Razor Girl (3 page)

Her mother looked up. “Not much, sweetie,” she replied. “Just answering some party invitations. The Nixons are having a huge bash this year. But they waited forever to send out the notes. I’m going to have to go shopping
this nanosecond
to find something to wear.”

Molly smiled. For as long as she could remember, her mother had always been a social butterfly, flitting from party to party, happiest when she was around people. That was how she and Ian met, many years ago, when he was still a dashing government employee and she was the child of a state senator. Molly’s grandmother had been ecstatic that her socialite daughter had snared such a great man and a patriot. She’d become less than pleased since.

But Ashley Anderson was a woman who stood by her man. During the rough times, during the prison sentence…even afterward, as the years went by and Ian became stranger and more antisocial, Molly’s mom continually defended Ian to friends and family. It was hard on her, Molly knew, to have the neighbors whisper about the crackpot she’d married. He’d stopped going to parties with her and eventually withdrawn from society altogether, spending his days down in the basement with his weird experiments, but Molly respected her mother’s stubborn sense of loyalty. Ashley had time and again
rejected her parents’ pleas to just walk away from the marriage altogether. That was why Molly loved her mother and father equally and intensely, no matter their individual flaws.

Molly looked down at the invitation. “Sounds fun,” she said. “Can I come?” She didn’t really have a strong desire to go, but she hated to see her mom attend alone.

“Of course. If it doesn’t interfere with your training schedule,” Ashley said, reaching over to brush a lock of hair from her daughter’s eyes. “You know how your dad is about that.”

“Yeah,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “Believe me, I know. If I bring it up, he’ll probably tell me that I shouldn’t bother to buy a dress. ‘No, no!’ he’ll say, ‘The End of Days is right around the corner, and there won’t be any parties ever again!’”

Her mother smiled and rose from the table. “Yes,” she said. “He probably would. But I’ll tell you what, sweetie.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on Molly’s head. “Come with me. If the world does end, I want you dancing by my side. I’m not going to die alone.”

As Molly stepped from her family’s underground bunker, she was immediately struck with wonder at the outside world. She’d forgotten how vast it was, how beautiful. There was the sky, a vibrant blue sprinkled with puffy cotton-like clouds. Wildflowers tumbled across sagging porches and poked defiantly through cracked pavement. Her favorite oak tree was still standing, strong and majestic in the center of their front yard, its branches stretching up to worship the heavens.

The scent of honeysuckle tickled her nose and Molly sucked in a large breath, delighting in the fresh, clean air that was so much sweeter than the stale re-circulated stuff she’d been breathing for the last six years. Strange. Back in the shelter, she’d always imagined the outside world to be a gray wasteland with stormy clouds that would mirror the death of humanity below. She’d expected a graveyard, a desolate landscape, a world with acrid winds and a sepia palette. But it seemed nature didn’t mourn man’s destruction after all. If anything, it appeared to be relishing its freedom from gardeners and landscaping, this once tamed suburbia becoming a feral forest full of magical emerald life. Or maybe she was overdoing it in her excitement.

She stuck out her arms, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin for the first time in six years. She wanted to skip down the street, dance, cartwheel. Run for ten miles without stopping. Enjoy a world without boundaries after years in a cage.

After doing a little shimmy of joy on the front porch, she stopped herself, looking around, self-conscious, even though she knew there was no one to see her. That thought sobered her a bit. This beautiful world would be empty. Or practically so. How many would have survived? Not many, according to her father. A new emotion gripped her heart: sadness, the beauty of the world fading as reality sank in. Though she’d mourned her world for six years, it was different to suddenly experience its loss firsthand. Back in the shelter this reality had seemed unreal, distant. Like something in a film. Actually stepping out into the world and seeing the empty, debris-filled streets, the houses crumbling from years of abandonment, made the whole situation a lot more real and a lot harder to swallow.

It was the silence that felt eeriest. Not that her middle-class suburb had ever been a bustling metropolis, but there had been sounds all the same: the droning of lawnmowers pushed by banker or doctor dads on their days off, the screams and laughter of kids playing wild games of tag, cars streaming down the nearby interstate and beeping away their road rage. Normal, everyday, take-them-for-granted sounds. All were now swept clear by an overwhelming, almost suffocating silence. There wasn’t even birdsong.

