The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins Page 12

  The room actually consists of several small rooms, much like a house underneath a house. With a bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, and living area. There’s also a large storage area that’s plenty stocked with canned food, bottled water, blankets, and weapons.

  “Holy crap!” I whisper, my eyes bugging from me. “We could last here for ages,” I say, finally smiling.

  “Yeah, I guess Grandpa wasn’t so crazy after all,” Malcolm says.

  I turn to look at him, my cheeks flush in excitement from knowing that we can survive here relatively comfortably for a long while. And with two men around for protection, I know that we’re going to be fine. Malcolm finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the concrete floor and I frown at which he grins and picks up the butt.

  “Sorry, old habits,” he says and stashes the butt in his pocket. “I can’t believe he’s been stashing all this stuff. I thought maybe he had a couple of guns, but this is insane. A good insane though.” He chuckles and lets his eyes bore into mine.

  Dean wraps his arm around my shoulder again. “See, I told you I’d look after you.” He gestures around him, but for the first time since he helped me at the side of the road, I don’t feel protected. His look has a glint of crazy in it, and the weight of his arm on me makes me want to shudder.

  I slink out from under his grasp with a smile, not wanting to upset him and be kicked out, but again, not wanting to give the wrong impression. “You did. And we will all definitely be okay here.”

  He doesn’t say anything to me, his smile falling from his face as he looks from me to Malcolm and back again, and then he walks back up the stairs without saying a word. I shudder now—flat-out, full-on shudder. Because him not saying anything is way creepier than him actually voicing his thoughts. At least that I could argue with, but God knows what’s going through that mind of his. I look to Malcolm for a little help or reassurance but he just shrugs and walks back up the stairs also, leaving me alone in this fake little house below a house.

  I wonder if I’ve just got into bed with the devil to protect myself, or if I ever had a choice to begin with.

  Six.

  “Water’s running low again,” I say to Dean as I lean out the front door.

  He gets up from the swinging chair on the porch with a heavy sigh. “I’m on it.”

  He leaves his spot and marches down the three small steps and over to the small barn area. Inside we’ve set up a water collective tank. Actually, it’s another thing that his grandpa had thought of in the event of some crazy emergency like this. It’s a unit that collects the rainwater from the outside and funnels it inside to a purifying tank. The water is cleaned and made safe to drink again. It’s supposed to work on all water, including toilets, etc., but we aren’t that desperate yet. Yet.

  The only pain to this is getting the water to the house, since his grandpa set it up in the large shed. I can only think that there had to be a little crazy to go with his brilliance.

  Malcolm comes out of the house behind me and offers me a cup of coffee. It’s funny how I never really liked the stuff until the apocalypse. I think it’s more the smell than anything else. It reminds me of Mom and Dad. They always made a fresh percolator-full every morning, and the smell was what I woke up to. Somehow, drinking it makes me feel less homesick. Which I know is ridiculous because my home life was anything but great, but still. It was my home life, and now it’s gone.

  We’ve been at the house for almost three weeks, and only once ventured close to town. The place was a mess of dead and undead, and we haven’t been back since. We check the radio every night for any news from the government, but so far nothing. Every once in a while one of the sick people comes across our property and Dean or Malcolm puts them out of their misery.

  I can tell that Dean isn’t happy about it though. He doesn’t like killing the people, but he does it for me, to make me feel safe. I know I should feel bad about that, because he’s going against his own morals because of his feelings for me—feelings which are not reciprocated—but I don’t feel bad. I just feel happy that they’re taking care of business and I don’t have to get my hands dirty. I’m just glad to be safe.

  Malcolm is different altogether. He doesn’t care about the killing. Some would say he relishes in it. And he’s good at it too. In fact, both boys are fully capable with both close proximity kills and gun use—though they try to not use the guns unless absolutely necessary. Who knew that Dean, the brainbox of our high school, would be so good at killing?

  I take a sip of the coffee, breathing in its smell, and close my eyes so I can picture Mom and Dad’s faces. In my head they’re happy and healthy, and of course alive. This disease, infection, whatever it is, came from nowhere. I vaguely remember seeing some news reports on it up until the day of the outbreak in our small part of the world, but I never paid much notice, if I’m honest. You never think these things will actually affect you.

  It seemed to hit everywhere at once, as if it was already living inside each of us, incubated and ready to be born. And this thing spreads quickly, from what I remember. Hell, from what I saw happen to our town, I can vouch for that. We still can’t be sure what spreads it. Is it a bite? Direct saliva or blood transference? We know one thing for a hundred percent certainty: death brings death. All three of us have agreed to put each other out of our misery if it happens to us.

  “It’s been pretty quiet for a couple of days, huh?” Malcolm says.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I look out to the horizon. The sun is beginning to set, casting a beautiful orange glow across the field to the back of the property. To the front we have a couple of vehicles, Dean’s Prius, Malcolm’s motorbike, Grandpa’s truck, and a beat-up red Ford. We found that one abandoned on the road leading up to the house a week back. No one was inside, and all the doors were open. There were bags of clothes and some boxes of food and water, and as much as I felt bad that we took it, deep down I know that the people who were driving that car were dead now.

