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.