I’m deadly. I know that. I know a lot, but that is the only thing I know about
myself. I kill—with ease. With more than ease, killing is the closest I get to feeling
pleasure. Hell, feel anything.
I’m capable. I am one of a select few that survived. I take care of myself. I have
knowledge that no one else does. Yet, I have no idea how I gained the information.
The dichotomies of my personality are astounding. I hunt, fish and trap. I kill,
maim and inflict pain when it’s needed. I quilt, garden and darn socks. I can bake a
cake over an open fire and know how to remove organs from a person while keeping
them alive. I know—lots of terrible, dark things.
Oh, and I’m coveted—by all.
***
The air whooshed around my palm as I slapped the back of my neck. “Damn
skeeters.” Sweat rolled in rivulets, down the sides of my face to settle in the dust-
lined creases of my neck. And I’m not one to sweat.
Raising my head, I squinted to see in the distance. The wavy heat lines obscured
any clear view I would have of the scorched land around me. Hard to believe this
used to be South Bend, Indiana, looked more like Death Valley, or the tar pits. This
planet was definitely more like the tar pits, now. We had few colors here, the
desolate expanse of blah—whatever color dust is, black and hot. Hot was a color all
it’s own in this place.
Through the wave of heat, a dark rounded object pierced the sky at the horizon. It
rose out of the ground like a testament to the atrocities that happened to this land.
It was a testament, but the dome was also a beacon—a beacon for useless, vile
creatures who somehow eked out an existence in this hell hole. The dome was no
longer gold. The shining glory of the Notre Dame dome meant something once.
The university’s reputation had been a good one, a tough one. Now, it crumbled the
same as everything else. The burnt, blackened dome rose up as a lasting visage of
what had been. No, the real atrocity was the dome still stood. The still-standing
structure had given people hope.
When there was none.
I didn’t hold on to some half-cocked notion of hope—of being saved. No, I did the
saving. Hope wasn’t in me, survival was.
Holding the rough hewn knife in my hand, I sought the fleshy part of the rabbit,
right beneath the chin. Sliding the blade in to the hilt, I pulled back carefully, food
was hard to come by. There was no way in hell I as going to waste a little bit of meat
in some impatient moment of hunger. I didn’t have impatient moments anymore.
They weren’t of use.
I finished cutting through the neck and positioned the rabbit over a tin bowl.
Watching the blood drain out in a sluggish manner, I looked down at my hands. I
just couldn’t seem to get them clean. God, nothing was clean anymore. I didn’t
remember much, but I remembered being clean, and liking it. The things you take
for granted in everyday life are astounding. I sighed and resigned myself to a dirty
meal. If it wasn’t the dust on me, it was the ash. If it wasn’t the ash, it was the goo,
a black, tar-like substance. Whatever the hell that was.
I made quick work of relieving the animal of her fore paws and tail. After slicing the
animal’s pelt between the hock joints of the legs and down the center, I positioned it
stomach down. The spot where the head used to be was facing me. I slid my
yellowing fingernails under the two flaps in the hind quarters and pulled. The skin
gave way as it slid off the body and over the head with a slurping noise, leaving the
body now looking more like meat and less like animal. She was young. The skin
only gives that easy if they are young.
Of course she was young. Everything was young. I regretted she was a female,
though. I poked my finger into the flesh of her abdomen. No bunnies. Good. If
she were pregnant that really would’ve been a shame. I try not to kill females. I
need them to bear more offspring, so I will have food in the future. On days like
today though, I took what was available.
The charred remains of the oak tree didn’t give me much cover, but it was the only
hiding spot available. Being this out in the open isn’t what I prefer. However, I had
to get to the dome, and the cover was limited between here and there. My stomach
revolted at the idea of going closer to the dome. So many worthless creatures
without spines would be there. I avoided them at all costs.
Maybe I didn’t have hope, but there was some faith left in me, not for a higher
power. No, I had faith there were others like me. I couldn’t be the only one. The
dry wind whispered rumors of able bodied men. Never women, no, I was the only
one of my kind. If there were such creatures, the only place I could think to look for
them was at the Beacon. Even with the temperature well over a hundred, a cold
sweat broke out over my skin just thinking about going near that place. But there
was no other place that people were known to be, and I needed the questions. I
already had the answers.
The smell of sun-cooked flesh and sweat permeated my nose. No tar or dust-
covered skin could override the smell of life, not in this dead place. Someone was
near. Not good. The only way I’d made it out of anything alive was to do it alone.
