The Deepest Red (6 page)

I spin to face the woman again who's struggling to right herself. Her bony hand clutches at her empty eye socket before extending out toward me. Her body has a sheen of wax-like death, bruised and torn away. On her leg a section of rot has been peeled back exposing black muscle and brittle bones. Pieces of the forest cling to the opened flesh.

I stand watching her attempt to navigate through the large rocks. She falls several times, her weakened mind losing balance. My attention drifts to Tom’s corpse as I wait- feeling the adrenaline rush through my veins. Before I could get to him, she had ripped into his body. A huge hole is impressed into his neck. Bright red blood spurts from the gaping wound. His face displays a manner of surprise and pain all mixed up into one.

Blood partially coats his once white beard, covering the wispy hair like a thick coat of red syrup. The syrup pours down the wrinkles of his skin as I suck in a breath. I realize I won’t be saving him. My friend and partner is gone. Dead. I swallow down my shock and fear as Tom’s lifeless body lays half way into the water. Vacant eyes continue looking toward the clear blue sky, his blood gushing into the ever flowing current. The bright red creates satin like ribbons swirling and riding the flow of the water. I tear my gaze away as the mutilated woman lunges forward.

Before I can think, I slice at her sickly body. A cloud of auburn saturates the front of her shirt as she reaches for me. She’s a tall woman but so thin that with one clean slice I could remove her head. I avoid her reaching hands and quickly position myself behind her. My movements are too fast for her to process, my training taking over- fueling my body. She spins to face me but it's too late, I’ve swept my blade through her neck- my weapon meeting no resistance. Her body stands teetering back and forth, before gravity forces her head to slide off her neck and shoulders. The lump of hair falls to the dirt with a thump and rolls sideways. It wobbles to a stop, her one eye staring back at me. I notice Tom’s blood on her blue tinted lips and turn away. The birds begin to chirp once again as disbelief and grief enters my fragile mind. My hands begin to shake.

I take the tip of my blade and nudge the still standing mutilated woman’s remaining body. Her thin bony features land on her own head. I sway slightly on my feet looking down at her in shock, I recognize the gown she’s wearing. The thin material is the same as the repulsive man’s from yesterday.

A tag protrudes from the back of the neckline. With a shaking hand, I reach down to read the faded print. Most of the words are unidentifiable except for the letters forming “Property of Phoebe Sumter Medical Center.” I don’t understand what or where Phoebe Sumter is but the words medical center are familiar. At one point this person had been treated for an illness of some sort before she changed into a walking cadaver. I clean my knife on her ragged gown, sheath the weapon and step away.

A bird chirps nearby as I struggle to perceive the world around me. I turn toward Tom’s marred body. He’s bloody and mangled, laying in the cool water. The emptiness hovers over my pierced heart.

“Tom?”

My child like voice cracks on his name. I stumble as I walk to where his blood fades into the flowing stream. There is no reason to run, he’s dead and I understand that I’m alone now. Completely alone.

“Tom?” I repeat.

The noise of the creek drowns out my desperation. I’ve failed him in the worst possible way.  Slowly, I pull his body from the water hearing his splinted leg scrap across the stones. Sitting on the banks, I place his heavy head in my lap and begin to stroke his thinning hair and survey the gore of his neck. The pieces of torn skin are angry and savage looking. I close his eyes with shaking fingers as a light breeze caresses my face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a small melancholy voice says from behind me.

I’m not surprised she’s here. I’m not surprised I didn’t hear her sneaking up behind me either. I just sit numbly on the creek’s bank, tracing the wrinkles of Tom’s aged hand.

“Why not?” I ask.

She doesn’t bother to hide her footsteps as she walks to my side. She doesn’t go for her knife, doesn’t give me a death blow like I performed. She just stands there, looking at the violent scene.

“He was a good man,” I whispered, placing his hand on his chest.

Clover takes a breath.

“That’s not always the case,” she says observing my reaction.

I don’t give one. She tilts her head, studying Tom’s body. I have a strange sensation to cover him somehow, to keep him away from her observant eyes.

