Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (11 page)

One night, after a game of Scrabble,
she took his hand and
led him upstairs into her room. Later, in the dark, she rested her head on his
chest listening to the absence of a heartbeat.

“Are you going to be an ass now that you’ve gotten me into your
bed?” she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head. “Milady, we are in
your
bed.”

She slept a dreamless sleep, and in the morning, he brought her a
cup of coffee exactly the way she liked it.

Sugarsin smiled on the outside and trembled on the in.

§

“There’s someone here to see
you,” Lulu called from the doorway.

Sugarsin looked up from the mirror, a tube of eyeliner in her
hand. “A customer?”

“I don’t think so. At least I’ve never seen him here before. He’s
tall with reddish hair?”

Sugarsin’s hands curled into fists. Maybe Lulu was mistaken. The
dressing room door slid shut behind her without a sound. She stepped into the
hallway and paused before the curtain, peeking out between the panels.

“Shit,” she muttered.

She tightened the sash around her robe and stepped out into the
club, dodging offers of drinks as she moved to Henry’s table.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I wanted to see where you worked.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked, of course.”

“Okay, well this is where I work. You can go home now.”

“I would like to see you dance.”

“No. Not here like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is my job, okay?”

“I do not understand.”

She lowered her voice. “I don’t want people to see you here.”

A bouncer came over to the table. “Is there a problem here?” He
folded his arms over his chest, his brass-plated knuckles gleaming under the
lights.

“No, there’s no problem. He was just leaving.”

Henry lifted his chin, but stood up. He gave her a curt bow.
“Good evening, both of you.”

“New boyfriend?” The bouncer asked when he walked away.

“No. He’s no one. No one at all.”

§

She didn’t speak a word to Henry when she got home, simply
walked in and went upstairs to her bedroom. When the door clicked shut, a cold
chill traced its way up her spine. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and
felt his presence just beyond the door.

“What have I done to anger you so?”

“Nothing.”

Everything.

She flipped the lock and waited until he walked away.

§

“I wish you would speak to me. I love you.”

She bit back a laugh.

“What is so amusing?”

“You’re a robot, okay? You aren’t real. You can’t fall in love.
Did you really think we were going to walk off into the sunset together?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you so afraid to feel?”

She stalked out of the room, her hands shaking.

He came up behind her later while she stood at the kitchen
window, staring out at the shadows in the yard. His arms wrapped around her,
and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I am sorry I upset you.”

Tears blurred her vision. She never should have taken him out of
the house or let him into her bed or make her breakfast. It had to be a default
in his programming. He couldn’t possibly feel. It was a cruel joke.

“If I were real, would you let me in?” he whispered.

But she didn’t want anyone to let anyone in, real or not. That
led only to tears and heartache and loneliness.

She turned and rested her head on his shoulder. The tears spilled
down her cheeks. Her hands curved around his back, and she ran her fingers over
the spot concealing the on/off switch. One push would turn him back into a
statue. Into nothing.

No one should have that sort of power over anyone.

One little push.

The first few miles of any run are the hardest. Your muscles
protest and your lungs scream, but once you push past all the hurt, you get to
the good part, the part where the world zips by in bright flashes of color and
your conscious thoughts fade away. In that zone, you hear, but don’t hear; see,
but don’t see. You breathe in and out, moving forward. Moving on. You might
even try to catch that elusive four-minute mile. You don’t look back or pause
to gaze at the scenery. You just head for that finish line, whether it’s an
actual line, a mile marker, or the end of a street.

When I run now, with the pedometer clicking away the steps and
the miles, I pretend everything is normal. I pretend I’m not running away, even
though there’s nothing left to run away from.

But I can’t turn off my thoughts anymore.

It’s been a long time since
I’ve seen one of the dead. Months, maybe a year, maybe longer than that. Hard
to tell; time is funny now. They’re nothing more than a few scraps of
putrescent flesh lingering here and there. They came with limited mileage, like
running shoes.

It’s been even longer since I’ve seen anyone alive.

The streets here are clear. No cars. No rotting bodies. No
potholes. My feet keep moving, the rhythm steady and sure.

Mike always said running was my obsession. That obsession saved
my life more than once. More than the gun I still carry in my backpack, even
though I don’t need it anymore. Curse me for a fool, even when all I saw were
bodies, bloodstains on pavement, and torn clothing blowing in the wind like
farewell handkerchiefs, I kept running, hoping I’d find someone else.

And then I didn’t have a reason to stop.

Mike and I survived the first few months barricaded in our
apartment. A lot of folks left San Francisco in the beginning; most of the dead
followed suit, following the food source. We took turns making supply runs, up
until the day he came back with a bite on his arm. I pretended he was immune
and wouldn’t die, but he wasn’t and he did.

When Mike reopened his eyes, he wasn’t there. The stranger
wearing his face staggered toward me, all gnashing teeth and furious hunger.

I shot him in the head. I could barely see through my tears, but
I didn’t hesitate. He’d made me promise not to.

Before he fell to the floor, I saw a flash of the real Mike deep
inside; for one quick second, his open mouth wasn’t a gaping maw of
destruction, but a smile.

At least I’d like to think so.

It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does, nothing except my shoes
hitting the pavement, one after the other, and the breeze, thick with the salt
tang of the ocean.

I left my original pair of shoes, flecked with blood and gore,
next to Mike’s body. I picked up this pair a couple of hundred miles back. Funny
how no one touched the running stores; I guess they didn’t realize the
importance of good shoes.

