The Risen: Dawning (9 page)

I
run, kneeling to keep the cover of the cars between the feasting Risen and myself. I want to be sure I have enough space between us before I play the role of a suicidal jack-in-the-box. Aimes is a hunching ball of stealth waiting for me as she situates the purse and her position. My mind fights against what I am about to do, causing several false starts before Aimes mouths a word reserved normally for men’s frail egos. So easy to judge when you are not the bait. I signal back my opinion of her with one simple finger. We exchange one last smile and I nod, shutting off my mind’s rebelling screams.

At first, they pay no attention to me. They are so engrossed in their current victim and, in total female fashion, I find myself feeling insulted for a moment before using their slow wits to better place myself further from Aimes. I counter her angle with hopes to form a wedge of their path, allowing her to hide from their view when she makes her move. It all feels very strategic in my mind and it fills me with hope. I know my soul cannot take another loss. My sanity cannot store any more visions of failures.

“Hey! Hey, over here!” I shout and wave my arms in a total cliché formation of attention seeking. I am almost ashamed at the lack of my originality, but a cliché is a cliché for a reason. They work and I really need it to work right now.

Slowly their heads turn to me, their eyes lock with mine, and their bodies rise in my direction with their slow, unnatural style. Their growls and snarls make my knees grow weak under so much focused hatred. A few stay hunched over, mouths working the meat in their hands, but their eyes watch me, weighing the possibilities of a new meal versus the mouthful they currently have.

I bang on the abandoned cars next to me, making as much noise as possible against their metal frames, each sound drawing away their humanity as their faces melt into an animal-like hunger. Lips pull back, showing snarls of discolored teeth. Limp, gore torn fingers hook into claw-like talons itching to feel the shredding of my tender flesh as it feeds them. Glazed eyes fill with hatred and intentions of destruction for me.

My mind begins to flash images of their previous victims, and the potential harm there is to me as they head towards me, as a mental reality check of my actions. The fallen male victim’s face is slack from death, casting an almost sad quality to it. Even now in his death, he appears to lament and doubt my plan. He seems to already be mourning for me, and he is not the only one doubting me at this moment with hell’s escapees stalking towards me.

I know I cannot run yet, but they are not moving fast enough for my plan to form. They stalk me with their eyes. Their bodies are waiting to spring forward with the hunt. Even as the first few gather close around me, I must stand my ground. I know that with them this spread out I will not be able to keep their attention, and allow Aimes to slip behind them. They move in clumps of different degrees of motivation, making my plan falter before me with their refusal to cooperate. Panic dances inside me as I watch them trying to decide what to do.

I know the few left occupied will not notice her, but if one of the others standing, staring at me should alert them to her presence, they will overrun her. I have seen that proven once already. One haunting is enough. I have failed too many today already.

I stand, keeping my ground, even as my mind is screaming. Even as my knees begin to grow weak from the adrenaline rush screaming at me. Even as my heart beats so fast it feels like it is trying to break free and run away from this itself, I stand here screaming and courting Death. I flirt with him as well as any well-dressed courtesan ever has, all in hopes that Death will not be tempted to take another from me today. My flesh for her flesh. My death for her death. I stand before him offering myself to him all in hopes to save another.

I can smell them now. They wear rot and death as if it is a brand of cologne. Waves of their scents roll towards me, crashing upon my already failing fragile senses. My screams come more out of a release, as fear mounts me, and they know it. Their animation reaches its start. What had once started as slow calculated steps, now gathers speed at such closeness of my flesh and fear. It is my own style of perfume to them and they lust after it.

I begin to inch backwards, still waiting for them to gather more tightly around me, but Aimes gets the point. She begins to inch around the car’s hidden comfort zone while keeping her eyes on me. I can see her own fears growing as she begins to mentally plan the path before her. We glance one more time at each other, and it feels like goodbye, before I turn to run, dragging hell with me.

I use the parked cars like an obstacle course, swaying and blending around them. Some of them follow my every turn. Some continue to run straight around the cars. Separated like this, I can see them begin to spread out around me. Instead of being a stalking shadow, they have now become a surging plague threatening to overflow this small one-way street.

Their sounds bounce off the buildings, echoing terror through me, spurring me faster in pure panic. I fight to keep my wits about me, but every reflection in the stores’ windows strips me of all logic. I realize too late that they do not have the restraints of the living. They do not feel their bodies’ crashing into the cars with their frantic movements with such force that they rock the vehicles. They can push their bodies faster than normal. Their muscles do not cramp or their lungs ache with the abuse of oxygen levels. Mine do and, beyond all my efforts, I am slowing down.

