The Deepest Red (12 page)

“No, these symptoms just appeared one day at our hospital. We aren’t sure where or who the sickness came from.” Connor replies before falling silent.

“Continue with your story,” Clover says, coaxing him.

“At some point in the following days their dried out skin develops a green-grey hue and then finally becomes a deep purple.” Connor continues. “The longer the disease progresses the weaker they are. Their bones seem to hollow, breaking easily. Once past a certain stage your blade can cut through an infected’s corpse like butter. It’s like they are decomposing while they’re alive.”

I sit transfixed, listening to Connor’s velvety voice speaking so many horrible things. Another voice seeps into my mind, whispering again and again, “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know.” I try to drown out the mantra but the desperation I hear in the shaky voice draws my attention. The constant words becoming like music playing in the background. I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding and focus again on Connor. Each fact he states slowly registers into my brain, leaving my skin cold and the hair on the back of my neck, tingling.

“The infected don’t die until the skin turns a purple-black coloring, but it’s rare to witness since the rotting skin is torn away before this stage of deterioration.” Connor continues.

“How do you know this?” My voice wafers through the crisp night air. “How do you know what color the skin turns if it’s always torn away?”

The question causes Connor to pause. Clover awkwardly answers.

“That information isn’t important.” She peers at me as if begging to drop the subject. I remain silent waiting for Connor’s response.

“Clover’s right. That isn’t important.” He clears his throat as if attempting to figure out where he was in his report of the infected. The look of grief doesn’t go unnoticed as he continues.

“Most infected are covered in splashes of brownish-red blood, where the skin falls off in chunks or the person gets stuck on a fence or something. The infected could easily brush up against a tree’s bark and the skin strips off.” Connor leans back against the log of a freshly dead tree. “They’re not fast normally and they make a good bit of noise. Anyone who knows half of what they’re doing can track them.”

Our gazes meet from across the flickering camp fire, his eyes focusing intently.

“I don’t think your friend, Tom, heard the infected woman sneaking up on him. There were many flat rocks which were easy to walk across without much noise. If there was noise, it was drowned out by the roar of the creek.” I must look unconvinced because he tries again. “I bet his hearing wasn’t all that great either.”

“I didn’t hear her approaching and my ears are just fine,” I remark, wincing when Connor turns his head to study a nearby moth.

I swear under my breath at my unyielding snarkiness and the mention of Tom’s name. A sharp pang courses the blood through my veins. Since arriving at this campsite,  I’ve been avoiding thoughts of Tom. There was nothing I could do and nothing else I could say. Grief floods into my lungs as my soul aches to be home, back in the safety of the fences with Dad. I swallow hard.

The unpleasant silence is like a thick wall floating between us. I’m sure this is the moment a normal person would be wanting to ask questions- important questions. However, the questions I would want answered are the ones they would deem unimportant- like why do they seem like experts on something I never thought existed.
How do you ask about a topic you don’t want the responsibility of knowing?
I don’t want the images my mind creates with Connor’s nightmarish words.

One truth I’ve held onto for as long as I can remember is that your life changes when you discover something foreign, a concept you couldn’t conceive on your own. The beliefs you grow fond of, bend and shift as you listen to a victim's story or figure out a random person’s secrets. I guess my world changed the moment I stepped out into the hellish red zone and perceived I wasn’t as tough as I thought. I didn’t realize obtaining the title of survivor was the final goal.

I feel their eyes on me as I surface from my deep thoughts. The right thing to say or ask seems too far from my reach. I glance down toward my muddy shoes but inspiration and comfort aren’t  written on the side of my boots. I sigh, rubbing at my tired eyelids. My voice is timid when I finally ask my question. “How do you kill the infected?” Connor just nods as if he knew this would be what I would ask all along.

“Cutting off the head is the only way. There is something about removing the head from the person’s body that breaks all connection.”

I laugh at the comment without humor.

“Should do the trick for anyone, I suppose,” I say.

“Somethings can’t be explained,” Clover replies, shifting my attention away from Connor. “Once they’re infected, they’re dead- just a matter of time. I’m not sure what happens first, if the heart stops beating or the brain stops thinking. Hell, we don’t even know if what we’re telling you is completely accurate but our information comes from what we’ve seen.” She pauses. “What I’ve discovered is Infected don’t have emotions and they don’t sleep. They just keep coming- coming for you and everyone you love. ”

I recognize the undertone of sadness in her last sentence as if she knew from experience. I remember her comment from before about her sister and imagine what it would be like if my father became infected.

“What caused people to get infected?” I ask.

Connor shrugs his shoulders as he stares out into the darkness.

“We don’t know for sure,” he says listening to the wind blowing through the trees. “A lot of people in the town said the reason involved contaminated water from a new well we had dug. Others said it could be some kind of poison from a mutated spider.”

A smirk appears on his darkened face.

“No one knows,” Clover admits. “They had plenty of names to label the whole incident, but the only one to stick was The Black Death.”

Connor stretches out his legs and looks blindly into the fire. By the weariness on his face, I can tell this conversation has ended. There was another thing Connor and I had in common besides bad attitudes- our haunting memories. Through the shadows that the burning fire cast, I read the haunted expression I most likely display as well. Connor had his own reel of painful and cursed recollections to play before his eyes. He didn’t need me adding to them. I glance away in time to see Clover stand. She picks up Chevy from where he sleeps. The puppy gives a low growl in protest but quickly settles in her arms.

“Sorry, but I think storytime should be over for tonight. I’m going to bed.”

