~7~

My focus revolved around escape. Radiation be damned and fuck the cold; there were fates worse than death, and death spawned no fear in me anymore.

It had been months since my attack on Joseph, and though he continued to be the calm and patient orderly, he was still wary, and rightfully so. If he'd ever considered letting me roam free around the bunker, he wasn't considering it now.

But that hasn't stopped him from talking to me. Months ago it was easy to shut him out. But more and more I found myself listening to him. Not just hearing, but listening. And not only during the day; more than once I woke up to him whispering in my ear. No wonder I was having such shitty dreams.

I tried not to think about what he was saying. It was the same song he'd been singing since the Collapse, and I kept telling myself it was horseshit. In what world did little ol' me causing a nuclear war make any sense? It just didn't. And Joseph was the one who decided to start the Reaping, not me. There was blood on my hands only because of him.

I was never comfortable when Joseph was around, but I was beginning to dread his presence. I couldn't help but focus on him when he was nearby, to keep him in my sight, as though he might stab me in the back if I didn't pay attention. When he was elsewhere in the bunker, I could relax, and think.

The time alone was spent planning. I was allowed to use the bathroom again, but aside from that, I was always cuffed to the bed, which meant I would have to act during those brief moments of freedom a couple times a day. Joseph still herded me with the 1911, but it wasn't always pointed at my back. Until I was ready for the break, I would have to continue to be submissive, to lull him into a false sense of security.

Escaping the bunker would be the easy part. Having the energy to reach another hidey-hole was a hurtle I didn't really want to think about, probably because I couldn't fool myself into believing I would get that far. Still, I had a bunker in mind, a couple clicks past the fjord on the southern point of the island. Whether or not it was occupied or stocked were variables I could not control and so did not worry about.

Again, death held no sway over me anymore. And I would rather die, alone and forgotten, than endure with the Father.

As the accusations and condemnations continued, I stopped talking to Joseph. I was starting to fear what would come out if I opened my mouth. And I was angry. It was him. Thought I could change him. I promised myself I would do what I could to prove to him his guilt. But every time I thought of bringing it up my mind would darken, and I would think about...

No. No, no, no. Not my fault. Not my fault. Joseph called for the Reaping. God wasn't real, didn't start a nuclear apocalypse.

And neither did I.

My endless silence harried Joseph. It hadn't bothered him before I told him to call me by my name, which had seemed to him a rite of passage or milestone or some shit, but now that I had spoken, he was determined to weasel any words out of me he could. The lack of decent company was wearing him down faster than it was me, and I relished the morsel of control.

In the third week of my silent revolt, he had asked me what I wanted to eat. He always chose, but not choosing had never galled me. I was just happy when I got something. Guess he'd thought an option would be a treat. I never answered him.

Joseph stopped writing as much in my presence, and instead spent the time flapping his gums. He spoke about his upbringing. He asked me about mine. When I offered nothing but a deadpan stare, he dug in harder. Began talking about God, telling me how the world worked. I knew what he was doing. He was trying to get under my skin. To irritate me, to make me itch. But I didn't scratch.

I wanted to. Boy, did I want to scratch. I wanted to contradict his faith with my logic. I wanted to combat his devotion to divinity with my dedication to humanity. I could feel something, a burning, like embers in my gut. Joseph would say it was my Pride and Wrath. But I did not let them control me. I let the bullshit flow off me like water, because it could not hurt me.

What was hurting me was how long he started to talk into the night, way past my bedtime. I made it obvious that I was tired of listening to him drone on by curling up or turning my back or fake snoring. But he would keep the room lit and talk my ear off until I was gritting my teeth, when it took all my willpower to prevent myself from shouting, "Shut up and fuck off!" Of course, if I did that, he'd win.

It was the ninth night of this. I was so tired my eyes pounded like little hearts.

"We're animals, Isaac. But do you know what separates us from the beasts? God. God's guidance. Without it, we would not know right from wrong..."

Blah blah blah. What was "right" and what was "wrong" was a human construction. Morality came with intelligence and a conscience, everything else came from the instinct of survival. Of course we were animals – we weren't plants – but having potent emotions and morality had helped us evolve and survive as a species. Gods were lazy inventions, made to help explain the fabric of existence, why we were here and why things were the way they were. Divinity might be a comfort blanket, a candle in the dark, for a lot of people. But to me, it was a catalyst and excuse for people to wage war and hurt others. I knew what religion did to some people. And so did Jacob Seed.

