Chapter 7
a few hours since last feed
You sit around feeling sorry for yourself for a while, but the days start to blur together under the dim light of the subway. It's nice, being able to eat whenever you want, but the blood has begun to dry on your front and the lack of actual food (human food) begins to erode at your... what? Your sanity? You don't think you have much of that left. Your humanity, maybe. That seems like a better word.
You feel like an animal again, trapped in your own body, somewhere between the waking world and the dead. On the (what you believe to be) the third day, you decide that the subway is not the best place for you.
With a smile you bid farewell to the murmuring corpses, stroking the hair of the woman who is nothing more than bones and sinew now. You had long taken her backpack and weapon with you, hooking it into the loop of your cargo pants and securing her pack around your shoulders, the weight anchoring you to the ground. In a bout of foolishness you had even taken her stupid little New York Zoo visor that she wore because you liked the imprinted animals on it. It is a bit bloodstained, sure, but as you emerge out into the city streets you're glad you brought it.
The pavement burns.
It's a dry, radiating heat that buffets you in waves, shimmering up from the roads and barely letting you slip by whenever you pass. Being so long in the dark means your eyes are turned to slits, wincing at every dull reflection from a car's rearview mirror, stopping every once in a while to grimace at your appearance and attempt to pick the worst of the flesh from your teeth. What you wouldn't do for some floss right now.
Earlier on you'd picked up a little tourist map from the subway, attempting to puzzle out the confusing maze of lines that make up the city. You'd given up on reading street names, instead resigning yourself to retracing your steps again and again until you got a rough marker of your location. Once settled, you squint at the map and decipher out the neighborhood.
"Manhattan,"you mouth to yourself, glancing up at the towering buildings, "home to countless buildings of all different shapes and sizes, it is a borough of New York that displays both its charm and its power. A sprawling city that is divided into many districts."
That sounds confusing, you think as you bite your lip in thought and trace over to where you must be. Middle of the map? So that should be...
"Midtown!" you cry in triumph, putting a hand over your mouth when it echoes lonely through the abandoned streets. The few sick shuffling about don't bother to turn and you smile, subdued now, pouring over the map in an effort to learn more. Rachel had said it was a tragedy or travesty or whatever that word was that you hadn't been out to see all New York had to offer, so you decide to take her word for it and do just that. You'll go see the that big tower over there and the parks and the super nice houses... but not the zoo to the east. You're not sure if animals fared so well over the course of the sickness and seeing them all wasting away in their pens is a bit too sad for you to take. Animals are simpler things; you like them much more than people.
(You had a cat, once. He's the only thing you really remember. You hope he's okay.)
Your journey starts by going west, marveling at the huge buildings that dwarf and render you insignificant. All around you are the rattling lungs hidden in the dark, ruined skyscrapers; they create their own rhythm that the pamphlet said the city used to have, its own industrial heartbeat that resonated inside the chests of all its inhabitants. Every so often you hear the jack-rabbit heart of a survivor, hidden away in the concrete, but it vanishes before you can find it again.
The sun stains your skin a ruddy red as your fingers grip onto your map, your visor shading your eyes from the worst of it. By taking a quick detour through the Theatre District it says you're in Upper West Side now, a beautiful place full of museums and markets, classic houses with an aging face but peculiar charm. Such attractions did them no good in the long run; this place is as silent as all the others, abandoned to the dead and Mother Nature who seeks to reclaim her stolen world. Your footsteps are gunshots against the sidewalk, and no matter where you turn you seem to see a church looming down upon you.
Every so often you pass a place that makes you stop and stare, but nothing triumphs the one museum that halts you in your tracks. A massive, pillared thing, you stall and gape at the huge banner of the blue, blue whale that billows in the soft breeze, beckoning you forwards until you stand at its doors. Even from the outside you see the slumped silhouettes of corpses covering the floor like a carpet, their hands splayed upon each other in solidarity. Dinosaurs rear up to the curved ceiling, their mouths opened in triumphant roars of another life.
Before you enter you glance at the little sign that asks you to give what you can for an entrance fee. You've no money on you and you doubt they'd want it now—instead, you drop in a little air freshener you'd found earlier in hopes one of them would appreciate it. It might not do much good, but it's better than nothing at all.
Even though you remember so little of your former life, you know that animals were always one of your greatest loves. You spend what feels like years in the ocean hall, marveling at skeletons of beasts long passed, free to run your fingers over their bones now that their keepers have all gone to rot. Each plaque is read and re-read with the hopes of burning it into your memory, each oddity thoroughly examined. The sick that shuffle about mutter their agreement at your wonder as they, too, touch the glass with their fingers and pass by the exhibits. The whale from the outside hangs overhead like a guardian, its sheen refracting until the whole dimly lit passageway glows a soft ocean blue.