Rattlesnake bites, dust devils, near starvation, dehydration, exposure… the list goes
on. Surviving any of that would not have been possible with someone else around.
Resources were limited. People were too, but not nearly to the same extent, much
to my chagrin.
The knife was back in my hand before I even consciously thought about it. Instinct,
it was alive and well and thanks to it, so was I. Walking in ash doesn’t make much
sound, but I was attuned to it. There was a light poofing noise, like dumping flour
too quickly in a bowl. I never would’ve been able to hear it before, before all the
birds died and the wind left. I trained my ears to hear beyond my own breathing
and heartbeat. In the beginning, all I could hear was the adrenalin-pumped blood
rushing in my ears. I tuned it out now.
A blurred image whisked past the right portion of my peripheral vision. The knife
was out of my hand in a split second. Thud. It landed squarely in the upright dead
tree. An inch away from the knife was a man, looking nearly as dead as the tree, and
yet vertical all the same. His body was alive, but his eyes—his expression, were
empty. The corner of his mouth quirked up, changing his whole demeanor.
“I knew you existed.” He made to take a step forward.
I was up in a flash and on him before he knew what hit him. The knife was in my
hand in no time and pressed to his throat. My body moved fast even by my
standards. His mouth was still quirked into a smirk. My knee pressed harder into
his sternum. The tip of the blade cut into his skin, relieving a drop of blood from his
vein. His smirk dimmed marginally but his eyes made up for the difference. They
were hard, like steel, both in color and the amount of give they had in them. If there
were any mirrors left, I bet looking into one would feel like this. He had the eyes of
a killer, and I knew them too well.
“Aren’t you curious how I know about you?”
I was. Mainly because most people I met hadn’t survived contact with me. My
existence was best left unknown. I thought about who I may have left behind to tell
tales. Thinking had been a mistake.
His body bucked underneath me, dislodging the knife from my hand. I tipped
sideways. Trying to right myself, I ended up on my back. We had switched
positions. I’m assuming, based on other people’s reactions, that in my old life, I
would’ve become angry and frustrated at my situation. However, my death toll didn’
t get so high by acting rashly. Impulsive my nature was not. I was calculating, cold,
which was a benefit in the sweltering weather.
My brown, almost lifeless eyes, sliced into him while my body relaxed, reserving its
strength. Let him think I was going pliant for him. That ploy had worked in the
past, all too well. Men in this world were all too eager to believe a good woman
remained. Little did they know all that was left were joyless, mindlessly-consuming
whores and me. Neither one of which could be considered good.
Eyes as cold as mine, as an ice storm, stared back at me. If I were to stick out my
tongue and lick his eye, it would be stuck there, as if on a flagpole in the winter. It
felt good. The stare of a killer was the only thing that comforted me. It felt like
home.
He pressed his lean body, hardened by life, into mine. My thighs were spread apart
and held down by his knees. Pulling my arms taut above my head, he captured my
wrists with one hand. I wouldn’t fight it, that was a fruitless endeavor and a waste of
energy. So far he’d be treating me like an equal, a nice change of pace.
“I’m checking you for weapons. I will not harm you unless you make me. Should
that happen, I will not show mercy. Don’t expect it just because you are a female.”
His eyes stayed directly on mine as his free hand roamed over my body.
Once the cursory check was done, he went in for a more thorough examination. His
warm palm skated under my shirt. He was methodical, checking between and
under my breasts, places I had hid weapons in the past. Most people forget to check
underneath, a perfect place for a small knife.
We continued to drill holes in each other’s heads with our eyes. Putting more
weight on my thighs than was comfortable, he leaned forward and slipped his hand
under the waistband of my leather pants and checked my ass. Slowly moving over
my cheek and around my hip, fingers splayed flat, his eyes dared me to react. Stony
face met stony face. Neither one of us betrayed any emotion. I could come to like
this guy. I knew where I stood with him, and him with me. We kill, if we have to.
We may even enjoy it, but if you don’t fuck with us, we won’t fuck with you.
Hand inching ever forward, his eyes betrayed nothing. The guy was a hardass.
Roving over my hip, to my inner thigh, rough fingers scraped along my skin. For a
split second I thought I felt something stirring inside me. A shudder? A shiver?
Something that if I’d ever felt it, it wasn’t any time recently. The void at the center
of me blossomed and if any feeling existed, it lingered no longer.
| Killer |