I'd heard little of Jacob's military service, other than fighting in the first Gulf War, poking around Iraq and Afghanistan until PTSD forced him to retire. But he would have paid attention to the world he left behind, different from our own, as the decades passed but the turmoil continued, and fresh meat like myself was sent across to fight religious terrorism.

I didn't know for certain if Jacob believed his younger brother so blindly, like John and Faith. He'd said so himself, in his last moments alive, that he wasn't convinced Joseph spoke to God, but he didn't care because it didn't matter. All he knew was that he, too, saw what hung on the horizon. The great Collapse. The toppling of civilization. Jacob had been afraid of departing this world without leaving some kind of brand, of playing his part so some would survive. So the strong would survive, like he did, when, starved and lost in the desert, he killed and ate his comrade so he'd have the strength to make it to base.

I looked at my cuffed right hand, half blown away by Jacob's MBP .05. Without the Bliss in my system I had phantom pain all the time. I swear I could feel the two missing fingers curling with the rest as I made a fist. Funny, that even if the bombs hadn't fallen, if I'd managed to escape Hope County, I would have such permanent reminders of this place. This bullet amputation from Jacob, the Wrath tattoo from John, the constant, smothered need in the back of my mind for the comfort of Bliss...

My head lowered and my shoulders drooped. Didn't matter. I hadn't escaped Hope County. If I had, if I'd just hopped on a plane and flown into the sunset maybe I would have been able to see some friends for the last time, visit my folks' graves, go to Disneyland. The bombs would have fallen whether I was here or not, to hell with what Joseph said.

To hell with it...

"Isaac? Isaac, I'm not done speaking to you." The Father was shaking me. I was drawn back from the brink of sleep and I gave him the best stink-eye I could muster. It was two o'clock in the morning, for fuck sake.

"You didn't listen to a word I said, did you? Very well. I shall start again. And again, and again, until you listen, until you see—"

I flinched, recalling the pressure of Joseph's thumbs on my eyes. He smiled, as if reading my thoughts. It was, after all, what I feared more than anything. It was one thing to be Joseph's prisoner. It was another to be his blind prisoner, dependent on him for everything.

And I had no doubt he would do it. When I first arrived via helicopter to the county, I'd been briefing myself on all the info gathered about Project at Eden's Gate, including video interviews and espionage clips. In the latter, the spy had been caught, and Joseph pushed out his eyes with his thumbs. How the man had screamed...

Good behaviour should be rewarded, don't you agree, Deputy? Bad behaviour should be punished. Do you need to be punished?

Words spoken on the third day in this shithole. No. No, I didn't need to be punished. I'm doing good. I'm being good.

I realized I had ducked under my hands, hunched as though to protect myself from the world. And Joseph was stroking my head, humming Amazing Grace. I let him. And then I knocked his hand away. The humming stopped.

The silence was long and tense. I dared not look up, my ears straining to follow any movement Joseph made.

"...You're tired," he said at last. "Very well. Get some rest. My instruction will resume tomorrow."

Instruction? Instruction? Who did he think he was? Who I was? But I did not rise to the bait. I remained huddled until the light went out and Joseph crawled into bed. Then I unravelled and lied down, pulling the blanket over myself. I could hear the rattle of the air vents. The hum of the furnace. The gentle rise and fall of Joseph's chest...

I opened my eyes. Light from the hall peered through the crack under the door, throwing dirt and flaws in the floor in contrast. One particular shadow caught my eye. It was slender, shorter than my finger, and just within reach. I picked it up, feeling it in the dark. My stomach flipped. It was a key. The key.

I clenched it in my fist, heart like a drum, terrified Joseph would hear, wake up and realize he no longer had it. But he didn't. Slowly, so that it wouldn't clack against the cuff, I eased the key into the slot and turned it. With a soft click, I was free.

Well, not quite. I had to get out of this room without waking my warden. Weak as I was, I couldn't trust myself to take him on even with the element of surprise.

I pulled the cuff off my wrist and gently let it hang from the bars of the bed, then got my feet under me. I was wearing socks, giving me cat-like silence. I didn't allow myself to groan as I stood for the first time in hours, then padded across the room, only opening the door enough to slip through sideways.