You make your way from the blue hall to the glass hall, peering up at the planets suspended from the rafters. The effect is only slightly ruined by the dead that have somehow managed to find their way up there, too, their blood running down the sides of the planets and tainting them from their original glory. There are books for sale here, almost untouched in the chaos. You pick up a heavy one by a man called Stephen Hawking, scanning over the simple title A Brief History of Time. It seems complicated, but you think Shadow might like it.
You bite your lip anxiously as you think about her, your mind briefly flashing to the courtyard and the expression on her face as you ran. You've learned to speak in silence and her silence speaks volumes; you believe there is a person hidden somewhere under the shell of a survivor. She speaks harsh and her eyes hold a dark glint, but you've seen her reading ragged little paperbacks when she thinks nobody's looking, of science and fantasy and complicated looking theories that make no sense to your broken brain. Her thick rimmed glasses, cracked on one lens, soften her edges and almost makes her seem like she could be beautiful.
(Oh, you know she is, but her sharpness makes her too cruel and too angry for it to shine through. Only people with eyes to see can notice, and now the world is blind.)
Before you can over think it, you slip it into your backpack and vow to give it to her when you can (if you can). Maybe then she'll see you're more than your broken parts.
There must have been a special presentation here; a man stands slumped over a podium while his onlookers sprawl out upon the floor and over chairs, up against the displays. In them are animals evolving into men, hulking figures with thick brows striking stones together to create life. You peer further into the glass, following the legacy of your ancestors, stepping over the corpses of their descendants until you reach the last exhibit where the glass covering has been shattered and scattered upon the floor. A different figure stands there instead; you didn't realize Neanderthals wore sneakers.
"You look kinda funny next to them," you tell the mannequin, jumping back with a yelp when his head slowly turns to look at you.
He looks almost normal, but his eyes are wrong and betray him as one of the sick—he wears a simple long shirt and a pair of well kept jeans, frayed only at the heel. The skin you can see is grey but not putrid, cold but not slick. His mouth gapes open as he mindlessly takes you in; you with your blood-covered front and your wide eyes and your trembling fingers. Thrust through his chest looks to be a thighbone of an ancient beast, its weight pulling his torso down to the floor and hunching him until his knuckles brush the tile. Even so, he still towers above you. The dull glint of his ribs is visible around the wound.
"Hey," you whisper to him, "are you okay? That looks like it hurts." He stares and stares until he shuffles forward ever so slightly, the bone dragging with him shattering the silence of the museum. His heavy body steps down from the display until his breath brushes your face, laden with rot. Your eyes sweep over his flat features.
"Do I know you?" you ask, frowning. Something about him seems familiar, an echo of another life.
("Hey, Britt."
"Yeah?"
"You wanna play basketball?"
"You're an orangutan, you'll climb over me."
"So? Better than waiting for another needle."
"I guess. Bring it on!")
You bring a gentle hand to his face and cup his cold cheek, running your thumb tenderly against the bridge of his nose as he turns into you. He can't answer, not with the vocal chords that have been silenced until his bones turn to dust and he is but a breath upon stranger's air, but the blank green eyes speak volumes. You try a smile to lift his monotone spirits.
"I think I do. Do you know me?"
Maybe it's wishful thinking, but the way he stares at you when you speak says something else entirely.
"You should have a name. Do you have one?" You look around his body, digging into his pockets for a wallet and sighing when you come up blank. He just watches you the entire time, his hands touching your soft skin whenever possible and staring so intently at your mouth. "I guess I can give you one instead. You can be... Brad? Jason?"
None of them sound right. You cast your eyes about and eventually they land on the name of the artist who created the displays, and you grin. Perfect.
"John?" His head turns again from where he was distracted, and it feels a little like fate. "Okay, John it is!" You swing his arms in your grip, excited to have company. "Do you want to come see the rest of the museum with me? We still have the dinosaurs to see. Though..." you look at the bone protruding from his chest, "it looks like you've already been."
He wheezes and you take it as agreement, so you hold his hand and drag him along with you. It's slow going as the bone grates along the floor but he manages, stumbling to catch up as you grip his clammy palm and keep him moving. You stand in awe of the dinosaurs and mammoths together, looking at the replicas of the angry saber-tooth tigers with their jaws bared in a frozen grimace. Having somebody around with you that doesn't ask questions or berate you is a nice change... it doesn't remind you of a friend, really, but more of a pet. Maybe you should get him a collar?
Eventually you come across the mounted skeleton of an Allosaurus with a thighbone missing that has it tilting dangerously to one side. You glance at John and the matching bone that curves him forward, biting your lip. "Maybe we should give it back?" you ask him hesitantly, touching the bone and growing bolder when he doesn't move. Its weight is immense, and it takes all your strength to lift it—John's torso follows, scraping against his ribs and spine, eventually levering him upright where he towers a good foot above you. He stares off into the distance as you tug, his body staggering with the force. Eventually you manage to yank the bulbous cap of the bone through him where it sends splinters of ribs flying in all directions. You grunt as it falls to the ground again, heaving it over to the dinosaur where it may reclaim its parts. John glances at his ribs that now protrude out of his body rather than in, but makes no move to fix them.
