The Deepest Red (14 page)

“Millie.”

My name is whispered curtly into my ear. I spin, seeing no one beside me. I step toward Tom but the concrete covers my boots like quicksand, halting my advance. I struggle, attempting to lift my foot but the weight gripping me below is to heavy to break away. Tom’s voice repeats my name, the sound ricocheting off the walls, his lips never moving. My brain warps recalling the one thing I shouldn’t have forgotten. Tom is dead.

“Its coming Millie,” his voice contorts into a haunting melody accented only with the faint laughter of a concealed woman.

My eyes widen as I shake my head quickly back and forth.

“No,” I say, wanting to escape.

“Listen to me.”

The words flutter endlessly across the room. I fall backwards, my boots still locked in place.

“I don’t want to know.” My voice seems like a stranger to me, weak and pitiful. “I don’t want to know, Tom,” I say more forcefully.

The woman’s laughter grows stronger.

“Yes, you do,” he hisses.

“No!” I scream, stretching out my arm across the hard flood toward a metal wrench.

My fingers brush the smooth edge of the tool not quite able to grasp it. I glance back. Tom continues to look toward the frigid ground as his blood flows unnaturally toward the concrete drain.

“Its coming Millie,” his voice draws out in a distorted echo.

The sound is noisy in my ears as if he was right beside me with his hair stroking my face.

“No,” my trembling voice says in a soft cry.

I choke on a sob and throw my body toward the wrench. My fingers grip it slightly as I strain to drag it toward me. Wet tears blur my vision. My hand finally encloses around the wrench and I draw back, striking the concrete smothering my boots. A deep crack appears urging me to hit my bindings harder.

In the distance, the crackle noise begins again. I strike the resistant concrete harder. Another insane laugh of a woman causes my head to turn toward the sound. Darkness fills the edges of my eyesight while the static crackle races closer, its low buzzing hum invading my fragile consciousness. I strike again breaking free one of my boots.

“Hurry Millie.” A strange voice purrs behind me.

The dark shadows of men form on the surrounding cement block walls. They stand motionless as if soldiers waiting for a command. I swing the wrench toward my other boot, ignoring the amused voice humming behind me. In one cold sweep the static consumes me, whirling around me frantically until I decipher the noise. Voices. So many voices whispering frantically to me. My head hurts as I try to understand what they saying. Their pleads merge into one solid sound but their meaning never makes itself known. Wind unleashes my hair allowing the red strands to whip into the air as if to guard me from harm.

“My poor girl,” a voice coos.

I look up to see Tom’s bleeding face directed at me. His eye lids are stitched together but I feel their glare all the same. I notice his ears are sliced off and laying on his lap bleeding. Panic bubbles into my body as he smiles an insane smile at me, reserved for murders and the devil himself.

“Kill them all,” Tom’s voice entices me. “Be useful and…” His words are cut off by an intense pain slicing through my brain.

“Tom?” I croak, gripping the wrench to my chest. A sob escapes my throat. “Tom, I’m sorry.”

“Kill them all!” He bellows with a voice more like his own.

I wince nodding my head, not understanding who “them” are. When I muster up the courage to ask, Tom has disappeared, only the stream of blood on the concrete floor remains. Dropping the wrench, I cradle my head between my hands. I rock back and forth, my entrapped boot forgotten.

“I’m sorry Tom. I’m so sorry,” I whisper desperate for him to hear.

My fingers tighten on my head as I repeat my apology over and over. A throat clears in the darkness breaking my stupor but nothing is visible beyond Tom’s cardboard box. The abandoned blood on the concrete floor begins to move on its own without a source. The puddle bends and shapes sprouting from itself a million tiny legs. A body forms cautiously, rising almost hesitant as if to test its stance. The legs ripple as the red centipede begins to creep across the ground.

