Odium II: The Dead Saga (12 page)

Maybe this is
all pointless. Because after all, you kill one weed and two more show up in its place.

The landscape passes me by in a blur of white and green. The trees and plant
s are getting ready for winter—dying back, leaves falling, shriveling under the blanket of snow—but their beauty is still all around us.

Mother Nature
did a good job of the world while mankind either died or hid. She adapted and survived, blossomed into something more amazing than anyone would have thought possible. She may be teeming with flesh-hungry rotting corpses and vengeance-riddled humans, but she has things right, she knows what she’s doing. She’s thriving in this dead world.

Spring used to be my
favorite season. It registered as a fresh start—a new beginning. Life bloomed up all around you: lambs, chicks, calves, shoots finally poking their way through the snow, reaching for the sun to help the world awaken into beauty. As I look around, I wonder whether after this winter things will be that way again. Can things ever be that way again? No animals will be born—the deaders will eat them even if they are—but flowers, yes, they continue to thrive and blossom year upon year, each time growing stronger and stronger until maybe there will be nothing left of mankind. We will be a memory, with only the ruins of a society—of a world left behind.

“Can we stop?” Emily says, but I barely register her words.

Mikey pulls on my hand and I look up wearily. “You okay?” I say to her.

“I could
do with a five minute break. This bag is really heavy.” She slouches to the ground, sliding her backpack off as she does.

Dean let us take some of the town
’s food and essentials—not that there was much left. It’s been two years, getting close to three now, and their supplies are dwindling. They have enough to get them by for a few months, so the fact that they supplied us with things is generous. In our little backpacks we each carry some canned goods, some basic medicine, water, clean socks, and a few other vital things like flashlights and matches. Dean, having never ventured from the town, didn’t realize what a lifeline he was handing us by letting us take things like this. Of course we would have taken them by force if we had to, but it was nice not to. It’s good knowing that we have another ally somewhere in the world, even if it is just a couple of kids.

I sit down
, too, the ground cold beneath my ass. I slide my backpack off and shove my weapon to one side. It’s a Mikey favorite: a machete. Apparently Dean and Anne were just as surprised to find out there their principal was a weapons freak. Having been into everyone’s homes to gather supplies, they’d seen a lot more than they ever wanted to. Lord help them if the townspeople ever do come back and Dean has to look them in the eye again.

Of
course the stories were funny—funnier than he realized when talking about Mrs. Jones, head of the PTA and personal nemesis to Anne’s mother, and informing us that she had the weirdest drawer full of sex toys, but he couldn’t quite work out what the beads were for. Dean may be a man in many ways, but in others, he’s still a kid.

Anyway, their
principal, Mr. Whatever-He-Was-Called, had a thing for weapons—all types of weapons. Old school things like machetes, and a mix of modern blades like katana samurais. Most of them hung proudly on his wall, still sheathed in their protective covers. Others he used for . . . training? Playing? Who the hell knows? Dean looked perplexed that we were going to be taking such valuable things—from his principal, no less—but we promised to return them and explain everything to the principal once everyone came back. Of course we have no intention of coming back, or returning these weapons. Not unless the deaders drop dead—real dead this time—and people like Fallon aren’t wandering the earth, anyway.

I pull out my water bottle, ta
king a long drink from it. I don’t realize how thirsty I’ve gotten until I start to drink. I should ration it, but I never did have much willpower. I look up at Alek and Mikey; they changed from their happy Christmas sweaters into something more manly and less festive. I still think it’s a real shame—and hey, Christmas is on the way.

Em and I got clean clothes too—
not that they’ve stayed that way. The new pants that we’re wearing are once again covered in mud and are soaked up to the knees. The layers of sweaters I have on are sticky on my back where I’ve been sweating, but my socks still feel somewhat dry. My Doc Martens to the rescue again.

Fifteen minutes go by before Mikey has us
all up on our feet and walking again; he’s touchy, and eager to keep moving. Normally we battle for the leadership, but I’m too lost in my thoughts today. Besides, we all know that
I’m
the boss, really.

The wind is picking up again as we stumble along a muddy path, the narrow pathway between two opposing sets of trees creating a wind tunnel of sorts. I splash through another puddle, my chin to my chest to stop the wind
from stinging my eyes.

“Heads up,
” Mikey calls back to us quietly.