  Malcolm’s hand touches my waist tentatively and I look back over my shoulder at him. He licks his lips and offers me a shy smile.

  “Not here, he’ll see,” I whisper nervously, watching as Dean pulls the cart full of water back.

  “I don’t see what the problem is if he does,” Malcolm huffs.

  “Because he’s very…protective of me, and I do not want to leave here,” I snap.

  “He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

  “Let’s make sure it’s later rather than sooner then.” I glance at him. “Go help him with the water, please,” I add on the end, giving him a smile and hoping that Dean doesn’t see it.

  “Fine,” Malcolm says and hands me his cup.

  He jogs down the steps toward Dean, and I turn to go back inside. Back in the little kitchen, I search the cupboards for what we will be eating for our supper tonight. It’s funny how quickly you miss the little things like fresh fruit and vegetables. And TV. God, I miss watching TV. I miss watching America’s Next Top Model, and often find myself daydreaming about who would have won in the end.

  I hear the boys coming back into the house and pulling the large cart of water into the kitchen. They put it into the corner of the room and begin filling the empty water containers with it.

  “What’s for dinner?” Dean asks, coming around the counter.

  He smiles at me warmly as he comes up behind me to look over my shoulder and into the cupboard. His face is close to mine and I hear him take a deep breath as if breathing me in. I step away from him and move to another cupboard.

  “I, uh, thought we could have soup,” I say, grabbing the first can I see.

  Dean smiles again. “That sounds lovely. Anything I can do to help?”

  He moves closer to me and I glance at Malcolm. He’s scowling, but knows I don’t want him to say anything. He pulls a cigarette out of his pack and lights it up.

  “Not in the house, Malcolm,” I say and move away from Dean again, feeling incredibly uncomfortable.


  I know I need to do something soon. I’m going to have to tell Dean that I’m not interested, that I actually prefer his cousin to him. I’ve given him all the signals of my disinterest but he’s not taking the hint, and sooner or later Malcolm isn’t going to stand for Dean’s pushiness toward me. Malcolm and I sort of happened in week one. It went very quickly from flirtatious glances to kissing in the dark when Dean was sleeping. I can’t say that it’s serious, but I like him and he likes me. But more than anything, I need him—I need his protection, from the zombies and from Dean’s advances.

  I clear my throat and search out a pan, putting it on the stove, and set to opening up the soup. I look out the window and see a zombie coming up the road. It staggers aimlessly from side to side, its gaze at its feet, its shoulders slumped. Its clothes are torn and filthy like a homeless person’s, and I feel a pang of sadness for what this thing once was. A human. A father, more than likely, looking at his age. I wonder if his family made it out alive or if they are dead too.

  I look away from the abomination, not bearing to look at it anymore. “Shit, there’s another one.” I point toward the unhuman thing shambling toward the house. “This one looks pretty bad.” I say, looking back at it as it stumbles at the side of the road, falling to its knees with a sickening thud.

  “I’m on it,” Malcolm says and I hear his boots stomp off down the hallway. The front door opens and closes, and the sound of Malcolm’s heavy steps descend down the porch steps. I watch the thing for a minute or so struggling to stand back up. It’s back on its feet just in time for Malcolm to reach it and swing a large metal pole, hitting it across its skull. I bite down on my lip and look away with a grimace.

  “You okay?” Dean asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  I jump from his touch, and then laugh softly to hide my nervousness. “Yes, fine. Just this whole apocalypse thing has me on edge.”

  I feel his body heat close behind me, and fight the urge to shudder from his closeness. One hand touches my waist, and his mouth is next to my ear.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about with me here.” His breath sends shivers down my spine.

  “I know that, silly.” I laugh, not wanting to turn around.

  “You know I’ll protect you,” he says huskily.

  “I do. Both you and Malcolm are great.” I clear my throat, and watch as Malcolm rounds the side of the house and heads toward the zombie.

  Dean’s grip tightens on my waist. “Yes, but he’ll just use you. I know how to treat a woman like you. I’ll protect you from everything and everyone.” He spins me around to face him, his body inches from mine. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Anne. I can tell him to back off.”

  I force out a dry laugh. “Don’t be silly, it’s fine. There’s no harm.” My back is forced up against the stove, and I try to squeeze past him, but he keeps me in place with his grip at my waist.

  He stares into my face, his eyes burning holes into mine, and I have the urge to throw up in my mouth when it finally dawns on me that he knows. He knows that there is something going on between me and Malcolm, he just isn’t saying anything yet.

  He smiles and takes a step back from me but continues to stare. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  I scramble out from my position and reach for the can opener. “Of course I’m sure.” I force my hand to stay steady as I open the can and pour the soup into the pan. My fingers fiddle with the ignition on the stove, but they’re shaking too much to light it.

  Dean steps up close behind me again. “Here, let me.”

  I move out of the way and let him light it for me. It doesn’t work off the mains, but tanks that his grandpa used, and I know there isn’t much left of them. Soon we’re going to have to go old school and start cooking on fire pits outside—yet another thing I don’t know how to do. Dean stands back proudly, a small flame glowing underneath the pan of soup.

