Zomblog 05: Snoe's War (2 page)

I wiped the tears from my eyes and noticed that a few of those crossbows wiggled a little bit when I brought my hand up. More than one of these supposedly trained soldiers were jumpy it would seem. That meant it would not take much from me to end up being killed. Now I was really laughing.

“Stop!” Dominique snapped. When I didn’t, she slapped me across the face. That only made me even angrier. I really wanted to glare at her and shoot daggers from my eyes, but all I could do was laugh.

And so that is how I was cuffed and practically dragged through the gates of Warehouse City. As I passed through the gates, I saw them cutting down the bodies of people that they had hung yesterday. I looked for familiar faces and I am embarrassed to say that I was relieved when none of them looked like anybody that I knew. I imagine that is small consolation for those people who lost loved ones at the end of one of Dominique’s nooses.

I guess that I should say right here that I realize she did not actually march those people up to the gallows, place a rope around their necks or pull the lever that opened the trap door beneath their feet. However, she gave the order. Sure, her soldiers carried out those orders, but make no mistake…the blame rests clearly with one person when it comes down to what would happen over the next days, and weeks, and months.

I was led inside the building that I knew to be the council chambers for the leaders of Warehouse City. Inside I would discover more of Dominique’s dirty work. As you enter the building, there is a huge arched ceiling and the entry way is enormous, with stairs going up on either end. In the center of the reception area was a cage. Or more specifically, a cage complex.

The structure is a cube with twenty-seven chambers. The ones in the center have living people in them. The others contain zombies. There is barely enough room to move around inside each individual cage, but the living people have to continue to move so that they are not grabbed. I would imagine that it is unsettling at the very least to have something less than an inch away clawing and moaning and trying its best to get at you. You would have to stay still to actually suffer a bite or scratch.

I didn’t get a chance to really see who was in that construct, but somebody did call my name. At the time, I had no idea who it was, and so many people in my life are dead now that I can’t even begin to imagine who it might be.

I was led up the stairs and to the second floor. They shoved me into a little room with no windows and no light source except for the thin crease at the bottom of the door. And that is how they left me.

I think it was a few days, but it seemed like weeks. The only time I saw anybody was when the door opened and this hulk of a man shoved a plate of whatever they were passing off as food and a cup of water inside. There was a bucket for a toilet which I found for the first time when I kicked it over. But finally, Dominique sent somebody for me.

I was blindfolded this time and anytime there were stairs, Bruno would throw me over his shoulder like a rag doll and carry me. I have no idea if they just walked around to disorient me, but when the blindfold was removed, I was in another room that contained a table with a chair on each side. I was tied down in one and then Dominique came in and sat in the other.

This was really the first time that I had seen her close up. She had dark hair and a nasty burn scar that did a number on what would have probably been a pretty face. Only, there was an ugliness to her that dripped off her like poison. And her eyes…they were the eyes of a crazy person. Wild. Scary.

“So, where is your mother?” she asked.

“You should know,” I snapped. “You hung a flag telling me to surrender because you have her.”

That earned me a slap across the face.

“I am talking about your
real
mother.”

“Mama Lindsay
is
my real mother,” I shot back. Another slap.

This went on for a while. By the time it was over, my face felt hot enough to cook on and I couldn’t breathe through my nose. At some point, she had changed from slaps to punches. My nose was a mess.

It would never be the same and I have these little bumps that you can feel with your fingers if you rub it. People try to ignore it, or if they get caught staring, they say that it is distinguished. That is just a polite way of saying it is crooked.

“So…it is true,” Dominique finally said after who knows how long.

I knew better than to say anything. The first couple of times she asked questions or went on a tirade, I made wisecracks or said something nasty. That sounds really neat in books where the hero or heroine has something to say to the evil villain during an interrogation. And then, as they get beat and smacked around, they just keep it up. Well, in the real world, getting slapped and punched really hurts. After a while I kept my mouth shut except to say “I don’t know” to the same questions over and over. (Which was true because, as far as most of the questions went, I didn’t know the answers.)

