Skin on My Skin (11 page)

She was quiet for a moment, lost in solemn reflection, and I didn’t interrupt. I wanted to touch her, to tell her it would be all right, but I was afraid.
 

“I spent the next five years or so living in my father’s basements. I ate what I could, when I could find something. I scavenged around the neighborhood and thought I was doing good at avoiding contact with other people. It wasn’t that at all, though. I was just immune.”

It wasn’t an unusual story. Anyone who was alive now did what it took to survive and most of us, at least the younger ones at the time, had the benefit of parents who looked a little further down the road. My dad did, but just happened to be a bat shit crazy murderer on top of that. No, that’s not fair. I don’t think he was crazy when the Preacher’s Plague started. I think the Preacher’s Plague drove him crazy.
 

“I didn’t even know I was a Toucher. I didn’t realize that until I ran across a dying man. It was just an accident. He’d survived the plague in a homemade containment unit in his house. It was miles of duct tape and plastic sheeting. I was just scavenging, there, but found him. I… I should have let him die, but he looked so pathetic. I had to help him. Back then, it was just the human thing to do.”

“You didn’t die,” I answered for her. “Not from being around him.”

“Nope. That’s me. Jenna Smith, immune to the plague that wiped out ninety-nine percent of humanity. I had no idea, at that point. I don’t really think anyone did. That man knew, though. He was sure I was the key to saving the human race. He took me to Fortress. At the time it was just a bunch of soldiers that had survived the early days. He built it into what it was… keeping me there. He did things to me.”

I did not interrupt. I was pretty sure of what those things were.

“Yeah. I spent eight years in Fortress. The man liked to tell people I was his daughter. But fathers don’t do those things to daughters. Not real ones, anyway.”

She was quiet a long time. I wanted to hear the rest of her story. “And then?”

“And then that asshole,” she said, nodding to the plastic covered corpse, “rescued me. At least he said that what’s he was doing. Rescuing… what a crock. I should have never helped him get me out of there. I was stupid and… oh my babies.”
 

“They have babies in there?”

Jenna shrugged sadly. There was pain in that thought. “No, not like you think. Not like before the plague. They aren’t… it’s not their fault. They are different than us. My poor babies. They should have never been brought into this madness.”

The apartment grew deathly quiet and I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who’d spent the majority of her adult life as a sex slave or some sort of post-apocalyptic baby factory? I felt like shit for even imagining the things I wanted to do to her when she was tied to the bed, but even then I was still plotting how I could get in her pants. I was the lowest form of life on the planet, as far I as I was concerned, but I didn’t know what to do about it. So I shut up and tried my hardest not to stare at her tits.
 

“The babies aren’t Touchers. Not exactly.
 
The Preacher’s Plague fucked it all up, fucked up all the babies. They are just not right. But they keep trying. Sure, we might be immune, but it doesn’t matter. We pass on the plague anyway. Two Touchers don’t breed a Toucher. I don’t know why. The human race is still royally and totally fucked. Maybe if I could have gotten to Mount Weather… maybe if the President and his men were still alive…”

“They haven’t been on the radio in years,” I told her without looking up. “I think they’re all dead.”

Jenna was quiet for a moment. I’d obviously ruined some deep seated fantasy she’d had. You’re welcome, sorry I’m a douche bag.

“Why did you think Woody died?” she finally asked. “Or was that something just for me to fuck you? You we’re trying to rescue me or something?”

“No… I mean…”

“You don’t have to lie about the fucking part,” she told me solemnly. “I know about men. I know about fucking. I know it drives you.”

She’d laid bare my desire and allowed me not to have to discuss them. I wanted to thank her for that.
 

“I’m sorry. I’ve just never been with…”

“You were young back then. What, maybe ten or so? I know. You never had any girl but mommy. Maybe before the Preacher’s Plague you had fantasies about a sister, the girl next door, maybe even your mother, right? And then the plague burned it all to the ground and you were left with Rosy Palm and her five sisters. I get it. Moving on…”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Forget it. I got it all the time at Fortress. Why did you think he was dead?”

