The Deepest Red (4 page)

Now looking at Clover I can’t help but think of her and hope I can find my way back home. I’m certain befriending Clover would be easy enough but Connor on the other hand, I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him.
I need to compose myself and wait for my chance to run.
I fold my arms in irritation and wince from the injuries inflicted by jumping through the gas station’s window. In the darkness, I detect small black splotches on my clothing. Connor frowns at the evidence of my abrasions.

“Yeah, that isn’t going to work for me,” I remark, giving Connor the best intimidating stare- disregarding my pitiful state. “I want to know why you’re here and for how long?”

Connor’s mouth opens to answer but before he replies a loud noise catches our attention. His bad attitude and bored expression is quickly replaced with a demeanor of a mountain lion ready to strike. He draws his weapons immediately and in response I do the same. The moon’s light gleams off of his steady knives and I’m reminded of the deathly beauty he is.

“What is it Connor?” I ask.

“If you want to know why we’re here, then pay attention,” he states, still appearing as if he is about to pounce.

“Why don’t you just-” he glances at me with cold eyes, silencing my reply.

“Shhhhh. I can’t hear anything with you talking,” he says.

I pause in my retort.
Where is Clover?

The small girl that was beside me moments ago has vanished. Eyes wide I search for her, but she is nowhere to be found. The strange sensation to protect her flares up in my chest but I deny the desire and attempt to focus on the noise moving closer. The danger seems to be coming from my right. Whatever it is, it isn’t trying to hide its sound. I hear the crackling of leaves then dragging. I swallow pass the thickness in my throat as a deep moan utters from the dark woods. Again, the terror races up my legs. I think I’ve been more frightened in the last few hours than I’ve been in my whole life.

I steal a glance at Connor. He’s still standing, ready and waiting. He isn’t concerned about Clover’s disappearance so I decide to keep quiet. The thoughts of running enter my mind again but fear and curiosity have me locked into place. I want to see what is coming. I want to know what is threatening me.

A form appears in front of us of a hunched over man. I can tell he has been severely injured due to the way he is dragging his left leg.

“Tom?” I whisper.

I feel Connor’s eyes on me having spoken aloud.
No, it can’t be Tom
.
He promised to stay put
. I take another gander at the stranger. The man’s arm seems to be swinging freely from his socket. I make a face of disgust. The shoulder must be dislocated or broken. I relax a bit. The injured man doesn’t seem to be much of a threat by the damage I perceive from here.

I begin to put my knife away when the moonlight catches the sickly bluish tint of his skin. His face is sunken, with large searching eyes. There are boils that litter his skin causing a brownish red blood to ooze from each infected area. On one side of his body, half his face seems to be melted. The clothes he wears are like what we used in the infirmary back home. However, this gown is covered in dirt with rips around the hem.

I suck in a breath in horror as the gruesome stranger steps into the moonlight. I’ve never seen anyone like this before.
Is he even alive? He’s moving but what is wrong with him? I call out to the deformed man.

“Stop where you are, don’t come any closer.”

I hear Connor’s huff of a laugh from beside me.

“How very original,” he says to me then cuts his glare to my face. “Anything else?” He scoffs.

I stand there, eyes wide, shaking my head as the horrendous man focuses his attention solely on me.  

I understand the dangerous glint reflecting in Connor’s eyes. His face is so stern, yet focused on the stranger in front of us. Before I can say a word in response, Connor states firmly.

“Don’t move, just stay where you are so it can see you. We need to keep it distracted.”

He doesn’t say another word. When I begin to ask why I’m cut off by a horrible scream. I turn my attention back to the man to find Clover kneeling on the ground behind him. The knife that was strapped to her back, now gleaming with rustic brown blood. The thick liquid slowly drips from the blade’s jagged edge. She must have been in a tree this whole time waiting for the injured man to drag himself by.

The mangled stranger’s body tilts forward. I realize then that she didn’t gash the back of his calves but in fact went straight through them, right below his knees- severing the limbs. His body topples off the now separated legs. Connor takes action with a practiced grace, rushing toward Clover and the now screaming victim.

The man’s strange screams echo through my ears. The sound is sharp, piercing my eardrums and sending a state of shock throughout my soul. I gape at how skillful Connor is when he attacks. I can tell he has had plenty of practice using these life ending techniques. With a start, I understand now that he was going easy on me earlier. He moves so flawless and oddly artful but I don’t stick around to witness the final strike. I spin sharply, away from the scene and run. I race hurriedly toward where I believe the creek to be. I run as deliberately and as silently as I can. I run with a terror that has lodged itself in my heart and doesn’t seem to go away. I don’t see the final blow to whatever that creature was behind me. I only hear the last sick slice of the blade and listen to the silence of his screams.

Chapter Three

I feel the breeze on my face as I sprint. My eyes are wet either from the force of the wind or from my tears, I’m not certain which. As I run my body relaxes into a steady pace. I always enjoyed jogging the fences of the prison so running the distance back to Tom doesn’t bother me much.

