two
INSTINCTS, by travis farren (part two of an ongoing fiction)
previously: part one
...
ALEX
Jeremiah blew into his harmonica a whimsical country-western tune that settled into
the breeze all three of us faced. Kenny, Jeremiah and I sat on hood of the Bronco, it's four
wheels resting on the outlook that leaned over the mountain to stare down at the city with
elitism in it's eyes. I handed Kenny the bottle with glassy eyes and sang the western tune
along with Jeremiah's playing. Country music I despised growing up, but Jeremiah's careful
guidance had led me headlong into the world of the country-western greats, like Johnny Cash
and Waylon Jennings. Kenny threw back the bottle and the whiskey burned his mouth like fire.
He finished his swig and shuddered involuntarily, the vile taste of the alcohol making his
body react with dismay. Jeremiah and I laughed, thin white smiles marring the moonlit pale of
our faces.
That was one month ago. Now, I was clutching a rifle close to my chest as hundreds of the
living dead -- I hesitate to use that pop-culture word, zombies, that summons images of 1950's
horror films -- swarmed the garage I was hiding in and smashed in it's doors, leaving myself,
along with eleven other men and women exposed. The corpses moved forward, their pale not unlike
the one that marked my skin on the night at the overlook. I steeled myself, prepared for
the bloodshed sure to begin, and begin it did. Elise couldn't have been older than thirty, tall
and curvy, dressed smart in pantsuit. Their long white fingers came forward and twisted around
her wrist. Her screams would not deflect them. They summoned, pulling her tightly like dancers,
and wrapped their cold lips around the soft flesh of her arm. When her skin gave way to their
teeth, the blood burst like a balloon and rushed forth to meet the oxygen. The red soaked the
dead men and women and they licked off their arms, their faces, each other -- anywhere they
could find it. A yank and she fell to the ground. Another successful tug and her arm was
ripped from it's sockets, taken into the hungry mouthes of two of the undead. I grit my teeth
hard enough to hurt and press my eye against my rifle's sight. The aim I took was tense, but
careful.
Three months ago. Washington, D.C. The tall man in the clean, black suit held my head tenderly,
like holding a wineglass. He directed it down the AR-15's sight, and spoke in a smooth, deep
tone. "Alex, breathe in deep and hold it. Hold it tight, take your shot. Only then can you
allow yourself to breathe." I nodded, and swallowed hard, nervous. The man directing me, who I
knew only as Magpie, was an important one in the movement, and I wanted desperately to impress
him. I took the breath, and held it, calming my trembling hands. I stared down the rifle at the
target and pulled the trigger, the shot exploding in the paper target's heart. Magpie gave a
hearty laugh, and I was relieved to feel his firm, gloved hand on my shoulder. "Good, Alex.
You're an excellent shot. Have you ever fired before?" I put on the safety and set the rifle
aside, shrugging. "I was a Scout."
"My cousin was. I never had the opportunity." His voice showed no regret, only the smooth
African monotone I had long attributed uniquely to Magpie. He looked past me at the empty
range, then grabbed the AR I had been firing. He walked towards the door, his boots echoing
on the hard floor. He said, "Come with me." I knew it was not a request.
Outside, sitting in his BMW, Magpie removed his sunglass and pointed his dark brown eyes
at me. He said nothing at first, searching his head for English words. Finally, he spoke up.
"Alex, the Cardinal is impressed with you. Hell. I'm impressed with you. The movement's
taking off, you know. In a few months, our new facility in New York City will be finished.
Can you imagine it? 64,000 square feet of the brightest minds. Artists, writers, activists,
scientists and psychologists. Living and studying together. The Cardinal wants you there,
you know. He called for you." Magpie smiled when he noticed my eyes grow. The Cardinal.
The head of the movement wanted me to live in the New York facility? A few months ago,
Jeremiah and I were just tagging abandoned buildings in Washington with political graffiti,
and now Magpie and the Cardinal want me to be at the very forefront of their organization.
It seemed like a dream I was going to wake up from at any time.
Now. A pale monster's head bursts with the punch of a well-aimed bullet. The drooling,
blood-covered man grasped at the bullethole for just a moment before his eyes rolled into
his skull and he promptly fell to the ground, where he was stomped on by his fellow undead.
I hear someone yelling for everyone to retreat to the roof, and I don't realize it's me.
I take aim at another undead, this one with hands full of poor Elise's guts. I fire two
shots. One strikes his shoulder and doesn't jarr him for a second, the second hits his eye,
and I'm relieved to see him fall. I'm taking aim at another when I back into something cold
and wet, and I spin around. There's Elise, her eyes already blackened and dead. She sinks
her fingernails into my arm, but before she can get teeth around me, I smash her head with
the butt of my rifle. She crumples for a second and slips away from me, but I know it's
not enough. I swivel my rifle to the front and blast two down her throat until I know her
brains have been hit and she's under my foot. I race to the ladder that the others had
climbed, and start to make my way up.
