Surge (66 page)

By the time I’m done, I’ve ixnayed the flour because I don’t know how to make a rue without butter, but I did add a good helping of garlic and onion powder to the mix, along with some salt n’ pepper; and it finally got a decent flavor to it. As a side benefit, we won’t get the horrid breath that used to come along with the fresh stuff.

Wiping my hands off on my jeans, I scavenge through the cabinets until I find where the hell these people hid their bowls and utensils. Finding enough to go around, I call the troops in. A stampede of elephants, I mean starving survivors, comes dashing into the kitchen with drool hanging from their mouths. Okay, the drool isn’t really there, but it might as well be with their ravenous expressions. I swing my arm out before they decide to become cannibalistic.

“Help yourselves,” I say.

As soon as I step out of the way, there’s a rush to the stove. The crowd of shoving Neanderthals all start fighting over control of the serving spoon. Counting heads, I only see seven. Leaving them to it, I head toward the living room. Upon entering, I see John; who is usually the first in line for food, staring at the wood burning in the fireplace.

“Food’s done,” I tell him and he nods. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

“Not hungry,” he says and doesn’t break eye contact with the ashes. Walking in so that I can lean against the door frame, I cross my arms.

“I know you’re upset, but you have to eat. Come on, they’re probably licking the pot clean as we speak.”

“Let ‘em,” he replies with a wave. “They deserve it more than I do.”

“Alright, enough of the self-pity bull shit,” I snap. John finally looks over. “That’s right, you’re in here moping, while you should be happy that you’re still alive, and so are the others.” John goes to interrupt, but I glare at him and he shuts his mouth. “
You
didn’t tell the girls to run off.
You
didn’t bite Marissa.
You
didn’t know that she was bitten. And you sure as hell didn’t rip out Lenny’s throat. So, that’s e-fucking-nough of this. Tommy was pissed, but when he calms down, he’ll see reason and eventually know that it wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t understand, Jared,” John pleads and his eyes fill, taking me aback.

John
never
pleads or cries. Not even when his parents died, did he shed a single tear in front of me. He isn’t heartless, he just chose to smother his grief in a pillow at night, than to have witnesses around to watch him in his vulnerable state; or offer generic condolences. And I know this because I heard him stifle his cries each night for a week after Mr. and Mrs. Moure died.

I know that I should have gone and talked to him like a good friend, but I was too preoccupied with grieving over my own parents’ deaths; and consoling Sarah, to drag myself next door to check on him. What we should have done was consoled each other as a trio, rather than separating in our time of need. And I’ll always regret it, but I can’t change the fact that John went through that rough patch alone.

But what I can change, is that John will not be going through this alone too. I’ll drag his ass out of the room and tie him to a chair in the living room so that we can all console him if we must, but he won’t be locking himself away and burying himself in a false sense of guilt.

“I was responsible for those girls,” John continues. “I told you that I could handle it, and I couldn’t even keep track of them for an hour, when you’ve been doing it for months. Then there’s Lenny. If you were in charge, the girls wouldn’t have been anywhere near the group until they were checked out.”

“That’s not true,” I counter. “I brought back Will, George and Mikayla. All of them were bitten, and I still brought them in. Don’t even get me started on Kelly or Victoria.”

“Those were different. You thought you were giving them shelter. I was protecting them from themselves, without sparing a thought about the good of the whole.”

“It’s part of the job,” I say with a helpless shrug. “You win some, you lose some. I brought in bad apples, and made mistakes along the way, but you live and learn.”

“You’re better at it than I am,” he says. I shake my head. “You are. You’ve led upwards of sixteen people by yourself, kept Sarah safe, and the condo running. What the hell do I do? Tell jokes? Fuck every available woman in the group? Eat you out of house and home? What purpose do I serve?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I demand and see his eyes widen in shock. I don’t think I’ve ever been so furious with him in all my life. “You are more than a playboy comedian, you asshole. You gather, you hunt and you help me run the group. I snap out orders, and you ease them into it. You’re my partner in crime, the Watson to my Holmes. Stimpy to my Ren. Pumba to my Timon. Chewy to my Han, and I need my fucking best friend in order to be sane. Because without you, I most likely would have tossed out anyone who pissed me off out a window if you weren’t there to calm me down.”

