



"My name is Rhode", she said. The girl shifted her weight unto her left hip and awkwardly waited, staring at me. After a few dozen seconds, she began to look confused. I was still preparing the words in my head. "My name is Lead", I replied. She seemed to feel the sound of my name in her mouth, not liking the taste. The awkward silence fell unto my shoulders again. I probed my mind for the right phrase, the right connections of sound to make this conversation work. In the end, I vocalized my most prominent emotion. "I'm hungry."

Chapter Two: Acid

After minutes, I stopped.

Her arm!

(when am I going to finish this, so hungry so hungry, oh I'm so hungry)

Her arm is bare, the bullet hole bleeding, her life escaping from the hole. I had been shot before, I can keep her life in her. Pulling the bandage sack from my bag I began to dress the wound with my linen bandages, made from scraps of clothes. She stared and grimaced at me while I worked. Her deep blue pools of eye gazing into me, screaming "Why!?" and "Thank you, thank you" simultaneously.

A person! I shot her (but she'll live) and I found a person. A woman my age, a Scavenger dressed in rags, with black hair and deep dark pools for eyes and a gun-shot wound. After I finished, my eyes drifted to her face. Hello, I thought. Speech! To think in words and not images was so new, such a delight! "Hello", I said. My cracked voice barely can choke out the words. Her voice was flowing, pure water, not polluted, dead puddles but a running stream. Blackness came from my eyes, inky darkness filling everywhere, the world spinning...

Light! Pain and light in my mind, a tugging rope of light and sting yanking me from the void.

Rain! She is looking at me, stinging painful droplets of rain hitting her. "Get up! Please get up!!" Her voice is a cascading waterfall, angry and powerful. Her hand pulls me to my feet, and we begin to run, into the alley, turning a corner into a dark hole in the wall.

Her hand is so... warm! Not the cold, apathetic rock and concrete, but a hand, to lead me to safety. To die in the the acid rain - to burn in the storm, to melt in the mid-afternoon showers, She would not let it be my way. No, I would die somewhere else, from something else. For now, I am here. The hole is filled with inky blackness, the ground's dry, and I am safe in this shelter.

Squatting in the darkness, the rain sizzles furiously outside. She was here. I could feel her eyes staring at me and the pain in her arm. Hunger! Oh, I am so hungry! The voracious emptiness, I could feel it, twisting my stomach, trying to kill me, to leave my body. The rain suddenly and abruptly stopped.

Chapter One: Bullet #26

Monday was our family dinner night, where a few of our partially alienated relatives where invited over for a delicious combination of reheated turkey sandwiches and freezer burnt corn on the cob. Tuesday was the unwelcomed spring cleaning afternoon, where we vacuumed and bitched about the unreachable cobwebs on the porch ceiling. Wednesday was a day of recovery, where we recuperated by watching stale chick-flicks with home salted popcorn.

Lead moved into the street, his old rifle in hand. In the clearing from the thick rubble, he looked skywards, where the grey ash swirled about. He loosened the grip on his weapon, as a small part of it moved aside, and a few beams of light glimmered through. He stared, his eyes squinting even at the bare, weak streams. For a second, he felt it, and he looked away, gripping his rifle with a white-knuckled intensity, slipping into the rubble again.

2 Months Later

My rifle is heavy in my hands, ready to poke a hole in any enemy I see. Enemy, or prey; the distinction has faded. Food is more than scarce, and the only way to eat is to kill. Suddenly, a rock shifted nearby, a beacon. Food! My stomach growled in anger. The ravenous, insatiable hunger clawing at my guts responded to that rock. I slip a bullet into the chamber of the rifle, pushing the cartridge into the barrel with the bolt in one smooth action. It was ready to poke a hole in my meal, to kill it. My 26th bullet was ready.





Around the corner, I snaked my eyes around. A person, a sane, breathing person. It was digging away at the rubble. She! She was a Scavenger, those other people. I stalked slowly, moving with the dead walls and rubble. She was beautiful. Another person, like me, a survivor of the holocaust, here, in this city. She was beautiful, like a fancy gourmet plate or a decorated bowl of stew. Her hair was soft, black, but mangled, hanging over her subtly lovely face that was stained by ashes. She was wrapped in rags and discarded clothes.





I stalked, hugging the wall and the shadows, a bedraggled ugly tiger, stalking the lone white swan. I moved closer. Food! She. I walked, slowly, ready to shoot, but also ready to run and hug and talk. A deer in headlights, a salivating tiger, closer and closer. She, It turned, looking surprised and horrified, and I squeezed the trigger.





An explosion of light, and the bullet ripped the air. She let out a scream,





(No! I shot her, no)





(Ha, that’s why they call me Lead)




and fell, and I ran up, kneeling down, ready to (prepare my meal) help her live. She was on the rubble, lying there, looking neither dead nor alive. She was hit on the arm; thank God it was only a flesh wound,





(damn, need to steady my aim)





she will live. The woman looked up at me. Her eyes were fatally disappointed and miserable. She wasn’t ready to die. My eyes began to water





(too bad you aren’t ready)





as I saw her. “Don’t kill me.” said She. Words! Someone talking to me! Not a bandit or a dead-brained degenerate but a woman who wasn’t angry but wanted to live! I pulled her to me and cried, crying tears built up from years in this corpse in New York.