The Deadly Nightshade (5 page)

Chapter 9

I will offer them the three squirrels. That will be enough to feed them for the rest of the day, possibly even well into tomorrow. Then maybe I will give the girl one of my knives—I have ten of them; surely I can make do with nine. I could give Ivy and her brother a quick lesson on the best time of day to go on supply runs and how to avoid being seen. I could show them how to defend themselves against someone twice their size. I could make Ivy into a survivor, and maybe even her brother and mother too. It would only take a day for them to learn. I could leave there tomorrow confident that I have given Ivy the same help my father gave me.

The sun is just beginning to set as I travel the three or so miles back to the house. By the time I reach it, dusk has spread its deep violet hue like a blot of poison upon the darkening sky. I recognize the red door and ugly green color of the cape even in the dimming light. It looks just as I have left it—not a creature seems to stir within. I decide not to startle them this time and knock to alert them of my presence. As I strike my fist against the door, it swings open slightly, but no one greets me. I call out to identify myself, but no one calls back. Slowly and quietly, I draw my guns; the feeling that something is wrong is too strong to ignore. I slip in silently, unsure of what I will find, but prepared for a fight.

As I enter the living room, I see that the cabinet doors have all been flung open and one of the five chairs is overturned. Not a single can of food sits on the shelves.

“Hello?” I call again. “Anybody home?”

All is quiet in the house. They must have taken all their supplies and left. Maybe something spooked them, or maybe my visit yesterday showed them how vulnerable they were here. I sigh as I take a seat in one of the chairs. I’ll never know what happened to them now—if the mother lived to have her baby, if the children ever learned to fend for themselves, if Ivy became the survivor she had the potential to be. But maybe it’s better this way. I mean look at me, returning to this family’s house to feed them. What was I thinking coming here? Sure, I could have given them my squirrels, could have taught them what I know, but then what? Would I have stayed longer than just today? Would I have developed feelings for them, cared for them? These questions send shivers down my spine. I do not care about people. I can’t. Nothing good ever comes from caring about people. Putting my guns on the table, I place my head in my hands and stare at the floor as I curse myself for being so damn stupid.

I have resolved to get up and leave when something catches my eye. A single scarlet drop sits on the dark wood floor, barely visible in the dim light. At first I am not even sure if I have seen it right, but I spot another one a few inches away, and then suddenly there is a trail of them leading into the next room. I pick up my guns and slink on tiptoes, following the red drops. As I round the corner to the next room, a long sigh escapes my mouth as I rest my back against the wall and take in the scene.

Two bodies, one of a little boy not more than six years old and the other of a young pregnant woman, lie mangled and bloody. The mother’s eyes are still open, but the light in them is long gone. In her limp fist is the same blade she had threatened me with only yesterday. From what I can tell, the fatal wound was the large gash across her stomach, like someone thrust a knife through her pregnant belly. Directly behind her is the child—Oliver. He sits slumped over with a slit throat, drenched in his own blood and probably that of his mother too. The gray walls, the wood floor, and even the white lace curtains contain the evidence of this massacre. I walk through the sticky crimson pools to examine the bodies closer. The metallic stink of the blood hangs thick in the air, so heavy it is almost suffocating. I crouch down and touch the mother—Angelica—I touch Angelica and feel her cold, pale cheek. I press my finger firmly into the red and purple spots on her body—a trick my father taught me to determine time of death—but the areas do not discolor; she has been dead for more than twelve hours now. She couldn’t have been killed long after I left. Whoever did this must have seen the smoke from the fire used to cook the hare coming up the chimney. And I had given them that hare thinking I was saving their lives, not ending them.

I remove the knife from the woman’s hand, wipe the blood onto my shirt, and place it in my belt loop; she has no use for it anymore anyway. Then it hits me. The girl. Ivy. She isn’t here. She’s still alive. Maybe she’s still in the house.

“Ivy?” I call, but all I hear in response is the sound of my own voice echoing throughout the empty house. I keep my guns drawn just in case and tiptoe into the next room. No one. “Ivy, you can come out. I won’t hurt you.”

