Remnants

(Gabriel)

There's a mindless rhythm to chopping wood that is soothing, that allows him to clear his mind and just concentrate on the upswing and the downswing, that's it; no Pearl, no Liam, no dead things, nothing but the swing and chop. He knows Jeremiah is watching him closely, watching to see if he's going to crack up again, maybe take the knife to himself and honestly, Gabriel's thought about doing exactly that. His gun would be quicker and more efficient, but the knife would be more satisfying. Slicing his own flesh, the blood spurting out depending on where he begins--

Gabriel falters, appalled at the trajectory of his thoughts. The axe head bounces off the edge of the log, barely missing his leg. He drops the handle, steps back, sweat cooling on his body, his shoulders aching, wondering how long he's been outside.

What is wrong with me?

His hand shaking a little, he snatches his jacket and shrugs into it, glances around at the snow-covered landscape. Movement in the woods catches his eye, and he grabs up the ax when two figures stagger out of the woods.

"Go away," he shouts, snatching up the ax, unexpected terror shooting down his spine when the figures don't stop, they keep coming, headed right for him.

There's something wrong, something wrong with these people. This is the thought that rockets through Gabriel's head in the scant moment before they are on him. He brings up the ax barely in time; the blade slices into the oddly grey face, flesh parting like gelatin, blood oozing thickly as Gabriel shoves the body aside.

The other reaches for him, eyes rolling back in its head, fingers clawing his coat, at his face, he can't let this thing touch him, scratch him, or he's dead. Dead like these two grey-skinned things.

A cracking noise, and the figure falls away, twitching in the snow. Gabriel spins around, mouth dry, then sags in relief.

"Did it touch you? Scratch you?" Jeremiah grabs Gabriel's sleeve, his eyes worried. Without waiting for an answer, he shoves his gun into his waistband and grabs the feet of one of the bodies. "Help me drag them into the woods."

The last thing Gabriel wants to do is touch one of those things, but he reluctantly sets the ax down and grabs the other thing's boots and follows Jeremiah.

It makes him nervous to be so close to the trees, who knows what's watching them, waiting for a chance to take them down. Maybe more of these grey things.

He follows Jeremiah back to the house, unable to resist a backward glance.

(Jack)

"We might have a problem," Jeremiah says, his face as worried as Jack's ever seen it.

"Might? Those grey things aren't acting alone, Jeremiah." Jack paces, agitated. "Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. Those greyskins have their own town, they have trucks, they have a

plan

. I think that's way more than 'might'."

"Moon. He sent them here." Gabriel's interjection surprises: the kid hasn't spoken a word since they came inside.

"What do you mean, Gabriel?"

"I think...I think something weird's going on around here." He swallows hard, drops his head, mutters to himself.

Thank you, Captain Obvious, Jack thinks, but doesn't say. The less interaction he has with that nut the better.

"Those were probably scouts," Jack says. "We need a plan."

Jeremiah just shakes his head and turns away, probably to do his creepy-rub thing, and Jack wants to scream.

"Listen, I know we have a good thing here, but we're sitting ducks."

"No," Jeremiah says, his voice hard and sharp. "Out there we're sitting ducks. At least here we have shelter and a defensible place. If more of those things come, we'll have a better chance here rather than out in the open." He gestures at the heavy snowfall. "You really want to go out in that? You were the one who insisted we come back, remember?"

Jack scowls, scratches his itchy scalp. "Yeah, I remember," he mumbles, flopping down on the dusty couch. He closes his eyes, tries to bring back pleasant memories, but discovers that he has none. How depressing.

Bored, he gets off the couch, wanders around the room opening drawers, sorting through the junk. Of note: an open package of birthday candles; shoelaces; a dried-up glue stick; and a pack of playing cards. Shaking them out of the box into his hand, he shuffles them, doing all the fancy tricks his dad taught him eons ago. The cards make a comforting riffling noise.

"Hey, do you guys want to play poker? Five Card Draw? Texas Hold 'Em?"

Jeremiah just looks at him, his too long hair hanging in his eyes.

"Aw, come on, Jeremiah."

"I'll play." It's the kid, and he shuffles over uninvited, unwanted, but what's Jack gonna do? Tell the psycho kid no? Not hardly.

"Great," Jack says, trying to insert a little enthusiasm into his voice, but playing cards with Gabriel isn't his idea of fun. "You know how to play poker? Or are you more of a Crazy Eights or Go Fish guy? I'm betting Go Fish is your favorite game."

