“I’m not sure. I overhead some men talking and they’ve spotted at least fifty in the area, probably more.”
“You were in the company of men?”
“No, not really. I was in the park and I overheard them.”
“And they didn’t see you?” he asks skeptically. He’s a crazy old bird but he’s sharp. Irritatingly so.
“One of them might have known I was there.” I admit grudgingly.
“Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Be doubly careful.” he says, striking his staff on the ground twice for emphasis.
“Ok, yes. I’ll be triple careful.”
“You’re sure you don’t need anything of me? Tea? Food?” I shake my head, smiling at his generosity. “Water?”
Suddenly I’m reminded of Ryan’s warning.
“Don’t go to the watering holes.” I blurt out.
He scowls at me, looking offended by the idea. “I never do. Why would I?”
“I don’t know, but don’t go there. The men also said that the holes are dangerous. That the Colonies are doing a lot of roundups there.”
He watches me in silence for an uncomfortably long time, his face entirely devoid of emotion.
“These men,” he finally says slowly. “They said an awful lot, didn’t they?”
I shrug, trying to look unconcerned. “They were chatty.”
“All of this while you were in earshot.”
“Chatty and stupid.”
“No one alive today is stupid, Athena.”
I roll my eyes, getting tired of the interrogation or accusation. Whatever this is, it’s wearing on me. People in general are wearing on me and I think I’ve had way too much interaction recently. I need to detox.
“What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?” I ask, letting my frustration show.
“I want you to be careful.”
“And I said I would. I will be. I always am.”
“What is more dangerous than the wraiths?” He asks it like a condescending school teacher and I have to suppress a groan. I’ve heard this lecture a million times.
“Snakes?”
“Athena.”
“People. Living, breathing, thieving people.”
“Remember it well.” he warns. Then he steps back, blending into the shadows. It’s very theatrical and I wonder if he practices when I’m not around.
“You try and watch out for people.” I grumble, heading for the exit. I’m wondering how giving him a heads up ended with me being scolded. I want out of the woods, out of the park, out of the whole city. Out of this mess entirely.
I’m debating what to do about dinner tonight and which water supply to tap when it happens. An early warning system goes off. From a tree about a block and a half down, a massive flock of birds takes to the sky. Aside from the beating of their wings they don’t make a sound. No cawing. No screeching. They’re not freaking out over the dead, so what are they running from? It’s something human or another animal. If it’s an animal, it’s big. Threatening. If it’s human, they’re not used to treading softly and only one type of person nowadays hasn’t finely honed their creeping skills. They don’t have to. They live behind fences and walls and sleep on mattresses and sheets and wash their hair with real soap, not with some beige bar made in Merlin’s Magical Shop of Wonders in the woods.
Colonists.
I hide myself deep in the bushes, close to where I was hiding with Ryan. As my breathes come in short and painful I feel so far removed from Crenshaw’s Athena or Ryan’s bitch Joss. Now I’m Jocelyn, eight years old and terrified, hiding behind a tree again while evil closes in on me. I can pretend to be as tough as I want, but the person who knows the truth is the only one who matters; me. I know every single day how scared I really am. How tired, how angry, how lonely. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or if I work my ass off to make sure there is no ‘anyone else’ around to see it. It’s still true. I’m still scared.
I don’t have to wait long for the silent, silver electric car to come rolling by at a ridiculously slow speed. Most roads are cracked, sprouting weeds and grass or filled with stripped out cars and debris, but there’s a trail cleared that winds through the area. It’s something some of the gangs have done or maybe the Colonists did it? I’m not sure. Either way, areas on this trail are the marketplace for the crews who are willing to barter with one another. The morning after a new moon you can find them gathering at random locations along this road to trade goods and act like morons together. I’ve obviously never attended but I’ve watched from the roof before and, if I’m being honest, I’ve watched with a little envy. Most of the Lost Boys get along, laughing and shouting together. Like friends.
But now the roads are empty and silent, barely a sound coming from the ridiculously small, shiny car gliding through this derelict world. It doesn’t belong here. They don’t belong here. The sight of a car, something that was once so common place and now so nauseatingly strange, sends chills down my spine. I feel cold sweat break out over my clammy skin and I remind myself to breath evenly.
They can’t hear me. They can’t see me. They don’t know I’m here. They will not take me.
I try to tell myself to calm down. I doubt they’re doing a roundup right now, not without their vans with the doors that lock from the outside. It’s not really a good time anyway, not for anybody. All of us in the wild, those with any sense at least, are holed up in our homes waiting to see just how bad this latest outbreak is going to get. If any sense of responsibility still existed in the world, the Colonists would be out here to kill these things off once and for all. Clean up their mess. But there isn’t and that’s not why they’re here. They’re here to make a point. To let us know that not all of them have fallen, not everyone in their golden city is infected. To warn us not to come looting.
You better believe that if they ever did fail entirely those of us in the wild would descend upon their stocks like vultures. I dream about it at night when I’m not having nightmares about crawlers eating my legs. I don’t wish them ill, I’m not hoping they all die, I just want to take their stuff. Is that bad? I don’t even know anymore. This type of moral questioning wasn’t covered in The Breakfast Club. I fear the structure of my upbringing is noticeably lacking.
The next week is a bear. My life, already more than a little stressful, gets way worse. The biggest, most notable source of my anxiety is the fact that I haven’t moved. I can’t. The zombie threat is back and bigger than it has been in years leaving me thinking that the numbers Ryan’s friend quoted were conservative. There are definitely more than fifty dead bloating the ranks out there. In the middle of the night I can hear the groaning outside breaking the silence I hadn’t realized I’d grown accustomed to. This is the old days, the early days. The bad days.
My other problem is the Colonists. They’re everywhere. The trucks and vans are out patrolling the streets and blaring over the loudspeakers again, something they haven’t done in a long time. They play up the threat of the dead, telling us the only place to be safe from this latest outbreak is in their compounds. Are we idiots out here? They must think so, because we all know where the fresh dead came from and the idea that we’d be safer where the infection found footing again is laughable. It’s also infuriating.
“Fuck you!”
I freeze, shocked by the unfamiliar sound of human life outside my windows. I can feel pins and needles prickling under my skin as I run to the window, sticking to the shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. From this height I can see the street a block over, looking down over the lower buildings to the east. The Colonist trucks are there. Three of them.