I sweep the entire first floor, but the girl is nowhere to be found. After I have checked every crevice she could possibly be hiding in, I make my way up the stairs on silent feet. She is probably paralyzed with fear, so it is best to creep around and avoid scaring her even further. I have just reached the last step when, spotting another trail in the hallway, I stop dead in my tracks. These are not drops this time, but smears. My fists tighten around my guns as I follow the crimson stains through the hallway and into the bathroom, knowing what I am about to see before I see it.

She lies facing me with her right cheek pressed against the ground, her brown eyes wide open and her mouth agape in an expression of terror. There are distinct streaks on her dirt-covered face from crying. A bloody screwdriver sits in her balled up fist as her only weapon. There is barely a drop of blood on her clothing or her skin; there is no open gash or wound. But her chest does not rise and fall, her eyes do not blink, and she does not move. Were it not for the unnatural way her head is twisted, it would be nearly impossible to tell just from looking at her how she had died. She stares at me with those hollow eyes, and it is as if I am staring into myself, as if I am viewing the scene of my own death. This girl with my face could easily have shared my fate, or I could have shared hers had things been different. She had every mark of a survivor, but she had been denied the basic knowledge and skills that could have saved her from the butchers that did this.

“What a waste.”

For the next hour I scour the house for any supplies I can use, but find nothing worth taking. The butchers cleaned everything out. I decide to stay here for the night because there is no point in going out now to find shelter, and because it is probably the safest place for me to be considering it is unlikely whoever did this will return. I sleep in the girl’s bed, breathing through my mouth so I cannot smell the awful stench of death and blood.

But I can still taste it, and it tastes foul.

Chapter 10

When daybreak arrives, I wake up, grab my things, and abandon the small green cape and the corpses inside of it, which have begun to reek from the heat. It takes me longer than I would like to forget them. I keep thinking about how no one will bury them, how they will rot in their own home, how not a soul will mourn their deaths. But that is not my burden to bear. They were never meant to survive in this world anyway; they didn’t have what it takes—except, maybe, the girl . . .

I manage to push them out of my mind by keeping myself occupied. For nearly three months there is never a moment when I am inactive; every spare second I have is dedicated to hunting and gathering. But despite my efforts, my food supply diminishes more and more as the days pass, forcing me to venture father out into the open in search of fresh supplies—usually without luck. When ransacking abandoned homes proves more trouble than it’s worth, I have no choice but to return to the woods for nourishment. But even there I find myself destitute; more often than not my snares go untouched, only capturing the occasional scrawny squirrel.

For the first time in a while I begin to feel hunger pangs. Nuts and edible plants become my primary source of nutrition, but the emptiness in my stomach never subsides. My hunger even drives me to stupidly pick a few unknown black berries before I notice the bell-shaped purple flowers growing among them. I laugh. How ironic it would be to be killed by my own namesake, the deadly nightshade. Cursing myself for my own carelessness, I drop the poisonous berries on the ground and squash them with my boot.

I was born and raised to be a survivor, but recently I can barely say I’m surviving. Maybe I’ve lost my touch, or maybe I’ve just been lucky these past four years. Sometimes I can’t help but miss my father; if he were here he would make sure I never missed a meal. But then again, if my father were here he would tell me to shut the hell up and stop feeling sorry for myself. Ah, good old dad. He would tell me not to think about what could be, but to focus on what is. The reality is my father isn’t here. He’s dead. I need to remember that, and I need to stop contemplating the “what ifs.” He died so that I could live; I’m not going to die too and have his whole effort be in vain; I can’t disrespect him like that. No, if I am going out, it is not going to be because of starvation. No way in hell will I let that happen.

The way I see it I have two options: travel out of my comfort zone into some of the more distant towns where there are bound to be more food stores to raid or continue scavenging in the forest like a dog. Both have their pros and cons. If I return to civilization, my chances of running into other people will increase tenfold, and my guess is they won’t be as kind and helpless as the last people I encountered. But if I remain here, eating small game, nuts, and berries and growing thinner everyday, I will lose my pride, my strength, and maybe even my sanity; it’s easy to be driven mad when you’re consumed by your own hunger. That’s it, then—I need to go back toward the remaining neighborhoods and towns if I am going to survive. It’s a risk, sure, but I have done it dozens of times before. I only hope my hunger-weakened body won’t fail me in a fight if I happen to meet anyone along the way.

Two days pass before I find an area worth raiding. It is a small town with only a few dozen buildings, half of which seem to have been destroyed in the bombings. Surely there must be a grocery store or market around here somewhere that might not be completely bare.