I reach the top only to find the hatch closed tight. I push against the metal, but it
doesn't give -- who the hell locked the hatch to the roof?! I scream in a panic, the dead
making a pool under the ladder, their hungry hands reaching up to claw at me in vain.
"Open the hatch!! Open the FUCKING hatch, now!" I was greeting with silence, then Ron's
harsh voice, tinged with that New York accent I had come to hate. "I can't do that, Alex.
Kyle says he done saw you get scratched by Elise." My jaw dropped. Ron really was trying
to kill me. "Goddamn it, Ron, it didn't break the skin! It didn't break the skin, okay?!
If I was gonna be one of them, I'd blow my own damn head off." More silence. Some of the
taller damned form around me, hoping to have better luck at pulling me down. "Ron!! RON!"
Only awkward quiet and the groans of the dead. After a moment I speak again, with no
panic in my voice.
"Ron. Open the hatch or I'm going to shoot the fuel tank. Okay?" After a moment of hushed
whisper, the metal opens to sunlight, and the familiar blue collar working shirt of Ron,
who pulls me up. I glare at him hard. Looking around I do a mental role call, noting that
our twelve is now down to five. I don't ask about the other seven, Rhonda's expression
saying all I need to know. Sitting down out of breath, I open my clip on the DPMS I found
in Ron's garage, the thirty-round magazine depleted down to twelve shots. I make a mental
note to recover the other magazine if it ever becomes possible. Rhonda and Kyle try to
talk to me, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking about my brother. I say another prayer
for him, my sixth in the last two days. I try to believe Jeremiah got him to a hospital,
but not hearing from Jeremiah, I was prepared for the worst.
When my pager buzzed, I jumped and a shock ran through my system. Clearing it, I reached
into my pocket and pulled out the black matchbook-sized device eagerly, praying for a
message from Jeremiah and Kenny, but what a saw was far more confusing. The message was
gibberish, a randomly-placed series of letters and numbers: "Rznvy zr flfnqzva90 ng
tznvy qbg pbz." I was ready to assume it was an error until I saw who the sender was.
In the From window, displayed in omnious thick black type was the word MAGPIE.
>>END OF PART TWO
previously: part one
...
ALEX
Jeremiah blew into his harmonica a whimsical country-western tune that settled into
the breeze all three of us faced. Kenny, Jeremiah and I sat on hood of the Bronco, it's four
wheels resting on the outlook that leaned over the mountain to stare down at the city with
elitism in it's eyes. I handed Kenny the bottle with glassy eyes and sang the western tune
along with Jeremiah's playing. Country music I despised growing up, but Jeremiah's careful
guidance had led me headlong into the world of the country-western greats, like Johnny Cash
and Waylon Jennings. Kenny threw back the bottle and the whiskey burned his mouth like fire.
He finished his swig and shuddered involuntarily, the vile taste of the alcohol making his
body react with dismay. Jeremiah and I laughed, thin white smiles marring the moonlit pale of
our faces.
That was one month ago. Now, I was clutching a rifle close to my chest as hundreds of the
living dead -- I hesitate to use that pop-culture word, zombies, that summons images of 1950's
horror films -- swarmed the garage I was hiding in and smashed in it's doors, leaving myself,
along with eleven other men and women exposed. The corpses moved forward, their pale not unlike
the one that marked my skin on the night at the overlook. I steeled myself, prepared for
the bloodshed sure to begin, and begin it did. Elise couldn't have been older than thirty, tall
and curvy, dressed smart in pantsuit. Their long white fingers came forward and twisted around
her wrist. Her screams would not deflect them. They summoned, pulling her tightly like dancers,
and wrapped their cold lips around the soft flesh of her arm. When her skin gave way to their
teeth, the blood burst like a balloon and rushed forth to meet the oxygen. The red soaked the
dead men and women and they licked off their arms, their faces, each other -- anywhere they
could find it. A yank and she fell to the ground. Another successful tug and her arm was
ripped from it's sockets, taken into the hungry mouthes of two of the undead. I grit my teeth
hard enough to hurt and press my eye against my rifle's sight. The aim I took was tense, but
careful.
Three months ago. Washington, D.C. The tall man in the clean, black suit held my head tenderly,
like holding a wineglass. He directed it down the AR-15's sight, and spoke in a smooth, deep
tone. "Alex, breathe in deep and hold it. Hold it tight, take your shot. Only then can you
allow yourself to breathe." I nodded, and swallowed hard, nervous. The man directing me, who I
knew only as Magpie, was an important one in the movement, and I wanted desperately to impress
him. I took the breath, and held it, calming my trembling hands. I stared down the rifle at the
target and pulled the trigger, the shot exploding in the paper target's heart. Magpie gave a
hearty laugh, and I was relieved to feel his firm, gloved hand on my shoulder. "Good, Alex.