"Are you making fun of me?" Gabriel stares hard at Jack, stroking his ever-present knife. Jack holds up his hands in surrender.

"Me? Why would I do something like that?" He shuffles the cards, makes himself smile at the crazy kid. "That would just be stupid, wouldn't it, me making fun of you when you have that big knife?"

The kid frowns, fingers tightening on the hilt. Things might have gotten a little sketchy, but Jeremiah chooses at that moment to join in.

"Seven Card Stud," he says, giving the kid's shoulder a squeeze.

"Coming right up." Jack deals, trying to keep the commentary to a minimum, but it's like his tongue has a mind of its own.

Gabriel of course has no idea what he's doing, while Jeremiah appears to be something of a card shark.

After the third game, which Jeremiah wins and Gabriel is the first to go, Jack can't hold back any longer.

"Maybe we should try Go Fish this time to give Gabriel a fighting chance." Jack says, laughter building in his chest. The laughter doesn't have a chance to emerge before he's flat on his back, a shiny Bowie knife pressed beneath his chin.

"Quit making fun of me," the kid growls, so close Jack can see the insanity in his eyes, feel the kid trembling but that hand, that knife hand, is steady.

"Gabriel. Let him go." Jeremiah speaks from behind the kid, in his usual calm voice.

"I'm not stupid," Gabriel says, leaning harder on Jack. "I. Am. Not. Stupid." Spittle sprays Jack's face, the kid's breath foul, like he's rotting from the inside out.

"Of--of course not," Jack squeaks, knowing he is inches away from either a quick death or a painful, lingering one. "You're the smartest guy I know. Genius, for sure."

The kid studies Jack's face, and then, apparently satisfied, backs off, sliding his knife back into its sheath. Jack scrambles backward until he hits the wall, his fingers rushing over his unmarked neck, heart beating double time.

"Never do that again," Jeremiah says quietly to Gabriel. "If we turn on each other, we'll die."

Gabriel returns his gaze sullenly. "I don't like it when he--" Jeremiah grabs the kid's collar and shakes him, cutting of his words.

"You threaten one of us again and I'll put a bullet between your eyes, Gabriel." His big pistol is in his hand, the barrel pointing at Gabriel's head. Jeremiah cocks it, the sound loud in the room. "Or maybe you want me to do it right now, just put you out of your misery. You want that, Gabriel? Do you?"

For a second the kid's eyes blaze, and Jack leans forward, wondering if Jeremiah will go through with it, hoping he does.

(Jeremiah)

Jeremiah watches the boy's eyes, watches as sheer rage fills them, and thinks he's going to have to shoot this poor miserable kid.

Don't do it, kid. I don't want to kill you, I really don't. But I think I might have to.

He presses the barrel hard against Gabriel's forehead, a dead taste in his mouth. Another addition to the list in his head. His belly clenches.

"Do it." The boy hisses the words through his teeth. Jeremiah's finger twitches; he can already see the kid's head exploding, all that rage gone in one burst, and it's the logical thing to do, put him down like a dog. And yet, something deep inside the boy's eyes makes Jeremiah hesitate. There's something behind that fury, something hurting.

Jeremiah lowers the pistol and returns it to its holster. Then slowly, he puts his arms around the kid and hugs that bony body, because it's all he can think to do.

(Jack)

Jack never would have thought a hug could stop a rabid dog, but lo and behold, look at that. He's glad he can't see either of their faces, because if there's one thing that ol' Jackie boy tries to keep way from, it's hugging and all that crap. He didn't grow up in a huggy family and he sure as hell isn't going to start now, especially with someone who might stick a knife in his gut just because. Look at them now, Crazy Kid's crying and haven't we had enough of that already?

Jack crawls back over to the cards and begins to gather them into a pile. The cards are well-used and have that familiar feeling in his hands. It makes him wonder about the previous owners, but only for a second. The previous owners are out in the snow, and he prefers not to think about that.

"Hey, if you two guys are done playing Brokeback Mountain, how about we finish this game?" He's not disappointed when neither of them wants to play anymore. He's also not disappointed when Gabriel drags his crazy ass upstairs.

"What the hell was that?" Jack says, shoving the cards into the box.

"Probably the stupidest thing I've ever done," Jeremiah admits, glancing toward the stairs.

"You should have shot him." Jack grits his teeth, recalling the feel of that razor knife against his throat. "He would have killed me. He still might."

"I know. I just--I couldn't do it. He deserves a chance; I can't take it away from him. What Liam did to him--it's criminal. I'd be no better if I didn't try to make things better for him."