I withhold the scream bubbling up my throat and refuse to breath as I observe its twisting body making gruesome jerking motions. Ideas of escaping cross my mind until I remember the concrete still entrapping my foot and calf. Another movement catches my eye. A figure steps from beyond the shadows and beckons to the bloody creature. Fear freezes me in place.

This new figure is dressed in black robes that fall to the floor. A large hood covers its head but from within the velvet hood a white leather mask appears. It is in the shape of a crow’s head covering the secrets of the cloaked figure. Its human hand reaches out toward me as if to draw me near. I watch as the red centipede crawls languidly toward the masked terror, its legs moving like waves upon the sand. I’m mesmerized by the rhythm.

The room grows darker as a naked bulb dims. Sensing my body dissolving, the cloaked figure whispers in a hoarse and broken voice.

“Millie,” it says, drawing out my name.

The centipede slithers closer.

“Millie.”

The demon extends one arm pointing toward me.

“I’ll find you soon.”

For whatever reason I have the distinct feeling a smile widens underneath the mask. I throw the metal wrench toward the draped person. Amused laughter bounces off the walls as the wrench flies through the shadows, never hitting the ground. The red centipede reaches the cloak, drawing my attention. It rears back with predatory grace as if to strike.

I shoot up from my makeshift pillow, gasping in as much air as possible. I can’t breath and a fire burns in my throat.

“Millie.”

I wince at the use of my name, hating the way it sounds.

“I’m fine,” I say struggling with my breathing.

Everything feels too heavy even the air against my skin.
It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare.
I rest my pounding head on my knees and let the sweat drip down my face and neck.

“Take a deep breath,” Connor says rubbing small circular patterns on my back. The touch is nice, comforting even. An arm appears around my waist. Connor ignores my flinch as he pulls my body into his lap. I hesitate in his hold never before being held so close to a guy other than my Father.

I bite back a sob as I remember my Dad. I used to get nightmares as a child before I decided I wanted to be a scout. Dad and I slept in the same room together, his bed on one side, my cot on the other. He told me once that he knew when I was having a nightmare because I would talk in my sleep. He would wake me up and complain about how his bed was too big for just him alone. I remember the childlike smile he would get when he would read me back to sleep- stories of far off worlds full of unicorns and dragons chasing off the existence of nightmares. I miss him.

I swallow hard attempting to relieve the burning in my throat. I’m so scared from my nightmare I forget to be shy or embarrassed.

“You’re safe,” his calm voice says in the darkness.

Connor’s arms stay around my waist and shoulders as he holds me close to him.

“Millie, You’re safe with me,” he soothes.

My head lays to rest against his chest as he cradles me and rocks ever so slightly. I realize my body is shaking as one of his rough hands smooths over my hair; brushing strands away from my face. I listen to the rapid beating of his heart and I wonder if he can hear mine keeping pace. After long moments, drawing strength from his embrace,  I relax.

“Did I wake Clover?” I ask.

Connor shakes his head lowering his lips to the top of my head.

“No.”

Unfortunately, Chevy was not spared from my outburst. He walks over to where we are propped up against the tree house’s wall. Gently he sniffs my hand and places two licks there before curling up beside us.

“Are you ok?”

I feel Connor’s breath on the top of my face as if he is looking down at me.

“Yeah, sorry. Nightmares are common for me even if that one was one of the worst dreams of my life,” I whisper.

I’m aware of the motion of his hand rising and the touch of him stroking my back. The gesture sends tingles up my neck.

“I know you are reluctant to trust me but I want you to understand I’m here for you.” He speaks softly into my hair as he smells the unruly locks. “I won’t let anyone else have you.” Connor coughs slightly. “I mean, hurt you,” he corrects himself, tightening his grip on my waist.

His words are not lost on me but I can’t respond to them. My mind continues to replay the horrific images of my dream- sending a chilling wave through my already cold skin. I lean into Connor trying to forget Tom’s face. His warmth comforts me as he continues to rock me. I re-frame from shivering. In my mind, I can still hear the voice of the cloaked masked figure calling out my name; the gruffness of its voice causes my skin to prickle.