The problem was that I still wanted her and it was hard to think about anything else. I tried.
 

“Back at Club Flesh… I was there trying to buy new suit seals. They wouldn’t sell them to me and I went into the bar. He was there.”

“He loved that place,” she said. “He kept going back even after he talked me into running away. I don’t know how they didn’t know it was him that took me. I know they were out looking forever. They don’t take runners lightly. He wanted to talk another girl into letting him rescue her. The fuck. Rescue her… can you believe that shit? I think he had plans for a three way or something. I don’t know. But he was there and?”

“He was there and he went bat shit crazy. He pushed through the wall and, well, there was a stripper. She’d been giving him a hand job and…he fucked her to death right there. I think he thought she was a Toucher too. I can’t believe it didn’t kill him.” I didn’t exactly want to talk about that either, but it was what it was. “She… you’ve seen them. You know what happens. Well it happened right there. He fucked her to death. I was sure he died to, when he collapsed, but he must have gotten away somehow. It was pretty crazy when the alarm went off. I ran.”

“Who was she?”

“Who?”
 

“The girl that died.”

“I don’t know. The DJ said her name was Kitty. She was black, older.”

“Alice.”

“What?”

“Her name was Alice. She wasn’t a Toucher. The ones who weren’t Touchers but still looked okay went to work in Flesh.
 
She didn’t deserve that. She was a good woman, great with the kids. That crazy fuck finally went full retard. I knew it was coming. I just thought he’d kill me before I saw it.”

The girl sounded so strong and I wondered where that strength came from. It was a stark contrast to the crying, pleading girl who’d been tied to the bed. I had no idea how someone so beaten down could be so brave. Maybe it was because she knew she couldn’t die from the Preacher’s Plague.
 

“I can’t stay here,” I finally told her. “I need to get back to my place and figure out what I’m going to do about my suit seals.”

She looked at me, a hint of that desperation leaving. “I can’t make it out there on my own, right now. I’m too weak.”

I was split. I didn’t know what to do. “Do you want to come to my place?”

She nodded in considered agreement.
 

“I sure as hell don’t want to stay here.”

We stayed at Big Woody's apartment another day despite Jenna’s desire to leave as quickly as possible. I couldn’t blame her, but I had to eat and I hadn’t slept, besides being blacked out a couple of hours, in over a day. I was in no shape to navigate the ruins in the company of what would be, if anyone saw her, a walking target. I was starving and so was she. We just couldn’t leave, right then. So I ate. At least the crazy fucker had plenty to eat. I tore the place apart looking for seals that just weren’t there. Woody hadn’t taken the seals. Someone else had. That same someone who’d painted the Preacher logo where I’d see it. I searched some more, bordering on passing out from sheer exhaustion.
 

And then I slept.
 

It was strange sleeping outside of armor, free of containment barriers, near another human. I lay with my eyes shut and listened to her breath for a long time. I thought, before I drifted off, that I could hear Jenna’s heartbeat.
 

I dreamt that night, but not of the day my father had gunned down my mother. Instead I dreamed of the day I’d returned the favor.
 

For years my father had bordered in a state somewhere between rational thought and outright insanity. There was never any way to predict how he’d wake. There was never any way to guess what demented scheme he would torture me with. That morning, he was particularly sullen.
 

“Come here, boy,” he’d said. “Come here and let me see your wounds.”

The wounds inflicted on my arm, created by my mother’s panicked grasp, had long healed into horrible looking scars. Five years was a long time for a flesh wound, yet not nearly long enough hide the memory of the day. Even then, after five long years in the containment, I dreamed of that day.
 

“They’re fine,” I said, not bothering to look up and make eye contact with him. “They’ve been fine forever.”

We never quite got over the whole he killed my mother thing. It had put a dark tone on the entire surviving the apocalypse thing.
 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you boy,” he said and I knew, at that point, that I had to or face whatever punishment my father had plotted for me.
 

“Yes sir.”

“Show me your arm,” he demanded, standing by the transparent wall that separated the living room.
 

