WIPE (A Post-Apocalyptic Story) (27 page)

    It takes another five minutes, listening and waiting, searching for more signs of movement, another gunshot, anything at all, before Maze says something.

    “We can’t wait for her.”

    I don’t say anything because I know she’s right, but I have no idea where there is left to go. How we’ll ever find our way again. And then, keeping close to her, so that I can lean when I have to on her shoulder, we start to walk, right down at first to the bigger rocks that guard the sea, and then, we travel slowly along the edge of the waves. Time stops and it feels like we’re making no progress at all. Everything stays the same except the shapes of the rocks we pass. Up along the higher coast, where my eyes stay planted, watching for some sign of darkness within the darkness, there’s nothing. The same fading gray and occasional tree trunk. Not even the faint sound of marching anymore. And as we move along, leaving them behind, I want to ask Maze. If she’ll leave me. If when the shadows appear from the forest, come down, one or a hundred of them, straight for us, if she’ll go. Because there’s no way she’ll be able to escape with me. And after I go through the scenario in my head, expecting it to happen at any moment, forgetting the pain in my leg, I tell myself I’m sure of it. That she’ll run, just like she did back at the Red Horn. That she
didn’t
forget back there that I couldn’t follow. That in the end, she’s on this quest for herself. Something deep inside her that I’ll never be a part of. And with the gnawing uncertainty, I decide I’ll make it easier, act like I’m making the decision for her—make her feel less guilty for letting me die.

    “When they come, don’t try to help me. Don’t look back at all. Just run, okay?”

    “Shut the fuck up Wills.”

    Her breathing strains for a moment, as if she’s sighing, but then I realize it’s something else. Almost like she’s tired. I lean into her, balancing my weight as we step over a long slab of wet rock. My foot slides and then finds firm sand again, and I ease off her.

    “I’m serious. You can’t make it with me.”

    She doesn’t say anything. No more volatile reaction. No more anger. Just silence and the occasional heavy series of breaths. And I know she’s accepting what I’m saying. But she came back for you, I tell myself. She just forgot. In her panic she forgot that you couldn’t run back there. She came back. Lifted you up. Saved you. And it’s as I’m thinking it, that she doesn’t want to abandon me really, that she would die with me instead of leave me, that she finally says it. Like she’s reading my mind.  

    “We fight. That’s it. I’m not leaving you. If they come, we fight them together,” she says.

    The absurdity of it hangs in the mist. That we have nothing left. Nothing to fight with but our haggard bodies. Our hands and nothing more. A death sentence.

    “Why? Why would you let yourself die?” I say, something like rage filling me up now. Like I truly want to die, if it means she’ll have a chance. Like my entire life will have been a waste if it takes hers with it.

    “Shut up. Walk,” she says.

    And then, her decision to close the conversation overpowering everything else, some kind of sign that I mean something to her, I let it drop. Every part of me digs for the next step, studying closely how much pressure I can put on my leg, at what angle it hurts and at what angle it doesn’t hurt as much. I learn the pain.

    We move on, the same beach and rocks and ocean and hint of trees. When I’ve got the slant figured out, the tilt of my heel, the inward press of my sole, I step faster. And then, I try letting go of her. Moving a step at first, and then, seeing I can manage the same walking speed as her, I take another step away. And then, side by side, we fall into rhythm. Ancient machines weaving through the rocks of the endless cloud shore. Constantly listening and watching. Waiting for another flash, the sound of marching, chanting. A dark shape of a body watching us from the cliffs that we can’t see. But nothing comes and time drags on.

When it happens, twenty minutes later, I have to stop. The cliff, towering high above on our left, and the tree line. A wide sparkling canopy of stars lighting them. Like all the fog disintegrated ahead of us. I take it in and Maze stops too. When I turn, everything behind us is gone. Black gray nothing. But ahead, the clear night shows us how alone we are. And even through the darkness, I can see there’s no one. No one watching us from up the shore.

    “They’re gone,” she says.