With the clarity that I cannot out run them, the first hot tears of acceptance blur my vision. The reflections keep showing me how fast the gap is closing between us with each passing storefront window in a strobe light effect. I can feel them now even before they actually touch me. Their shadows are reaching my senses first. The first finger tips brush against my back, trying to grab me. I scream with each feather-like sensation of Death’s greetings. The panic of my mind steers me to cross the street in an attempt to regain some illusion of hope. My heart begins to accept my death and I begin to lose the strength to keep going.

I struggle against each store’s locked door that I run past. Sounds of frustration with each discovery of disappointment mingle with my sobs. The windows shatter any hope of escape with the scene reflected behind me. I watch, almost detached, as the first one reaches me. I have run out of grace and am falling into their hands.

He grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my head back. It exposes my neck in an arch of pale ivory with the force, and I fall to my knees with sacrificial acceptance. My plan was to keep them from reaching Aimes. It was never to survive myself. I offered Death myself for her, and he is here now to collect.

I feel the sidewalk connect with my knees. The pain flashes, white hot, through my legs even as I slip further down upon my own hands. His hands desperately fight to pull me backwards against the fall, forcing them to lose their grip against gravity’s strength. I struggle forward, finishing gravity’s encouragement, and freeing myself from his grasp, only to fall into anothers brutal arms.

Hands clutch my legs, my feet, my shirt, all pulling against my escape with hunger-driven desperation. I can feel myself losing ground as they pull me backwards. The tips of my fingers are shredding against the rough pavement that I claw to gain any inch I can. I fight for every inch that I lose feeling them dragging me backwards to them. Teeth grind upon the fabric of my jeans, making me scream from the pain, as my flesh bruises under their assaults.

They fall upon me one by one. Their weight is pressing down any attempts of my escape. An escape that I have accepted will not happen when a child’s face, covered in a blonde shroud, stares back at me from my mind’s eye. She is watching me fall under my own imprisonment of death with her cold blue eyes. I was not brave enough to wonder what her last moments were. I keep the knowledge of the details of her death wrapped in tissue-thin paper that is so easily ripped with too much handling.

Now as my body is wracked with the pain of their attack, I know. I know the terror from which I did not save her. The paper is ripping and spilling all around me as they tug and bruise me with their many hands and teeth. They are fighting and seeking to discover any access to my death when the first shot fires.

One moment I am looking over my shoulder at what I know will be the first real bite, sealing my fate, when the others smell the blood that will pour from the wound. His teeth are bared from behind his shredded lips. His hands press down to firmly secure me in place with his weight upon my shoulders. The anticipation of my death locks my throat from the screams that swell within my mind like a gag from a rapist.

I see no flashbacks of cherished memories before me. No white, comforting light of which to ease my pain illuminates now. There are just the teeth of a dead man seeking my throat, while his dinner mates seek their own tender spaces of flesh to dine on. There are just his hands upon me with crushing reality, squeezing my collarbones, in his excitement for a new meal. Just my heart racing with the truth of what is about to happen.

His head suddenly rocks sideways with a jerking force so ruthless that the left side explodes, coating the pavement behind him with his blood and thicker fragments. He falls limp upon me, covering my upper back as the screams finally free themselves at the sensation. My Angel walks away. She leaves me alone again to face this world now that she must wait for me to join her.

Risen after Risen jerk around me, before falling limp, in a helter-skelter pattern amid my screams. I feel strong arms lift me, holding me tight against a warm body, and the screams still pour from me behind my closed eyes. Each scream grows more raw until I am nothing but soundless motions.

I can hear my name coming from what seems somewhere far away. Someone is holding my upper body in a rocking motion as hands search my legs and waist. For a moment, my mind tells me that I am under attack again. I want to struggle. I want to fight off these new attackers but my body refuses to obey. My mind begins to slip under a dark blanket of safety it creates. My senses close down to avoid what I am sure will be the first flesh-tearing sensations at any moment. My limbs begin to fall limp, too heavy to support themselves, as comforting darkness overtakes me. The Risen are chanting my name with this new attack upon me and in the last conscious moment that I hold on to, I wonder how that can be.

