The Risen: Dawning (8 page)

“We should be good there for a long haul.” He slides off the stool, wrapping an arm around us both. “You are my girls, right?”

Which is his normal way of asking us if we are on his side. We always nod and smile like mute bobble-heads. We are almost a complete sell out to how easily we are geared to please him, but there is something comforting right now in the pure strength of his presence with so much not making sense around us. We both respond to him on a very girl level. I hate myself for it.

“Then there is nothing to worry about. We won’t let nothing happen to our girls.” I wish the others’ eyes were as reassuring as his. They only glance at us and then around at suddenly very interesting objects in the room. Only he and Lawless have the courage to keep our gaze, and we make a note of it as we look to each other with our own share of a gaze.

Aimes and I gather the remaining supplies we can find from the bar, including the all-important stock of her lip-gloss, ranging in every shade of pink made, and store the bags in my car. We both change into the more sensible spare shoes we have stored in our lockers. That is, if sensible is cowboy-style boots with their deep brown leather and stitched scenery. Apparently, neither of us ever thought to pack for the end of the world unless it is to involve lip-gloss loving Marlboro men. Pity, it does not.

We follow behind the men on their Harleys of various shades, of black and personal styles like their own versions of warhorses, in my small compact. Sunglass covered eyes glance nervously around at every corner as their engine noise roars down the street. What they had always before considered as their calling card is now a death sentence, and I refuse to look at their jury slipping up on all sides of us. Instead, I focus on Lawless’ back like a lighthouse in a storm showing me the way to safety as we are weaving around various panic-caused wrecks clogging the roads around town.

My compact scrapes through intersections filled with such aftermaths that leave me wondering if there is any safety left in the world. I know if there is, he will find it for us as I glance to the back seat in the mirror, and stare at the imagine of bleeding blonde children that once held the same faith in me.

“Just came to me that I really wish we had voted on Chap’s Arch Angel instead of that grinning skull they all wanted.” Aimes says. She is sinking low in the seat beside me with her boot-clad leg braced against the dash and refusing to look out any windows. I can smell the deafening sweet smell of her gum, with its extending bubble matching the pink streaks in her hair. It is her sensual combination of woman and child that the men find so seducing and endearing. They yearn for her attention and are ready to defend her hurt moods with the same hot eagerness. All of this she uses like a well-stacked hand of cards, to play at her discretion with them.

Amelia is the name I called her when we were children. She has been my friend for as far back as I hold memories. Many years we have spent in her room talking about subjects all parents dread to discuss with their kids. Each year bringing more depth to them as we grew until nothing was sacred. Now as she sits here, trying to hide from the world, it is such a contrast to her normal mischievous self. Watching her deflating slowly before me, the weight of the day sinks into my bones.

“When did we get a vote?” I ask her, my voice sinking with depression.

“By vote, I mean share our opinion for them to all ignore and then blame us for not speaking up when it all goes to shit.” She sighs shaken. “God, he’s right.”

“Who?” I know I will regret asking before the question is out of my mouth.

“My Dad. He’s been saying how I sound just like my Mom.” And with that, the car fills with silence for the rest of the trip. You do not pick at others scars. No ma’am.

A
pparently, we are not the only ones that thought of Lee’s place when people began making breakfast out of each other. Wreckage surrounds the shop until it grows so thick that Aimes and I are forced to leave the car and walk the rest of the way to the store. It does not coax the warm fuzzies at all as we pick through the debris in the parking area of ransacked cars and hasty departures. Each time we pass a broken body, we fear any sudden movement from it. The flies buzzing is heavy with the many dead that still sit staring out windshields or windows as we pass. Our once small, sleepy town is now stomach-churning and fear tipped.

My Lighthouse is waiting for us as we slip past him into the doors with the tinkling of a bell. The smell of him makes my palms itch with the need to touch him. My dam’s walls creak with the weight of it even as I refuse it. He caresses my lower back when he passes us acknowledging the need we are both withholding from the world. We do not look at one another, too afraid to let the other see that ache, and I let him join the guys in their childhood joys of guns as a bubble-gum scented breath whispers in my ear, “Kinda hot.”