“Meredith Gainey is dead.”

I’ve know that for years, but for some reason, whether it was having been locked away in that room for however long, or the fact that my face hurt from being slapped and punched, I started to cry.

“So you are what is left?” Dominique said dismissively. “A sniveling little bitch who was left with a dyke so that mommy could go and see what was out there in the world. Do you ever wonder why? Does it ever bother you that your mother just abandoned you with strangers so that she could run around killing?”

What could I say to any of those questions? Of course I have wondered. However, I have read what my mother wrote during those years after she left me with Mama Lindsay and Mama Janie. And I can’t imagine having been raised by her. She would have been miserable…and most likely, so would I.

“She would rather risk being eaten alive…and eventually die alone someplace than be your mother,” Dominique was still talking. However, I now think I realized what she was trying to do. She had already beaten me physically, and now she wanted to do the same mentally.

“Are you making a point, or do you just like hearing yourself talk?” That was out of my mouth so quickly that I didn’t have time to clamp my teeth together and prevent it.

“I am going to enjoy watching you become one of my soldiers,” she hissed, leaning across the table so that her nose was almost touching mine.

“Why would I become anything for you?” It seemed like a fair question.

“Because I have your mother…or the person you call your mother.”

Dominique got up and knocked on the door. It opened and Bruno came in with Mama Lindsay. She was cuffed, shackled, and gagged. Her eyes grew wide when she saw me and tears came instantly…for both of us.

“Your mother will remain my guest and work as my personal assistant,” Dominique said. “She will be responsible for my safety because as my life goes…so does yours. As for you, you will be enlisted into my New American Army. You will be a soldier. If you die in battle, then I will release your mother as she will no longer serve a purpose. However, if you come up missing, then I will give her to a hundred men a night for a month before tossing her into a pit of zombies that will put an end to her miserable existence.”

That was the end of the interview…and the reunion. Dominique left with Mama Lindsay and Bruno brought me down to a large open room that had been converted into a dorm. I saw lots of other people, most my age or a little older. They all had the same defeated look on their faces. While I doubted that all of them had been told their parent or loved one was going to be the new personal assistant to the psycho president, I imagine that most were being leveraged into “enlisting” into this New American Army.

Bruno showed me my cot and then left. I guess there was no longer any need to watch me. If I did anything, then Mama Lindsay would be killed. That was the only reason that I needed to do as I was told.

“Hey?” a voice said from behind me. I could already tell how this was going to go without even turning around. Have you noticed that you can usually identify a bully just by the tone in their voice?

“Just leave me alone.” Deep down, I knew that wasn’t going to be good enough for this person, but at least I was giving them a warning.

“Whoa-ho…the new meat has an attitude.”

I turned to see a girl that looked like she not only did not ever miss a meal…but those belonging to the people sitting on either side of her as well. Her eyes were dark little orbs that looked almost black as they glared out from the fleshy folds that squeezed them. Her nose was flat and broad. I only wondered for a second if maybe she had been pounded on by Dominique as well.

“Listen, whoever you are, I just want to be left alone. I am sure that there are plenty of people in this room that you would be able to pick on and beat up with almost no resistance at all.” I felt a little tug inside for just offering up others to this person, but I was tired, my face hurt, and I really did want to be left alone.

“Everybody else in this room already knows who is running things…and since I know all of their faces, that makes you a stranger. You aren’t from Warehouse—”

“No, I’m from Sunset,” I snapped. “Big deal, what’s it to ya?”

I guess I really had no idea what to expect. I was an outsider. Also, I am not all that big. For a bully, that makes me a primary target. That is why I was stunned when her expression changed. She went from scowling menace to stunned. Then…she took my hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper. “I hear they didn’t leave any survivors when they hit you guys. But why would you come here and give up? Why didn’t you just run?”