"You can stand up now, you know," you inform him, gently pressing at a rib or two to force them back into his chest cavity. He mumbles in annoyance and moves past you, his body still curved and fingers touching the floor.
You and your pet finally make your way out of the museum; you note with a mild alarm that the sun has disappeared under the cover of night. How long did you stay in there? Without a calendar or other people to keep you in check the minutes of the day slide through your grasp like sand, unable to be kept or tracked. There is still so much more to see, though, so much of the city to canvas, that which hasn't already been ruined by the dead.
Yet the streetlights have long since begun to dull, and even with your vision that cuts away the shadows the world seems more menacing somehow, dangerous and angry without the sun's guiding glow. John's hand in yours is the only thing that keeps you from bolting, his stiff joints unable to keep up a run—though you do note he moves far better than the others, giving him an almost normal gait if not for his hunch. Together you roam the streets of a city left abandoned and read the notes of the ones left behind, sprayed in dark paint upon the bricks, warning of the things that go bump in the night. Almost all of them scream zombie or Z or dead and you wonder to yourself if your companions at the compound really were right after all.
"Are you a zombie, John?" you ask him as you return to the Upper East Side, carefully wiping the drool from his chin with his bloodied shirt. He groans and mouths at your fingertips like a child as you draw away. "It would make sense, wouldn't it? I can't hear your heart beating... but that doesn't mean you don't have one. Maybe it's sleeping." But no, that bone would have long obliterated anything useful inside of his chest, and, well... you might be bordering on stupid but you know that people can't live without a heart. It's all so surreal... a zombie apocalypse, of all things. The scientists who said the world was going to end with the sun were so far off.
Together you find yourselves in front of the Empire State Building. This was the last on your list for Manhattan and you saved it until the end specifically so it could finish on a breathtaking note. Ever since you woke up in the cold, bright morgue you've wanted to fly.
"Do you want to come with me?" But he's already begun to wander into one of the adjacent buildings, staggering slightly over the broken concrete. You suppose it would be cruel to subject him to all the stairs when he can barely walk properly. "John?" You call to him in a surprisingly timid voice; his head swings to you as he waits. "Wait for me?" He says nothing before continuing on his path, but you hope beyond hope that he will.
Your footsteps echo lonely in the massive foyer as you step into the building; everywhere is the gleam of finery and polished riches, almost fake against the chaos surrounding it. Though blood smears the perfect shine and bodies rot on the leather couches, it does little to take away from its glamour—if anything it enhances it, still beautiful in a wasteland world. The elevator dings softly, its doors forever open as the light flickers inside. How much longer will the city have electricity? Your days of darkness are so readily approaching.
You've always wanted to see the world, you think. Though you lack concrete memories, you have a vague notion of wanting to explore, to witness what mankind had to offer. It would make sense why you're here in a city you think is so far from home with nothing but ghosts of a former life. It makes every new thing enthralling, every floor of this towering building a thing to be explored. You know enough math that you could starve in here, if you weren't careful, roaming every room and checking behind every doorway. It isn't so much the beautiful shiny things that you want (they are pretty, sure, but all pretty things are worthless now) but the experience of it, a tourist in a world that has no time for strangers. Your breath begins to huff by the twentieth floor and you regret not eating more—human flesh eaten once a week sustains you for only so long, and your wasted muscles are none too happy at being put through the strain. Maybe Mike can train you and you can be strong like him.
If you even see them again, anyway. You have no clue where the compound was, only that it lacked the towering buildings that surround you now in Manhattan. They weren't residential streets, really, not enough green for the suburbs; maybe an in between between the two. Brooklyn, perhaps? Queens? Staten Island is too far and you don't even know if they have a subway. Probably not. You wonder how they're doing, if they're all alive. Maybe a few days have passed, maybe a week. It doesn't seem like long but things can go to shit so easily that you've given up debating a long time ago.
At the eighty-fourth floor you groan and lean back on the steps, throwing your head back in exhaustion. You'd underestimated how long it would take to get up there and just how much effort it takes, but it's too late to turn back now and you can almost taste the fresh air. Strangely enough, you haven't seen a single sick person on your journey upwards. You'd think the building would be crawling with them, so many people trapped with no escape when the sickness hit.
Eventually you drag yourself to the top, coming across a gift shop before the last set of stairs leading to the roof. It's obvious people have been here, shelves dragged over other doors and little plushies scattered everywhere; you pick up one of a duck and stuff it in your backpack. Guilty pleasures.