A realization she had half-suppressed for too long rose up and choked Molly. Everyone and everything she knew and loved was gone. Her friends, her teachers—now even her mother had succumbed. Only her father was left. Out there. Waiting for her. Waiting for her assistance in rebuilding the world he’d known would fail.

She focused on her dilemma. How was she going to get to where Ian was? His destination had been far, hundreds of miles away, and she truly doubted she could get the rusted old car in their driveway to start. Not that she had any idea how to drive; after the Highway Congestion Act of ’24 you had to be eighteen to take drivers education in South Carolina, and she’d been way too young when they’d gone into the bunker. Besides, with no working gas stations and the streets filled
with debris, as she could clearly see they were, it was probably better not to depend on cars. Maybe she could find a bike or something.

First things first, though. She should find supplies. And while it was tempting to just hit a few of the nearby houses to see what they had in their pantries, it was also too morbid an errand for her to face. She didn’t want to see the remnants of her former neighbors tucked into beds or lying sprawled on the floor, thank you very much. She’d try to find a store instead.

Steeling herself, she stepped from her porch and set off. Something in the middle of the pavement a short distance away made her pause. A small figure, more than half decayed, lay in the street, its skeletal hands clutching something shredded and pink. It was…a teddy bear. Molly fell to her knees, bent over and threw up.

“God, Molly, get a grip,” she muttered to herself a moment later, wiping her mouth, embarrassed by her weakness. She’d known it was going to be like this, after all. That she’d have to be strong and push all the horrors to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to mourn humanity. She couldn’t be distracted by the past. What was done was done, and it didn’t do any good to cry about it. After all, a Razor Girl didn’t cry. When they were sad, they spit.

Molly did exactly that. She felt a little bit better, wiped her mouth again, this time with her sleeve.

A voice cut through the dead air, surprising her where she crouched on the ground. A human voice. She looked up, mouth agape. Was she hearing things? Was it only the wind? Was it some old holo broadcast?

She heard it again.

“Dude! Where’d you go?” the voice cried. “Hey!”

People? Real-life people? Had her father been wrong? Had humanity survived, or at least more of it than expected? Considering the shout sounded like it had come from someone her age, or at least someone who shared her way of speaking, she felt a surge of hope. Were these people who could help
her? Kids, like her—or like she’d once been? Or would they be savages, brigands and people generally unworthy of her trust? It was difficult to know what to expect when the entire world had changed and she’d been locked underground for it.

Well, wondering wouldn’t answer any questions. Molly staggered to her feet and set down off down the street as fast as her legs would carry her.

Chase swore under his breath as his brother’s shout filled the otherwise still air, echoing through the neighborhood. “Way to be subtle,” he muttered. “Why not just call them down on you?”

Crouched on the rooftop of a dilapidated garage, he inched forward, careful not to make any sudden movements. As he’d climbed the weather-beaten structure, it felt like it could collapse at any moment; still, it was the best vantage point for seeing any Others wandering the nearby perimeter, and Chase wanted to know the area was clear before making his score. It wasn’t like they saw Others every day, but it seemed the creatures always appeared when you least expected it. Whenever you let your guard down,
bam
, that was when they got you. Wasn’t that what had happened over and over to their little group?

“Chase! Dude! If you don’t come out I’m going back!”

His brother’s voice again. Louder, more urgent. Did the idiot really think he was lost? That he hadn’t slipped away on purpose? Probably. Tank wasn’t known for his brains. Just his foolhardy protectiveness of those he took under his wing—which was practically anyone and anything these days. Nonetheless, Tank wouldn’t have approved of Chase going off on his own, and he certainly wouldn’t have approved of Chase’s intended goal.

Whatever. At the end of the day, a man had to do what he had to do, older brother’s approval or not.

“Hey! Over here! I’m over here!”

Chase’s head jerked around and he almost lost his balance
on the roof. What was that? Another voice? And not just any voice. It sounded like a woman. It came in the other direction from his brother, and it was faint.