  “There you go.” He smiles at me and steps further back so I can stir it.

  “Thanks.” I look out the window as I stir, watching as Malcolm drags the zombie by its ankles to the pit where they burn the bodies. “Think he might need some help,” I say to Dean, needing the space from him.

  “Sure. I’ll go help him,” he says, punctuating the word him, and walks away.

  My stomach flips at the sound of his retreating footsteps and I take a deep breath, tears building in my eyes. He’s getting worse, I realize. I know I’m going to have to say something soon. I can’t go on like this.

  Seven.

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to A-nne, happy birthday to you!” the boys sing for me, and I laugh and blow out the candle stuck in the middle of the slab of Spam.

  “Did you make a wish?” Malcolm asks.

  “I did,” I say, my heated gaze meeting his with a smile.

  I’m sixteen now. I never expected this to be my sixteenth birthday: trapped inside someone else’s house while the zombie apocalypse exploded around the world. My parents were shitty, but I still believed that there would be cake, and presents, my first car. A party with pretty dresses, balloons, and dancing. I expected Steph to be there, and she’d more than likely slip vodka into the punch bowl. I expected my parents to briefly show up and act like they gave a damn for one day. I never expected this.

  I burst out crying, and Dean scowls at Malcolm and orders him to move the stupid Spam cake away from me. Then his arms are around me as he holds me close. I cry more because of his closeness, because I want these arms to be Malcolm’s or my dad’s or Steph’s—anyone’s but Dean’s. He kisses the top of my head and I cry harder.

  “I told you this was a stupid idea,” he hisses at Malcolm.

  I force myself out of his grip. “No, no, it’s fine, it’s great. It just makes things seem so much more real, you know. It’s just, this wasn’t how I expected my sixteenth birthday to be.” I look at them both. “I expected to be sharing it with my best friend, my family, and instead…” My words drown out and they both nod in understanding. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I think it just got a little overwhelming.”

  I move toward the Spam cake and take the knife, cutting into it and carving it into three pieces. I place a piece on each plate and hand them to the boys with a smile and a sniffle. Malcolm takes it, eating the Spam in one mouthful. Dean takes a little longer, making sure to give extra time on giving Malcolm an evil look.

  I can feel it in the air: things have shifted. Between me and Dean, me and Malcolm, and between Dean and Malcolm. As if me reaching sixteen has changed the whole dynamic of the group. Both men seem more possessive now, as if I’m a prize to be had. Their stares have become more focused on me and each other, as they both make it clear what they want. The whole thing makes me even more nervous, but there’s no way out of this. I haven’t left this house since this whole thing started. Three months we’ve been here. Food and water are running short now, gas is nearly non-existent, and winter is coming. I can’t leave here if I want to survive, yet I’m deeply frightened at the thought of staying, too.

  *

  I clear up from the little birthday party, cleaning the plates as best I can by wiping them off with a slightly damp cloth. We can’t afford to waste any water now, but we also don’t want to let any food on plates and silverware rot and go bad. Dean says we need to start eating directly from the cans now so we don’t have to worry about washing plates and things. Malcolm says we need to go on a supply run into town before winter really hits and we run out of everything. I agree with both boys. It’s already getting cold, and we’re already rationing food and water so much. At this rate we’ll never make it through winter. We gave up a month or so ago on any help coming. There has been neither sight nor sound of the army or government coming to help in any way. Malcolm makes weekly trips to the outskirts of town to see if there’s any change, to see if any help has arrived, but there never is.

  As nighttime falls, I crawl into bed. We sleep in the little house u
nder the house now; it’s too dangerous to sleep above ground. One night we woke to find three zombies breaking through the windows to get in at us. So now the windows are boarded up and we stay downstairs. Each morning both boys go out and kill any zombies that have turned up in the night. We have our little routine now, and it works.

  I hear Dean’s breathing slow and gradually get louder before he begins to snore. I slide quietly out from under my covers. I creep past his bed and up the stairs, opening the door as soundlessly as possible. Malcolm is waiting for me in the living room, his body an outlined shadow in the dark. I move toward him, and his arms reach out to find me. They wrap around me immediately, his mouth finding mine instinctually.

  He kisses me deeply, pulling me down onto the sofa with him, his hard body pressed against mine as his tongue invades my mouth. My hands cling to him, pulling at his clothes as his hands palm my breasts hungrily. We separate after a moment, both of us gasping for breath.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers against my neck, invading the small space between my ear and throat with gentle kisses and making me sigh.

  “Uh-huh,” I murmur, my hands finding the soft skin underneath his T-shirt and running my nails up it. He hisses and moves back to my mouth, kissing me harder.

  He stands up and pulls his T-shirt off, letting it fall to the side, and I do the same with mine. He lays me down on the sofa and climbs on top of me, kisses the small crevice between my breasts and then each peak as he frees my breasts from their bra. I gasp as he bites my nipple, and I grind my hips against him, wanting the friction of him. We’ve been waiting for this moment alone together for weeks, and I am completely ready for him.