Throwing yourself out on the roof is a relief hardly believed. Your cheek rests on the cool concrete and you lay there for a small lifetime, letting the wind brush over your hair. Eventually you open your eyes and crawl over to the lip of the building, propping your arms up upon the little rim and staring out into the city below.
In retrospect, maybe you should have come in the daylight. But still, with your eyesight that makes shadows yield to you, it is obvious how high up you are, a soaring bird free of the streets. It is eerie, how dark the city is, nary a pinprick of light shining through the gloom. Perhaps in the distance is something that could maybe be a floodlight, but more likely it is the result of the explosion of stars above you; constellations long lost play across the sky in brilliant hues of blue and red, gleaming white and shedding their eternal guidance upon the civilization that has lost its way. You wonder how many supernovae have burned their own galaxies away, whether your own will deliver you the mercy.
(With Earth's record, you sincerely doubt it.)
Upon further inspection, it's obvious that a group of people lived up here. Sleeping bags are strewn about upon the benches that line the space, and cans are stacked in a little corner—corn and tuna and beans and even a container or two of dry noodles with the picture of a bird on it. Your mouth waters and you dive for it before you can over think the repercussions of your actions.
Maybe you don't need it to live but you crave it as a long conditioned ache that will never go away—your stomach growls its content as you crunch through the hard noodles, shoving powdered cheese in your mouth with your hands. It's been so long since you've eaten anything with flavor. It sticks to your teeth and scrapes down your throat when you swallow, but that's okay, really; it's food and it's so good and it's something you can feel okay eating. People still make you guilty when you see their bare bones and their still heart, especially when sometimes they get back up later, your teeth marks still visible in their flesh. Are you making them sick too?
There was a fence here, once. Something has wrenched it from its mooring somehow, thrown it out of alignment and made it droop open. You wonder what would have the kind of force to do such a thing but quickly run out of ideas and shake your head, resigning yourself to never knowing. Maybe it's for the better?
You do a slow pace along the perimeter, eyes zeroing in on the gleam of dull metal. A gun—large, too. It has grips and a massive barrel and a thing on the top that you don't know what it does until you look through it and the world is put into such focus that you can read the graffiti so very far away. You run your hand against its shell and decide to take it. Maybe you'll feel bad eventually, but they have so many others that they won't miss one. (Where did they get all those? Maybe they stole them too. The blood on the handles would attest to that.)
Slinging it over your shoulder, you pull yourself up to where two ledges meet and stare down at the sprawling city spread out beyond and below. Not too long ago you would have thrown yourself from here if given the chance, your world so full of indecision and agony that the wait was never worth the reward. But now... now you have people that you know will miss you if you're gone (at least some of them). You think of Tina and Mercedes and Mike and Artie and Shadow, who likes you in her own razor-wire way, and the fact that not all of them will be here by the time the year is out. It's pretty much inevitable. It hurts in a way that you think is related to affection—you aren't sure, it's been so long since you've felt so much anyway.
Maybe it's time to go home.
There is a commotion near the door and you pause as you take out your map, looking over as two figures enter the rooftop. They joke among each other but pause as they look at you; the staring match that ensues has you frozen.
Eventually, one speaks.
"Hah, look at this one! It looks like a fuckin' tourist! With a sweet-ass gun, anyway." He has a muscle shirt with a leather jacket over top, a pipe clenched in one hand and a heavy looking shotgun in the other. He reminds you of Puck with his sneer and the tone that is too close to mocking for it to be anything other than insulting in a way you can't grasp. "Has a map an' everything!"
The other boy, skinnier, looks at you nervously. "How did it get up here? We barricaded the way up a long time ago. Do you think there's another way?"
"Calm your shit," Muscle-shirt scoffs, "maybe we jus' missed one or somethin'. It looks pretty stupid anyway, jus' starin' at us. Maybe its brain's gone or some shit." His mouth curves into an evil grin. "You think it'll try'n bite me if I push it off the roof?"
He advances on you despite the boy's anxious bro, maybe you shouldn't... from behind him. Your eyes lock at the same time that you open your mouth.
"Can you not do that? I don't want to die today."
Muscle-shirt halts almost immediately and gapes at you like you're suddenly a mystical being, a god come down to earth. His friend (brother?) lets out a gasp of surprise and takes a step back, towards the door.
"You... you're alive?!" Muscle-shirt sputters, taking in your mouth and shirt soaked through with the blood of your meals. "The fuck you doin' up here? This is our turf!"
Your eyebrows raise. "Is it? Nobody told me. I went to the museum today to see the whales and wanted to come here next. I've never been to New York, you know." You shrug then, unapologetic. "I dunno why you think it's your turf, there's nothing like the sea close to here."
"Turf, not surf," the younger boy says after a few moments of deliberation. "Like, our land? Home?"