The light was dim but I could see everything. The doors across from me, the ducts and pipes above, the shelves to my right. I crept towards them, following the passage. At the corner of the hall was the red room, where Dutch had kept his surveillance monitors and intel on the Peggies. Until I went around that corner I could swear Joseph's eyes were tagging me in the dark, but even then, I felt like he was there, following. I wanted to run.

But I didn't. I made myself stop in the living area. I had to be smart about this, or there would be no point in getting out of the bunker. I nicked bottled water, freeze-dried food packages, and vitamins, stashing them in a dufflebag left conveniently on the couch. I also stowed some toilet paper, kitchen knives (weapons and tools had been locked in the armoury and there was no time to find the key), matches, a flashlight, extra batteries, soap...

In the hall were lockers, and in the lockers were coats, gloves, boots, hats. I pulled out some of everything and donned them as quickly and quietly as possible, feeling like every rustle of cloth was a rumble of thunder.

I was ready to go. Then I thought, the infirmary. There was bound to be something of use in there. But it was directly across from Joseph's room...

Suddenly I was there. Couldn't remember walking but I had, clearly, and now I had to look in the infirmary. So I did, and bagged an entire first-aid kit. There. That should be enough.

I slipped out the door, wincing as it squeaked. I'd left my boots at the lockers by the kitchen, so my advance was silent but for my own soft breathing.

The door to the red room was feet away when I heard another, louder squeak. My guts turned to stone. I turned. Light beamed from the bedroom, blindingly bright, as though it came straight from heaven. And then Joseph burst forth, sprinting straight for me.

I ran. Dropped the dufflebag and ran. Joseph's bare feet slapping on the cement was the only sound aside from my hammering heart. My legs were heavy, the floor seeming to melt around my feet. The hallway stretched on forever. I got past the kitchen, the lockers, rounding a corner, sliding into the generator. I could hear Joseph's breathing now. I kept running, taking the steps three at a time. The staircase seemed to grow ahead of me but I pressed on, seeing the door, touching it—

I was out. The light blinded me and I screwed my eyes shut before turning and slamming the hatch to the bunker shut. Loud bangs hammered it not a second later, the monster within unable to open it.

I fled, stumbling and tripping, torn at by twigs, grasses tangling around my legs in efforts to take me down. As my eyes adjusted, I opened them bit by bit, and took in the fresh world around me.

It never happened. The bombs never fell. Wind rustled lush foliage crowned with flowers, whispering through the branches that bowed to its whim. Birds sang their praises to the sun, which gleamed blindingly on the lake viewed between tree trunks. Overhead, a squirrel scolded me for intruding on its territory.

I breathed in the scent of sap and pollen, felt the earth mould under my toes. The Collapse never happened. I was home—

And like that it was gone. What was green turned black and what lived burst into flame. The sun died and the moon was bleeding, wind like fire scorching my face. In the distance, the haunting wail of a nuclear siren rose and fell. The sky was red and everywhere there were the screams of confused animals, of men, women and children. I turned around and there they were, scores of them, some burned to nothing, others still with flesh on their faces so I could recognize them – friends, enemies, people I'd saved and others I'd killed. Their pale faces were all pointed at me, eyes misted or melting from their sockets. They were tossed unceremoniously all around, in piles or hanging from black branches. And there was that gut-wrenching stench of burning flesh...

The roar of an engine, then the crunch of compacting steel, busting glass. I whirled around and saw a white pickup, front end crushed against a fallen, burning tree. I approached it, arm up to fend off the heat, peering through the broken driver window. Sheriff Whitehorse and his deputies, Hudson and Pratt. Dead. Left to burn in the old world. I stared at them, wanting them to be alive, refusing to believe I had saved them only for them to be torn away from me again—

Then Deputy Hudson lifted her head and opened her eyes. She looked at me. Blinked.

"Help me."

The snarl of a wolf tore my gaze away. I spun around, and there was a man, flesh raw with rashes, hair like fire and eyes a startling blue. Jacob Seed.

"Well, look at you," he crooned, suave and cool. "You did it. You made your sacrifice." He gestured behind me, at the truck. "I was beginning to think you didn't have it in you."

No, I thought. No, you're dead. I killed you. The words would not come out, my mouth coated in ash.