I sit crouched behind a pile of rubble, peering over it to read the faded signs on some of the stores, when a shrill cry startles me. A few yards away, a bone-thin young woman clutching several cans against her breast comes sprinting into the street. Four armed men follow. She screams again as one of them catches up to her, grabs her by the arm, and flings her to the ground. The group surrounds her, all of them laughing maniacally as she desperately tries to crawl away, but every time she moves a foot one of them grabs her legs and pulls her back toward the middle of the circle. She cries and yells and kicks wildly, always clutching the cans close to her, but it is no use. Growing tired of this little game, one of the men orders her to shut her mouth and stand up. She struggles to her feet in compliance.

“Just give ‘em here,” says one of the men in a gentle yet commanding voice. “Give ‘em here and we won’t hurt you.”

“P-please. I need ’em. My boyfriend and I—we’re starvin’. He’s sick. He’ll die if I don’t get him somethin’ to eat. Please.”

“We ain’t gonna ask again,” growls another man.

Clutching the cans even tighter now, she looks to each man in turn, as if trying to find one sympathetic person to plead with, but, seeing nothing but bloodthirsty pairs of eyes, her fear seems to multiply and she turns around and around frantically in an attempt to find an escape. Unfortunately for her the wall of men is impassable.

One of the thieves, fed up with her, draws his blade—a black machete—and thrusts it into her abdomen. The cans drop from her hands and clatter to the ground. The other men scramble for them as she falls, sputtering, bleeding, crying.

She should have just given them the damn food; it might have saved her life. I have no sympathy for her. There is no room for imbecility in this world; she is better off dead.

I am about to sneak away before these men can catch sight of me when the feeling of two hands firmly grasping my jacket startles me. I turn to find myself in the iron hold of a man twice my size. He is a terrifying specimen of a man; ugly scars decorate his face and arms—too many to count—and his thick muscles bulge beneath his clothes. He snarls at me with a mouth full of blackened, decaying teeth and the foul stench of his breath sends a shiver down my spine. He stinks of death. Suddenly I realize it is very possible that this monster of a man might be my demise. With hands the size of meat cleavers, he lifts me up as if I am weightless, and I do everything I can to struggle against him in an attempt to free myself, but it is futile. In my surprise I didn’t have time to draw a weapon, leaving me defenseless with no way of reaching my katanas or guns. This creature can crush the life out of me if he so desires; I am at his complete mercy.

“Well lookie what we got here, boys,” he grunts, baring those rotting black teeth of his in a mischievous smile. “Lookie here what I found.”             

Chapter 11

The other four men turn around to see what their brute of a buddy has discovered, eyeing me with devilish grins. They gallop over to the two of us in their excitement, eager to begin tormenting their new victim. The Brute releases me, dropping me in the middle of the circle that has formed around us. They surround me just like they did the woman, but I do not feel her fear. I meet each of their stupid faces and sadistic smiles with a cold, measured stare. Even if I actually possessed any emotions to display, I would still keep them hidden from these vermin because they feed on misery and suffering like leeches sucking the blood from their prey, growing fat at their expense. They thrive on fear-struck eyes and shaky voices, and I would never give them the satisfaction of watching me tremble and plead for my life. If I must die, I am going to die with dignity.

But I do not plan on dying today.

“Why hello there,” purrs one of them—the same one who dealt the deathblow to the woman—the tone of his voice hinting his amusement. He is a dark, stocky man with a shaved head, beady black eyes, and a forehead reminiscent of a billboard. Everything about him screams danger. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I do not answer, instead meeting his gaze evenly.

A hard blow to the back of my head staggers me, and suddenly I find myself on the ground. The men laugh.

“He asked you a question,” says The Brute.

“Nightshade,” I mutter grudgingly as I push myself back to my feet, reluctant to answer but also just as reluctant to receive another blow.

“Nightshade,” repeats the first, who, because of the authority in his voice, I assume to be the leader. “Like the flower. Beautiful . . . but deadly. Is that why you’re called that?”

“Would you like to find out?”

The Leader laughs. “Oh, you’re a spirited one, ain’t ya? I like that.”

