Dawn of the Yeti (6 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I stumble through
the building as best I can, avoiding the rubble and forgotten furniture. I want
to just stop and hide in one of the corners, curl up and wait for everything to
blow over. But I know it won’t. The Jo-Bran will come.

I press myself
along, not stopping to listen or rest, just running. On the other side of the
building, I find a broken window and jump through into another alley. I step to
the other side and search for another gap in the wall. It takes me a few
minutes to find another one, my heart beating twice for every second that
passes. At the mouth of the alley, a few Banjankri run by, a group of Jo-Bran
quickly follow. There is no sign of Meredith. She sacrificed herself for me,
something I wouldn’t have done, would never have thought of doing. I loved my
family. Not my pack, I wouldn’t die for them.

Through more
debris and long-lost homes, I travel, keeping to the darkest of corners,
staying as silent as I can. Soon they run out though, and I’m caught with
nowhere to go. All around me are leveled buildings, broken stone heaps that
serve as insults to what we once had and were. My breath comes sharp, in fast pants.
I consider turning back and finding a place to hide, but how can I hide amongst
monsters? Too many open places. Not enough shelter. No home.

Then my eyes find
an echo. The building, still intact, waiting for me.

I have to cross
the street to make it inside. I don’t stop to think about it; I just run,
mindless of my surroundings, whoever, whatever sees me. I run. I hear more
gunshots, shrieks. Smears of blood cut the ground, limbs, rocks, chunks of ice.
It all blurs underfoot as I run, focusing on the door. My door.

I fly up the
steps, praying it’s open. It isn’t. I have to force it, the sound of my
shoulder hitting the door resounding throughout the city, sounding so loud that
I’m afraid everyone will be after me. After another few hits, it cracks open and
I slide inside, slamming the door behind me. I lock both bolts, knowing they
mean nothing, and I wait. Listen. Wait. Distant cries. Wait. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe.

Nothing.

My hands close. My
arms fall. My muscles relax. My heart slows by a few beats. For the moment, I’m
safe, maybe even long enough for the sun to rise. It shouldn’t be long now. The
Jo-Bran will be forced to hide in the darkness, and the Banjankri will be too
occupied with collecting whatever scraps of themselves that remain to notice me.
I turn around, and my breath is knocked from me.

The place is just
as I imagined it, a carbon copy of my own home. It’s as if I’ve stepped back in
time and into the future at the same time. Like I’m looking at what our house
would’ve been, what it probably has become, if I’d remained. The design is the
same, the stairs, the foyer, the living room.

I tip-toe through
the place, wary of disturbing the smallest spec of dust. There is something
holy about visiting your past and your future. I don’t want to wake the dead;
they’ve haunted me enough. So I creep through the place, imagining everything
as it was, the couch, the television, my wife in the kitchen, waiting for me to
start supper, helping me cut the carrots, my daughter at the table, finishing
up her homework. The visions won’t clear, even when I shake my head, try and
focus on the splinters of a table, the scattered pantry full of frozen mice and
a few cans of food.

But I’ve been too
loud.

I’ve woken them.

They whisper to
me.

My wife’s voice
fills my ears, telling me to go upstairs, to come to bed, sleep. My daughter
says she needs help with an algebra problem, and I mumble something about it
never being something I understood. I follow their voices. They lead me
upstairs into the rooms in the same places, the same set up, where I don’t want
to go or be. Their voices pull me into the master bedroom and I expect to find
them there, beautiful and whole.

“You.”

This voice cuts
through my vision like a Jo-Bran’s claw. My wife and daughter dissipate into the
air, broken into thousands of pieces and scatter across the room. It takes me a
moment to clear my skull of them completely, put them to rest and allow myself
to see who’s speaking. My vision comes to, and I see the figure standing in the
middle of the master bedroom

It’s Goatee.

His shotgun is
aimed at my chest, his finger on the trigger. Red stains spot his furs like
some terrible rash or disease. I can even pick out chunks of flesh and bone
within them.