I finally turned and looked at him. He was standing there, naked save for a gun belt wrapped around his waist. He looked angry and even angrier as I approached the wall.
 

“I did all this for you,” he told me softly. “Every bit of it. I started this for you… to save you. And then I saved you from your mother and the mess out there. I couldn’t stop it and… this isn’t what I planned. I didn’t plan on your mother dying. But she’s probably better off, right? Better off dead than living like this.”

“I don’t know, dad.” I didn’t want to talk to him. I sure didn’t want to talk to him about mom. After five years in containment with him I preferred the days he didn’t talk at all. The days he spent gone, scavenging for supplies, were even better.

“I was wrong about it, Jacky. I thought maybe it might die out, or that your children might save us, but there is no saving us. There is no one for you to have children with. There is no getting around the fact that we’re done. Why keep on living like this if we’re done? Why suffer? I made a mistake.”

“I’m sorry, dad.” I didn’t really know what else to say. I had no idea how to answer his ranting.
 

“Put your arm in the box,” he commanded, pointing to the tray that we could safely pass materials between the two containment areas with. “I want to look at your wounds.”

“Dad, they’re healed. They’ve been healed for a long time.” Something odd was going on. He had an even crazier look on his face than usual.
 

“Just do it, Jack. Do it right now.”

He never called me Jack unless punishment was to follow. I did as I was told and the second my arm broke the plane of the other side, his side, I felt my skin begin to burn. My father grabbed that arm, clamping down on it at exactly the same point my mother had. I screamed out at the sudden pain as the Preacher’s Plague began to explode outward, turning my skin to ash.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Jack. I’m sorry I did any of this. This world is dead. There is no reason for us to go on anymore. We’re all dead.” It was then I saw the knife in his hand and watched, wide-eyed, as the blade pierced the containment barrier above my hand. With each inch of it sticking through I felt the burning inside me strengthen. “I… I made a mistake, Jacky. I thought I was doing the world a favor. I could have stopped this, but I didn’t. We don’t deserve to go on, Jack. The human race deserves this fate and we can’t go on.”

He meant to kill me, to kill us. He meant to tear down the containment and expose us to the Preacher’s Plague. I pulled back, screaming, but his grip was too strong. I struggled, kicked, but he just wouldn’t let go. His face began to swell like a fat sausage on heat and his eyes narrowed.
 

“I love you, Jacky,” he gurgled as his throat began to shut down. “I’m so sorry I did this to you and your mother.”

His guilt at not being able to cure the Preacher’s Plague had finally driven him over the deep end. It was a long time coming. I didn’t know what to do. I was just a teenage boy who’d been locked in a house with his deranged father. He slit the plastic all the way down and slowly began to pull me through. He meant to hug me.
 

“I love you, Jacky.”

I didn’t pull the gun from his gun belt on purpose. I didn’t even realize I’d done it. I pushed the gun up into his gut and pulled the trigger three times. His eyes went wide and he stumbled backwards, finally letting go of my arm. I shot him again and again, until the magazine was empty. I pulled the plastic together and ran duct tape down it as he’d drilled me time and time again.
 

An hour later I was a small boy in a big bio-suit on the run in New York City.
 

I must have stirred in my sleep because she woke me up with a gentle shake to the shoulder that nearly sent me screaming out of the room.
 

“I’m sorry…” she whispered. “You were having a bad dream.”

Sweat poured off my face and I trembled, both from the dream and the unexpected touch. “It’s okay.”

“What was the dream about?”

“Why does it matter?” I asked, still uncomfortable with talking about my own situation. I didn’t know how much I wanted to tell her, if anything at all.
 

“It doesn’t. I was just curious. The sun is up. Maybe we ought to get going.”

Getting going without the suit seals was as bad as walking out in normal clothes, as she was. We didn’t have much choice, though. She didn’t want to stay in his apartment and I didn’t blame her. The corpse lay there, wrapped in plastic, laughing at us. Woody was what was left of the world. The crazed had inherited the place and those few of us that still had any sort of rational thought - we were the outsiders. I half thought I should join the man in his cravings. At least he’d died happy.