”Sometimes the sickness can be passed to the already dead,” she remarks. “I haven’t seen it happen but I’ve heard stories. We never stick around to test them out.”

I turn my head and examine her for the first time since our meeting last night. The sun shines brightly, illuminating her fair skin. She is wearing the same pink dress as before with her long blond hair pulled back away from her face. On each side of her twisted bun, a wooden stick pokes out holding the fine locks in place. She’s pretty with her thin features and dirty face. Seeing her in the daylight, I realize she’s older than what I previously thought.
Maybe 15 years old?
She gives off the notion of an old soul; even more distinct when looking into her remarkable green eyes.

I turn my gaze back toward Tom.

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding back tears.

I touch his crimson-stained cheeks hestantiantly with my blood soaked fingers. The weight on my heart feels heavier than a moment before. Once I’ve placed his head down onto the creek’s bank, I stand up. The numbness in my legs frightens me. I can’t walk without tripping. I catch myself as Clover backs away, giving me room. I can tell she is readying herself for if I decide to strike. I won’t though. All my fight has been drained out of me.

“He needs to be buried,” I say with my back turned towards her.

I don’t like the fact she is witnessing me weak. She has no obligation to help but if she wanted to kill me I would be dead already. 

“I know burial is a luxury in the red zone…” I say, my words trailing off into silence.

The first day of my training Mrs. Emerson had warned me about the dangers of the red zone. She never said anything about death but the idea was implied. Everyone knew it was a sore subject with my father and I, because of my mother, so no one liked to broach the subject with me. Today, though, Tom would get the luxury of a burial - with or without Clover’s help. 

“Okay,” she agrees drawing a little closer, “but you will need to cut the head off before incase the body is infected.”

My heart clenches.

“He isn’t only a dead body. He was my friend and teacher,” I say in response to Clover’s chilling tone.

“Doesn’t matter. Those things won’t keep him from killing you if his body turns,” she replies.

Poor Tom, he didn’t deserve to be buried out in the red zone far away from the people he loved. 
What else can I do?
The weight of what happened settles in over my mind but I block the thoughts out quickly.

“I don’t want to be the one to cut his head off,” I say.

“Well, I don’t want to do it either,” she counters, placing her hands on her hips.

“Come on. We’ll decide that later,” I pause, “and after I bury him then we’ll discuss why you’re following me.”

Clover nods her head in cautious agreement as my balance returns. I begin to gather up big rocks noticing the stain of Tom’s blood left behind in the shape of my handprint. The liquid hugs the side of the rough surfaces making each rock sinister. I drop the stones to the ground peering at my red stained hands. Racing to the water, I submerge them scrubbing away the blood. I can’t get my hands clean enough as I hurry through the process. Minutes pass as the cold water numbs my skin.

“They’re clean, Millie.”

I continue to scrub, ignoring Clover, not wanting to think about how much blood might be on my clothes. I strip off my shirt leaving only a thin bra and drown the material in the stream. A pinkness clouds around my fingers before rushing along the current. I ring out the shirt checking to make sure it’s clean. When I’m finished, I find my supply bag and point to the trench set up in the embankment.

“We’ll bury him here,” I state, putting on fresh clothing.

We begin to carry rocks to the large hole creating a pile of more than enough. I leave the blood stamped rocks behind.

My exhausted body tenses at the shuffling of leaves. The sound grows louder as I reach for my knife. Clover stands nervously with her weapon in hand.  A gaunt figure of a man hobbles out from the neighboring woods. He bolts toward us in an instant snapping his leg on a jagged limb protruding from the woodline. He falls face first to the ground, his fingers digging through the dirt, reaching for us. With a hungry yell he crawls until he is able to stand and begins his slowly creep up the hill to where we are. Clover and I stand frozen watching his every move. His moans are loud and causes the tiny hairs of my neck to stand. My hand tightens on my knife’s hilt.