She carries the sleeping Chevy awkwardly to the tree house and proceeds to climb up the ladder with one hand. I wouldn’t be surprised with the extra weight if the couple find themselves in a pile on the ground. Nevertheless, I watch them disappear into the darkness of the treehouse. I begin to remember the sleeping arrangements Clover and I had discussed before. She had told me, not so kindly to “get over myself” and then proceeded to wash the remainder of her hair as she hummed a giddy melody.

The sensation of nerves start to ricoshay within my stomach as I peer at the wooden treehouse. The only other people I’d shared a sleeping space with was my Dad and more recently, Tom. When I was a little girl, the children would come together in the summer and sleep as a group under the stars. I never liked the idea since all of them were either a lot older than I was or too young for me to play with. Lonnie and Jay had been the closest to my age and I didn’t trust them not to cut off my hair as I slept. I spent those nights sleeping far away from the others, counting stars and watching them fly across the dark sky.

Now, the idea of sleeping in the same room with Connor makes my head swarm- not just because I would be letting down my guard but because it was Connor. I understood we weren’t going to be cuddled up together beneath the tree house’s roof but the fantasy conjured up by the notion, excited and scared me. Most likely, Clover would lay between us, so our closeness shouldn’t even matter. I rally my courage.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that kind of stuff anyway. I’m in the middle of the red zone, trying to get back home, not trying to make a guy interested in me.
I can’t even comprehend how to accomplish such a task
.

“Man, I would love to know what you’re thinking right about now,” Connor says with a grin.

“Excuse me?” I remark.

“It’s just you seem like you’re having twenty different conversations in your head all at once.” He shifts slightly allowing the fire’s light to highlight the sharpness of his jaw.

“It’s the first night and I’m completely alone,” I say in response causing Connor to tilt his head and frown.

“I don’t think that’s it,” he mutters.

I remain quiet.

“You’re not alone, Millie,” he says, rubbing his hand along the freshly shaven skin of his face.

“In fact as far as first nights go, this isn’t so bad. You got a full meal in your belly and a roof over your head.” He winks. “Not too bad at all.”

Ignoring him, I reach up and remove my fishermen hat from my head- tired of the weight of my hair. My imprisoned locks flutter down my shoulders and back, curling slightly below my shoulder blades.

“Thanks for reminding me why I prefer the twenty conversations in my head,” I say sarcastically.

I stretch my neck rotating it in large circles, thankful for the release and Connor’s lack of remarks. Running my fingers through my damp tangled hair, I replay all of the information I learned about the infected. The details of the knowledge sparks my gruesome imagination. After a while of only my thoughts, I shift my attention toward a silent Connor. His heavy lidded eyes follow the smooth movement of my fingers gliding through my red hair.

I stop combing my curls.

“Stop staring at me,” I say slightly embarrassed.

“Sucks for someone to be staring at you, huh?” he states back with an air of amusement.

“Oh, shut up,” I reply looking at the fire with a small smile playing on my lips.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he proclaims like a caress, “I have never seen anything like it.”

I look up to find Connor surprised and confused at his own words.

“My father liked to call me Nix when he was in a good mood. It’s short for phoenix.” My voice sounds bashful to my ears.

“What is a phoenix?” he ask.

“A beautiful mythical bird who burns itself on a funeral pyre, only to obtain new life by arising from the ashes of its predecessor.” I pause. “Every drawing in our library illustrates the bird as being tailored with flames,” I say, motioning to my hair.

Silence stretches out between us as I wonder why I told him something so personal. In my nervousness, I pinch out a small piece of my long hair and twirl it around my finger.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you today. I’m not as good with people as Clover,” Connor admits.

I nod my head while my fingers continue to swirl the red strand. He stands and comes to sit beside me.

“I’ve been a little nervous today about giving you this. I wasn’t sure how you would react.”

I follow the movement as he reaches into his side pocket and pulls out a silver pocket knife. Tears sting my eyes as I recognize the red centipede engraving along its front.

“I wasn’t stealing or anything. I just thought it was important for you to have this,” he insists.

Connor lifts the small knife toward me. I lightly pluck the small weapon from his hand, holding it like it was worth more than all the treasure in the world. I trace the outline of the centipede with my index finger feeling its rough edges. Written in a fine loopy font I read the engraved words “Red Centipede.” I want to hold back the tears forming but the moisture blurs my vision. My throat feels heavy and raw as I push back the sorrow crawling up my spine. The feeling is almost overwhelming.

“Thank you Connor,” I say, noticing how clean the pocket knife is.

I open the blade and view the newly sharpened edge. Connor’s eyes remain on me as he leans closer.

“You cleaned and sharpened it?” I mean to say the words as a statement but it feels more like a question.

“Yes, I didn’t want to give it back to you dull,” he answers.

The words gore and bloody skip into my mind but I’m glad he reframes from speaking them.

“I’m sorry Millie,” he says instead.

His deep calming voice has a rawness to it I’m unfamiliar with. I sit still for a moment looking at the pocket knife with a mournfulness that beats through my body and claws at my heart.

“I didn’t know Tom well but he had something I needed and now I’ll never know.”

Connor seems to stiffen at my declaration.

“What did you need?” I glance at him wanting to distance myself but lacking the strength to try.

“Information,” I say sharply. “He was my mom’s scouting partner when she was alive. I think they were close. She was killed out here in the red zone and I wanted to find out why. I can take a guess now and say the infected but it just doesn’t feel right. Tom would have warned me.”

I look down again at the pocket knife and decide to clip it on to the belt loop of my pants.

“I think everyone has lost someone,” Connor states mournfully, “It’s too dangerous out here alone. Drifters, Infected, and other horrors, you don’t even want to consider. They all want to take something from you.”