Odium II: The Dead Saga (18 page)

“Sorry.” H
e scratches at his chin, his five o’clock shadow, now more like a ten o’clock one.

“It
’s like you got laid and turned into a hormonal teenager,” I snap. “Girly shit.”

He pulls a hat out of his pocket and pulls it down over my head. “Sorry, it
’s been a while since I’ve done this.” He smiles, and I’ll be damned if all isn’t forgiven.

“So what
’s the consignment shop?” I ask, moving on from his relationship fails.

“That
’s where you trade shit for shit.” He rolls his eyes. “Sorry, where you trade something for something else. Since currency is basically worthless these days, people trade items or skills or whatever.”

“Oh, okay,
” I say without much conviction. I don’t have anything to trade, and I’m not quite up to working yet, either.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, the snow falling all around us. Occasionally we see someone run from one building to another, but it
’s beginning to get dark now so I can’t make out who they are. I worry for a second about deaders, but then remember that Mikey said there was always someone on duty and the place is secure all the way around. I can’t help but wonder, though, how secure everything is.

People become lax and lazy whe
n they think everything is safe; look at every situation I’ve been in since I left the walled city. No good can come from laziness. For now, at least, I’ll have to let my trust be in Mikey. I couldn’t fight even if I wanted to. To be fair, he’s earned my trust. But these other people? I’m not completely sure. I certainly don’t want to be putting my life in their hands just yet.

We
make it into the consignment shop just as my fingers are starting to go numb. It’s still early, though it’s already getting dark. We both stamp our feet as we enter the little shop to get rid of excess snow.

I look around me in surprise
. I don’t know what I expected—a bustling supermarket-style store? A thrift shop full of racks of clothing and bric-a-brac? Perhaps, but though the shop is large, virtually every shelf is empty. I look at Mikey with a raised eyebrow, but he barely acknowledges it.

A small woman with coppery red hair
is talking to a slim blonde. They’re laughing about something—something X-rated, by the dirty laugh the blonde has. They stop when we come in, and the blonde waves bye to the redhead.

S
he passes us, giving Mikey a once over.

“Yes?” I snap.

She smirks and keeps on going, not in the least bit intimidated by me.

“That
’s Melanie—you don’t want to mess with her.” Mikey chuckles. “She’s got an attitude worse than yours.”

“
Sounds like we could be related,” I huff.

The woman from behind the counter
comes over to us; her smile is wide and her eyes are friendly, and I automatically warm to her.

“Hey, Susan.
” Mikey wraps her in a big bear hug and she laughs and hugs him back. “This is Nina.” He gestures to me. “She needs some stuff—anything, really. We kinda lost everything.” He shrugs.

Susan smiles again
and holds out a hand for me to take. I do, too—no idea why, but she has that motherly quality about her that says
I’ll look after you,
but with an equal edge of
don’t fuck with me.

“We got a couple of
things in today—nothing big, though. There wasn’t much on the scavenge, since they had to come back early.” She leads me over to the front of the shop, where a till once sat. It’s been moved now, however, and along the top are neatly folded piles of clothes and various baskets, each with an array of different things like creams, brushes, and makeup.

“They came back early?” Mikey asks.

“Have a look through, my love, see if there’s anything you like.” She turns to Mikey. “Yes, there was an accident. No one got hurt, but they ran into trouble on the road. Some assholes spoiling for a fight.” She tuts and gives me a smile like I’m some blonde bimbo that doesn’t know what’s going on.

“What kind of assholes?” I bite out.

I feel Mikey’s hand on my shoulder, and with that small gesture I realize he hasn’t told them that trouble is chasing us down.

Susan flips her red hair off her thin shoulders. “Oh
, you know the type—opportunists looking for a fight.” She purses her lips. “There’s always someone wanting to destroy the peace, isn’t there?” Her eyes are downcast, her fingers probing some of the items in the baskets without thought.

“Mikey.” I look at him and he nods. I don
’t even need to say anything else; he gets it. He knows what’s running through my mind, what’s worrying me.

“What is it, my loves?”