"Oh, like the compound?" you ask with a smile. "That makes more sense. I just wanted to see the view."
Muscle-shirt throws his hands up in the air. "This is fuckin' ridiculous. The world has gone to shit with a zombie apocalypse and you're gone outside sight-seeing? You fucked in the head or somethin'? You must be, doing stupid shit like that."
Now he sounds like Puck, and you cross your arms over your chest defensively. "They like me. They don't try to hurt me. See, look." You fiddle with your sleeve and pull up your bandage, showing them the bite mark. It's closing now, scabbed over but not an ugly shade of red; it could be mistaken for an unfortunate knife slip in another life, if not for the imperfect but distinct crescent. "It only kind of hurts now and they haven't tried since." It remains to be seen who when or why, but the what has been solved.
You're not prepared for the gun that whips up to point at your forehead, Muscle-shirt's face caught in a thunderous scowl. "You infected too? That's fuckin' rich, Blondie. Bet you're gonna turn any minute now."
"Turn?" You frown at him, never taking your eyes off the barrel aimed between your eyes. "I don't want to look at the street, you might shoot me."
The younger boy advances, his hands hovering nervously over his weapon. "Wait a minute, man." He says to Muscle-shirt, who looks at him so fiercely you think he'll wither under its force.
"The fuck you doin', little bro? If you think I'm lettin' you get near this psycho bitch, you got another thing comin'," he snaps, but does nothing as his brother continues towards you. His eyes are kinder, blue like the sea.
He smiles at you and you smile back. "Show me your arm again?" he asks, and because he's so nice about it you do, revealing the wound and the slow, beginning scar. His eyes rake over it from a distance before letting out a breath. "You say one of them bit you?" he asks seriously, and within the question is a deeper answer you aren't sure you have.
"I dunno," you reply, "I woke up one day and it was like this, all super gross and leaking and everything. It really hurt... but it's healing now and I don't think it's infected. I'm pretty sure it's not an animal though."
"No kidding." He blows out a breath, too heavy for somebody so young. "Look, you... you should come down from there. We can work this out."
Muscle-shirt makes a noise of protest, but you step down anyway, subconsciously adjusting the strap of the weapon across your chest. It draws his attention.
"Nice gun you got there, Blondie," he says with a smirk, "a bit too nice for such a pretty girl. You should hand it over... don't want you to get hurt."
You frown, shuffling backwards a little. "No, that's okay." It's mine now, your mind says angrily, tightening your grip around the sling. Muscle-shirt doesn't take no for an answer, advancing until you can see down the barrel of the shotgun he's holding. You have strange, fevered flashes of another life.
"Give it to me," he says firmly, reaching to grab it from you. You slap his hand away as it comes, but not soon enough; his hand grasps the strap and he looks at it, eyeing the red stripe that runs underneath. "You know," he says lowly, "that looks real like somethin' I've seen before... wouldn't happen to know anythin' about that, would you? Brian, check the guns."
A patter of footsteps, followed by rustling and an intake of breath. "We're missing one."
Muscle-shirt turns back to you with a venomous smirk. "Tryin' to steal from us, huh? You fuckin' bitch, thinkin' you can get away with that shit. I think we should teach you a lesson." His eyes rake down your frame and your heart starts to hammer; he reminds you more of Sam now and his eyes that follow you across the room even when you can't see him, and maybe even of Puck with the way he looks at Shadow when he knows she's looking.
"N-no, I didn't—" But he backs you up until you're pressed against the ledge, the shotgun barrel cold against your stomach. His brother is saying something, telling him not to, but you can't hear him over the blood rushing in your ears and the... the...
Lungs. So many lungs.
You open your mouth to warn them but he presses a hand to it, smothering you, and you thrash in an attempt to get free. Noises are coming from your throat in shrill bursts as he forces you down to the ground, sitting on your hips so heavily it's impossible to break loose. Now his hands are over you and you feel dirty, tainted, and your first shriek comes as he palms your breasts roughly with a smirk.
"Nobody's gonna hear you, Blondie, so let it all out." He hisses as he grabs at the collar of your shirt. He's just so heavy, and you can't move, and all you hear is the wheezing from below and your yelling and his brother's yelling and it's all too much too soon too fast, and you swallow a rough sob.
"Jared, stop it!" His brother—Brian—pleads, tugging at his arm; he's shoved to the ground where he sprawls out, stunned—moment's later there's the sound of ripping fabric and air hits your skin and he jerks back, repulsed.
"The fuck..." Jared whispers, staring down at the thick marks the man who played with you last left for the world. You attempt to cover yourself, vision blurred, but he pins your wrists to the ground. "Oh no, you ain't gettin' out of this just 'cause you're fuckin' ugly," he snarls, reaching for the buckle of your pants.
Before he can, chaos erupts.