I begin to weigh my options. I can think of only three: negotiating, acquiescing, and resisting. Although the gang seems conversational now, I’m pretty sure I can’t talk my way out of this. Option number one is out. And even if I let them rob me of the few supplies I have left, they will probably still beat me half to death, or worse. There goes option number two. It looks like I will have to fight my way out. Good, I enjoy a good fight every now and then. It’s been awhile since I’ve had one.

But the fact is they’re armed and—unluckily for me—I’m not. If I were to even attempt to draw my guns, I have no doubt I’d receive a bullet in the head before I had a chance to raise them. There’s no way I can outdraw these men, not when there’s this many of them.

The Leader eyes me with a crooked smile, then raises his still bloody machete. My hands burn for my own weapons, but I dare not reach for them. He approaches me slowly, studying his machete as he does so, and presses its cold, flat blade against my cheek. I can’t help but grimace at its wet touch upon my skin, and he chuckles at the sight of this involuntary reaction. With a wry, wicked smile, he begins to move the machete down my face, then lower to my neck, where he pauses, his grin widening.

“Ya know,” he says, tracing the blade along my collarbone, “a young girl like yourself shouldn’t be wanderin’ around all alone out here in the open. It’s dangerous. There are some real scary people in these parts.”

He runs the blade down my neck, then along my chest, and I fight the urge to spit in his face.

“Alone?” I laugh. “What would make you think that?”

Upon hearing this, the other four men begin to fidget uncomfortably, casting anxious glances at their surroundings. The Leader, however, remains collected.

“Are you implyin’ you’re not?” he asks.

“My people aren’t far behind. Boss sent me ahead to check out the area, scout for trouble—you know the deal. Last I checked they were about a quarter of a mile back.”

Smirking, he asks, “And how many people are we talkin’?”

“Nine, not including myself—and all armed to the teeth—which is why it’s in your best interest to leave me be.”

By now two of the men have begun to exchange hushed murmurs, and I catch another’s eyes darting about frantically.

“And what exactly are you and your people doin’ out here?”

“Passing through, trying to find a new place to call home, seeing as all our resources dried up at our last camp,” I say. “Look, we had no intention of encroaching on anybody else’s territory. You can take it up with the boss when he gets here, if you’d like. But I can tell you right now he won’t react kindly if any harm comes to me.”

“Is that so?” The Leader purrs, his beady eyes squinting to slits as his mouth stretches into a Cheshire Cat-esque grin. He moves his blade back to my face, tracing my lips with its hooked end. Never in my entire existence have I wanted to end someone’s life more than now. “Well you better hope that group of yours comes awful soon.”

Just as I am sure he has called my bluff, a sound like something metallic being kicked nearby startles not only me, but the five men as well. Raising their guns, they whirl around, frantically attempting to find the source of the noise, terrified that they are about to be ambushed by a group twice their size. This time, even The Leader looks afraid.

For a moment the gang forgets me, too worried about their nonexistent assailants to pay me any mind. Taking advantage of their distraction, I draw both my handguns and turn them on The Brute.
Blam!
The back of his head erupts and I am splattered with its contents. Whipping around before the body of the brick wall of a man even begins to collapse, I take aim at my next two victims, striking them dead before they can turn their heads to face me. The next man meets a similar fate. It’s just me and The Leader now. He reacts to the sound of the gunfire quickly enough to get a shot off at me before I can stop him, but it’s a near miss. Two bullets to the chest put him on the ground, where he lies groaning in agony.

After quickly checking that the others are the deadest they can possibly be, I approach The Leader. His gun still remains in his grip, though he is too stunned to use it. Pressing my boot down on his hand, I crush his fingers until he releases the weapon with a cry and kick it away.

“Hey, hey, now,” he says, his gruff voice cracking. “No need to be hasty now. What is it ya want—food, water, bullets? I got plenty of that. Here,” he says, pulling off his rucksack and holding it out to me, “take it. Take it all. Nobody else needs to die.”

Holstering one of my guns, I snatch the bag from his hands and hurl it to the ground. Realizing his supplicatory gift has been rejected, The Leader begins to grovel.

“P-please,” he sputters, his beady black eyes brimming with tears. “What do ya want? Whatever it is, I can get it for ya—food, clothes, weapons, protection, anythin’. Just don’t kill me.”

“Disgusting.”

It is the last word I say before spitting in his face and placing a round in his billboard-sized forehead; it is the last word he ever hears.