The Deepest Red (5 page)

“The EMP struck that morning at 9:11am. No one knew what was going on. I remember sitting in the principal’s dark office till they took me and all of the other children to the gym. I never saw my father again. The bombs came, life stopped as we knew it.”

In a daze, Tom watches his own finger stroke the cool metal. A moment passes and then another. I don’t dare to speak.

Two small red birds flutter by, chirping as they land on a nearby branch. One settles into a small nest, the other hops back and forth on the branches. I observe them quietly until Tom becomes aware of his surroundings. 

“Sorry,” he says pulling my gaze back to him. “I guess laying in the dirt all day makes you want to share your life story.” He smiles a delicate smile looking uncomfortable. A moment later, Tom’s eyesight shifts away. He gives an awkward laugh as if he is hiding a secret I shouldn’t be allowed to discover.

Words tumble to the tip of my tongue but I’m unable to speak. I never asked him to tell me anything, specially bits and pieces of his life. I never wanted to be aware of his story but I can’t undo what he has told me. I can’t undo the emotions it unleashes in me. The emotions I pretend are not there.

The dejection I keep locked away stirs inside of me, allowing resentment and curiosity to float up to the surface. I hate knowing the stories of people who lived through those first days. It forces me to think about my own story which I never let myself dwell on for too long. In a way, I’m lucky I never experienced the luxury they did. By only knowing this hard life, I’m able to cope better. Only in my weak moments do the sad tales I hear being told bring forth thoughts of my mother. I don’t want to think of her and how my image of her is make believe. I can’t remember her face or scent. I don’t know what her voice or laugh sounded like. The despair stirs a little more inside me. I peer back at Tom waiting for anymore memories he longs to share. I did leave him in a ditch all day so I can’t refuse to listen.

Old Tom takes the pocket knife and clips it onto his belt. He seems to be shaken by his own thoughts and no longer wanting to relive them. I reach into my bag for the disinfectant and try to give him a moment to himself. Really, I’m being selfish. I need the moment more than him.

“Tell me.” Tom says, clearing his voice. “What does MARCH stand for?”

I let out a sigh. He always seemed to like quizzing me in moments I didn’t care to answer.

“Major Hemorrhaging, Airways, Respirations, Circulation, Hypothermia.” I pause. “Oh, and let’s throw in head injuries and minor hemorrhaging for fun,” I say attempting not to seem troubled.

“Very good,” Tom gruffs and scratches his beard.

Taking a few cotton balls, I dampen them with a clear liquid hidden deep inside the first aid kit. The crisp odor sends memories of Tessa in the infirmary’s twin size bed through my mind. Her bruised baby face and the proclamation of pain when I bandaged her arms and legs. The recollection tears at my heart. She was so fragile. We’re all so fragile.

I begin to pat the medicine on Tom’s cuts. He sucks in a breath and hisses at me.

“Shhhhhhhh,” I scold him. “Don’t be a baby.”  The air is quiet for a moment as I wait for him to give a sarcastic retort.

“Thank you.” Tom says instead as I move on to another gash on his arm. I just nod and finish bandaging another jagged wound. He sits silently watching me work and I feel myself start to ease at the familiar movements.

“You want to know my favorite saying in the infirmary?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

A wide smile forms on Tom’s wrinkled face.

“A happy trauma patient is a naked trauma patient.”

I glance at his delighted smile and crinkle my nose. I’m pretty sure he’s laughing more at my expression than the saying itself.

“Ew. Gross.” I say, dabbing a little more clear liquid on his arm.

Tom flinches but the song of laughter still sings in his eyes.

“You sure are a dirty old man.” I remark, finishing with the last remaining cut. I ignore his chuckling as I move on to my own damaged skin, gasping at the intensity of the stings.

After treating my wounds, I place the first aid kit together and restore the box back into my supply bag. I take out a package of dried beef jerky they gave us when we left the prison and separate the pieces. I motion toward Tom, giving him his share. He takes the meat with a curt nod and commences to chew loudly. The picture of his mouth smacking and his white beard dancing in the air causes a smile to form on my face. I think he does this on purpose.

“You’re doing pretty well for your first time out in the red zone,” he says to me in a hillbilly tone.

I let out a bark of laughter, “I don’t know about that.”

Turning serious, I decide it’s time to tell him just how well I did my first time out. I stop chewing on the dry beef and attempt not to stumble on my words.

“I ran into some company today while getting supplies.”

Tom’s eyes enlarge as he stares at me. Before he can voice his concerns, I cut him off.

“Don’t worry, I got past them and they didn’t follow me here. I lost the strangers in the woods when we came across something I don’t know how to describe.”

I put my beef jerky away, no longer hungry at the memory of the mutilated man.

“What did you run across in the woods?” Tom asks in a weary voice.

“Like I said the whole thing is hard to describe. All I know is the thing was a man but he could hardly walk. Something was wrong with his skin and he kept moaning as he shuffled toward me.”

Tom’s face was blank when he asked me. “Was there only one? What happen to him? Did he touch you? Hurt you?”

I look at him confused.

“This guy didn’t seem like the kind of guy I wanted touching me.” I say, as a picture of Connor pops into my thoughts.

I toss the image aside quickly.

“Besides the other two people I ran into killed him. I got away while they were distracted.”