Jacob smiled and stepped closer. His cameo jacket was drenched with blood. I could see no wounds. "But you are weak," he said. "And I cull the weak. It's what I do." His teeth were bloody too, and through the choking smoke I could smell raw flesh. "I'd tell you not to take it personally, but..." He shrugged. "It is personal. Only yooooou..."

Suddenly he was gone, a massive wolf in his place, song replaced by a howl. It was as big as a horse, white fur crimson under the bloody sky. I staggered back against the truck, eyes fixated on the beast. Something grasped my arm and I tore around. It was Whitehorse, half his face smashed to a pulp, leaning across the driver's seat towards me. He held a handgun, handle towards me.

"You got this, rook," he rasped. "You know what to do."

I took the gun and turned to face the Wolf. My hands shook so badly I couldn't aim.

"Be strong," warned Pratt, somewhere behind me. "You must be strong."

My hands steadied. The Wolf finished its howl and lowered its head. Its eyes were as blue as Jacob's. I aimed at the point between them. It snarled. And then it pounced.

BANG!

The Wolf vanished and instead a man hit the ground on his back. I saw cameo clothing, muddy boots, a bow falling from a limp grasp...

Wait. A bow?

I approached, now seeing a mane of shaggy dark hair and beard. Closer, I looked at his face, and then dropped the gun in horror. It was Eli Palmer, head of the Whitetail Militia.

A throaty chuckle turned me around, and there was the Wolf, leaping over the truck, teeth bared. Its forepaws hit my chest and I slammed to the ground, pinned by the beast.

As its sour breath washed over me, Jacob's voice whispered in my ear, "You are meat."

The Wolf's jaws clamped around my throat, piercing tender flesh. It burst, windpipe torn open, arteries like geysers, but I did not die, not before the beast turned back into Jacob, covered in gore. My gore. He smiled at me, flesh between his teeth, and then he grabbed me by the collar, leaned down and began to feed.

My eyes snapped open. I was grasping my blanket in both hands and biting it so hard my teeth hurt. I jerked my head, as though the blanket was a particularly tough chunk of steak, before remembering where I was, who I was, what I was. I spat it out, fibres stuck to my tongue. Streaks of pain shot up my jaw, cramping my cheeks. I was drenched in a cold sweat, as though I had really been standing amidst roaring flames.

As my heart slowed and the dream slunk away to the back of my mind, I sat up, leaning against the footboard. I couldn't see much, but I could tell Joseph was gone from the lack of breathing sounds. He'd shaken me awake when I was having a nightmare about his younger brother. Had he abandoned me to the one with his elder? I couldn't pretend not to be grateful whenever he rescued me from the particularly tenacious, harrowing dreams, although he was probably doing that only because he couldn't sleep through the screaming.

They weren't new. Ever since my first firefight, the first time I ever took a man's life and watched comrades lose theirs, my sleep had been lost as a sanctuary for me. Time healed all wounds, but not when they're reopened every night.

When Joseph entered the room, he found me with my knees up to my chest and my head in my hands. He tried to coax me to relax, to open up, to pay attention to him. My head hurt and my eyes throbbed with fatigue. Even the promise of food couldn't draw me out of this hole. Exhaustion had finally surpassed hunger, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I couldn't bring myself to care when Joseph cozied up next to me, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm. He didn't say anything, and for a long time we just sat there.

I wanted to talk to him. About Jacob. Of the three brothers, I related to him the most. Veteran, hot-blooded, honourable. But his experiences had broken him, turned him into a breed of monster I could not let live. A rabid dog. He might have been a good man, once, but what he did in Hope County was unjustifiable. There was no excuse for what he did. What any of them did.

I thought of Eli. Twice now he'd shown up in my dreams with a bullet in his head. No. I did not regret taking out Jacob Seed.

"Will you eat something?" said Joseph softly.

It took several seconds for the question to register. Without lifting my head, I nodded.

He brought me a small bowl of rice with a sliver of fish, sprinkled with salt. Joseph must have spiked it with something because I couldn't even finish the rice before my head became an anvil, and he had to help me lie down. He drew the blanket over me, said something I didn't hear. But one thought rang through my mind before sleep claimed it. I was going to escape. Tonight.

"And what do you think you'd ever say? I won't listen anyway. You don't know me, and I'll never be what you want me to be."

I'm Still Here, John Rzeznik