J.D. is producing duffel bag after bag while shouting orders of what to grab and place in each. He might as well have been a quarterback for a football team for all the meaning the various numbers hold for me. To me, it is just row after row of hand held metal shapes with a few versions of larger sizes mixing in for good measure. I know enough from having a baby brother, and watching TV, which are considered shotguns, rifles, and pistols, but specifics are beyond me.

I sit on top of a display case as my only female partner in crime makes patches of fog on the glass beside me with her scented breath. We watch as gun after gun is being checked and packed with its coordinating ammo with feigned interest. I am sure if they found a pink one her attention would perk.

Each man is picking up certain styles of guns and placing them into duffels of correct sizes. Lawless and Marxx are selecting metal tubes of various lengths, holsters of many sizes and material, putting kits of cleaning tools in their bag from the various areas of the long rectangular room. I watch as they all work wordlessly together, gathering up that which has been appointed to each with a silent mutual agreement.

They are so aware of each others movements and assignments, that never do they need to make eye contact or even see the other person slipping around them to avoid any blockage of paths. Like worker bees in a hive, they each go about their assigned tasks with no thought of it or need to it. The only difference is there is no Queen to answer. They have a King. A King that communicates without words, but with nods and his eye contact, keeping his little hive in order and on task.

For a flash of a moment, I see Conroy running with this wood-grained imitation of a rifle chasing Lilly around the cases. The men are oblivious to them as they run between and around them, filling the room with child pitched laughter. I close my eyes against the sight of them, breathing deep to exhale their ghosts from my mind when her voice pulls me back.

“Here is a fun question.” The glass is smudged with hearts and smiling faces as she looks to me. This is why we would never survive a crime scene.

“I do so love your fun questions.” I say with exaggerated interest, still watching the men in private amazement. I wonder what other clues to the depths of their obedience I have also missed all this time.

She flips me a middle finger and blows a kiss to me. “Where do they think all those bags are going to go?”

She has a point. My compact is already full with the bags from the bar and now our bees have a growing pile before us.

“Want to go car shopping?” I ask with a smile.

“Looting and grand theft auto? It must be Tuesday!” She says with glee, bringing the room’s attention to us.

J.D. smirks at the sound between checking a shotgun for shells. He calls out to us as we retreat from the room. “And just where do you two think you are off to?”

We both call out without thought in our normal one-minded fashion, “Disney World!” It feels good to laugh again as we find our response more amusing than it truly is. Stress is a many-sided coin. Right now, it is shiny and bright but before we know it, it will return to its normal dark-sided self. It will rob us of the humor we find now, replacing it with whatever mood swing it wants to share with us.

Our Disney is depressing, and the laughter dies upon our lips, as soon as we exit into the bright light of the sun. In black-clad Bibles, Hell is described as a tormenting place of heat, but all I feel is winter’s chill as it sneaks upon us with the change of the seasons. Cars race by in high speed escapes while past wreckage lingers from others attempts to do just that. Store windows are broken and spill forth their items onto the surrounding sidewalks where it is hard to tell mannequin from human remains, with their blank eyes and frozen forms so equally posed. Papers are whipping through the air with each passing car, creating a snow globe effect all around us. I only pray that no one shakes our town any harder today.

We tip-toe from car to car, peering into each like a toxic dare. Some are a blessing while others are damning with the horrors they hold. The further we slip into the shopping areas, the more they damn us with their sights.

None the less, we make good use of our shopping trip, gathering various supplies in Aimes’ ever present bag. I will never again mock her ideas of purse size as we fill this one with what is left of the looted pharmacy, café, and general stores of the square. Let the boys have their guns. We have the three C’s, coffee, chocolate, and condoms, which according to Aimes, are the main staples for any apocalyptic conflict.

We creep from each store, ever afraid of what may be waiting for us when we leave them. Each well-formed exit allows us to be braver and relaxes the tension between us. Our comedy seeks to replace the depression that has been following us all morning. Our laughter floats around us like bubbles at a child’s party. It flies higher and higher, perfect with its rainbow shades in the sun’s light, and just as fragile when it comes to a crashing halt.