“It’s all your
fault,” he says. “This never would’ve happened if it weren’t for you and that
bitch.” He spits out the last word, his voice drifting into a harsh hiss.

I shrug. What am I
supposed to say?

“Where is she?” He
leans, trying to look over my shoulder, into the hall, down the stairs.

“Who?”

“Don’t play stupid
with me. Where the fuck is she?”

“Meredith?”

“The bitch with
the glowing eyes.”

All I see is her
running into the pack of Jo-Bran. “She’s dead.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true,” I
say, thinking that there is no other way for her to have escaped such an
ordeal. “I saw it myself.”

Then a grin
spreads over his face, the tips of his teeth showing between the cracked lips.
“Then there is no one here to save you.” His finger goes for the trigger, and I
move, my instincts taking over, kicking in to save my broken life for one more
minute.

The shot explodes.
I’m diving through the door’s frame, but part of the shot still clips me in the
arm. The pain soaks into me, like water into sand, but there is no time to dwell
on it. I can hear Goatee already stepping across the room, coming for me. I hop
the trellis remnants and stumble down the stairs. Another shot sprays splinters
across my head and blasts a huge hole in the nearby wall. I run.

My instincts tell
me to head for the door, but my logic reminds me that this is a terrible idea.
Instead of outside, I duck into the living room, another shot missing me by
mere inches.

“There’s nowhere
to go,” Goatee says. “It’s either outside or inside.” His boots clomp as they drop
on each step. “Either way, you’ve got monsters to deal with.”

I peer through the
hole he’s just blasted through, and we lock eyes, his clean blue eye, staring
into my own.

“You’re fucked,”
he says, training the shotgun my way. Another blast, but I’m already halfway to
the kitchen.

“Aren’t we all,” I
say.

“Because of you,”
he starts.

I hear the shells
slide into the barrel, the click of the gun.

“So what’s the
point of killing me?” I frantically search the kitchen, looking for anything I
could use as a weapon, thinking about how stupid and ironic it is that I’m
running from my own gun. But the only thing of any weight or purchase are the
cans of food in the pantry. I sneak inside. Grab a can in both hands and wait.

“Because I’ll have
that satisfaction of doing the job myself. You know the feeling.” His steps
soften once he’s down the stairs, but the crackling debris still gives away his
position. “I saw you kill that soon-to-be Banjankri. Stabbing him with a shard
of blood.” A few more crunching steps. “You’re just as heartless as the rest of
us. You do what it takes to survive.” Another crunch. “And you thought you were
different.”

His last comment
comes so full and loud, I know that he’s entered the kitchen. I sneak a quick
look, my face to the floor, and I see his boots stopped just inside, coming in
from the living room. I stand, praying my knees don’t pop or my bulk disturbs
any of my surroundings.

I take in a
breath. Hold it. And throw one of the cans across the room.

His gun blasts and
I leap from the pantry, knowing that this will save me or kill me. He sees me;
my arm is in motion. The gun turns; I release the other can. It flies; he aims.
I head straight at him; the can smashes into his opaque eye. I hear the crack;
the gun fires. The wall shreds, and I’m on him, tackling him to the floor. We
land in a heap, Goatee, me, and the can, thudding to the floor with enough
force to knock the wind out of our lungs.

The shotgun has
fallen to the floor, out of reach. So I go for the can, scoop it back up and go
to work. Goatee is still dazed from the first hit when I bring the half-frozen
can of pears onto his face. A circle cuts into his forehead, and I hear the
snapping of bone. The squish. The gurgled scream as I continue to smash and
smash and smash. I don’t stop until the can disappears into his skull, hidden
from view.

And he was right.
I do feel the satisfaction.

Chapter Fifteen

I pick up the gun
and carry it back upstairs, into the master bedroom. From the broken window, I
see sky. Some of the stars have already blinked out, taken off for the day to
let the sun rule as it should. The color has changed; it’s still black, only
the eastern edge has lightened, a thin strip of blue like the first dusting of
snow. Dawn is coming. Safety. A chance.