He squinted as he peered down the street, the setting sun making it difficult to see. But then his eyes found movement. Something—some
one
—was running down the street with wild abandon.

At first he feared it might be one of the Others, but it didn’t move like one. They could be quick, but he’d never seen one run. And the air didn’t smell like them, either. Their putrid rot often caused a stink that gave plenty of warning—although not always.

Just to be safe, he lowered himself onto his belly, flush with the garage roof, pulled his thick leather gloves over his wrists and drew the steel blade from the sheath at his waist. Once properly prepared for any potential fight, he peered over the roof edge again.

At first he thought he must be hallucinating. The girl came around the corner and he blinked his eyes a few times, rubbed them, then took another look. She was still there. Wearing a white tank top and jean cutoffs, of all things. Miles of skin—milk-white skin—completely exposed. His first thought was that she must be truly stupid to walk around like that. His second thought was how truly happy he was that she did.

His eyes roved her body, drinking in the first live adult female shape he’d seen in years. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Full breasts, tempting and teasing under the thin fabric of her white tank top. Her long neck, high cheekbones and beautiful golden hair, pulled up in a casual ponytail. She wore some sort of mirrored sunglasses, leaving Chase with an inexplicable curiosity about the color of her eyes, though he wouldn’t have been able to see the irises from here anyway.

He watched as she ran down the street in his direction. She was beautiful, to say the least; it became clearer the closer she came. But there was something else. Something weirdly familiar about the—

He shook his head.
Impossible. And pay attention
, he told himself.
Distractions will get you killed
.

As if on cue, the breeze suddenly shifted and a smell caught his nostrils. A putrid stink. He tensed, shoving all thoughts of lust to the back of his mind. The Others were near. One of them, at least. And this girl was a sitting duck.

Something stirred inside him, some weird, knight-in-shining-armor bullshit that compelled him to jump off the roof and go down to rescue her. The notion went against his grain, and he didn’t obey it, but he did scramble to his feet and wave his arms. “Hey, up here!” he hissed. “Quick!”

She looked up, surprise mixing with joy on her face. She really was beautiful. And as she practically bounced over to the garage she cried, “Oh my God. You’re a person. A real person. I was beginning to think I was the only—”

“Behind you!” he cried, realizing he was likely too late. The Other had shown up out of seemingly nowhere, appearing from behind an overturned Smart Volvo, and was inches away from the girl. Dressed like that, with all that skin exposed and perfect for biting, she didn’t have a chance of escaping infection. Of course, she wasn’t even going to avoid becoming the monster’s dinner. Yup, she was a goner for sure. And since he’d made himself known, he was likely in for a battle himself.

Shoulda just stayed hidden and let her die, he berated himself. He knew as well as anyone it did no good these days to help people. Or even animals for that matter. Look what happened to Spud when he’d tried to save that puppy he found in the alley two weeks ago. Picked up the little wiggly thing and
bam!
Zombie gets the jump on him.

Yes, these days, it was every man—and dog—for himself. That was the only way to really survive.

“Molly, where have you been? You’re late. And you know how I feel about tardiness.” Ian Anderson raked his hands through his graying hair and scowled as his daughter entered the basement where he had set up their training center. There were two punching bags—one heavy and one speed bag—a weight bench, a treadmill and some jump ropes. It was all last-century tech, like everything else in their house. Except her dad’s lab, that was. Beyond the gym, a locked door held more equipment than most government research facilities, all illegally firewalled and creatively routed to avoid unwanted scrutiny. All totally off-limits to Molly.

“Sorry, Dad,” she apologized, setting down her bag and grabbing some workout clothes. She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. “I got tied up.”

“Tied up?” he repeated through the wall. “You wouldn’t happen to be using those sims again, would you? With your friend Erin? You know how I feel about them.”

“They’re just games, Dad.”

“They’re all connected up, linked to the system. Meaning, everything you say in there is monitored by Homeland Security—or worse. We don’t need any trouble with the feds.”

Molly sighed as she pulled a tank top over her head. “Dad, we’re in there chatting about boys and clothes. I hardly think the government is interested.”