You're an excellent shot. Have you ever fired before?" I put on the safety and set the rifle
aside, shrugging. "I was a Scout."
"My cousin was. I never had the opportunity." His voice showed no regret, only the smooth
African monotone I had long attributed uniquely to Magpie. He looked past me at the empty
range, then grabbed the AR I had been firing. He walked towards the door, his boots echoing
on the hard floor. He said, "Come with me." I knew it was not a request.
Outside, sitting in his BMW, Magpie removed his sunglass and pointed his dark brown eyes
at me. He said nothing at first, searching his head for English words. Finally, he spoke up.
"Alex, the Cardinal is impressed with you. Hell. I'm impressed with you. The movement's
taking off, you know. In a few months, our new facility in New York City will be finished.
Can you imagine it? 64,000 square feet of the brightest minds. Artists, writers, activists,
scientists and psychologists. Living and studying together. The Cardinal wants you there,
you know. He called for you." Magpie smiled when he noticed my eyes grow. The Cardinal.
The head of the movement wanted me to live in the New York facility? A few months ago,
Jeremiah and I were just tagging abandoned buildings in Washington with political graffiti,
and now Magpie and the Cardinal want me to be at the very forefront of their organization.
It seemed like a dream I was going to wake up from at any time.
Now. A pale monster's head bursts with the punch of a well-aimed bullet. The drooling,
blood-covered man grasped at the bullethole for just a moment before his eyes rolled into
his skull and he promptly fell to the ground, where he was stomped on by his fellow undead.
I hear someone yelling for everyone to retreat to the roof, and I don't realize it's me.
I take aim at another undead, this one with hands full of poor Elise's guts. I fire two
shots. One strikes his shoulder and doesn't jarr him for a second, the second hits his eye,
and I'm relieved to see him fall. I'm taking aim at another when I back into something cold
and wet, and I spin around. There's Elise, her eyes already blackened and dead. She sinks
her fingernails into my arm, but before she can get teeth around me, I smash her head with
the butt of my rifle. She crumples for a second and slips away from me, but I know it's
not enough. I swivel my rifle to the front and blast two down her throat until I know her
brains have been hit and she's under my foot. I race to the ladder that the others had
climbed, and start to make my way up.
I reach the top only to find the hatch closed tight. I push against the metal, but it
doesn't give -- who the hell locked the hatch to the roof?! I scream in a panic, the dead
making a pool under the ladder, their hungry hands reaching up to claw at me in vain.
"Open the hatch!! Open the FUCKING hatch, now!" I was greeting with silence, then Ron's
harsh voice, tinged with that New York accent I had come to hate. "I can't do that, Alex.
Kyle says he done saw you get scratched by Elise." My jaw dropped. Ron really was trying
to kill me. "Goddamn it, Ron, it didn't break the skin! It didn't break the skin, okay?!
If I was gonna be one of them, I'd blow my own damn head off." More silence. Some of the
taller damned form around me, hoping to have better luck at pulling me down. "Ron!! RON!"
Only awkward quiet and the groans of the dead. After a moment I speak again, with no
panic in my voice.
"Ron. Open the hatch or I'm going to shoot the fuel tank. Okay?" After a moment of hushed
whisper, the metal opens to sunlight, and the familiar blue collar working shirt of Ron,
who pulls me up. I glare at him hard. Looking around I do a mental role call, noting that
our twelve is now down to five. I don't ask about the other seven, Rhonda's expression
saying all I need to know. Sitting down out of breath, I open my clip on the DPMS I found
in Ron's garage, the thirty-round magazine depleted down to twelve shots. I make a mental
note to recover the other magazine if it ever becomes possible. Rhonda and Kyle try to
talk to me, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking about my brother. I say another prayer
for him, my sixth in the last two days. I try to believe Jeremiah got him to a hospital,
but not hearing from Jeremiah, I was prepared for the worst.
When my pager buzzed, I jumped and a shock ran through my system. Clearing it, I reached
into my pocket and pulled out the black matchbook-sized device eagerly, praying for a
message from Jeremiah and Kenny, but what a saw was far more confusing. The message was
gibberish, a randomly-placed series of letters and numbers: "Rznvy zr flfnqzva90 ng
tznvy qbg pbz." I was ready to assume it was an error until I saw who the sender was.
In the From window, displayed in omnious thick black type was the word MAGPIE.
>>END OF PART TWO