The lungs you hear are suddenly so much louder and they burst through the door, their footsteps dragging along the ground. Their first victim is the little one, descending upon him from where he's still sprawled out on the floor. His scream is nothing but one burst of sound that cuts off on a gurgle.
Jared swings his head over in alarm and scrambles for his gun but you kick it out of his reach, shoving him hard to get him away from you. His back hits the ledge and his pistol is smacked from his hand where it skitters to the other end of the roof. There's nowhere to go for him and you feel their rotting legs brush past you, salivating, aching for the flesh that wipes away everything else. You shiver and hold yourself close as he looks at you for one fleeting moment—angrily, desperately, like you would save him from his fate—before he takes a few solid steps and throws himself off the edge, into the eternal abyss. Some of the sick follow him, their bodies slowly toppling over and disappearing to the ledge a story below.
A pair of feet stop just before you, and you glance up to see John looking back down at you. You let out a choked sob and lunge for him, hugging his knees so tight he falls onto his ass, huffing a little as he hits. Your arms wind around his shoulders and you crush your face to his neck, taking comfort in his solid body.
"You saved me," you hiccup into his skin, "thank you so m-much, I-I don't know w-what would've ha-happened if—" But you do know, and he lets you hold him until the sky becomes light once again and you wash away the could have beens.
~.~.~.~.~
The shirt you wear now is Brian's, gently peeled from his bloodied body with care. He didn't deserve to die but the sons must pay for the sins of the father (it doesn't quite work that way this time, but they were blood and it was enough.) Your pack is bulging with their food, the guns slung over your back a heavy reminder of what you cost them. They rattle as you walk but to John, they make no sound at all.
The two of you manage to reach the bottom more easily than the top, even though the stairwell is now crawling with the sick. You're unsure how they found you, how they knew, but John's hand in yours is enough for you to think he had a part in it. Recently, you've noticed how he turns to you only when you speak.
Maybe he heard your screams?
Jared is at the bottom, half sprawled over the curb. If not for the disintegration of his skull all over the sidewalk his body seems fairly intact... until you pick up his arm and it droops like a withered plant, devoid of any structure to keep its shape. Underneath his skin feels strangely like soup.
You wander now without cause; the sightseeing spirit has been sucked out of you, but you're still hopelessly lost in a city you don't understand, aimlessly weaving in and out of buildings in the search for things you don't know how to find. It's not worth the effort to find a new shirt—everything here is crisp and cut and clean, something that is foreign these days. It looks wrong somehow, like something unbloodied isn't worth keeping. John mumbles his agreement with his ruined tshirt, the name of the band long obscured with rot.
There's a slight detour when you find a shopping mall, a day spent playing upon the shiny new consoles that gleam from the electronics store. You acquire a crowd as you play a game called Left 4 Dead, blasting away what you assume to be zombies. All you can really think is that they're terribly off-mark from what the apocalypse really looks like. If they all moved that fast, the world wouldn't stand a chance.
You're in the middle of testing a trampoline when a sign makes you stop mid-bounce, causing John to topple from where his precious balance has been upset. Need a specialist? It reads, Come to Goodwin Medical Center! Initial analysis done free of charge! Maybe you do need a specialist, a whole army of specialists, but you're more concerned with the fact that the picture of the practice looks exactly like the compound you've been living in—minus the boarded windows and blood stains, of course. You throw yourself from the trampoline and rush to the sign, wiping away the bits of brain matter that have spattered upon the glass. The Bronx.
Do you want to go back and release the freedom you've obtained? Your hunger grows day by day and you so enjoy the sanity that comes with a full stomach, but... are you really so sane, living in a ghost city with nothing but the moaning dead for company? Perhaps a different kind of insanity will grip you then, one unable to be cured by something as simple as food.
You realize you've already made your decision.
"Come on, John," you call, laughing as he trips off the trampoline and cringing as he loses a few teeth on the concrete floor, "we have somewhere we need to go."
The sun dims once again (how many times has that been now?) as you realize belatedly that the Bronx is a large, large place. These streets still look unfamiliar and you've decided just to roam until things start to make sense again, not daring to visit the subways lest you lose your way. John seems unbothered by the change in scenery, bringing your hand up to his mouth every so often to taste and see if something has changed. It never does.
Eventually you spot a subway entrance and a bike leaning next to it that looks awfully like the one you used to have. You grin, excited, and pull it from its resting place, running your hands over the frame and itching to go faster than a walk. "I can't wait for you to meet my friends," you say conspiratorially to John, voice low, "well, I think they're my friends. I hope so. Some of them are kinda mean."
Most of them are kind of mean, actually, in one way or another.
John staggers off and a few moments later you hear the distinguishable sound of tearing flesh coming from one of the nearby stores. You poke your head inside and see him crouched over a corpse, stuffing his face with something you don't really want to think about; this weird, yellow jelly that comes out by the handful. You blanch slightly.