Leaves rustle in the distance drawing the mutilated man’s attention. A knife flies through the air and strikes the creature in his decaying forehead with a loud pop. My eyes grow wide as Connor steps gracefully out of the woods. He reaches down and gives a tug on the knife protruding from the skull of our would-be assailant. On the second tug the knife slips free from the bone. With Connor’s second knife in hand, he carves it across the man’s neck in a smooth and steady motion separating the head from the body. Covered in the sickly blood, Connor leans down and cleans both his knives on the disfigured man’s shirt.

“Well, I found him,” he says bluntly, turning to glance at Clover. “I told you there were two sets of tracks,” he shrugs at her narrowed expression.

“What? I told you!” Clover exclaims.

Connor’s sharp eyes survey the surrounding trees while ignoring his cousin.

“Don’t lie. I told you.” She continues, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

A hidden smile plays on his lips.

“You said it. I said it. Does it matter?” Connor asks. His manner is calm and relax as he speaks. “The only question now is,” he takes a breath, “was he following the noise of the infected woman or were they both following all the racket you were making.”

He points the edge of his now clean blade at me.
I’m too exhausted for this.
My heart betrays me and races the moment his eyes meet mine. Ignoring him, I focus instead on burying my partner. I busy my mind by filling the open end of the trench with the largest stones that Clover and I collected. I try my best to block out Connor’s presence by quickening my pace, the rocks making a scraping sound as they stack together. With a concerned look, Clover bends down and helps me in my task.

“Don’t listen to him,” she says as her hands grip one of the smaller stones. “He is in a mood today.”

“I didn’t plan too,” I reply.

As the time to lay Tom into the grave draws near, I can’t help the single tear that runs down my cheek. I hate myself for the weakness in that solitary drop of moisture and yet I hate myself even more for not being able to allow all of my tears to fall. I turn away when Connor places his headless body inside the trench. When I’m finally able to look,  Tom’s head is hidden, wrapped in the hospital gown his killer had worn. I’m thankful to not have been the one to separate Tom’s head from his body. Kneeling down I begin to pile stones on top of his lifeless body. The wrinkle skin of his blood stained hand draws my attention. I’m mesmerized by the blueish tint surfacing through the crimson.

The heavy stone I’m holding is lifted away from my clasp.

“Why don’t you patrol the wood line?” Connor’s voice is soft and comforting.

I shift my gaze, surprised by the kindness within it.

“No.”

My voice mirrors his as I pick up another rock.

“He would’ve done this for me,” I reply and sit the rock within the trench.

Once we have filled up the once meaningless ground with as many as possible, I begin to slide dirt within the cracks. I repeat the process, dreading the moment when I leave this creek’s bank without Tom’s wit and guidance.

I don’t say any last farewells while my head is bowed. I can’t form the words and I know Tom wouldn’t need them anyway. If our positions had been reversed and I was laying underneath the heavy weight of these stones I would like to have thought he would have placed a hand on the pile and said something along the lines of, “Millie was useful and a good scout,” but Tom didn’t desire my approval or anyone else's.

Therefore I remain silent battling with the emotions swirling in my head. Among them a tiny voice whispers I just lost another link to my mother- another piece. My thoughts turn to Dad and a sudden need to hug him consumes me but he isn’t here. He’s tucked away safely behind the prison’s fences, within the concrete walls. I stand trembling for a moment looking at the now finished grave and attempt desperately not to think of why now Tom can lay in the trench without his feet sticking out.

I gather up what little belongings I have, place the supply bag again on my shoulders and begin to walk away.  I should acknowledge the two people still gathered around Tom’s grave- their heads bowed as if they knew Tom closely. I should speak with Clover and discover why they seeked me out. I should even thank Connor but I can’t make myself follow through. Burying Tom took more out of me than I thought possible. I need time, time for my head to clear. If Connor and Clover had wanted to kill me they would have done it by now, so I continue walking, stepping over the fallen tree trunks blocking my way.  I don’t talk to the two shadows that follow behind me. They don’t try to stop me or speak. They simply disappear for a moment only to come right back with bags of their own. We walk in silence together with only the bird’s singing to accent my haunting thoughts. Hours pass.