It takes me
a minute to get his meaning but I finally look up. Deaders are on the pathway in front of us. They’re heading the way we’re going, so there’s no way to avoid them. The five of them are grouped together, moving as one toward some unmarked destination. I guess this is what they do: they start as one and then build upon their group as they walk, until they are too huge a number to
not
overpower someone. These ones look like they have come from all over. Some wear your average Joe clothes, and others are wearing summer dresses and shorts and whatnot.

We don
’t bother to run or jog or try to get their attention, but continue to walk behind them, standing far enough back and making as little noise as we can for as long as we can. The wind, flowing toward us in the little wind tunnel, seems to mask our sounds and smells. We travel like this for some time, hoping to get off the track from them at some point and avoid any altercation, but the wind eventually changes direction, and one by one the deaders turn to see us with a snarl. Imagine their surprise.

It
’s like leaving your house to go to McDonald’s only to find that they delivered it to your door. Lucky bastards—I’d do anything for a Quarter Pounder.

I swear they look like they smile
. But that’s impossible, right?

Three female
s and two males, from what I can tell, shamble toward us with limps, like they’re wearing the most uncomfortable shoes ever. It seems they are the same old deaders I’ve become accustomed to: graying limbs, putrid faces, jaws snapping in hunger and anger. Again, their stomachs are fit to bursting through, and the sight of them as they lurch toward us and their stomachs jostle around makes me feel sick. I don’t have the luxury of actually being sick, though—not when it’s life or death.

Mikey raises his long-
handled samurai, picked for its beautiful and intricate artwork inscribed down one side of the blade. He steps forward and swipes at a deader. The head comes clean off, flying through the air and landing with an unceremonious splat into a puddle, jaw still snapping. He swings again and takes out two of them this time before Alek goes forward and uses his sword against the remainders. The blade of his samurai is as black as the handle once he’s finished dispatching of them.

It
’s over in a matter of moments, before I can even fully register the acts. I take my machete and stab it through the dismembered heads to put an end to the misery of the dead, feeling bone crunching and brain squelching as I pull my weapon back out. I grimace, but refuse to look away from the sad, pathetic being I just sliced and diced. Yeah, I hate them, but the deaders didn’t ask for this; they sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen to be like this. And everyone, in death, deserves some sort of respect. I look across as Emily stabs her weapon through the head of the last female deader. She doesn’t frown, grimace, scowl—nothing. She’s like a robot on automatic. As if the dead at her feet mean nothing.

For the first time I really see her as a woman. I just hope this world doesn
’t destroy her soft nature. Though she’s maturing into a strong woman, I’d hate to think of her losing that innocence.

I
realize the irony of my thoughts. Losing her innocence? After everything she has managed to survive so far? I shake my head sadly. “Off we go again, I guess,” I mutter as I finish off the last of the dead. I put my boot on the side of the head and pull my weapon out. So much for respect. A small amount of gunk oozes out of the hole and sends a vile smell up to me. I scowl and walk away, rubbing the end of my weapon in the snow to clean it.

Mikey has
taken out the map that Dean gave him. On it is marked the army base and Dean’s town, with a long red trail going from one to the other.

“We
’ll be there in a couple of hours, still a way to go yet,” Mikey announces to us all glumly.

“Urg
hhh, we’ve been walking forever,” Emily grumbles. “Isn’t there a shortcut?” She looks to Alek longingly. “I’m freezing and hot all at the same time.”

I know what she means. My toes and fingers feel numb to the bone, yet sweat trickles down my spine. I huff out, and clap my hands together to keep the blood flowing, stamping my feet at the same time.

“Yeah, but it’s through the forest. I think we should be sticking to the flats of the path or roadways. It’s safer.” Mikey folds the map and puts it away.

“But
we haven’t seen anything other than those rot-bags for hours. I say if we could save some time on the journey, we take a shortcut,” she whines relentlessly.

“I say no,
” Mikey snaps.

“I’m sorry, Emily, I say no
, too.” I reply.

Emily
stamps her foot. “But I’m tired.”

I smirk. Here I was thinking that she had really matured over the past year and then she goes all teenage drama queen on me. A laugh bubbles up, and before I know it I
’m giggling like an idiot.

Emily has her hands on her hips and a frown
on her face that would put any toddler to shame. The image does nothing to stop me and I laugh even louder.

“What are you laughing at?” Emily pouts.

I point at her, struggling to catch my breath. “You.” I grip my side to try and steady myself, wiping stray tears from my eyes, which if left any longer would have frozen in their tracks.

“Stop it,” s
he shouts. “Stop laughing at me!” She stamps her foot again, her finger pointing at me.

