Wasted (Part 1)

A pale stench invaded Yan’s nostrils and immediately jolted him upwards from the deeply soaked towel he had laid his head upon. He rubbed his nose and dry heaved to try to get the invasive smell off of him, only to discover that it was gone as quick as it had left him with an aftertaste in his mouth not different from the rotting corpses he had seen along the farmland. They had been burning, and were piled atop each other like a grotesque landfill of limbs and frozen faces. Yan had stopped then to look at them, each expression slightly different than other corpses, he noticed. Still, he could find every face with eyes almost leaving their sockets, teeth barred and revealed under white lips. Yan had stayed there for an hour, examining the bodies despite the putrefying stench, covering his mouth as he crawled closer in amazement.

It hadn’t bothered him then, but it bothered him now. He didn’t know why.

The farmland had been yesterday, which meant that Yan had slept at least fourteen hours, because of the sun setting in the east. The abandoned complex he decided to sleep on stood out from the rest of the landscape as he’d hiked along the barren road. Exhausted and aching, Yan took little time to decide if it was safe enough to hole up for the night, and climbed the three levels of stairs that surprisingly survived decay to reach the fourth, and only barely hospitable level, in the crumbling building.

Yan blinked three times to fully awaken himself, yawning widely, and feeling the bitter aftertaste of the stench in the back of his throat. He grabbed the damp towel and wrung it out to get rid of the wetness that Yan didn’t think could come from his head.

His shaggy, dark hair was wet all over, stick out and up and down on all sides from the sweating he had done while asleep. It looked as chaotic as the world outside the grey building he stood up to examine.

Yan found little to examine at all. Save for flat sheets of cardboard Yan failed to notice the night before, and plastic wrappers scattered across the floor, there was nothing. He circled the fourth level to make sure of what he was seeing.

Completely abandoned. No souls.

Yan shrugged slightly at the thought. No souls here, of course. Why would there be. He made his towards the stairs, limping.

The sun’s orange glow highlighted everything in front of him, the horizon, the black branches, a farmhouse half gone in the distance. Yan shielded his eyes with his palm as he limped slowly along the continuing road.

He cursed under his breath at the lack of time he was making before nightfall. His calf pained with the pressure put on it, and Yan winced with every step. But he had to quicken to avoid the Ferals.

“Swear to God…” Yan remembered the last time he encountered one. At that time, Yan still had a weapon, a tire iron he had found in an abandoned car. The fight was fierce and long. The feral was at most four feet tall, with the sharpest teeth Yan had ever seen, and nails that dug in harder than any leeches or claws Yan had the pleasure of experiencing firsthand.

It was also the most blood he had seen in a while since embarking on his trek. The tire iron lost a spoke with the force of the last hit, and Yan wanted to make sure it was dead. He or she, he couldn’t tell.

You can never tell with Ferals.

Yan looked down at his right calf, which was a faded purple colour and looked as if it had started swelling.

This wasn’t a Feral, but a Marauder that had straggled off from his clan, as Yan had heard him say. Of course, Yan didn’t know this was a Marauder, because there were no weapons, no makeshift armour on him, a bright smile, and greying hair on his sides. If anything, he looked like a stay-at-home dad, with grease stains on his face.

Experience with a Feral came in handy, as this hit against the Marauder didn’t break a spoke of the tire iron, but it did do its job. The brief tussle for possession of the tire iron ended in Yan’s deafening blow to the Marauder’s temple, but also resulted in the upswing for a second hit ending up in an empty hand and a sinking tire iron, into the swamp.

Yan looked at his empty, stained hands. Weaponless. Defenseless. Yan stopped in his tracks and bent down in a squat to pause and think about his chances.

Clan comes. Dead.

Feral comes. Dead.

Ferals come? Eaten.

And the Gassers…

Yan shuddered at the idea of Gassers coming to claim him. He scrunched his brow as he rubbed it. He could feel a headache coming on.

The sun’s light now only peaked above the horizon, as Yan looked up into the sky. The Moon was not far off, brighter than he had ever seen it. He stopped again to enjoy the little peace he had left to marvel at.

A loud rumble approaching the hill of the road twisted Yan’s head immediately. He could see bright headlights coming fast towards him, over the hill now.

“Fuck.”

Yan looked around the narrow road for a hiding spot, and spotted the shallow ditch by the side of the road. By instinct, he took one step and dove into the tall grass, hitting his calf on the hard, dry soil.