We both look at Susan, and guilt pours from me. Mikey gives my shoulder a little squeeze again. I don’t know if he’s trying to get me to shut up or trying to comfort me—either way, I’m stumped by what to say. On the one hand, I want to warn everyone here of the trouble we might have brought to their door; but on the other, we won’t survive if they ask us to leave. It’s winter and we have nowhere to go. That and we’re in the middle of nowhere, meaning we’d be completely fucked.

“Nothing,” I say, biting down on my lip. “It
’s always worrisome when you hear of trouble.” I shrug.

I don
’t think she’s entirely convinced, but she drops the subject either way.

“Well, no one was hurt—w
ell, no one in
our
team—but they decided to call it a day anyway. The roads are getting worse out there and I think it just about wore them out getting as far as they did. So anyway, we got a few things, but nothing fancy.”

“How do I pay for this?” I
ask, checking through the clothes. I unfold a baggy gray sweatshirt. It reminds me of something my father used to wear, and I decide I want it.

“We trade,” s
he says with a smile, her eyes flitting from me to Mikey. “We all take turns in the shop, and whoever is here when a shipment comes in gets the goods. If you want anything, you have to trade either something you have or something that you can do for me.” She smiles widely again. Her brown eyes have a little sparkle to them that I haven’t seen in a long while. “It’s like recycling.”

“So, if I want this,” I hold up my
sweatshirt and then grab a toothbrush and some socks, “and these. What do you want?” I look at Mikey, who’s smiling too. Jesus, I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone or some shit. “Stop smiling you two, you’re weirding me out.” I scowl.

“Mikey already covered whatever you needed.” Susan
pats his hand. “He’s a good man, this one. You keep hold of him. Good ones are hard to come by these days.”

I choke on a laugh. “No seriously, I want to buy my own crap.”

“It’s already done,” Mikey states nonchalantly.

“I don
’t need you looking after me, Mikey,” I snap.

“Whatever, Nina, it
’s done. So get what you need.”

I glare at him
but he doesn’t budge, his jaw working slightly as we have a stare-off in the middle of the shop. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so pissed off with him.

I turn to Susan when I
realize that he isn’t going to buckle. “What did he trade?”

She looks from me to Mikey nervously. “I don
’t want to get in the middle of anything.”

“Just pick your crap and let
’s go—I’m on duty tonight.”

I ignore him. “Susan, what did he trade you?”

“A week’s worth of reading,” she says rather coyly.

“Pardon me?” I look between them both.

“I like to be read to. My daughter used to do it for me before…well, before everything. It was my favorite thing to be curled up in front of a roaring fireplace, her soft voice reading to me,” she says wistfully.

“Oh.
” I look at Mikey, who shrugs. “Well, I can read to you, I guess. I mean, I like to read. It’s been a while since I sat down to read anything, though. Like years.” I force out a laugh.

Susan reaches under the counter and pulls out a
tattered-looking book. My eyes nearly bug out of my head when I see what it is.

“Are you serious?”
I ask in horror. I don’t even want to touch the damn cover, never mind
read
it.

“Oh yes, my love.” S
he nods and smiles that pretty, wide smile of hers again. “I love reading zombie horror books. It’s not quite the same as living it, so it’s nice to be able to close the book when I’ve had enough of it. Not like this world, where it’s day in, day out.”

I give the
scruffy book a cold, hard look, the torn up zombie on the cover snarling up at me almost mockingly. “Fine, when do we start?” I ask with a grimace.

*

The inside of Susan’s house is cluttered with two other people’s belongings. Her home is a little larger than ours, with three bedrooms instead of the two in ours. I realize how lucky Mikey and I are to have a place to ourselves and wonder for how long it’ll be like that.

“Have a seat, my love, I
’ll fetch us a drink and get everything set up.” She wanders off to the kitchen and I sit down on the crowded sofa.

I fidget, unable to get comfy
, and stand back up, moving the cushion I had been sitting on and subsequently finding a high-heeled shoe underneath.

“What the fuck?” I mutter to myself, and put it on the floor as I sit back down.

“Don’t mind the mess, it’s all Max’s.” Susan hands me a cup of creamy coffee.

In
my old life I wouldn’t have drunk coffee after six p.m., in case the caffeine kept me awake, but these days it’s such a rare commodity that I couldn’t give a shit if it was midnight, I’d still be drinking it. And without a doubt, I’ll still be sleeping tonight. It’s only when I get it to within distance of my mouth that I realize it is something so much better.