I didn’t realize that venturing out into the red zone would cause me so much grief and yet with Connor’s arms around me I don’t want to be anywhere else but with him. The conflicting emotions struggle back and forth with each other in my brain, succeeding only in making me more confused about myself. How can I allow myself to feel something for Connor, who is practically a stranger, when Tom was killed right in front of me only this morning; not to mention while I’m still shaking from my nightmare? I proceed only to bury myself deeper into his chest.
What is wrong with me?

Silence continues for what seems like an eternity until Chevy begins to sniff the air violently. I lift my head from Connor’s chest to see the puppy stand and pace the hard floor. The sound from his action gains Connor’s attention as well.

“What is he doing?” he asks.

Connor reaches toward the puppy but Chevy dodges his touch. I sit up, my muscles stiff, and remove myself from Connor’s embrace. The sensation of coldness sweeps back over me.

“I don’t know,” I answer as I reach for the sniffing puff ball.

He dodges my advance as well.

Chevy runs over to Clover using her body as a stepping stool to gaze out of a cut out window. His paws pressing into Clover’s side brings her awake with a startled gasp. Chevy falls to the tree house’s floor with a thump as Clover slashes out with her knife. I didn’t realize she was sleeping with the weapon cradled inside her arm. The puppy regains his composure and stands propped up against the wall making a tiny sound in the back of his throat.

“What the hell?” Clover says in a sleepy voice.

Even half awake she still brought out her knife in a speed I could never muster. Thankfully, I had moved away from her before she woke up.

“We don’t know,” I whisper, “Chevy just started acting weird.”

Clover peers at me then Connor, attempting to sort out the situation in her sleepy state.

The puppy begins to growl again when we hear the sound of leaves being crunched. Clover pokes Chevy in the belly telling him to be quiet. Chevy’s comprehension amazes me. He sits on the smooth worn floor, ears flatten to his head with his hackles raised. Connor brings his finger to his lips signaling to the rest of us to be quiet.

The noises outside draw nearer, becoming louder than any small animal could make. My skin becomes icy. Connor and I sneak across the tree house’s aged floor hoping not to jar the boards. I watch Connor’s face as he lifts his head to peer outside. His eyes widen for a moment before Clover tugs on his black t-shirt. He mouths one word, infected, to us and places his finger once again to his lips.

I hear their distant moans.
How many are there?
Chevy stands alert in the middle of the tree house. He doesn’t growl but his lips are pulled back in a dangerous grin, showing his baby canines. In the dark, Chevy’s hackles are still at attention; still on guard. As the infected advance closer, all my courage drains out of my body. My fingers become numb as the small wooden tree house transfers from a safe haven to constricting cage. I peered cautiously out an open window, my hands shaking. Without a sound, I gaze horrified at the horde of infected as they stumble below our hiding place.

There are at least twenty of them, some of them more decayed in appearance than others. A couple of them spasm with each movement as if shocked by energy every time they take a step. Bone emerges from the still attached skin of their fragile bodies. Dark brown blood seeps from multiple injuries leaving a smear stain on the leaf covered ground. Others of the group sway as they walk; only one or two have a broken limb they drag behind themselves. The moon light washes out their skin giving them an eerie grey appearance. The painful moans mix with the murmur of the leaves breaking beneath their feet, the sounds becoming a harmony of death’s final waltz.

My fearful eyes close in sadness when I distinguish a small figure among the group. A little girl about five years old appears behind the horde. Not having a large stride she lags behind the rest. What is left of her hair is long and black. It hangs in broken strands covering half her face. I can see that a large clump of skin sags off her jaw, exposing her rotting teeth. Her tiny hand clings to a torn doll she drags behind her. The image is stirring and will most likely visit me for many years to come. My heart begins to slow realizing the horde has past unaware of our presence. I glance over to Connor and Clover, curious for their thoughts.