“Alright, enough of that shit,” John replies with his trademark smirk, but I can see that the tension is not entirely gone. “Next you’ll be wanting to hug it out and sing kumbaya.”

“Fuck you, douchebag,” I say and flip him off. “
‘Whatever will I do with myself? I shall have to cry, and eventually grow a vagina.’
”

“Fuck you, you sullen bastard,” John retorts. “Go grovel at Olivia’s feet, I can’t stand looking at your ugly mug another second.”

“I thought I was purty,” I reply and batt my one eye that still has lashes left. John laughs at that. “Seriously though, where the hell are Tommy, Cory and Olivia anyway?”

“I heard them go upstairs about an hour ago,” he answers. “I don’t know where they went from there.”

“Go eat,” I order.

When he doesn’t move, I give John my stern father look that I use occasionally with Sarah. It obviously works with him too, since he drags his ass off the couch and crawls at a snail pace toward the door. Giving him a shove to speed the fuck up, I wait to be sure he actually goes to the kitchen. I make note to check up on him, before heading to the stairs.

The landing splits off in two directions, so I flip a mental coin and try the right side first. Seeing three doors open, I go the last one and smile at the can on top. Obviously, I’ve found Olivia. Knocking lightly, which is just out of courtesy since I know she heard my footsteps, I reach up and remove the can as I open the door.

“Look at you, resting up here like a good girl in the
Princess and the Pea
bed,” I say with a smile.

Olivia scowls and flips me off, but there’s no other response that I could have made with her in a bed like that. It’s about five feet off the ground, so I don’t know how the hell she climbed up there to begin with, the frame is thick and carved out of cherry wood, and the mattress is topped with a down comforter that makes it look like she’s resting on a cloud. Not to mention that it’s king sized, so her leather clad self only fills out a puny portion of it.

“Comfy?”

I don’t wait for Olivia to motion out her answer, I just spin and hop to land on the other side of the bed. When I sink into the luxurious quilt, I damn near moan. This has to be heaven on Earth. Snuggling down deeper into the goose down comforter, I want to go to sleep and pretend this day never happened. I’m just about to give it a try, when I feel a tiny hand brush through my remaining hair. I keep my eyes shut because I know that if I draw attention to it, she’ll pull away; so I remain motionless and enjoy the sensation for however long it lasts. Which is only about five minutes, since I hear her stomach growl. Opening my eyes, I meet hers.

“What a prick I am,” I begin and she gives me a confused look. “I didn’t bring you anything to eat.” Olivia shakes her head and points at her tube. “You can’t eat?” Olivia nods. “What the fuck? You’re small enough as it is, and now we have to starve you?”

She just shrugs in response, and leans away. Crossing her arms behind her head, Olivia lays down and stares up at the ceiling. I push myself up to look down at my malnourished pixie. She doesn’t look like she cares about eating, most likely because she’s upset over the loss of her new friend, but her body still needs nourishment. After all, the most she’s had in days was broth.

“Akio said that you can’t eat anything?” I ask and she shakes her head. “Then how do you know?” Olivia points at her throat and holds up two fingers. “You’ve had one of these before?” She nods in answer. “When?”

Olivia makes a sawing sign and motions to the scarring around her neck. My fists clench in the comforter, but I keep my anger maintained from surfacing elsewhere. I know that she’ll talk, well, motion out her words as long as it doesn’t upset me. That’s why Cory truly doesn’t get answers, he gets pissed or disgusted by what he hears, so Olivia stops talking to prevent it from upsetting him. Which are perfectly reasonable reactions, but Olivia is a kindhearted woman underneath it all, who would rather bury the pain; than thrust it upon others.

“So, when Victoria carved you up,” I say in an emotionless tone. “You had one of these put in?” Olivia nods slightly. “Did they give you anything to numb it?” Olivia doesn’t give any form of reply, so that tells me that the fuckers didn’t. I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep myself from cursing aloud. “And how long was it before you could eat again?”

She holds up two gloved hands, one with all five fingers and the other with two to indicate seven days. I take one of her hands in mine and remove the glove without asking permission. When I go to do the same to the other, I feel her freed fingers grip my hand.

