Tracey Ward - Writing on the Wall

“I can’t tell yet. You left a lot of blood on the pavement though. It’s only a matter of time.”

“At least the wolves will probably take care of them. They won’t stay down there forever.”

He’s got a point. Once a zombie catches on to human flesh in a location, it’s a dog with a bone. It will not give it up. If it were them down there at the gate where the wolves are, we would have to count that exit as dead to us. They’d never leave. If they show up and the wolves are still around, though, there’s every chance the animals will kill them and eventually lose interest in us. They’ll move on. I have other exits but that’s the easiest, safest one. The others involve the roof or windows that offer a jump down to a lower building. It’s doable but you risk breaking a bone or tweaking an ankle, two conditions you can ill afford out here.

“We’ll have to wait it out.” I mumble.

I hear him step back. When I look over, he’s watching me from a few paces away.

“Are the other rooms here secured?”

I frown, glancing around. “It’s a loft… there are no other rooms.”

“No, I mean in the building. Have you secured any other rooms besides this one? Any other places where I could crash?”

I look him over sharply. “Is that knife all you have?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t thinking. I was—“

“Emotional.”

I say it like it’s a swear. Like a curse or disease because it is. It’s catching and deadly and the longer he’s here, the longer I’m in someone else’s company, the more likely I am to catch it. I’ve spent the better part of a decade avoiding that particular plague and I’m not interested in being taken down by it now.

“Yeah, I was. I still am.” he admits quietly.

That couldn’t have been easy, especially for a Lost Boy. In the wild your pride and bravado are as important to staying alive as your ability to hunt and avoid being hunted. He’s gonna die if he goes back out there. Problem solved for me, no one will know where I live, but if I let that happen then why did I step in in the first place? The logical choice is to let him leave and disappear forever. But now I’ve seen his face, I’ve named the puppy and I emotionally don’t like the idea of him dying.

His disease is catching. It’s airborne. It’s in his voice. In his eyes.

“You can stay here.” I tell him firmly. “In this room. With me. It’s fine.”

He looks at me in shock, stunned by my offer.

“I don’t want to intrude on what you’ve got here.” he says slowly, watching me.

It’s a big deal these days to let anyone into your world. I can feel the weight of it in the way my heart is hammering in my chest, my skin prickling with… what? Fear? It must be. It feels like it. This feels like when a Risen is closing in on me, backing me into a corner and threatening to take everything. When Crazy Crenshaw let me stay with him while I was deliriously ill, that was the equivalent of in the old days letting someone wear your underwear or borrow your toothbrush. Inviting someone in your space is incredibly personal and basically just not done. Letting this guy know where I live is huge enough, but letting him crash here? It’s epic. For a recluse like myself, it’s the apocalypse all over again.

“I said it’s fine.” I mean to sound sure, solid, but I think I come off angry.

It’s because it’s not fine. It’s terrifying and it’s going to be awful, but I can do this. Maybe I need to prove to myself that I can. That I can stay unattached and unemotional. Maybe I want to know I’m a decent human being who can help her fellow man when the chips are down. Or maybe I’m a girl, he’s a guy and he’s here, a seemingly simple aligning of the stars that has never happened before in my world, one that is unlikely to ever happen again. He’s a comet shooting across the sky, his course only bringing him along every hundred years, and if I want to experience this once in a lifetime event, I better open my eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asks skeptically.

“Do you want me to change my mind?”

“Are any other rooms in this building safe?”

“Nope. Windows are blown out of just about all of them and all of the doors are kicked in.”

“Then no, I don’t want you to change your mind.”

I nod sharply as I turn away, heading deeper into the loft. Away from the window and the darkness outside. Away from him.

“Hey,” he calls quietly.

I stop but I don’t face him. “What?”

“Thanks. For taking me in tonight and for stepping in with the wolf. I—I made a mistake.”

I nod my head slowly, thinking of the mistakes I’ve seen made. The ones I’ve made in the past. The ones I’m making now.

“We all do.” I say, glancing over my shoulder at him. “Eventually.”

I run for the bathroom. I need a minute. I need space in this huge room. A place where I can’t see him and I can’t feel his eyes. Having someone else around is stranger than I thought it would be. It’s harder than I imagined but it’s addicting at the same time. I like the sound of his voice as it roams around the room. I like the way he smiles and the fact that despite his idiot move with the wolf, he’s smart. He’s a survivor like me. The problem is my instincts are telling me to get him the hell out of here. Listening for his footsteps, hearing his breathing, sensing his proximity in the room – it’s all too much to handle. I’m used to classifying every sound not made by me as a threat. His very existence has me on edge and it’s not exactly something I can turn off. I can’t tell my brain and body, hey don’t worry about it, he’s friendly and expect them to obey because I trained them for years to worry about everything. To see everyone as a threat. And who knows? Maybe he actually is.

When I get myself pulled together I return to the main area to find him examining the bike again. He’s not touching it this time. Just looking.

“How did you learn to do this?” he asks, glancing up at me from his crouched position.

I shrug. “I know a guy.”

“You know a guy?” he asks with a grin. “What are you, a mobster? You got connections?”

“Maybe. How do you know about mobsters?”

“I read. How do you know about them?”

“Same. Books. Plus my dad and I used to watch old movies together. He liked old black and whites.”

“Do you have any here?”

“No. I don’t watch them anymore. I haven’t since—you know.”

“Yeah, I do. What kind of movies do you have?” he asks, thankfully changing the subject. I don’t feel like playing the How Did You Lose Everything game tonight. Or ever.

“Nothing you’d like.” I deflect, feeling suddenly embarrassed by my meager collection. All I have is a box set of old 80’s movies about kids in high school, something I never got to experience. Breakfast Club, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink.

“I haven’t seen a movie in years. I’ll like anything.” he insists.

“No, I doubt it.”

“What do you have that you’re hiding? Are they dirty?”

I frown. “Dirty?”

“Sex tapes. Porn. Skin flicks.”

“What?! No!” I exclaim, feeling myself blush for what is probably the first time in my entire life. “They’re 80’s romantic comedies.”

“Cool. Let’s watch one. But just for the record, I would have gladly watched a sex tape. No judgment.”

“I don’t have sex tapes.” I grumble.

“No judgment.”

“I don’t—“

“What’s in here now?” he interrupts, kneeling down in front of the small unit.

“Um, Sixteen Candles , I think.”

I don’t think, I know. Images of Jake Ryan dance through my mind as this Ryan invades my home.