Tracey Ward - Backs Against the Wall

“More like fifth.”

“Sixth, I think.”

She sighs heavily, turning to look up at him with watery eyes. “When will it end? When will Beth be safe?”

“I don’t know,” he says softly, shaking his head. He lifts his hand to press it against her cheek. To wipe a stray tear away. “Probably never. Not unless—“

“Unless?”

His eyes drift past her to the burning boats. To the fire on the water. To the shore on the other side swarming with zombies, Colonists and gangs. To the world they outnumber. A world they could easily overrun if only given the right incentive. The right reasons. The right time.

“Unless we end it.”

The first time I saw her, I was dead.

I was rolling down the river with two coins for the Ferryman, heading out onto the infinite, black sea. Worst of all, I was going without a fight.

How she found me is still a mystery or a miracle, depending on your perspective. Any way you slice it, I’m lucky she was there, though showing gratitude for it wouldn’t come easy for a long time after. How she put up with me for as long as she did is pure miracle, no mystery about it. She’s as close to an angel as I’ll ever get. Whenever I think of her, I always remember the way she looked there by the river; long auburn hair, glistening hazel eyes and a T-shirt that read Zombies Hate Fast Food.

When she reached out and took my hand, it shattered my world. Her eyes and the warm press of her skin against mine changed everything. Suddenly I was gasping for breath, fighting for life, and as she lowered her face to within inches of mine, I felt my heart slam painfully in my chest. She parted her lips, making me believe she would kiss me goodbye. If that had been the last sensation I experienced in this world I would have died a lucky man. Instead, she whispered one word against my mouth. One word that would press air into my lungs and pull me back from the void.

“Breathe.”

Then she was gone.

I wake with a start. My eyes immediately find the black sparrow decals flying across the white paint of the wall beside my bed, calming my racing heart. I trace one with my fingers, smiling at the familiar feel of its edges. This is what I always do. This is how they tell me that I’m home.

I actually hate birds. They’re too quick and erratic with their sharp claws and beaks. They’re like flying, disease carrying knives. But more than anything I hate them because they remind me of the Dragon.

“Are you here?” Cara calls.

“Present and accounted for.” I drop my hand from the bird just as my bedroom door swings open. My sister stands in the doorway. Watching.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

I chuckle quietly. It could go without saying but she says it every time. “Me too.”

“Where’d you go? Do I want to know?”

“Transylvania,” I lie.

“Okay, so I don’t want to know.”

I shake my head. No. She doesn’t want to know.

“I had the Dragon Dream,” I tell her, changing the subject. “It brought me home.”

“The Jabberwocky,” she corrects me quickly.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not the Jabberwocky.”

“I have shown you the pictures. It looks exactly as you described.”

“I know, but—“

“Is it or is it not the spitting image of the Jabberwocky?”

“It is,” I concede, “but how would I have started dreaming of the Jabberwocky when I was four years old? We never had the book.”

“You saw the movie.”

“We’ve talked about this,” I groan. “The Disney Alice doesn’t have the Jabberwocky in it. There’s no way. It’s not him, it’s just a dragon.”

“It’d be cool if you could dream about Pete’s Dragon .”

“Jesus, don’t put the idea in my head!”

“What? He’s friendly! And it’s not like you can Slip to Passamaquody.”

Slip is our word for what I do. For my tendency to fall asleep, dream of New York City and wake up in Times Square in my underwear. My parents called it sleep walking though it’s not at all accurate. It just made it sound normal, made it easier for them. I don’t stand up and walk out the door. When I Slip, I dream of a place then there I am. The base of the Eiffel Tower. The shore on the coast of Ireland. The third baseline at Wrigley Field. While it can take my mind a millisecond to raise familiar images of the Las Vegas strip, it will take me days to return my body home from it. I don’t understand how it happens. No one does. It’s mind over matter to the nth degree. It is unpredictable, terrifying, and most of all, annoying.

“He kicked my ass,” I tell her glumly, thinking of the Dragon. I rub my leg even though there’s no wound on it. Not anymore. Not now that I’m awake.

“Jabberwocky’s are the worst.”

“It’s not the Jabberwocky!”

“Sure. Hey, what are we doing tonight? Did you decide?”

I throw my arm across my face. “Nothing, we are doing nothing.”

“No,” she insists, pulling my arm away. “We were going to do nothing if you Slipped away to Antarctica. But you didn’t. You’re here and we need to celebrate.”

“It’s not a big one. Can’t we just let it slide?”

“Every birthday until your twenty-second is a big one. Your twenty-second is a bust. From there on out you receive no new liberties, other than the right to grow old.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It is, so enjoy the good ones while you can. You’re turning twenty! This is a big deal.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it affectionately. “Plus, you got shafted pretty hard on your last few birthdays. They should have been special and I know they really weren’t. Let’s use this year to make up for it.”

For my Sweet Sixteen my parents gave me an eviction notice and a new car. Worst Showcase Showdown ever. Since then birthdays have held little appeal to me seeing as I now associate them with abandonment and hush money.

My sister is eight years older than I am and was already an established, responsible adult when I got the boot. She’s a Certified Public Accountant making good money and was more than happy to take me in. She knew what was wrong with me, knew she’d have to support me because I can’t hold down a job, but she didn’t care. When I showed up at her door, a lost, crying mess, she promised that she’d always watch out for me. Then she went to our parent’s house, took my things, gave them a piece of her mind and never looked back. She’s fiercely protective of me and I want to say it bothers me and that I can take care of myself, but after growing up with a mother who kept me at a distance, knowing someone has my back is indescribable.

“Can we egg their house?” I ask, referring to our parents.

“No. But I will buy a big ass Margarita and let you take hits off it.”

“Deal.”

I’m standing on the bank of the Missouri River in Omaha, wondering why I work so hard to stay here. I should embrace the escape and let my mind Slip me far, far away to a place that is warm. My hands are freezing and my toes would ache if they could remember what it was like to feel.

Cara brought me here to try and use her old driver’s license to get me into the casinos, but I’m having doubts. Doubts I like to call Mango Margarita: The Devil’s Drink. Or El Bebir Del Diablo? I don’t know, I didn’t do well in high school Spanish. I Slipped to Mexico once and it was a complete disaster. Turns out hambre and hombre are easily confused and when you adamantly insist in broken Spanglish that you be in possession of one, it doesn’t always get you a burrito. Sometimes it gets you a male prostitute. Who knew brothels had a lunch menu?