I’ve left shoes along the way, every three hundred miles or so,
always with the scuffed toes pointing east. I left one pair on the edge of an
empty water fountain in Utah, another next to a cornfield in Kansas, and still
another by a railroad track in Missouri. I left the pair that gave me a blister
in Kentucky, right before I crossed into Virginia.

I forget where I left the others. It’s hard to keep track. Everything
is the same: empty streets, vacant houses with broken windows, the awful
silence.

And the sick-sweet stink of rot.

Except here. The breeze floats by again. Salt and sea. No decay.
I pick up my pace. It’s not a four-minute mile or even a fiver, but it’s brisk
enough.

I should’ve left notes in the shoes, so anyone who found them
would at least know my name. Except there’s no one left. I know that, even when
I pretend I don’t.

The roar of the waves crashes in on the quiet, a lullaby
beckoning me forward. I’ve never seen the Atlantic Ocean in person. I know it’s
colder than the Pacific and grey-green instead of blue, but there are no
memories here. No Mike, no gunshot echoing off the plaster walls, no running
from the dead with their bloody mouths and reaching hands, and no useless hope.

I sit down on the curb, my muscles quivering, and unlace my
shoes. My last pair. I leave my socks and the pedometer on the pavement and tie
my shoelaces together in a double knot. I set them next to the socks, but after
a few seconds, pick them back up. What’s the point?

A knot tightens in my chest; tears blur my vision. I scramble to
my feet. With a shout, I throw the shoes up, over my shoulder. A series of dull
taps fills the air.

I spin around.

Caught by the laces, the shoes are hanging from a dead power
line, swaying back and forth.

I was here,
they say.

And no one will ever know.

I turn away, the tears flowing down my cheeks. Eventually the
laces will rot and the shoes will fall. I hope they land pointing in the right
direction.

The sand, warm and cool at the same time, slips between my toes
as I make my way across the beach, walking now, not running. The water shimmers
in the sunlight. Maybe it will wash everything away. All the miles. All the
blood. All the hurt.

After that, maybe I’ll move into one of the beach houses, gather
supplies and books, and relax for a decade or three. Or maybe I’ll stay in the
water and head out until the waves spill over my head. Until the undertow tugs
me away.

I don’t know.

But I’m not running anymore.

Violet carved her hate into her flesh one name at a time.

Her skin was riddled with scars, some barely visible, others dark
and ruddy. The oldest, the first name, was on her right ankle, above the knobby
bone. It revealed a halting progress, with many gaps in between the lines and
curves.

He suffered for a long time.

§

Anthony looked up from his dinner plate and smiled. “This is
really good, babe.”

“Thank you. I wanted to make something special for tonight.”

The cooking classes were her idea. Anthony had been worried about
the knives, of course, although he hadn’t said anything with his mouth. Only
with his eyes. The first time his hand had touched one of her scars, he’d
paused, his eyes curious. Concerned.

She’d looked down at her hands. “I had a…problem when I was
younger, but I’m better now.”

“What do they mean?”

“Nothing,” she’d said. “Nothing at all.”

A breeze blew in through the open windows, fluttering the
curtains, and the late spring air was heavy with the scent of flowers.
Children’s voices called out, and their neighbor’s dog barked several times, a
deep, growling sort of bark. She and Anthony grimaced at the same time, caught
each other, and smiled.

“Happy anniversary, babe,” he said.

“Happy anniversary.”

She smiled and twisted the
ring on her finger. The year had passed so quickly, yet seemed a lifetime.
Anthony had asked her to marry him on their sixth date. Crazy, perhaps, because
they’d barely known each other, but she’d said yes without a second thought.
Three weeks later, they were standing hand in hand in the courthouse promising
forever, a promise she intended to keep.

Mrs. Anthony Cardno was a good person.

But Violet isn’t, and you know it.

That wasn’t true. She
was
a good person. Sometimes she
got…lost. That was all. But it was all in the past. She was better now. So much
better.

§

With Anthony softly snoring in the bed beside her, Violet
clasped her hands together on her chest and recited the names. Too many names.

“Please forgive me,” she whispered when she was finished.

She rolled onto her side and touched Anthony’s cheek, his skin
soft, yet rough at the same time, beneath her fingertips. The sleeve of her
pajama top slipped up to her elbow, revealing the edge of a name:
Sabrina
.
Her best friend in grade school. Violet closed her eyes.

It wasn’t her fault. She
hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. She hadn’t known.

Liar.

§

She woke before Anthony and padded down to the kitchen to
make coffee. From the kitchen window, she saw the next door neighbor’s
children, already up and about, kicking around a red rubber ball. She smiled
and touched her belly. Two months ago, she’d thrown out her birth control pills
and while nothing had happened yet, they were both young. There was plenty of
time. Anthony would be a wonderful father, and she would be a good mother even
if the baby didn’t sleep well or cried all the time.

“You were always crying when you were a baby,” her mother had
said time and again. “Drove me crazy. You’d cry if you were hungry or full, wet
or dry, it didn’t matter. It was like you came out hating the world and wanted
everyone to know it.” Her mother would tap her cigarette into her overflowing
ashtray, pat Violet on the bum, and smile. “Grab me another beer, okay?”

When her mother had married
her stepfather, Violet had hoped that everything would be okay. Now she had a
real family. Her mother would be happy, wouldn’t drink so much, and wouldn’t
forget to go food shopping or pay the electric bill. But her stepfather had
only made things worse. So much worse.