(Jeremiah)
Sometimes it takes more than one bullet. He calmly reloads the rifle, takes aim and fires again, just to be sure.
Green eyes scan the overgrown yard, noting the small footprints, the tell-tale scuff marks. He steps over the still-twitching body, shoulders tense. Sometimes the dead things travel in packs, like rabid dogs, sometimes they are alone. There, over by the barbed wire fence, in the long brown grass, he sees movement. A moment later, a small figure emerges.
He falters as it shuffles into view, small hands raised in supplication, head lolling, face grey, intact. It's fresh, so fresh it barely staggers, and he raises the rifle, trying not to think of it as a child, as someone's sweet little boy. Still, his heart cramps a bit as his finger tightens on the trigger. The thing goes down abruptly, heels beating a tattoo on the dry ground.
Jeremiah returns his rifle to the scabbard on his back, grabs his pack from where he'd dropped it at his feet, and continues down the cracked pavement, dust swirling behind him.
****
Jeremiah enters the dead city, every nerve on edge, everything inside him screaming at him to get out, get out, get out! His eyes rove constantly from side to side, evaluating the risks, searching for danger, for a safe place, although he doubts there's anywhere truly safe anymore.
Motionless cars line the streets, some with doors hanging open like slack mouths, others closed tight like a tin can, windows smashed from rotters eager to get at the soft insides. A few corpses lay here and there, clothing flapping in the wind. Jeremiah presses his hat down on his head, nerves jangling. Even before the bombs he'd hated the city, detested the noise, the crowds, everything about it. Now, his reasons to hate it are different.
His fingers trail along the rough bricks of a building, eyes straining in the gloom. It's dumb to be outside at night, especially here, he knows this, but his ammunition is low, too low, and he must find an old friend, and soon. Memories crowd his brain, memories that he pushes aside, because distraction is dangerous, distraction kills, and despite his earlier thoughts, he does want to live.
It's quiet; too quiet. Fingers tightening on his gun, Jeremiah hesitates, an odd sound filling his ears. It's music, he realizes slowly, wonder filling him. People singing. When was the last time...? For the barest moment he's transported back to a time when music filled his world and made it more bearable. The voices rise and fall, the words incomprehensible, the melody otherworldly, snaking inside his ears, his head.
Suddenly there's a knife poking into his side, a hand tugging on his pack.
"Drop your gun," a harsh voice says, quiet yet firm. Jeremiah whirls quickly and elbows the guy in the chin, knocking the knife to the street.
It's just a kid, a boy no older than eighteen or nineteen, his clothing dirty and ragged. Jeremiah motions for him to get up and the kid does so cautiously. He's thin, like everyone now, only broad shoulders and a wiry build saving him from scrawniness. Greasy brown hair hangs in his face, obscuring his features.
"Gimme my knife," the kid demands, glancing around nervously. "This place is crawling with greyskins."
Jeremiah pauses, and then motions for him to retrieve his weapon. He wonders if the kid will try to kill him. But he only scoops up his knife and hides it somewhere on his person.
"This is a really bad place. What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for a friend," Jeremiah says, the back of his neck prickling. The singing has stopped, replaced by an ominous silence. He loosens his pistol in its holster, ready for anything. What he's not prepared for, however, is a flood of people pouring from the building.
Beside him the kid hisses in a breath. "We gotta get out of here." Needing no other encouragement, Jeremiah follows him down an alley, hoping he's not making a mistake.
The kid sprints down the filthy alley. At the end a chain link fence looms, but he doesn't even slow down. He leaps onto it and clambers up to the top easily.
"You coming?"
Jeremiah slips his gun back and starts climbing. It's not easy, and by the time he reaches the top and flings himself over, he's out of breath.
The boy's waiting, fidgeting. "This way," he says, slinking along.
Jeremiah follows, full of questions, shoulders tight, sweat trickling down his face. This is nuts, coming into the city. It's even worse than he imagined.
It's eerie, passing darkened, empty houses, yards littered with trash and corpses, doors hanging open, windows broken, and everywhere that damn silence.
The kid creeps into the overgrown yard of a two-story Victorian style house and hurries up to the porch, glancing back at Jeremiah. A worried frown creases his forehead. Jeremiah's boots are too loud on the wooden steps. The boy knocks on the door, a complicated series of knocks that makes Jeremiah shake his head.
When the door opens, the kid slips inside and so does Jeremiah, making sure his pistol is within easy reach. A stale stench of unwashed bodies nearly overwhelms, burning his nose. Underlying that is the spicy, unmistakable smell of cockroaches.
"Gabriel, I expected you back sooner." The speaker is an older man with raggedly cut white hair and a nose that looks like it's been broken before. When he realizes Gabriel isn't alone, a pistol appears in his hand.
"Don't do it," Jeremiah warns, keeping one eye on the kid. He places his hand on his own gun.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"I had to bring him, Liam," Gabriel says, sounding a little desperate. "He was over by the church, and they came out."
"Shut up," Liam snarls. He stares hard at Jeremiah. "You're not welcome here. Get out."
"After you tell me what I want to know. Marie Golden. You know her?"
He doesn't miss the expression on the boy's face, the way he tries to hide that he recognizes the name. The older man is more practiced, only a slight widening of the eyes giving him away.
"You're leaving. Right now," Liam says, his intentions clear. Quickly, Jeremiah kicks out, catching Liam's knee with his boot while at the same time elbowing Gabriel in the face. Both men go down.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says carefully, not missing the shiftiness in Liam's eyes. He'll have to watch that one. The kid wears his emotions on his face, and right now he's looking up with shock coupled with something else--admiration?
"You're going to answer my questions and then you're going to give me some food and water. Got it? Now, where can I find Marie Golden?"
"We don't have to tell you anything," Gabriel mutters, dropping his eyes. Jeremiah reaches down and grabs the dumb kid by his collar, jerking him upright. He flinches as if expecting a blow.