I
wake with one daring sense at a time with my body testing the safety of it. I can feel myself resting on soft fabrics, wafting musty smells around me. They wrap me in the warmth created from my own heat. The birds are singing their many wordless melodies in a clash of who is the loudest somewhere close. My legs are tender with any movements and throb even with stillness, but otherwise, I feel none of the white-hot searing pain I thought my death would incur.

The confusion encourages me to slowly open my eyes against the bright sunlight. It filters in through the plaid country-style curtains over the small bedroom’s windows. The walls are covered in bead board in a faded white color. It climbs the length of the walls, as the only décor upon them, and touches a stenciled border of ivy. Cliché is the flavor of the day.

The hardwood floor is cold with the lack of summer’s sun to warm it. My legs scream in protest at moving, but the cool floor feels soothing beneath my bruised feet. The small daybed is made with a simple sheet set, and other than a small dresser, it is the only furniture in the room. I have no memory of this room. Nor of how I came to be here, sleeping in just my tee shirt and a matching shade of panties. Neither of which I was wearing when the trip started.

My legs are various shades of red and purple allowing for almost none of their natural coloring to show through in any gaps between the irregular shapes. Bruises that you know will linger for a good amount of time before the sickly yellows and greens start to show through. My shoulders are too tender to move, allowing for only small movements of my neck. Even those rip gasps of pain from my throat.

My fingertips are raw with thick, meaty scabs covering them. My nails show shattering at the tips from torn, jagged edges left by the cement. Each injury flashes before me as a movie premier showing their starring roles and I am back on that sidewalk repeatedly a victim again. My breath shakes from the memories that engulf me and I am becoming as scab-covered as my fingertips with each new ordeal I survive.

The soft hum of male voices drift from the other side of the room’s wall. It drags me from my private hell with their sounds. The gap at the window, caused by the curtain’s uneven spacing, shows a large wooden porch nestling in a clearing of tall trees. Sunlight is casting through the many shades of fall leaves, and the tree’s bare branches, causing shadows to dance among the wooden planks with soft breezes. I part the curtains further to gather a better idea of my predicament and I see a sight that brings calm to my soul.

My Lighthouse is balancing upon the wooden railing, gazing out into the surrounding forest. He is lost in his own memories as his eyes stare at nothing and everything at the same time. He is lost between regrets and wishes. He is without his identifying leather vest, and for once, I can see him as we were before. When we were just a boy and a girl, testing the thin ice of life, praying for it to hold our weight as we prayed to always hold each others hand.

I remember how afraid I was at the thought of being on his blacked out motorcycle the first time, and how it made him smile his shy grin. I remember how that first ride turned from the feeling of fear to a feeling of freedom as it roared under us, eating up the highway before us. The smell of the skin of his neck as I rode pressed up against him. The way he would randomly throttle the bike faster, just to feel me grab him tighter. The sounds of his male laughter floating back to me in the wind with each of my squeals.

I remember our late night chats. We would lean upon my car after I closed the bar on the nights we were both seeking reasons to avoid heading home. We had become each others blankets of comfort. The soft fabric of it served to soften the edges of life’s hard lessons. We wrapped ourselves in it so tight that we have become the others main source for comfort in this life. Its seams were sewn from the many shared laughs, the heart-felt moments, and our stolen glances. The fabric has been wearing thin as of late. The seams are shredding as the threads unravel. I would give anything to have that warm blanket wrapped around me now.

The fabric of my jeans feels like sandpaper upon my tender flesh. Gripping anything sends pinpoint pains through my fingers. At this moment, I am very happy for slip-on boots. I am not happy with their new marks. They seem to be as battered as my flesh, with deep gouges through the leather mimicking my many bruises. The toes are scuffed beyond repair from my desperate sliding along the rough pavement from trying to escape. I am so engrossed in the damage to my boots, and the disappointment it causes, that I do not notice the person coming into the room. His deep cologne of male scent and stale cigarettes announces him for me.

He rests against the white wooden door frame, watching me with his soul-seeking eyes. Neither of us says a word to the other for a few moments in mutual silence. His eyes are taking me in as he waits for any female mine fields that he fears he will have to navigate. I wait for his anger to whip through the room at my actions in the form of his own male mine field. When nothing explodes between us, a smile slips upon his face, tugging mine out to play.

“Shame about the boots.” J.D. says in the closest thing to a playful voice he has. “Always love a girl in a good pair of boots.” He drags the words out, adding extra heat to them.