    I wonder if she means Gala, chasing into the void after the flash of light. Or Garren, muted but alive behind us, killing whatever he can before the mob wraps him up. Or the red throng itself. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re all gone. And I think of the red walkers carrying the bodies, all the way to some alter again, made of stone but not much different than the one Father Gold used to bless and display the babies of Acadia on—not a sacrifice there to some devil, like they’ll do for Gala and Garren, but a sacrifice to the ways of the Fatherhood. The removal of original evil. And somehow, the two things seem the same in my mind. Everything in the world pulls me down, and I can’t help but sit. When Maze tells me to get back up, I ignore her, too tired to battle anymore. I lie down, my back against the rough stones, and look at the glowing stars overhead. Then, without trying again to get me to my feet, I hear her just lie down too, right next to me. Suddenly the breeze coming in off the ocean feels perfect, and everything is right, and I have to close my eyes. The thought that I can’t move another step is so clear that I decide I have to forfeit everything. It’s all I can do now just to listen. For as long as I can, hoping that somehow over the noise of the surf I’ll hear someone if we’re approached. And even that, the intent listening for footsteps and voices, fades away. For a minute, I think of reaching over to her, so close to me, and touching her. It would be just the same as I did with Gala. But something about the tiredness stops me, and I drift away. Before I know if I’ve fallen asleep, exposed to death completely, she talks. Quiet and calm and breathing normally again.

    “I feel so tired,” she says.

    I manage to tell her I can’t move. That I just need ten minutes.

    “Ten minutes,” she says.

    A dream takes me back onto the boat. I see Gala at the wheel. My arm rubbing her back. She looks at me and I kiss her. She kisses me back, a look of relief on her face as I open my eyes and see hers—like she can’t understand why I waited so long. And then I look to the other boat, Garren and Maze. Talking. Sharing everything about their past. The tunnel. The tattoo. I tell her, when she tries to kiss me again, “You’re not who I want.” And all she says is “I know.” But she kisses me again anyway. Her arms wrap around my back, and the boat and the ocean are gone. Even the sun is gone. Like we’re together, back in Resistance camp. Her fingers trace along my chest and my stomach, finding their way along my thigh. “Is this okay?” she asks me. I want to tell her no, that it feels good, but that she’s not the one I want. But I just nod, and she goes further, touching me. I can’t help but kiss her neck. And then, my hands find her shoulders, to her breasts, and they’re so warm. And then her stomach. I ask her if she believes this is real. And when she tells me yes, I want to remind her. Remind her that she’s lying. Because she doesn’t believe anything. The words come out slowly, “You don’t believe at all.” And instead of answering me, admitting her hypocrisy, she pushes me down. Something soft, and her weight on top of me. I see her, her naked body, the curve of her hips up to her breasts and I lean up and into her and kiss her everywhere. She tells me I took her shirt. That I stole it from her. Something rises in me—like I’ve suddenly remembered something. “I needed it,” I tell her. “For my leg.” She smiles, like she knows I’m right, that I did need it. I need you, she says. Inside me. I want to fight it, tell her I can’t, because I can’t betray Maze. But she looks through me. There’s nothing to betray, she tells me. There’s nothing at all to betray. You’re right, I say. And then I ask her, “Will you show me how?” She slides back and forth on me, her hands pinning my own. Everything, she says. Do you like this? I tell her yes, and then she stops. It’s better if this is off. All of it. And then, her head hangs, hair falling all over my face, and I feel her hands working at my pants. They slide away, and our naked bodies press, sliding easily to the rhythm from before. Slow and smooth like the boat over the waves. Gliding until her weight falls heavily, her head pressing into my neck, biting me, and then she turns to the side. Her ear and her neck there just for me. It feels like it will be too much but I open my mouth and taste her. My hands work along her leg, to her ass, and then I pull her in. The rush of it throws away everything else. And Maze doesn’t exist. Come here, she says, grabbing me hard, lifting me up, and twisting everything, so that I fall over on top of her. Show
me
, now, she says. Looking down at her, I seem to know exactly what to do. I press my head in, just the same way she did, and then trace my tongue down from her ear, along her neck, biting her. I want to tell her how she tastes, how unbelievable everything feels, but I can’t. I can’t say anything. Wills, she says. Fuck me, Wills. And then, like it’s insane, as wonderful as it feels, I tell her I can’t. I love Maze. But she just ignores me and grabs my butt and pulls me into her again and I fall apart, melting. And when it starts again, the movement, my head soaking, buried into her breasts, my hands running along her waist, I can’t control it anymore. I can’t protest. Just the feeling.