"How do you expect to do that, Jeremiah? He's nuts and he's dangerous. You never know what he's going to do one minute to the other." Jack's nearly shouting now, his brush with death making him feel as if he's losing his mind, too. Why can't Jeremiah see it? Why is he protecting that freak? Jack clenches his fists, his head beginning to pound.

Jeremiah shrugs, and goes to stand in front of the fire, picks up the skull and does his thing. Jack sighs in frustration, feels like screaming, but in the end, he only finds a spot on the dirty carpet and leans his head against the wall, vainly searching for a good memory.

(Gabriel)

He's kissing Pearl, kissing her soft lips, touching her smooth skin, holding her close, holding her tight to his body no one's going to take her away from him, she belongs to him and only him forever and ever amen the end

Gone. She's gone. Gabriel stares at the ceiling, his head on a soft pillow, his knife unsheathed in his hand, every tendon in his body straining, yearning toward--what? A dead girl who wasn't a girl but a--a

thing

that he touched and kissed and oh God when will it end? When will she get out of his head, out of his skin so that he can live? No. His life ended when Liam stomped Pearl to death and proved that he was right about her.

Pearl was just a thing. A dead, rotten thing. "But I loved her," he says to the room. "And she loved me." His eyes burn with hot tears, tears that he doesn't let fall. Tears are weakness, and there can be no weakness in him. He must be strong, stronger than anything and anyone. Only after he finds Liam and has his revenge can he quit and find peace, because that is what his soul longs for, perfect peace. He thought he'd found it with Pearl, but Liam stole it away and for that Gabriel will gut him.

(Jack)

It might be Spring, it might be only a lull in the dreadful cold, but whatever it is, the snow has melted, the clouds have begun to clear, there's a hint of warmth in the air. The road is a mess of mud, sucking at their shoes with every step. The three survivors have set out once again, supplies and moods low. Jack still thinks Paradise is probably bullshit, but he's unwilling to separate from Jeremiah, so he swallows his acid comments (well, as many as he can) and slogs along behind their unelected leader.

It's hard going, hard on the legs, hard on a body lacking proper nourishment. Gabriel struggles the most, not that Jack gives a rat's backside; if the kid stepped into quicksand Jack would keep walking.

Not so Jeremiah, though. It's as if he's found a replacement for Zeke, which is wrong on so many levels, the least of which that Gabriel is liable to kill either of them at any given moment. Yet Jeremiah does nothing, just does that rubbing thing or says some touchy feely proverb about giving Gabriel a chance, yadda yadda yadda. Jack isn't feeling so lucky now. He's not liking this gun, it's not for him. Something else would be better, maybe a knife or hell, even a big stick. A couple of blows to the skull would take the threat right out of the crazy kid.

"Hey, we gonna stop soon? I could use a break," Jack calls, and Jeremiah glances back at him and nods.

"Gabriel. We're stopping now." Like a sleepwalker, Gabriel keeps going until Jeremiah grabs his arm and makes him sit down. Jack keeps back, sweat dripping down his face. First they freeze, now they melt. Talk about global warming.

"So where exactly are we going?" Jack wants to know, keeping one eye on the kid while sipping from his water bottle.

And why did we leave, after all that crap about being sitting ducks out here?

"Don't rightly know," Jeremiah says, removing his hat and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He looks odd without the wide-brimmed hat, which Jack at first thought was an affectation but now sees it as an actual part of Jeremiah's body. His hair is long and jagged, thin on the top.

"I figure we keep moving west and stay away from the big cities as much as we can, and we ought to be okay."

"Shouldn't we have a destination? Like to Paradise, wherever the hell that is? Maybe we're not even going the right direction. It's been a while since I've seen one of those flyers."

Jeremiah shrugs. "I know. That is a concern."

"Liam's close by," the psycho suddenly says, that shiny knife unsheathed on his knee. "I can feel him. And when I see him, I'm going to tear out his guts, and nobody better try to stop me." He glares at the other men before lapsing back into his customary drooling state. Okay, so he's not actually drooling, but close.

Jack looks at Jeremiah, waiting to see what he will say. The man looks weary to the bone, lines etched on his forehead, creases around his nose and mouth, his dirty shirt hanging off his frame. Jack doesn't look much better, but neither of them look as bad as Gabriel, who won't even eat unless the food is thrust into his hand and then it's only a few bites.

Not that Jack cares. If the kid falls over from starvation, so much the better. Then Jack won't have to worry about getting stabbed while he sleeps or even while he's walking. Greyskins are another worry altogether.