The streets are as still as the moments after a murder. Even the birds have escaped, taking their songs with them as another sound fills in the void they leave. It always comes with a soft whisper. It uses just the faintest of caresses to tickle your senses. It wants you to stumble upon it. It wants to creep up on you just when you are feeling that the danger is depleting around you. Always, just when you start to trust the sun again, it finds you.

There will always be sounds that we know to fear from birth. The sounds that cause you to bolt awake from a sound sleep. The types of sounds that cause you to pause in your normal day to day with dread. In all of my stored recordings of sounds, there has never been another that I fear as much as I fear the one surrounding us now. The thick watery sound that we know to associate with a new horror is stalking us again.

I do not know if she heard the noise too or if she is just reacting to my frozen form, but her body mirrors mine as we sink behind the car from our latest attempt of shopping. Peering under the car, I see the many bent forms of Risen crowding over their latest meal. Hands pull and shred the flesh making the body twitch with movements as they dig to reach hidden sweet meats within its deep cavities. Each one of the sickening sounds draws a shudder from us both in a cocktail of fear and repulsion in a glass, salt-rimmed with our tears.

We kneel here watching more and more gather upon one another, reaching past to secure handfuls of what was, only moments ago, just another person trying to survive this hell. If our timing had been different, would our places have been exchanged?

Our eyes are holding an in-depth conversation as we motion with nods at an attempt for a silent plan to form. The width of our eyes showing our agreement or refusal to the ideas we are sharing. It will only be a matter of time before they fully destroy the body, leaving them ready for more. I do not want to become another tragedy within a tragedy-filled day. We have managed to slip almost a block away from Lee’s gun store and our security. Upon realizing this, their sounds seem to begin to grow by decibels in matched pace with our fears at being alone.

“Please tell me you have a plan!” Her whisper is more of a hiss.

I place my finger to my lips, glancing around for some clue out of here. I am finding myself wishing that for once, I could be the follower. I am not sure how, in a comical twist, I keep stepping into the shoes of the leader. I, with all my fears and failures, am picked yet again to save the day. It is only noon and I have a longer list of defeats than victories. I wonder which one of our three C’s is going to save us now.

She calls to me from across the street. Maybe it is the sun, filtering through the clouds and casting a light upon her. Maybe there really is a God and he finally decides to throw me a crumb. Could it even be the Devil, with his hidden plot-line, not ready for me to take the final fall yet? Whomever, whatever, whichever it may be, I am not about to ignore the help and send a silent “thank you” to whomever.

She is huge and intimidating for someone so used to a compact, and yet at the same time welcoming, with her large retro truck-styled safety. Her windows are rolled down like a silent whisper of invitation among so many doors shutting before us. She does not give the Risen an inch as gore dripping bodies push against her. Their smudges are only adding to her rugged beauty.

She is clothed in chrome grills and full-length running steps. Amongst her black body, they shine with blatant attitude that would give any of the men’s motorcycles an identity crises. She is my own warhorse with her large, southern style tires, allowing her to ride over any obstacle placed in front of her. She may not start with a C, but suddenly I am feeling much more apocalypse ready.

“How fast can you run?” I whisper as I try to gauge the distance between the large truck and us.

“We are surrounded by flesh-eating monsters and that question does not give me a lot of hope in your plan!” Maybe she has been paying attention to my scorecard.

“I’m going to distract them. I want you to make it to that truck over there. Swing it around and pick me up. I will jump in the bed.” I try to ignore the voice that reminds me how well my last distraction plan went as our vocal volley begins.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I have been wondering that all day.”

“What if it’s a stick?”

I stare at her in mute disbelief. “Wait for me to get their attention and then run.”

“So we are not even going to have the stick discussion.”

“We are so not even going to have the stick discussion.”

“I hate you,” she tells my back with false emotion.

“It’s a long list…” It is easier than risking a goodbye.

“With the current town population, probably isn’t.”

I glance back at my best friend with a smile and another prayer to whomever is listening that it will not be the last time we see one another.