I walk into the
already open closet, the door removed from the hinges and nowhere to be found.
Probably used for firewood. I crawl to the back, dragging my hand across the
wall, trying to rid it of Goatee’s blood and skull and gray matter.

My arm finally
starts to hurt as I curl into a ball, crumpling up on the floor. A discarded
piece of trash. The pain burns, shooting through my arm, setting the rest of me
on fire. It’s a good feeling, lets me know I’m still alive. But still here in
this godless place. Laughter bubbles up from my belly and erupts from me. I
don’t want it to. I don’t even know what started it, but I can’t stop. So I
cradle the shotgun, my shotgun, and laugh myself to sleep.

*         
*   *

When I wake,
sunlight has filtered into the room, a small square just outside the closet
door. I try to move, but my body is stiff and frozen. I have to break it free
with small movements, each one emphasized by a sharp pin in whatever joint is
being disturbed. My arm is extra sore, my surrounding furs stained red with my
own blood.

I’m surprised that
I didn’t take care of it before I went to sleep. The past night of events
floods my mind. Instead of wondering why I didn’t take care of my wounds, I can
hardly believe I can even open my eyes, survey the world, and simply breathe.

Downstairs, I head
into the kitchen, stepping over Blue Eye’s body and thinking I should do
something about it, cover it at least. There is a small knife in his belt, and
in one of his fur’s pockets, I find a box of matches, with a few rattling
around inside. I drag the large leftovers of the table and cover most of his
body, a death shroud of wood.

I find the can I
threw to distract Goatee by the back door. One side is dented, but I don’t see
any rust on its edges. I use the knife to poke through the top and drink the
unfrozen liquid. It tastes like corn. I pry open the top and stand in the
ravaged room, crunching through slightly frozen kernels. I wish it was some
fruit, knowing that the sugar would help boost my energy. I’ve got a long way
to go.

After I take a
glance around the area, I squeak the door open. There is nothing to see
outside, no bloodprints or bodies to litter the back street. Neither is there a
live thing to speak of, just red snow and bloody ice. As fast as I can, I pack
a ball of snow and carry it inside.

Standing in front
of the stove, I make a small fire in the sink using some of the pantry shelves
I’ve broken down and Goatee’s matches. It’s not a big fire, just enough to sterilize
Goatee’s knife and melt some of the snow in the empty can from breakfast. Once
it’s melted, I slosh it around in the bottom, trying to clean the last few
kernels and juice from it. I toss the water over my shoulder then stuff the
majority of the rest of the snow inside, some of it melting on contact with the
still-warm can. It doesn’t take long to melt the rest, and soon I have a
bubbling cup of water.

I set it down on
the counter and try and strip off my coats and furs, dropping them into a heap on
the floor. They look and smell like dead animals. It’s been too long since I
last removed them and I’m glad there aren’t any mirrors around. If I knew what
I looked like, I couldn’t imagine myself as someone else; I’d have to be who I
was, see who I am, and accept the fact that I’d be unrecognizable.

The air is colder
than I remember, my skin breaking into gooseflesh. I try to hurry.  Blood
is crusted on my upper bicep, the bleeding stopped on its own. This fact makes
me feel better about the situation, figuring that it can’t be that bad if it
stopped on its own. I dump the still-bubbling water over the wound. The
surrounding flesh turns a beet red, and the crusted blood washes away in thin
torrent. The shot starts to bleed again, but no more than a trickle.

With the leftover
snow, I hold it to the wound, letting the cold both sooth and seal what’s left.
I examine my work the best I can, but my arm doesn’t bend quite enough for me
to see the damage in full. I figure I’ll live—as long as I can find some
food and get out of here without the Jo-Bran finding me.

I put the furs
back on, one layer at a time. It surprises me how quickly the smell fades and
becomes a part of me once again. I grab the two remaining cans of food from the
pantry shelves and stuff them into my pouch, grab the gun, open the back door,
and head outside before I have time to second guess myself and just hole up in
the home.