As he yelped loudly in pain, the vehicle stopped just beside him.

After the pain subsided, Yan slowly crawled upwards to the edge of the ditch, and peeked his eyes upwards at the car’s undercarriage. The door opened on the far side and he saw feet land onto the road. The clunk of the dark, sturdy standard-issue combat military boots sounded like a monster’s thundering stomps to Yan’s ears. He was sweating profusely. No weapon.

Defenseless.

He crawled back down into the ditch, and laid limp, face down. Fast thinking. Okay. Lay limp. Yeah. You’re dead. Don’t even breathe. You’re a corpse. No prisoner here. Just a corpse. A stinking, sweaty, audibly heaving corpse. God damn it.

Yan laid as still as a terrified, defenseless refugee could.

Silence. The clunk—the thundering stomp of the boots stopped.

“Lever.”

What?

“Se lever.”

Something sharp prodded Yan’s side. Not enough to hurt him though. But facing the soil, Yan’s face was perplexed. Gun barrels aren’t sharp. This wasn’t a Marauder.

He jolted around quickly, to catch a glimpse of the person.

She screamed.

He screamed, and scrambled to his knees, arms raised in defense looking at her.

Her eyes were as wide as the ones in the farmland body piles, only these were hazel, not white and dry, and her skin was fair, not pale. She wore a brown baseball cap to conceal her hair, witch swayed behind her in a long ponytail. She stood almost as tall as Yan, probably not heightened by her combat boots, which were accompanied by a full chem-suit, unzipped to her waist. The sleeves of it were rolled up and her arms were shaking, holding the crossbow at Yan’s chest with rubber-gloved hands.

Yan was still examining her as she called out again.

“Qui êtes vous?”

Yan struggled to comprehend.

“Qui êtes vous?!”

This time she yelled it, and shuffled closer to Yan, who tried to move back, and fell back into the ditch.

He saw the sky dimming as night was beginning to set in. The French girl blocked his view of the stars. This time her face was of less concern and more of pity.

She panted lightly as Yan stared at her, his arms scrunched against his chest, hands barely protecting him from the arrow cocked and loaded at his heart. She bent down two feet away from Yan’s face lying in a ditch.

Her pauses made Yan uncomfortable as she said, “Who—”

“—are”

She poked him harder with the arrow. He winced, “Ow.”

“—you?”

Yan motioned to her to try and get up, and she finally complied. She moved back to beside her car, and Yan slowly made his way up from the ditch, dusting himself off.

He had to be very visual with his hands to get the point across.

“Me? Not bad. No. I’m travelling…”

He put one palm flat, and used two fingers with his other hand to mimic walking. She stared judgmentally at him.

“No weapon.” Ch-chik. Pow. He cancelled out his gun miming with a big cross. “None.”

“Infecté?”

Yan’s face contorted into one of scrutiny at her.

“Non!” he said in a mocking accent.

She motioned towards him with the butt of her crossbow. He yelped at strafed behind the truck. After she laughed and laid down her weapon, he returned to talk to her.

“Can you understand me?”

“Oui.”

“Can you speak English?”

“Oui.” She threw the crossbow in the back of the car, a beat up hatchback with full burlap sacks attached with heavy-duty climbing rope to the top.

“Who are you?”

“A scientist, monsieur.”

“A chemist?”

“Non, un biologiste moléculaire.”

Yan scoffed. He paused for a moment, staring at her. Her arms remained crossed at her chest beside the passenger door. He whistled in sheer astonishment at his chances, and looked up at the dark sky. Crickets chirped, and he could hear the breeze.

“I am going. There is something I have to do,” she said while closing the door.

Yan hastily tapped the car. “Wait, wait!”

The rumble of the engine and heat from under the hood made Yan almost want to stay on her car, blocking her from moving.

“Take me with you.”

Her stare was blank, as she put on her high beams. He put his palms together in plead.

“Entrer.”

Yan’s smile was the first in a month, and he eagerly opened the passenger door and settled into the cramped hatchback.

“Mur-see.” He stuck out his hand.

Her smirk Yan knew was a condescending one, but he didn’t mind, because his calf was halfway to atrophying. She returned his handshake. And gave a name.

“Mélanie.”

“Yan. Where to?”

“Le Premier Èvénement.”

Yan did a mental double-take. His eyes, wide as the farmland corpses, stared at her.

“Yes, the First Event.”

He buried his head in his hands as Mélanie stepped on the gas pedal.