Tracey Ward - Writing on the Wall

“Where are—ooh!”

The guy doubles over in pain as my knee connects with his crotch, hitting him where it hurts. It’s a dirty shot but do you see any refs out here? All’s fair in the apocalypse. He lets go of me momentarily but that moment is all I need. I run from him as fast as I can, whipping out my ASP as I go. I leave my knife hidden against my jeans and under my jacket because if they do manage to get ahold of me I want to have a surprise up my sleeve.

The Colonist’s cry grabs the attention of the others and two come running at me. They’re all men and it pisses me off. No women in the roundup teams? What are they all doing? Sitting back at the Colony knitting winter sweaters, raising the children and making the meals. Sexist!

I swing the ASP and crack it down on the wrist of a man reaching out for me. It breaks it easily and he cries out louder than Crotch Shot back at the wall. I sprint for a small alley just across the street hoping I can make it in and up the fire escape before they can get me. If I can do that, they’ll never catch me. I know how to jump between the buildings from here for ten blocks easy. It’s not something you do if you don’t have to and certainly not something you try if you haven’t practiced. They won’t follow me, I know it.

I’m heading into the alley when a hand grips the back of my jacket and yanks me off my feet. My attacker easily lifts me up then slams me down on the ground face first. I have to throw up my hands to keep from breaking my nose on the asphalt and my ASP flies away from me, skittering through the darkness and into a pile of dirt and rubble. I’d have to search to find it and time is not a luxury I have anymore.

“Are you gonna be good?” the guy asks, breathing heavily. He barely ran. Boy needs more cardio in his life. It gives me hope that if I can slip away from him I can make it out of here. “Are you going to get up and go quietly?”

“Rick, you got her?” someone calls from down the street.

“What do you think, kitten? Do I got you?”

“Yeah.” I say, feeling my knife’s sheath digging into my hip bone as I lay on the hard ground. “You got me.”

“Good girl.” he grunts.

I’m pulled up onto my feet and he pushes me in front of him, still holding onto my jacket. Perfect.

“Let’s go.”

“Okay.” I agree meekly.

I grab the zipper on my jacket, pulling it down hard and fast. The second it releases at the bottom I throw my arms back, shrugging easily out of it and out of his hold. He gives a shout of surprise and frustration, but I don’t care a thing for him. I’m running again. Unfortunately I’m running in the wrong direction. He had me pointed toward the vans and to my right is the wall but there’s also Crotch Shot and he’s recovered somewhat, vengeance heavy in his eyes. I can’t get to the alley and open road behind Rick. I’m free but not for long. Not long enough. It doesn’t surprise me when I make a break for it past the vans that I’m clotheslined. I’m slammed back onto the pavement, the wind rushing out of my lungs and my head connecting sharply with the ground. I see stars as I struggle to keep conscious and drag air into my lungs. Neither comes easy. Hands lift me up and stand me on my feet. I promptly sway and nearly topple over but a surprisingly gentle hand helps me stay steady. Another prods the back of my head and I flinch when I feel a sting. I’m bleeding, I know it.

“Get her inside, now!” a voice beside me shouts. “She’s bleeding. It’ll call the Risen straight to us. Let’s move!”

I’m being pulled toward the back of the van and the gentle hand is starting to irritate me. I pull against it but it latches down harder, forcing me forward.

“You don’t want to be out here dizzy and disoriented when the Risen show.” the guy says calmly, sounding unreasonably reasonable.

“And unarmed.” Rick says from behind me. I recognize his voice and smug tone. I also recognize his hand on my ass as he shoves me toward the van.

“Not unarmed.” I murmur.

I gather every ounce of clarity I can find inside myself and unsheathe my knife. I turn quickly, bringing up my hand as though I’m going to slap him. He grabs it easily, laughing in my face at my feeble attempt.

“Kitten has claws.” he chuckles.

I sink my knife into his thigh. He was too distracted with my hand and deflecting the slap, he never saw it coming. His eyes say as much as the pain registers. While he’s distracted by the knife in his leg, I thrust my head forward and up, straight into his nose. It breaks and bleeds into my hair but I don’t care. His shocked, bloody, broken face is worth it.

“You bitch!” he exclaims as he inhales sharply.

I’m tossed into the back of the van carelessly. The last thing I see before they close the doors isn’t Rick’s mangled face or the concerned face of the guy with the gentle hands who sorrowfully tells me I shouldn’t have done that. What I see far off in the distance, up high at the top of a building, is a flash of reflected light. Small and precise, like the mirror in a woman’s makeup case. It casts a beam of light directly down on my face making me wince. Then the doors slam shut and it’s gone.

I’m gone.

“Are you cold?” a woman asks me.

I pull myself up off the freezing metal floor of the van, fighting against the rocking as it bumps silently down the uneven streets. I thought the back of the van was empty but it’s not. There are three people huddled deep in the back; one man in his late twenties with two women. One is only a couple years older than I am while the other is easily older than the man. They’re all bundled up tight, ready for the cold weather, and the man sits between them. Each of the women has her arms wrapped around one of his biceps, pulling him close.

“Um,” I try to speak but my tongue feels thick. My head wobbles on my shoulders while the world tilts precariously.

“Uh oh,” the guy says, rushing toward me. “She’s going over. Nats, give her you’re the sweater under your coat.”

He has my shoulders firmly between his, holding me up as he looks me squarely in the face. I’m struck by how handsome he is. Dark hair, bright green eyes, chiseled features. The women look nothing like him, not even the same nationality, and I wonder how they all know each other. Just another band of survivors hiding out together?

Then it hits me through the fog. The way they were sitting together. The way Nats immediately jumped to it when he told her to give up her sweater despite the cold. The angry hornet tattoo on his neck.

“You’re in The Hive.” I mutter.

“You’ve heard of us?” he asks absently, pulling the sweater over my head.

“No one in the wild hasn’t heard of The Hive.”

He shrugs. “I guess we’re pretty well known.”

“Well known?” I ask, pulling out of his grasp to finish dressing on my own. Pride and bravado, remember? Cornerstones of life. “Notorious is more like it. Feared is even better.”

He sits back on his heels to give me an appraising look. His face is hard but I can see it is in his eyes. He’s amused.

“You don’t seem too scared right now.”

I snort. “Not of you. You’re not my biggest problem at the moment. Hell, you’re not even my smallest problem.”

He grins as he shakes his head. “What crew has been hiding you?”

“None. I’m not in one. Never have been.” I look at him pointedly. “I never will be.”

He laughs. “No joke? You’ve been going it alone?”

I nod feeling ridiculously proud under his appreciative stare. “Six years now.”

“That was a good run.”

I move to sit at the end of the van with my back against the closed doors, the borrowed sweater pulled around me tightly.