“Well, seeing as how they are still in one piece, I guess they are still “good” boots.” I turn my legs side to side to gain a better vantage point of the damage. “I’m sure Aimes will just call them broken in.”

“That she will. That she will. What would she call that little stunt you pulled back there?” He is tipping his toes into the water of the real reason he started this conversation.

“Suicidally gifted.” I smile my best “look, just a harmless girl” smile hoping to save myself from what I feel forming.

He chuckles his deep male vibration of a laugh. “That would be a good summary. I would call it a massive fuck up. What were you thinking?” The playful tones melt away as his voice lowers to a pitch warning of his destruction.

“That I had to save Aimes. Other than that, the truck would have been nice to have.” I hold no attempt to earn approval from him. I did nothing seeking any rewards, but just the safety of my friend. Therefore, his opinion of the event is meaningless to me. I would do it all again. I may just run sooner next time.

He stores the words I offer, but also the body language I hold. J.D. never wastes words. He tells you what he needs you to know only in that moment, leaving you to fill in the rest of the conversation yourself. What you fill in, is up to you. What you do with the filler, that is what he will be watching. It is a tight rope relationship with him and the truth is your only balancing tool of safety.

He lets his silence fill the room with its own weight, waiting to see if I will cave before him. Waiting to see If I will beg for his mercy, and understanding, to regain any lost good graces with him. He is testing my strength of resolve for what I have done, as a doctor would test one for shock after such an event. Whatever he finds suits him and he nods with the smile again.

“Next time you want to go all Zombie Barbie on me, give a guy a heads up. It would be a shame to lose your sweet ass. We may just need those balls of steel you are hiding somewhere. You might want to pick an automatic, too.”

His deep laughter follows him into the dark hallway beyond the room. He moves without a sound, which always amazes me for such a large man. Not even the well-worn wooden floors moan under his steps. They do not want to attract his attention any more than the living do. The darkness absorbs his form as if he is a missing piece of it. It welcomes him home.

I have always thought of him as the Boogeyman. Until now, he was the most mind wracking fear I have met with his icy-cold exterior and the no limits to his level of destruction. A level of destruction that never gifts him sleepless nights as it would so many others with the things he has done. Not even a pause in conversation to debate any of the rumored horror stories collected about him. The fact that he is now on the “good guy” side of the world shows just how far up the evil creek we are. I do not have a paddle strong enough to fight against the current that is rushing towards me with each hour that slips away.

I make my way slowly through the same hallway with small shuffling steps. I use the wall as a guide, not as comfortable in the darkness as the one that went ahead of me. My legs are almost a dead weight of pains and aches. It reminds me of Margaret with her swaying pigtails as another memory crashes through me, almost doubling me over with it. I had come close to having more in common with her today than just my mobility.

The whole place is decorated in a retro country theme with bead board paneling in the various shades of white clichés. The wooden floor creaks under my feet even with the few well-worn runners spaced throughout in an attempted color scheme. Windows are covered in various plaids that have been bleached to pastels from years of sunlight. Seeing those shades, I cringe without a conscious effort.

The furniture is sparse. Even to say “bare necessity” would not be an exaggeration to the rooms. It is the same with any personal touches that may give a clue to the owner of this place. There are no mementos. There are no framed faces or events in well placed spots. There is nothing here to associate J.D. with this place at all, much less any of his personality reflected upon it.

There appears to be four bedrooms in which bags have been placed. A wooden ladder bolted to a wall leads up to an open loft style bedroom. I can see the duffels from Lee’s stacked against one of its walls. Various smaller guns are laying out along the loft’s edge. I cannot help but wonder if that is their idea of a final desperation set up or just boys being boys with their toys. It brings me no comfort to see them already either this prepared or this on edge.

“Hey, Zombie Barbie is up!” Rhett calls out as I pass the doorway to what opens to a small kitchen and dining room.

“I think I preferred Snow White.” I mutter to him, returning his mock smile.

“Trust me when I tell you Zombie Barbie is way better than the other things they were naming you.” Aimes and I smile at each other before it all melts into silent tear-filled embraces. We cling to one another in a silent affirmation of our friendship, the survival of today, and the freedom of being a girl that allows us to do this.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispers over and over again. I hold her, knowing deep inside she is just not apologizing to me but to herself in her imagined sense of failure. I know because I have done the same thing myself when I was surrounded by true pastels, fallen Angels, and the perfumes of death a life time ago. I know because I have enough of my own failures to apologize over. I hold her and let us both be okay with them.