“Because they took my mom and my friends,” I said.

“And that is what they are using on you,” the girl said this as a statement of fact.

That made me wonder what they were holding over her head. I looked around the room and realized that very few people were actually paying us any attention. Usually, when a bully makes a move like this, everybody would be watching. Either with a look of pity and commiseration…or one of relief that finally there was somebody new to take away some of their heat.

“Listen…” she left that open as a bit of a question. She was waiting for me to say my name.

I gave it a moment’s thought. The knowledge of my identity always has a strange effect on people. After all, my dad and mom wrote the two best sellers of a generation. Everybody knows Sam and Meredith…and Snoe.

If I gave this girl my name, then I would most likely be treated different. I already had the whole “outsider” thing going on. Did I really need another reason to stand out and be different? However, the chances of my identity being kept a secret were next to nil. I had little doubt that Dominique would make sure that whoever she put in charge of training would know exactly who I am.

“My name is Snoe Gainey.”

The big gal looked at me, and if it was possible, her eyes squinted together even tighter to the point of being little more than slits. She gave me an up and down look and then she looked around the room as if she wanted to see who might be near enough to listen. Despite seeing that nobody was, she leaned in real close to me.

“You aren’t tellin’ a fib now, are ya?”

“To what purpose?” I asked back, not bothering to whisper. “You think that is something I would want to make up?”

“Then you stick close to me, Snoe.” She stood up straight and put an arm around me as if we were suddenly best friends. “Some of these folks might start acting all crazy if you go makin’ that known. You need a nickname, if everybody calls you by it, then so will the drillers.”

“Drillers?”

“The folks that they got putting us through the paces.”

“About that,” I said cautiously, “what sort of stuff can I expect?”

“Most of it is close-in techniques for dealing with the biters. However, they also spend a lot of time teaching us how to detain and restrain…least, that’s what we call it. They call it crowd control. Ask me, I think they plan on hitting the tribes and tryin’ to bring those folks under their thumb.”

I let that sink in and then asked my next question. “So, before you give me a nickname, maybe you should tell me yours so I can call you something besides ‘Hey You’.”

The gal turned a shade of pink which really surprised me. This is not the sort of girl you imagine would blush.

“Name is Betty, but everybody calls me Ugg.”

I realized that I would probably regret it, but I had to ask. “Ugg?”

“On account of me being so damn ugly,” she said as if it were a normal and natural thing to blurt out. I started to say something, but she cut me off. “We got plenty of mirrors here at Warehouse, so don’t try to give me some line of garbage.”

I shut my mouth and thought about what I would say. When it came to me, I smiled. “Well I am calling you Betty.”

The big girl looked at me like I was growing an extra arm. I just stared back. When she smiled, it sure did her no favors. She lacked the front bottom teeth and it squeezes her eyes into the folds of flesh that surround them. Also, it did not look like her face was accustomed to such expressions and there was a war going on with the muscles that were responsible for her frowns, grimaces, and scowls and those that helped her smile.

“And I am gonna call you Princess,” Betty said with a braying laugh that was as unnatural as her smile, but certainly did not lack enthusiasm.

“I rather wish you wouldn’t,” I said once I felt that she had calmed down enough to actually hear me speak.

“All the more reason,” she said, her face returning to that sterner countenance that I imagine she felt more at ease with.

Grabbing my arm, she hauled me around the dorm and introduced me to everybody. I could tell as we approached that everybody, even the boys, had either fear or a healthy respect for Betty. By the time we had made the circuit, I had a bruise about the size and shape of her hand on my upper arm.

When introductions were over—I could not recall one person’s name that I had met and have the associated face pop up in my mind—Betty stopped beside my bunk.

“Now listen careful, Princess,” she said in a rough whisper, “you keep your name to yourself. And if anybody asks, you ain’t from Sunset, you from one of the tribes, don’t matter which one. Make up a name you can remember and stick to that story.”