Jeremiah just sits there, as if too exhausted to even speak.

(Jeremiah)

Tired. Bone-weary. Nerves wound up tight. Belly a hollow beating against his backbone. Throat a cactus. Maybe he's sick. Maybe he'll keel over soon and be put out of his misery.

God is merciful, that's what he's always heard, what he's always tried to believe, but after the events of the last few years it's becoming more and more difficult. He's seen little enough mercy in this new and forsaken world, experienced even less. How else to explain his son, his wife, Zeke and now Gabe, because Jeremiah knows the boy is as close to dead as you can get without dying. It occurs to him that perhaps mercy has been shown to the dead and withheld from him. It's a new thought, and one that Jeremiah isn't completely comfortable with. If he still had a family, things would be different.

No. It was a mercy that they died before all this struggle, this pointless fight to live. Why? Why is he fighting so hard? What is there to live for?

"You aren't merciful though, are you, God?" Jeremiah doesn't realize he's spoken out loud until Jack barks a laugh.

"You're just now figuring that out? If God was merciful, we'd have died during the bombs." He laughs again, a slightly disturbing sound. Jeremiah hopes Jack isn't losing his mind because he doesn't need another person to worry about.

Gabriel. So many things about the kid worries Jeremiah and he can't do a blasted thing about any of them except watch him self-destruct.

Put him out of his misery, why don't you? God isn't merciful but you can be. He's dangerous. A loose cannon. A rabid dog. A killer. You're a fool to let him live.

"No fool like an old fool," he mutters, loosening his pistol in its holster. There's something about the next section of road he doesn't like. It doesn't feel right. There's something...something off.

"You see something?" Jack moves up beside Jeremiah, awkwardly holding a gun in one hand, barrel pointed every which way. Jeremiah's still not sure Jack with a gun is a good idea, because the man is nervous, to say the least.

"Maybe. Keep sharp." Jeremiah glances around for Gabriel, sees that he is alert, and motions to Jack. "Stay close. There's someone out there."

Two figures emerge from the trees, struggling in the mud, their movements jerky and panicky. The taller one, a male, holds up his hand and the other one, a female, stops.

"We need help," the man calls, making a show of sheathing a large knife. Jeremiah raises his rifle, and they stop. "Please, we don't mean any harm."

Beside him Jack scoffs but says nothing when Jeremiah motions them closer. They do, and now he can see that the man has a bandaged forearm.

"We just need a safe place to rest."

Jeremiah glances at Jack, who shrugs unhappily. "All right," Jeremiah says. "But leave your knives sheathed."

(Jack)

The guy's name is Samuel, and to Jack he looks like one of those hipsters, the kind that used to be all over social media drinking artesian coffee while wearing hemp necklaces and organic cotton clothing, raging against capitalism. He's got a rainbow knitted beanie on his head, which barely contains his wild hair, and both he and his companion wear identical green pants and worn boots. Knives, big enough to rival Gabriel's, hang at their waists, at the ready. He's young, younger than Jack though not as young as Gabriel. In contrast, his companion is closer to Jeremiah's age, her sharp-chinned face lined with cares. She says nothing, although her light brown eyes track every movement, her hand remaining in constant contact with Samuel's.

"What happened to your arm?" Jeremiah's question makes Samuel go still.

"It wasn't a rotter, if that's what you're wondering," he says, touching the dirty bandage. The woman scowls, grips her knife hilt.

"Then what?" Jack says, his tone hard. "I mean, just about everything out here will kill you."

"Just an accident," he says. "Do you have any antibiotic cream?" Jeremiah digs in his pack and hands over a small tube of ointment and a packaged gauze pad.

The woman unwraps the bandage and Jack tries to see but she notices him watching and they turn away, blocking his view. Jack glances over at Jeremiah, who returns his concerned look.

"Thanks," Samuel says, coming over to them. Jack can't help staring at the bandage, wondering what's under it. He's pretty sure the hipster is lying. He peers closely at the man's face, trying to see--what? There's nothing there but smooth skin and guileless eyes. Jack doesn't trust that innocent face. And neither will Jeremiah, he's sure.

"Let's get off this road a ways," Jeremiah says. "We'll rest for a bit." Jack stumbles over the rocky ground and shrugs off his ridiculous pack, rotates his shoulders. He keeps watch on the two strangers, though. There's just something about them he doesn't like. Evidently Jeremiah doesn't feel the same way, because he asks them where they are coming from, not a trace of suspicion in his tired face.