It only sets me off
even louder. I back up a couple of steps as she comes forward, her face in mine.

“Nina, it
’s not funny!”

I stand
up and hug her. She fights me at first and then stops. “I’m sorry, Em,” I say between gasps. “I forget that you’re just a kid sometimes.” The words are meant to appease her, but they only seem to infuriate her more.

“I am
not a kid!” She pushes me away and my laughter dries up.

“Fine, whatever. You
’re not a kid, you’re a real grown-up woman who has tantrums. Real mature.” I raise an eyebrow at her.

She goes silent, her face going from windswept red to going-to-explode red in a couple of seconds.
She looks over at Alek, who only shrugs and then resignedly heads over to comfort her.

“Ladies! Quit it,
” Mikey shouts. “We’re not going through the woods. We’re sticking to the route that I chose. Deal with it however you want, but that’s what’s happening. Now let’s get moving before we all freeze our asses off out here.” He folds the map, puts it back in his backpack, and starts to walk away.

Alek takes
Emily’s hand, and as one we all turn to follow Mikey. He doesn’t look like he’s going to stand for any shit right now, so even Emily doesn’t put up any more of a fight.

Our walk is silent for a long time, even whe
n the snow begins to fall again and the sun begins to lower. The knot of worry gnaws at my stomach. We have to make it to the base by nightfall—we have to make it
somewhere
by nightfall. Walking through the woods or along this path is not an option if we want to survive another day.

Hilary &
Deacon.

“Did you hear that?” I sit up in bed, the movement pulling the covers free from Deacon’s chest.

He shivers but sits up, his ears straining to listen for any noise. Mi
nutes go by, but neither of us hears anything.

Deacon climbs out of bed and goes to the wind
ow to peer out into the night, and he watches silently. We have worked so hard to make this place safe. So damn hard. He tried to think of everything, but the zombies are persistent and relentless in their pursuit of food. Seconds tick by with the only movement being the heavy snow falling from the clouds and settling on the ground. Deacon used to love the snow; so did I. His favorite season was winter and watching our children playing in it, making fat snowmen and going sledding. Now winter scares him—scares us both.

Winter means that food is harder to come by. Nights are longer, days are shorter. The world i
s a colder and meaner place. I hear him swallow loudly, narrowing his eyes to see between the flakes and find anything else moving. That was just the way of the world now.

“Well?”
I whisper to him.

The sound of
my voice makes him jump. I hadn’t thought I was being quiet when I got out of bed, but he didn’t hear me. I lean into the side of him, my brown eyes looking into the blackness.

“Can
’t see anything,” he replies.

“Do you think we
’re safe here?”

“For now. I can
’t think what else we could do to protect ourselves.”

“We have weapons.” It sounds
like more of a reassurance to myself than anything else.

“That we do.” Deacon snakes an arm aroun
d my waist and hugs me closer, his chest cold against my hot body—hot because of the fever that is building. We have lost so much since this all began, and I don’t know what I would do if I lost him. And I know that he feels the same way too.

He kisses the top of my
head and I sigh, snuggling myself closer. Some days it feels like I’ve already lost him. When the zombies came, they took more than just our home and our reassurance of protection. They took even more than our children. They took away our future. In this world now, there is no future.

“I
’m sorry for waking you,” I whisper up to him.

I know
he hadn’t been sleeping anyway. I barely sleep more than an hour or two these days before waking up in cold sweats and crying. This means that he hardly sleeps; Deacon always wants to be there for me whenever I need him, whatever time that may be.

“That
’s okay, baby. I was awake anyway.” He kisses my head again. “Go back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I shake my
head. “I’m okay. I’m awake now.”

Deacon looks
up, seeing the moon still heavy in the sky. “There’s a lot of night left to go.” He guides me back to bed and pushes the covers aside for me to climb into. “Sleep. You can cook me breakfast in the morning.” He smirks.

I smile and close my
eyes, trying for sleep as Deacon stands watch at the window. My eyes spring open several times as dreams try to intrude, images of our children, of our lives before all this, pushing to the forefront. Our family and friends, all gone. I don’t even realize that I’m crying until my pillow grows damp. Not my pillow, but someone else’s. The older couple that had lived here. This was their home, and Deacon and I took it from them. I’m not sure how much more my heart can take. I let my eyes open again and I look across at Deacon.

He has
taken a seat by the window, a blanket thrown across his shoulders as he watches the dark world outside. I have to keep going, though; he needs me.

I lie
in the dark waiting for morning to come. Another day to get through. Another day that they we have to survive.