My family’s voices
call to me as I traipse down the back steps, telling me to stay and that
everything will be alright if I join them. Looking back at the house, I remind
myself that it isn’t mine; it never was or will be. Someone else’s ghosts haunt
the place. My ghosts haunt me—and always will. I’ll carry them with me
until I find a way to silence them, satisfy them of their longing, my longing.
But for the moment, I use their memory to press on, out and away from this
place, their voices, death.

I keep to the
shadows, trying blend in amongst the blinding white snow as I possibly can.
Every now and again I hear the sounds of gunfire, a few screams, the occasional
growl, but they always sound distant, too far for me to bother with or worry
about. From building to building I travel, hiding behind the larger walls and
piles of rubble, and soon there are no more buildings left for me to use: I’m
at the city’s edge.

There is only one
place for me to go. The Spire. I know it isn’t the best of places, but I need
food, shelter, and it’s the only place I might find both. Maybe hunker down for
a few days until I can come up with some sort of plan, some way to move on,
find a new pack, survive.

The only problem
is getting there. I might’ve been able to make it by nightfall if I’d left with
the sunrise, but it’s pushing the middle of the day, the sun almost directly
overhead. As it stands, I’ll have to travel a few hours after nightfall, which
shouldn’t be a problem—as long as no one or no thing sees me on my
journey, which is next to impossible. Even in the daylight, the Jo-Bran should
be able to spot me, a black spot amongst the snow. My only hope is that they
will go after the fleeing Banjankri and leave a lone set of bootprints alone.

Giving one more
sweep of the land, I don’t notice any of the monsters lurking about. I turn to
run, even take my first few steps when I hear the grunt, a quick huff of breath
that demands my every ounce of attention. My head jerks. A Jo-Bran stands to my
right. I’m just out of his reach.

I swing the
shotgun around, but I’m too late to fire. He’s already swinging at me. I dive
to the side, firing once in his direction. It explodes across his stubby leg,
causing it to fall with a roar and spray of blood. I try to roll out the way,
but I don’t quite make it in time, his claws raking across my back. A scream
bursts from me as I train the shotgun on the Jo-Bran’s face.

Click.

Boom.

Brains.

I lie back,
pushing my wounds into the snow, the cold numbing them. They already burn, ten
times as fierce as my arm. Part of me wants to just stay here, give up, and
wait for something else to come over and finish me off. But I can’t, my ghosts
won’t let me.

Even though it
hurts like hell, I sit back up. Stand. Then run.

I can feel the
blood trickling down my back, the frigid air entering through the tears and
cooling the rest of my skin. I hope the blood will freeze, close the wounds,
but I doubt it will. It won’t be long—if I’m not already—that my
blood will leave a perfect trail for anyone and anything to follow. My only
hope is the Spire. Maybe someone’s left a first aid kit inside. I doubt the
Banjankri looted much from it, but who knows?

I run.

The sun is already
too far along for comfort. There is no way I’m going to make it to the Spire
before nightfall and even less of a chance that I’ll survive much after the sun
goes down. I’m bleeding too much, too weak from lack of food—there’s no
way I can stop to eat. And the Jo-Bran could make it to the Spire in just a few
hours. I figure I’ve got about six hours total before they’ll catch up with me.

I run.

The Spire looks
like it’s sprouting from the ground like a sprig of corn, growing higher and
higher as I approach. I finally collapse, still too far to gain the extra boost
of “being so close.” I take in deep, sharp breathes, the clouds puffing out
from my mouth, obscuring my view of the clear sky.

It’s nothing but
blue above me, open wide and inviting me to just let go of the earth. Let
gravity switch and carry me out and away, into the void above. I wonder if
that’s where Genevieve and Krista are, looking down and watching over me from
somewhere so high that you can’t see them. They look through the stars and past
planets just to see me, my personal guardians, my personal demons. I can’t let
them see me like this, so broken and weak that I can’t move. Before I stand and
press on, I push my back deeper into the snow, allowing the cold to numb my
wounds once more. I take a handful of snow and pop it into my mouth.