“I want these off,” I explain and see the fear in her eyes. “You don’t have to be embarrassed or hide from me. Remember those nightmares we were going to fight? This is part of it.”

Looking away, Olivia nods for me to do my worst. Placing the glove beside me on the bed, I go to remove the other, but have to stop to take off her huge watch. I’ve only seen it once, weeks ago at the condo, but didn’t get a good look at it. It looks expensive, so when I see the Rolex insignia, I’m not surprised. I raise my eyebrows and point at the diamond encrusted watch; which was made for a man, but she isn’t looking at me or the watch. Olivia’s focus is on the wall behind me, so I just place the expensive piece of jewelry on the nightstand. It’s probably just a trophy she took from a raider, and if that’s indeed the case, I don’t want to upset her with this; because I want to look at her wrists.

With the Rolex out of the way, I return my attention to the glove. Quickly sliding it off, I place it with its pair on the bed. Holding both hands out flat, I shove her sleeves up so I can look at the scars on top of her wrists. I’ve seen these from a distance a few times, but this is the first time I’ve ever been up close and personal with them. The scars are pretty deep and about three inches thick, so I can’t tell what caused them exactly; but I do know that she worsened the damage by struggling to get them off.

“How long?” I ask as I turn them over. Olivia doesn’t remove her gaze from her hands in mine, as she sticks out eight fingers. “Days?” I can’t keep the hopeful tone out of my voice when I ask it. Olivia gives a quick shake of her head. “Weeks?” Another head shake. “Months?”

Finally a nod to confirm it. Eight freaking months of being chained in a basement. Olivia once said that she’s felt alone for fifteen months and been alone for almost eight. That means half of the time since Travis’s death was spent in captivity, being tormented and tortured by his murderers. I want to puke and rage all at the same time.

“So, eight months,” I say to confirm it, and receive another stiff nod. “Did they feed you at all?”

If Olivia could have laughed without humor, it would have been right there. Without that ability available in her arsenal, she kind of gives a half roll of her eyes along with a sarcastic headshake. For a more descriptive answer, she lifts her palm and draws a small circle with her finger.

“A little then,” I say for her. “Water?” She holds her thumb and forefinger out to say there was some. “Was there a bathroom at least?” Olivia motions out a
‘U’
shape. “Bucket?”

She nods. Okay, so she got less than they did in prison. The fucking criminals were treated with more courtesy than she was. The more I hear, the more determined I am to scour the country for these fuckers. I don’t want to ask the next question, but it has to be asked.

“What did you do all day?” Olivia finally meets my eyes with her haunted ones and I really don’t want to delve into that, but once again, I have to push on. “I can see that there’s a lot of stuff hidden in those pretty eyes, but I want you to try and talk about it.” When I see her face start to shut down, I try and salvage the moment before it’s lost. “We’re murdering nightmares here, now show me how strong you are, and answer me.” Olivia wraps her arms around her middle as if she’s trying to hold herself together, but she gives me a strong nod.

“Good, let’s start with these,” I say and point at her wrists. “What made these marks?” Olivia removes her arms from her waist and holds them together. “Zip ties?” She shakes her head and wraps her fingers around one wrists. “Cuffs?” She tilts her hand from side to side in a kind of motion and spreads her hand further apart. “Manacles then?”

Olivia nods and points at her feet. When I look at her confused, she pulls her right leg up and removes her boot. Sliding her legging up slightly, she reveals her ankle is in much the same state as her wrists. The scarring is about the same thickness when compared to the top, but looks deeper on the front and back of the ankle
,
than the sides.

“So
,
feet too,” I repeat unnecessarily and she nods. “Why the feet?” Olivia makes a kicking motion and I almost gag. Punished for defending herself, how sick in the head do you have be to do that to another person? “Were those manacles too, because they’re similar to your wrists?” She nods her head and wraps her arms around herself again. “How did she stand up if your feet were bound?”

Olivia lays back down. Lifting her shaking arms above her head in a V, she then spreads her legs apart so she’s spread eagle. She holds the position for no more than five seconds, before propelling herself forward and backing up to the headboard. As soon as her back makes contact with the wood, she pulls her knees to her chest and re-wraps her arms as she starts rocking.