“It’s always better to err on the side of safety,” came the
reply as she next pulled on her shorts and leaned over to lace her sneakers. “Besides, if nothing else, they’re also a terrific waste of time. Especially when they start interfering with your training. We’ve got a lot to get through and not a lot of time. We need your body strong and fit.”

“I know, I know.” Molly opened the door. “Because the end of the world is near.”

Her dad handed her a set of boxing gloves. “Go ahead and laugh,” he said, nodding serenely. “Everyone does. But you will all see for yourselves soon enough.”

Molly donned the gloves. It was pointless to argue with him when he got on this track. He didn’t care that the rest of the world thought he was crazy; he believed what he believed. And, at the end of the day, she gave him some props for that. Even if it was a big pain in the ass to be his daughter sometimes.

“So, what have you been up to today, Dad?” she asked, ready for a subject change. She tossed a few punches at the heavy bag, warming up. Mostly she enjoyed these training sessions. There was something about breaking a sweat that no one else in her world seemed to understand. Her classmates were too into their injections and surgeries to find any joy in building muscles the old-fashioned way. In the same way Molly liked fitting in at school, she was glad to be different at home. She mostly understood what her father wanted her to be.

“Reading,” her father replied. He walked over to his desk and held up a paperback book.

Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Ian Anderson was the only person on Earth who didn’t own an e-reader. Even she had one: he’d had to allow it, for the technology was the only way to access school texts. But her dad always claimed he preferred the good old days when books were made of paper and the government couldn’t check up on what you were reading. He hunted flea markets constantly, looking for rare, out-of-print treasures and banned books.

She swung a few times at the speed bag, then glanced at the cover. “
Neuromancer
,” she said. “What’s it about?”

“It’s brilliant,” he replied. “The author completely predicted sims and the Internet and the dangers of artificial intelligence. And this was back in 1984—before most people even had a computer! If you read this book you’d never use a sim again, I bet. At the very least you’d want to know who was controlling it.”

“Sounds interesting,” Molly said, feeling sweat bead on her forehead as she continued her speed training. “I’ll have to take a look when you’re done.”

“There’s even cybernetics in it,” her father continued. Though he was officially out of the business, he admitted to continued fascination in the art of enhancing man by machine, and he was constantly tinkering with parts in his lab. “A girl named Molly Millions. A razor girl.”

Molly stopped punching. “What’s a razor girl?” she asked.

“A cybernetic ninja, of sorts,” Ian explained. “Sort of like those soldiers I worked on but…” He broke off, stared at the wall for a moment. “She has four-inch razors under her fingernails that she can slide in and out at will. Deadly. She knows half a dozen forms of martial arts. And she has these ocular implants with infrared and a bunch of other functions. She can see better, move faster, react quicker…She’s amazing. If I had everything from my old lab…Well, she’d be the perfect creature to survive the apocalypse.”

“I don’t know. Sounds pretty weird to me.” Molly grabbed a towel and wiped her brow. “Besides, how would this person survive
before
the apocalypse? Imagine what that’d be like. Would she be chopping apples with her fingernails?” Molly laughed. “I’d hate to see her forget while she’s picking her nose.”

Her father shrugged, set his book down and pulled the gloves off her hands. He handed over the jump rope, saying, “She’d manage. She’d have to be tough to survive the operation, anyway. You wouldn’t want to choose someone who wouldn’t be able to use the enhancements.” Picking up the book and flipping through it, he said, “People adapt. The good ones, at any rate. They take their hardships and make
them strengths. Because of her implants, the heroine of this book can’t cry. Her tear ducts were rerouted to her mouth.”

“Er, okay,” Molly replied.

“In other words,” her dad said, “a razor girl doesn’t cry. When she’s sad, Molly Millions says, she spits.”

“Now that’s just plain weird.”

Her father held up his hands. “Again, mock if you will,” he told her. “But what’s the use in crying? Molly Millions has it right. My bet is that when the end of the world comes, it won’t be the ones who cry who survive, but the ones who spit.”

“Right.” Molly shook her head and started to jump rope. “Well, I guess when the end of the world comes knocking we’ll see.”