"You can't do stuff like that if you want to be in the compound," you chastise him but he pays no mind; your sway only goes so far, and something else grabs his attention to take it away entirely. It's becoming obvious that you might have to leave him behind.
Torn, you crouch down to his level, placing a hand on his back. "Can you stop doing that?" you ask him, but he has none of your self-control. He's like all the others as they join him, ripping and tearing until the body is but a bloody smear upon the ground.
It seems the best of both worlds isn't in your cards.
"I guess you have to stay here then, huh?" you say sadly, absently gnawing on a severed finger. He grumbles at you for a moment, face shiny with gore, and his cloudy eyes give you the answer. They won't see a person, they'll see the enemy. You ruffle his matted hair and give him a tight hug. "Stay away from the compound, okay? They'll hurt you. I'll see you again eventually." Your fingers wind in his necklace that you never noticed and take it, thumbing over the small cross. "If I have this I can talk to you, okay? You'll be with me anyway. I'll talk to you every day."
Your pet looks at you as you raise and stands to follow you, but you push him down again. His appetite must be sated for he gets right back up.
"John," you plead, "you have to stay. Here, do you want my finger?" You give him what remains and he sucks on it noisily, stuffing it in his mouth. It distracts him enough that you're able to mount your bike and wheel away; not without looking back once or twice at his shrinking silhouette.
Your wheels crunch the gravel as you circle the blocks aimlessly, achingly alone for the first time in a while. His necklace cuts into your palm as you grip the handlebars so tightly your knuckles ache, weaving around abandoned cars and corpses alike. The world feels a lot bigger now, a lot emptier.
Stopping at an intersection, you sigh and lean on the handles. Maybe you should just go back to him; you're so obviously lost and your broken brains have no affinity for directions. You could spend eternity crossing these streets.
Until.
A heartbeat.
You look around wildly for the source of the noise—multiple of them, a cluster, all nearing you. You abandon your bike and dive for cover behind a bannister, plastering your back to the brick and peering out of the side. From this angle it's impossible to see but your hands have begun to tremble with anxious anticipation. (You feel his hands on you and you're filthy again.)
One of the figures picks up your bike, noting the smears of blood where your hands have touched. "I recognize this bike..." they murmur, looking up and around curiously. "Britt?" They call quietly, afraid of what might be lurking around the corner. "Britt, are you there?"
"Leave it," comes a deeper, more masculine voice, "she's been gone forever, I'm sure she's dead somewhere."
"No, this blood's still fresh," the first voice insists, "she was just here. Britt!"
A brief struggle. "You trying to get us killed?" the second voice hisses. "There's still a ton of walkers in this area. Anything louder than a whisper is bad news."
"I get it, Finn." The lighter—feminine—one snaps. "But I liked her. Excuse me for wanting her to be okay."
Wait, you recognize that voice! It's...
"Tina?" you call timidly, watching from over the bannister as their heads whip around to find the noise. Finn pulls his pistol up to eye-level but Tina gives him a venomous glare and stomps on his foot.
"Britt, are you there? We're not gonna hurt you, you can come out."
But you see Finn and his eyes that look like Jared's in the moments before he fell. "Finn's gonna shoot me," you argue, ducking out of sight when her eyes scan over your hiding place. "He shot the man, remember? He'll shoot me too."
Put the gun down, Tina hisses to him, and a battle of wills ensues to the point where you think he might win, but eventually he gives out a long-suffering sigh and a petulant if we die it's your fault before holstering his gun.
"See?" she coaxes gently. "It's safe. We can take you home."
Biting your lip you unfold yourself from your hiding place, stepping out of the shadows and into the dull light of day. She smothers a gasp at your condition and rushes forward, careful with how you flinch at the movement. "Oh, sweetie..." she whispers, looking over your front soaked with blood, covering your hands, and the mess on your face. "What happened?"
Your mouth opens a few times in silence before you pull the closest thing to the truth off the shelves of your mind. "I met Brian and Brian had a bird, but I was hungry so I ate it. His brother wasn't happy but then the sick people ate him and his brother, so I guess it's okay. I took their stuff because it looked nice." You swallow a few times because you remember the look on the little boy's face as they devoured him, suddenly at a loss for words. "He screamed a lot. I can hear it when I sleep."
Tina frowns in sympathy, stroking your hair back from your forehead. "We'll go home and get you cleaned up, okay? And we should really wrap that hand. Did you stitch it yourself?"
Until now you'd forgotten the reason of why you went away in the first place entirely, shoved to the back of your mind. The cut throbs.
"Shadow did it for me," you mumble, unaware of the way her eyes narrow; you're too busy stroking the wounds, tracing over every stitch like a rhythm impossible to break. "She even wrapped it, but the woman tore it off."