I fidget where I sit, tracing the outline of a bandage and replaying the scene in my head. I wince a little at the memory of the man’s screams.

Tom seems to relax at my statement and begins to lower himself back into the trench. He makes a face at the pain. Noticing our lack of shelter, I decide I need to make camp but feel too exhausted in the darkness. Tom speaks up from his ditch as if reading my mind.

“Don’t worry about setting up camp. With strangers in the area and whatever you found in the woods, it would be better to not bring attention to ourselves.”

I fix my gaze toward the hole in the ground annoyed with my fatigue and with the whole situation.

“What? A bright orange tent, you think would catch their eye? No, surely not.” I say, sarcastically.

I hear soft laughter coming from the trench and get the surprise of seeing Old Tom’s wrinkled hand appear out of no where with only the middle finger extended
. The old guy is flipping me off!

“Well, no fire for you.” I smirk, peering over into the cozy trough. “You got room in that hole for me,” I crinkle my nose, “or did you bleed all over the dirt?”

Tom moves over making just enough room for me to squeeze in next to him.

“You kick my leg in the night and I won’t be the only one bleeding,” he replies.

I laugh at his empty threat and gently lower my exhausted body into the ground. The space is small but warm with our body heat combined. I’m careful not to damage our bandages with my movements as I settle in for what will be a sleepless night.

Chapter Four

When morning comes my eyelids are heavy as if I haven’t slept a wink. I stretch my back feeling the bones pop along my spine. My body is sore and weary and my mind keeps fluttering back to the mutilated man from the night before.
Were there others like him out there?
If he came close would he have hurt me or did I witness a murder between a helpless man and two twisted people?

I think of Clover who had seemed so defenseless but wasn’t. I shiver at the thought of my eyes finding her crouched on the ground with blood dripping from her knife. Witnessing the challenge in her glare, I understood her looks were deceiving as were mine. I will always keep that knowledge tucked away for if I ever get the idea to help a seemingly innocent girl again.

I begin to stretch out, hearing the chirps of the birds in the trees. The smell of plowed dirt surrounds me. Tiny bugs crawl quickly around the exposed roots of the trench walls.

“Gross,” I shudder and realize at some point during the early morning I had, in fact, fallen asleep. The space beside me is empty and void of Tom’s snores. Peeking out from my little dirt haven, I see him limping his way down to the creek. He’s slow and a little wobbly but the embankment isn’t as steep in the shaded area he’s in. With any luck, he should be able to limp his way to the water without too much difficulty.

Tom, having fashioned a cane from a large branch that must have fallen onto the ground, studies the rocks before him, deciding how best to step. The sturdiness of the wood should make traveling a lot easier on our hike back to the prison today.

“That was a stupid idea old man, getting out of this trench alone to stumble down the hill,” I call out. “You know, I could’ve helped you.”

Tom waves a dismissive hand in my direction. I cringe as the gesture makes him stumble. He fortunately keeps himself from falling onto the hard rocks with the help of his fabricated walking stick. I let out a breath. His already thinning hair is tangled up on the side of his head. He appears worn and a little funny with all the bandages lacing up his arms and legs.

“You probably have bruises everywhere. Just wait a second,” I call out again but he ignores me.

One of his hands clutches at the side of his torso before he realizes the indication and places it back on the staff. I figured his ribs were bruised from his accident but I was hesitant to say anything last night. He knows without me telling him and understands the hard journey we face today. Besides what could I really do about it anyway?

“I don’t need your help and you were sleeping,” Tom yells back. “You know, I like you more when you’re asleep. Less noisy,” Tom chuckles, jabbing at something with his cane.

He slips slightly.

“Funny,” I retort while giving him the finger. His eyesight is too poor to distinguish my extended finger from this distance away but the gesture makes me feel better.  Though he is about as blind as a bat, he won’t ever admit it or let others keep him out of the red zone. Tom looks down and shakes his head, mumbling something to himself that I can’t quite make out.
 
Something about if you don’t have bruises you aren’t useful.

I take this as a sign to start getting my supply bag in order. I start to rumble through its contents and perform a quick inventory count in my head. I inspect Old Tom’s back pack. I don’t think I will be able to carry everything and he won’t be able to carry anything. I sort through his assortment of supplies and collect all the items I think might be helpful. I will try my best to mark our location on my map so others from the prison can pick up the rest later. It’s the best I can do.

I’m just standing up, placing the newly filled supply bag on my shoulders, when a chill races up my arms. The birds are no longer singing. My eyes search the branches seeking those two red birds from earlier. Tom’s scream bounces off every tree and lodges itself in my brain. My sight rushes to the creek where Tom had been standing only to view a new horror. A type of horror to add to my growing collection, the kind where the victim you watch is someone you know- a familiar face, someone you care about. Panic consumes me.

I don’t realize I’m running until I’m halfway to them. I pull my knife out from its sheath and drive the sharp point through the eye of a mutilated woman. There’s a crunch followed by a smell of rotting flesh. We land together onto the hard rocks, Tom still clutched in her arms. I push away, hurrying to stand and bring back the blade. I gasp at her eyeball still attached to my weapon’s sharp end. Brownish red gooey liquid oozes from her eye socket as I pull the eyeball off my blade and sling the slimy mess into the creek water.