Tracey Ward - Writing on the Wall

There’s a flash of orange light. Fire. The Lost Boys have lit a torch. Or I think it’s a torch until it flies through the air and lands at the rear tire of the trail vehicle. It explodes into an inferno, crawling up the side of the van like a spider, spinning a web of heat and smoke behind it. More cries ring out from both sides and the men disentangle themselves from each other as the fire becomes the true threat to everyone. The gang retreats, quickly gathering a fallen member from the ground and dragging him away. A trail of red mars the ground behind him, appearing especially bright and red over a patch of yellow, dry grass.

The fire is coming for it. It consumes everything, devouring the van and burning brightly over nearly the entire surface. The Colonists pile into their remaining two vehicles and quickly pull away, leaving the fallen van to burn itself out. Within the space of three minutes the confrontation is over. The only signs it ever took place are fire and red grass, both of which are burning away, flaming out. They leave behind only a pillar of dark smoke in the sky and a black stain on the ground. And I wonder again, as I watch it all burn, if they had anyone locked inside.

The fight has me freaked. I wait it out another two days after that but eventually I absolutely have to leave the building for more food and water. It hasn’t rained in days and my emergency bucket is dry. I’m also a little worried about Crenshaw being down at ground level with all of this going on. He’s much more at risk than I am and I know I need to make a kill or go fishing in the bay and bring him some meat soon because he won’t do it himself.

Gathering an empty jug for water, my knife and ASP, I curse myself for never learning to use a bow and arrow. It’d be nice to shoot a meal instead of chasing it down, tackling it and slitting its throat. Have you ever chased a wild rabbit? How ‘bout a squirrel? No, you haven’t because it’s exhausting and nearly futile. But it’s also necessary. I’ve been trapped in this apartment with nothing but carrots, potatoes and tomatoes for over a week and I’m not a vegetarian. Not at heart.

When I step outside into the unseasonably warm winter sun, my hands are slick with sweat. I’m nervous. This is dangerous, more so than it has been for years and I wonder if I’ve still got the skills to survive this world. What if I’ve gone soft? What if I can’t handle as many dead as I used to? How fast can I run these days?

My thoughts and doubts are stopped in their tracks along with my feet when I round the corner. I’m shocked. Stunned. Afraid. Excited.

There across the street on the side of a building just a block and a half from my home is writing on a wall.

My shoulders fall, relief coursing through me. Surprising me. It’s Ryan, it has to be. Who else would know those lyrics? I wonder if he knows I didn’t move or if it was wishful thinking. A shot in the dark to see if he gets a reaction. To see if I forgive him and trust him enough to stay. I didn’t think I knew the answer to either of those questions, but the fact that I’m still here is answer enough. It’d be dangerous for me to move right now with the rise in the number of dead and the Colonists out going door to door like they’re selling religion, but it’d still be possible. It’d suck, but if I really felt threatened, I’d have done it. But I haven’t.

What’s really important here, what makes me heave a shaky sigh of relief, is that he’s alive. He’s unhurt.

Or is he?

I’ve been in my home for over a week. I have no way of knowing when this message was written. Was it before or after the confrontation I saw two days ago? I can’t know, not with certainty. So it means nothing. And it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t mean anything anyway. He’s not my concern. What I need to worry about right now is not some vague message scrawled out in brick dust, something that will wash away with the first heavy rain. My worries are more substantial and far more urgent.

I put the message out of my mind, get my head in the game and move on.

Three hours later, Crenshaw and I have lunch. It’s a mangy little rabbit that ran me all over hell and back, but I got him in the end. Crenshaw, in a very rare show of friendship, asks me to stay and eat with him. He has a system for smoking the meat, making it not only delicious but also keeping a low profile while cooking. Even though I’m worried he’ll get a visit from one of the Lost Boys while I’m here, I take the chance for a shot at a good, hot meal. Also, and I keep this to myself, I don’t mind the idea of the company so much either.

“You look as a true warrior, Athena.” he says, pulling his robe more tightly around himself as he leans down to stoke the fire. It’s a real robe, like a bathrobe. There are sailboats on it. Blue ones.

My hands and clothes are soaked in blood from killing and skinning the rabbit. I’m tired, scratched up from branches, bushes and bunny claws and I’m sure I look more nuts than anything else. Does that make me a warrior? I doubt it. I think I’d have to be afraid of a lot less to be classified as one.

“Really? I was thinking I needed a bath.”

He snorts at me. “Your generation is obsessed with cleanliness. Do you think even the Kings and Queens in medieval court were so thoroughly bathed? I assure you, they were not.”

“I don’t know, Cren.” I say doubtfully, looking down at myself. “I think I’ve gone beyond royalty filth and moved into cavewoman status.”

“It’s good for you.”

I smile and take a seat at his table. “You’re the doctor.”

He ignores me as he cooks and I enjoy the feeling of not being alone but being left alone. It’s a strangely wonderful sensation. It’s cozy here in this earth and mud hut that’s he built. It’s small, my leg is pressing against his cot tucked in the far corner, and it’s incredibly dark inside, but it fits him. Outside this sparse living quarter is his real home; his garden. It’s all hidden deep in the brush and trees of the park but it’s expansive as well. If he asked me to go out and get him something from it, I wouldn’t know where to begin. It all looks like a jungle to me but to him it’s perfectly clear.

He brings me a plate with my smoked rabbit on it and sits across from me.

“Have you seen your friend lately?” he asks casually.

I stiffen. “I don’t have friends, remember?”

“Athena.”

I groan. “Don’t do that. Don’t scold me. I talked to him once. It’s no big deal and it’s not a friendship.”

He chews thoughtfully. “If you speak to him again—“

“I’m never going to see him again.” I interrupt. I immediately wish I hadn’t. Crenshaw stares down his nose at me and I cave. “I’m sorry, please continue.”

He clears his throat. “If you speak to him again, be wary but cordial.”

My rabbit slips through my fingers and plops on my plate. “Cordial? You want me to be nice to him? Since when?”

“Since the wraiths outnumber us again.”

“I don’t know that they outnumber us.” I say doubtfully.

“Since the Colonists walk these woods.”

I drop my meat again, this time intentionally. “They’ve been here? Near you?”

He watches me calmly. “Not near enough to see, but near enough for me to hear. Do not worry for me.”

“Crenshaw—“

“I said do no worry, Athena. I have shrouded my home. I will remain unseen.”

“Shrouded it with what? A spell?”

He frowns at me, looking at me like I’ve gone mad. “With camouflage.”

“Right, sorry.”

Sometimes I forget that Crenshaw’s crazy is selective. He’ll be telling me one minute to burn sage to ward off evil spirits and the next he’ll be asking if I remember the football Thanksgiving episode of Friends. It’s hit or miss. More often miss.