    When I wake up, the dream is the only thing real. I raise my head into the night air and realize she’s gone. And then, I see Maze, softly breathing. It’s something like relief and sadness that I feel. And when I hear the noises, somewhere up on the coast, I nudge her.

    “Maze—we fell asleep.
Maze
.”

    She shakes her head, alarmed all at once, and sits up.

    “Shit,” she says. I wait for her, half in the dream, expecting something about what I’ve done. That I betrayed her. Like the dream means I’ve moved on from her, and I didn’t wait for her to realize she really does love me. But the noises reach us again, louder, from the forest behind, and the dream evaporates all at once.

    “Did you hear that?” I say.

    “Yeah. Get up.”

    We stand, my leg aching as the last shreds of Gala’s naked body slide away from my mind, as real as the dead beach around us. I remember how I learned to position my foot, testing it again.

    “Two of them,” Maze says in alarm. “Do you see?”

    “Yeah,” I whisper back, crouching back down despite the plain beach, nothing to hide ourselves.

    “If they see us, you run, okay?” I say again.

    “If they see us, we kill them. Together. Don’t get scared on me now.” She forces a smile.

    And then, when the shadows march, loud stumbling footfalls echoing out through the trees every few moments, we can tell they’re just passing through. That they don’t see us at all.

    The dark bodies walk and walk until they’re directly in front of us, way up at the tree line. And then, they pause. Their heads are visible now, faint black ovals that turn. And neither of us say a word when the two black shadows are turned so that there’s no doubting what’s happened—that they’re looking directly at us on the beach. Alone and unarmed.

    “Just two. They look wounded,” Maze says, her voice cinching in anticipation. Our last stand. “Grab rocks.” And then she crouches, just next to me, hands digging for something sharp, something dangerous. Her head stays straight, watching the wobbling figures make their first move. A slow step, and then two, instead of along the coast and parallel to us, down—directly toward us.

    “Here they come,” she whispers. But then, just when they’ve entered the edge of the beach, they stop.

    “I don’t think they’re—” I say, but I’m cut off by the call, loud and piercing from the tangled shadows. It’s a strange throat noise, almost impossible to understand. Then it comes again. I think for a moment there’s a word, something I understand, but there’s nothing. And then, when I’m convinced it’s the Nefandus language, some strange death command, the shadows start again, doubling their pace. But one of the shadows stops the other one, hanging on it almost, and then, when they’ve come halfway down the beach, we know. The strange throat noise comes again, and it’s still nothing we can understand. And soaked in blood, hanging from the stronger one, is Gala. Garren is walking her down. And it’s without words that we take in the horrible sight. The smashed neck of Garren, his adam’s apple poking out horribly in the wrong direction, entirely destroyed. And Gala, her breasts soaking wet with red. Her head flat, her eyes closed. Garren gets close enough to us and tries to talk, but his hand grabs at his throat in pain. And I know—his throat is broken. Impossible to look at. And Gala’s cheek is ripped wide open, part of it hanging off. All of her beauty, the impossible beauty from my dream, eviscerated by the ruined flesh, the work of the red men. Dark holes riddle her side, just above and under her breast, caked blood that shines even in the dim light of the moon. The blood runs in lines, all through her pants and washing her stomach in red film. Garren stops ten feet away and shakes his head, pointing at his throat. He can’t talk, I want to tell Maze. He can’t talk. And she’s dying. But nothing comes out. And it’s the clearest thing in the world to me—we can’t do anything for either of them. And just when Maze gets the courage to move in, to somehow try to help, we hear the new noise—more footsteps, just behind the grove they came out of up on the tree line, and I know they’re being followed. When my eyes go to the noise, and Maze stops before she gets to them, the quick shadows stream into view, blacking the distance between the sets of tree trunks. At least three of them. And then, they stand, in plain view, tall and skinny, long spears in their hands, looking down at us. A holler goes up into the night, some kind of signal. As if they’d need more to take us all down, and three isn’t enough. But it must be just the opposite, because all at once, they start down, jogging toward us. Their hands lift their spears, preparation for a running stab. I hear something, Maze slapping something. I look for a moment and I see it—she’s hitting the shotgun, where it dangles from Garren’s right arm, tied somehow to him. Tangled. A throat noise comes out of Garren, he shakes his head. I understand it at once—it’s dead. Out of ammo. The gun’s useless.