I try to stay alert and discover my now beloved pine cones that tell me the way back to Tom’s familiar face. I am exhausted when I finally reach the creek but I take comfort in the fact my supply bag is still on my back and my knife in hand.

Before I step out into the open, I study the surrounding area- venturing to distinguish anything that might be strange. Nothing seems off but I still wait in silence for long moments. The full moon lights up the creek so that I see the bottom of Old Tom’s shoes sticking out of the embankment across the water.

I whisper out into the open space , “Tom?” His shoes start to wiggle as he sits up looking in the direction in which my voice came.

“It’s about damn time you show up. I thought I was going to die alone out here in the woods.” His gravel voice calls out into the darkness.

I roll my eyes at the statement, sorry that with the lack of light he can’t witness me doing so. I quickly step out from behind a big pine tree and walk toward him. A few large jumps across the flat stones protruding out of the creek’s stream and I’m climbing up the embankment to his side.

Tom appears a little paler in the face than before. After I set his broken leg he had passed out on the dirt for awhile. I took that time to dig his trench and hope he woke up long enough for me to tell him I was going out for supplies. He didn’t want me to go at first but what could he really do; Staying off his leg was important and I was as capable as any.

I step beside the trench and reach down to grab his extended hand.

“I didn’t think you were coming back.” He pauses. “I’d just about decided in the morning, I would hop off toward the prison, leg be damn,” he says looking up at me in relief.

I help him to sit on the edge of the trench and position his injured leg. It was a small clean break, no protruding bone or anything life threatening.

“You wouldn’t have gotten far,” I banter as I take two strong sticks and position them on each side of his break. Cutting off strips of rolled gauze, I begin to wrap each material around the leg and bark stripped wood. I pull tightly and tie three separate knots supporting the makeshift splint. Tom watches my progress making sure I don’t make any mistakes. I take my time under his scrutiny. He is constantly endeavoring to teach me how to survive in the red zone and at the moment I’m thankful for the attempt. 

“You’re probably right. I think I might be getting a little too old to be out here in this deserted place.” Pausing he reaches up and gives my hat a tug. “You look like shit,” he says in an annoyed yet playful voice.

I stop treating his leg and peer up into his eyes. I notice he seems older than the man I had come to know so well four months ago.

When he had first started training me for the red zone, he had had a little spark in his eyes. Now, the glint had disappeared. Maybe the spark so full of determination and willpower was gone only because he was in pain and so far away from home. Maybe I’d disappointed him or failed him in some way. I don’t remember when I started caring about what he thought but I did and the idea of him thinking I was a horrible scout, bothered me. If I can find a way to get him back to the prison’s infirmary, maybe he might want to stick around and continue teaching me.

I ignore his compliment and say, “Oh please, if you start talking like this now, who is going to go into the red zone for all those lazy ass scared folk at home.”

I make quotation marks with my fingers as he smiles at me. The skin at the edges of his eyes crinkle, radiating a warmth I’ve come to enjoy.

“You’re a pain in the ass. You know that?” He quips.

“That’s what they keep telling me,” I reply as I grin back.

He inspects his leg and grabs the gauze roll. He cuts two small pieces with his small pocket knife and places them firmly on an open gash. His silver knife always makes me laugh with its engraving of a centipede on the side, such a strange animal to have a likeness of on a blade. I sit back and restrain a laugh.

“We should’ve called you centipede instead of Old Tom.”

He flips the knife’s blade back into it’s hiding place- feeling the weight of it in his hand.

“Did you know that centipedes are predators?” He questions, watching me closely.

“No. Really?” I retort a little too eagerly. I wonder if my Dad knew that little bit of information. “They look like a weak insect to me,” I say as I make myself comfortable on the hard ground.

“Yeah. No lie.” Tom’s bushy eyebrows lift in surprise at my sudden interest. “They wrap themselves around their prey and wait for their venom to take effect. Then, they feast on one big happy meal.”

I smirk at his enthusiasm.

“Na-uh. Who told you that? I’ve never read anything about centipedes in the library.” I shake my head. “God, I hate bugs.” I murmur.

Tom opens his fingers revealing the pocket knife to the night sky.

“My father told me a good bit about centipedes.”

He sighs softly and takes a moment to observe the old engraving in his hand. 

“I stole this from him two days before the EMP and the good Ole’ fashion bombs dropped.” He glimpses at me with haunted eyes. “I was a child and thought showing my friends my father’s knife would make me cool. I was too scared to give the pocket knife back to him afterward because he’d been searching for it around the house. I was only seven at the time and didn’t want to be in trouble. So I kept the chunky thing in my shoe at school. I remember thinking how heavy and awkward the metal was up against my skin.” Tom reaches down to rub the side of his ankle, remembering that day so long ago.

“The morning of the EMP, a teacher saw the pocket knife peeking out from my boot. Ms. Ana, sent me to the principal’s office and they called my dad. I sat motionless and cried on the large fluffy grey sofa they kept in front of the secretary. I didn’t realize how big of a deal it was to have a pocket knife at school. Back in those days the schools had a kind of no weapons policy.” Tom’s voice hardens as he run his weathered finger over the knife’s design.