Tracey Ward - Backs Against the Wall

He makes an abrupt motion with his hand, calling me toward him. I have to bite my lip against a cry of agony when he helps me up onto the garbage pile. My left arm is jostled around roughly, and while I tried so hard to leave it slack and never to use it, I still instinctively flex it several times. Liquid lava pumps in my veins as Trent peers through the window. He eventually pries it open, then gestures for me again. He hoists me up onto the sill like I weigh nothing at all and carefully pushes me inside. There’s a table on the other side that I slip down onto, no problem.

I look around, taking in my surroundings. The first thing I notice is the smell. Living in the apocalypse you learn to deal with rancid smells. Rotted everything is everywhere, the most popular of which is rotted wood and textiles. Carpets, couches, rugs, clothes. They get so full of mildew that almost all of the buildings smell of it. But not here. Here the first thing I smell is burning. It’s a clean, campfire kind of smell. Strong, dry wood snap crackling with warm orange flames. It’s probably what’s heating this place. A furnace or fireplace lit somewhere feeding in warm, dry air that chases the moisture away. It’s a luxury I’ve never had living alone. My fires are always dire circumstances, life or death types. Always secret, always scary. And while the Colonists had power and warmth, it wasn’t like this. It was sterile and electric. This is sort of… homey. It reminds me Crenshaw.

I kind of hate it.

Trent leaps silently into the space beside me, his eyes immediately roaming the empty hall we’ve entered. After several beats, he takes my uninjured hand and begins to pull me forward. I jerk my hand away, my heart racing. My skin burning.

He looks back, his face concerned.

I shake my head dismissively, feeling like a psycho, then gesture for him to go ahead.

Bless his cyborg’s heart, he lets it go and gets a move on. He doesn’t ask why I can’t stand to be touched. Why I’m weird. He leads me down a narrow hallway past a series of closed doors. Finally, toward the end of the hall, he opens one and ushers me quickly inside.

The room is small but warm with two beds, one small desk and a window that has been all but boarded shut. The beds are nothing but old, bare mattresses with blankets tossed over them. I notice that the floor is covered in clothes. I glance at Trent in surprise, shocked to see that Mr. Methodical is a pig at heart, but whatever insult or question I had for him dies on my lips. The wall beside one of the beds has been hollowed out, the drywall stripped down, the insulation yanked out. In its place is shelf after shelf secured between the wood. On those shelves are more books than I can ever remember seeing in one place. I’m sure I went to the library at some point as a child, but I honestly can’t remember and right now, I really do not care. Even if those libraries of the old days had housed a million books, they couldn’t compare to this. To one wall full of treasures saved and preserved in a world where everything and everyone wastes away to ash and dust.

“They’re Ryan’s,” Trent tells me, seeing my stare. “He’s a bit of a collector.”

“Little bit,” I mutter in agreement.

“That’s his bed on that side if you want to lie down and rest. He won’t be back for another few hours. You may as well get some sleep.”

I feel myself blush at the idea of laying in his bed. Honestly, I think I’d be more comfortable laying in Trent’s. There’s something less… I don’t know. Meaningful about it, I guess. Sleeping in Ryan’s bed? I almost feel like I’d enjoy it too much.

“I don’t want to bleed on his bed,” I say lamely, gesturing to my jacked up arm.

Trent quirks an eyebrow at me, not buying it. “You’re giving his bed more credit for cleanliness than it deserves.”

“That doesn’t really entice me to jump right in.”

Trent shrugs before taking a seat on his own bed. “Stand then. It’s your call.”

I’m too tired to stand. I’m too beat down, exhausted and aching tired to be proud or embarrassed either. I carefully step through the room, mindful of the piles of clothes on the floor, trying to avoid them and but failing. Then I carelessly collapse on his bed. The sigh that escapes my lips is pure joy leaking from my soul. I slept on a bed in the Colony. It was weird and awesome, but I also resented it. I saw it as a sign of the world being forced on me, of the lie they were all living. But this is different. This mattress is far less comfortable, far more worn and it smells of dude. It has the faint scent of a very familiar soap made by the wizard of the woods and the musky smell of good old fashioned stink. It’s earth and sweat. Grass and warm skin.

This I kind of love.

I lay on my right side with my back to Trent (a massive show of trust or a case of too tired to care on my part), my face close to the books in the wall. It’s a crazy collection, one I think he built based on availability and not personal preference. I don’t recognize any of them. Not until I see the tattered, faded spine tucked in close behind the jagged edge of the crumbling drywall. This one I know immediately.

The BFG.

I want to touch it. I want to pull it out and run through the pages, to get the scent of book in my nose and the feel of the paper beneath my fingers. To read the words and hear my mother’s voice in my warm, darkened room at night as I lay bundled up trying not to fall asleep. But I don’t because it’s dumb. It’s a mistake. It’s crying waiting to happen and I’ve shed enough tears in the last twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime. I’m all tapped out on sad today.

So instead, I close my eyes and I fall asleep.

“He’s coming.”

I jerk awake, my arm screaming in pain. I don’t know when I fell asleep or how long I was out, but Trent’s deep, quiet voice snaps me out of it immediately. I sit up in the bed, pressing my back to the wall so I’m facing the door. Outside it I can hear footsteps and a loud, laughing conversation. It’s Ryan. The other voice may be Bray, but I only heard it once before. It’s too long ago and too muffled now to tell for sure. Trent sits at the edge of his bed facing the door. Waiting. It takes me only a moment to notice the knife ready in his patient hand.

“What are y—“

“Shhhh,” Trent shushes me quietly, his eyes steady on mine and his finger pressed to his lips.

With his creepy, all seeing eyes the gesture is just about the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’ll get you next time,” someone says from down the hall.

“You say that every time,” Ryan replies, his voice laughing, “and every time, who wins?”

“I will beat you.”

“Every single time.”

“Jerk,” the other person grumbles.

“See you at dinner.”

“Yeah.”

The doorknob turns with a creak. I watch Trent’s hand clench on the handle of his knife, the knuckles going white. Every other inch of him looks completely calm. I look around for a weapon of my own. Something to attack Trent with before he can get to Ryan. There’s nothing. Dirty, holy socks and a worn out muscle tee. Worthless. Who doesn’t sleep with a knife by their bed?!

As the door swings open, I hold my breath, my body going rigid on the bed.

Ryan steps into the room. His face is flushed like he was just running. His hair is standing at odd angles, wet around the edges from his sweat. He looks a mess. A vibrant, broad, beautiful mess.

“Hey, Trent, you’re back. Where did you go—“ Ryan’s voice dies out the second he sees me. Then it bursts to life again, far too loud. “What the f--!!! How did--?!?!”

He cuts himself off both times, biting down on his knuckle and dropping into a crouch in front of the door. He isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring at the ground, reining himself in.