I run.

The sun drifts
behind the ice range. And the sky threatens to fade. On the eastern horizon, it
has already given way to the creeping darkness. A loud ragged bellow drifts on
the open air from behind me. I take a look back, though I know I won’t see
anything. And I don’t. Just the buildings and snow that from this distance look
like they’ve fallen asleep, collapsed one upon the other to wait out the frozen
night.

I run.

The Spire looms
ahead, no more than an hour or two away, but the sun has left me. It sank too
long ago, the event bolstered by a mighty roar from thousands of screaming
Jo-Bran.

Tonight is a night
for revenge.

I run.

I know that they are
after me. I can hear their grunts and growls, their pounding feet and paws as
they push themselves across the covered ground, snow gorillas.

I run.

The Spire is so
close. My back has gone numb, the pain fading into a dull ache that ebbs
throughout every corner of my body. Even my toes hurt. I can hardly breathe,
and I think that the weight of the gun and cans of food will drag me into the
earth. I drop the cans, figuring that there is no use for them if I don’t
survive. I even start peeling away the furs, dropping them into the snow.

I run.

Their sounds come
in clearly now. The individual breaths, the snorts, the thudding steps. They’ve
come for me, the first stop on their death errands.

I run.

They are so close
now that I think I can feel their breath on the back of my neck, though I know
this is wrong. They wouldn’t take the time to breathe on me unless I was
already dead. It sounds like the whole city is after me, their pounding feet
sounding like an endless drumbeat performed by a thousand players.

I run.

The snow has
melted then froze near the Spire’s entrance. Its door frame is charred black,
the opening just a gaping hole. I pray that I can make it inside, slide across
the ice patch and make it into the inner chamber before they come. I take a
quick glance over my shoulder and wish I hadn’t. Everywhere there are glowing
eyes, pair upon pair upon pair—and they’re all looking at me.

I run.

My heart feels
like it’s about to burst, it’s beating so hard. My strength has left me, and
I’m not sure if I can even open the inner door as I approach it.
 
A Jo-Bran slams into the wall, skidding
across the ice, and more of them behind him are slipping, but most of them make
it inside, their mouths open, claws extended.

I pull at the
door, twisting the handle, but it won’t budge.

They are standing
now but a few feet away. I try the door again. No good.

I fire the
shotgun into their midst. Pump, shoot. Pump, shoot. Pump—dry click. Not a
one of them has fallen, two have huge crimson blemishes, but they continue to
come. I throw the gun. One of the wounded Jo-Bran catches it, snaps it like a
brittle bone, me.

“Open, you
fuck,” I scream, tugging at the handle, trying to get inside. I’ve gone through
too much to die a few short inches from safety. “Open!”

It does.

It slides apart, a
hand shoots out, snatches me by the collar and drags me inside before I know
what happened. The door slams shut, locks, and the Jo-Bran pound against the
heavy metal. Then I see the glow.

Meredith squats,
hunkered down to my level, blinking at me with those glowing eyes. The light
flickering into a message, an SOS.

“Thank you,” I
say.

She doesn’t reply.

And I’m not
surprised—at least not until she moves.

She slides up
beside me and pushes me forward, allowing her a better look at my wounds. She
lifts up the back of my remaining clothes and I hear her suck in a breath.

“That bad, huh?” I
say, laughing slightly. I’m so fucked that it’s funny.

I hear nothing,
just feel her hand brushing across my back, tickling like feathers.

The pounding continues.
Occasionally, Meredith’s eyes look up, over my shoulder or around the room,
making things glow. It’s this same as it was just a few days ago, the gasoline
smell thick in the air. It feels like such a long time ago. Every day feels
like a lifetime, and I’m tired of the constant rebirth.

“Things
would be so much easier if we just let them in,” I say, talking to myself.