"What woman?" Tina asks, motioning for Finn to pick up your bike and commence the trek home. His eyes are riveted to the guns strapped across your back.
You shrug, agitated. "Shadow said we were going on a field trip so we went outside, but all she wanted me to do was talk to the woman that was in the compound. She ate my bandages but then Shadow shot her in the face before she could get to the door. I didn't like the... the sound, so I ran."
Tina's grip tightens on your wrists to the point of crushing and her face is like thunderheads, eyes almost black with anger.
"Did I say the wrong thing? I'm sorry. I do that a lot." You never had to worry about that with John because he didn't care... you miss him already.
She strokes your knuckles. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. I just... I need to talk to Santana." Tina mutters angrily, rounding the corner to the compound. The three of you pound on the doors until the chains rattle and you're let in to a flurry of surprised Brittany! and girl, where you been? and even man, I thought you were dead! It's all too much too soon and so much noise booms in your head, echoing and bouncing until you're knocked off kilter. Tina recognizes your discomfort and pulls you away to the bathrooms, setting you down upon the bench with a smile.
"You take a shower and I'll bring you some clothes, okay?" she says softly, stroking her gentle hands down your neck. You nod and hum, eyes suddenly heavy. When did you last sleep? Too long ago. She leaves and you carefully strip yourself from your ruined clothes, eyes skipping past the mirrors where all your baby-bird bones are visible to see. The spray burns away the past few days of filth and rot and terror; you fill your mouth with water and grimace when it comes back red. Your hair plasters to your sharp collarbones and some semblance of humanity returns to you.
There is muffled yelling coming from down the corridor, but from here it's unable to be deciphered. You crane to it the best you can, listening intently, your wounded arm pressed tightly against the warm tiles for protection. It's Tina's voice, that much you can tell, and that timbre can't be anything other than Shadow's—you'd know that tone anywhere. It sounds angry with something else, something like desperation that sounds wrong coming from her.
You become so focused with your eavesdropping that you almost slip on the tile when Sam rounds the corner, placing fresh clothing (or as fresh as things can be here) on the bench. Your heart booms loud in your chest as you gasp, blinking water out of your eyes.
"Sorry," he apologizes with a lopsided smile, "I didn't mean to scare you."
Every time you see Sam you never really know what to say to him, not with his stare that is so much more menacing than those of the glassy-eyed outside the compound. You shrink down so that just your head peeks out of the shower wall and nod, wide-eyed, willing him to leave with that blank look you give everybody else. But he doesn't seem to take the hint.
"Man," he starts instead, turning to where you had put down your pack and the payload within, "these are some sweet guns. Are you sure you didn't raid a military base or something?" He picks up one of the larger guns in his hand, bringing the sight to his eyes and stalking around the room, whispering to himself in what you think is an impersonation of a radio. It would be cute in a dorky way if he wasn't touching your stuff in your bathroom while you're having your shower. You tell him as much.
"Don't touch them," you tell him flatly, not breaking into expression even as he pouts at you.
"C'mon, I was just looking," he says, propping it on his hip. You don't even know if the safety's on and flinch slightly as he waves it in your direction; these tiles wouldn't stop a bullet, you don't think, and you've had enough wounds to last yourself a lifetime.
"I said don't touch them," you repeat, not quite prepared to leave your warm haven of the shower but growing uncomfortable enough to yell for somebody else. Your savior comes instead with Artie, trusty Mike carrying him down the hallway.
"If the woman says not to touch the goods, bro, you don't touch the goods," he admonishes and Sam sheepishly puts the gun back where it belongs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "What's good, sugar?" Artie asks with a nod, and you nod stiffly back. All these people around when you're naked is starting to put you on edge.
"What day is it?" you ask instead to distract yourself; Mike counts on his fingers for a moment.
"Wednesday, I think," he says, affirmed by Artie's yup from over his shoulder. So you've only been gone three days.
"Oh, no girl," Artie replies—you must have said that aloud again, fuck—with a sympathetic grimace, "you've been gone over a week. We thought you were fucked for good a few days ago."
How did you—you remember sleeping once, in the subway amongst the dead. And that was at the beginning, too, the Sunday where Shadow scared you off and you struck out alone. They see the distressed expression on your face and Sam books it, sliding between Mike and the doorway before disappearing down the hall. Mike offers you a small smile instead.
"It's okay, you're home now. You can figure out what happened after you get cleaned up," he soothes, and it feels a lot better than having a breakdown in the middle of your shower.
"Okay," you sniff, rubbing your cleaner hands under your eyes, "I can do that. Now can you leave?"
They laugh though you don't see anything funny and leave you alone with the patter of the shower and John's little necklace still clenched in your fist. You look at it, gingerly holding the cross in your injured palm. "What do I do, John?" You ask, but not for the first time, he doesn't answer.