“Holy shit, are you some kind of crazy witch?” I take a sip, letting the smooth
, watered-down powdered chocolate melt down my throat.

Susan gi
ggles. “I’ve heard that before—mainly from my ex-husband, Ken. He was a total shit to me, but it’s okay, he got his.” She taps the side of her nose and I snort.

“He did
, huh?” I take another mouthful. “Dear God, this is heavenly.”

“Oh yes, watched that
selfish bastard getting eaten by a zombie or two. Oh, it brought me such joy to see him so miserable.” Susan gets a faraway look in her eyes, a smile playing on her lips, and I know—I just fucking know—that this woman is a hundred percent serious and possibly a little crazy. But hey, as long as I stay on her good side, I guess it’s okay. Plus, who am I to judge?

She throws some logs into
the small fireplace and lights them. The fire take hold and begin to dance and flicker; orange flames lick the wood and spark and pop. I stare, transfixed by the fire as the hot chocolate warms both my stomach and the palm of my hand that holds it.

“Are you ready?” Susan
’s voice interrupts my blankness.

I shake myself out of th
e weird starey thing I’m doing and take a last drink of the hot chocolate before putting it down on the wooden table next to me.

“Sorry, yeah, let
’s do this.” I open the book, carefully handling the torn cover and trying to make sure my fingers don’t touch the zombie in blue overalls. It’s childish, but it looks like it’s banging on a brown front door much like the one to my own house, which kinda creeps me out even more. “I don’t get why you like this stuff.” I scowl, trying to read the author’s name on the front—T.W. something-or-other.

“Just read i
t or I’ll take the sweatshirt back,” she snaps, but there’s playfulness in her eyes—at least I sure hope that’s what it is. She could have slipped a bit of vodka in her drink, for all I know about her.

With a shrug
I begin, somewhat reluctantly, reading what is literally my worst nightmare. As the pages turn, and the characters dwindle from either being eaten or turned into one of the living dead themselves, I begin to see what she means: when things get real bad for the characters in the book, we can take breaks, and we do. Some are for drinks and snacks, some are to top up the fire with fresh logs, and some are for bathroom breaks. Each time it becomes clearer to me not only how much I’ve missed reading, but that she’s right: reading about the zombie apocalypse is so much better than actually living it.

I thought it would be traumatic
, but it’s not. In some ways, reading about it feels like we’re mocking it, having a pissing contest to see what’s worse—real life or this fucked up little book. Of course when the shit really hits the fan we can close the book, but in real life we have to keep on going. Keep on fighting, slaying, and surviving. Doing whatever it takes to survive.

I stretch
out my back, feeling a couple of the bones pop and crack as I do, and take a good long drink of my water. My eyes are getting sore from all the reading, and my throat feels dry even after I drink, but I need to finish this last chapter; I need to find out what happens with the woman in the book—otherwise I won’t sleep tonight. Does she succumb to death like her husband did? Or does she make it to the safe haven?

However
, at the end of the chapter it’s another cliffhanger, and I groan, knowing I won’t be able to read the next chapter tonight. I’ve been reading for two hours straight and I need to sleep. I look over at Susan, who’s curled up in a brown armchair by the fireplace, her head resting against a cushion, and realize that she’s sleeping. I curse myself for not realizing sooner.

I fold the corner of the
page over and place it on the table, ready for tomorrow and I wonder where her other roomies are: Max and whatever the other one is called—she never actually told me, and of course I didn’t ask.

I slip
on my boots and coat, grab my new backpack with all my new gear in it, and head out the door. I have no idea what time it is. It could be nine p.m. or it could be midnight—all I know is it’s dark and cold and incredibly quiet out here. I stand in the road and strain my ears for any sound, but after a couple minutes of the wind biting at my earlobes, I head home, the snow crunching under my boots and my chin tucked low to my chest.

After a couple of wrong turns
, I make it back to our little house, go inside, and head straight up to bed. I climb the stairs, only slipping my boots and coat off as I enter the bedroom. I put them next to the bed, ready to grab at a moment’s notice; I guess old habits die hard—hell, better than dying…hard. I snicker at my own joke and then look at the empty bed, reaching my hand across the cold covers.