Chapter 2
Evelyn Taylor and Fuego McCann,
Day 47
“What the fuck is that?” Cloudy eyes suspicious, Fuego shifted uncomfortably, running a tentative hand along the handle of my new toy.
“It’s a whip, silly!” I crowed, playfully snaking its length. The tip parted the dirt smoothly, embracing the dead earth like a predator. “It makes noise, turns people on, and removes heads from shoulders.” With a broad grin, I pulled my eyes coyly to Fuego’s.
Grimacing, Fuego shook his angular head, lips parted in a half disgusted smile. Turning on his heel, he began his way down the street.
“What good is a whip on a zombie?” He called, spitting in the dust as he went. I passed the glob gingerly, scrunching my face as I went. Spots of color danced on my cheeks as I did so, burying cinnamon freckles around a crimson layer of sunburns nearly as vivid as my hair. Fuego had taken me here months ago, just to see the high desert. We’d never had the chance to come back. Gingerly ignoring the heinous color, I skipped to catch up to my instructor, wry smile ready on my parched lips.
“All that blood has to go somewhere, my dear,” I replied, tipping it off with a raucous wink. With a sigh he stepped forward again, flashing me a rare, brief smile for a moment.
“Only you, Evelyn.”
“I try!” I called back with a laugh. Falling in beside him, I snaked the whip experimentally, reveling as the sleek kangaroo hide slid beside us. As curiously proud as a two year old with a new toy, I flicked it experimentally, long stretch of oiled leather racing ahead of us.
“Whatever. Just until this shit is all cleared up, don’t crack that thi-” Fuego began irritably. Before he could finish, a sound unrolled around us, gunshot-like clap rattling through the stifling musty air. The whip danced back wildly, snapping me harshly across a single high cheekbone. My startled yelp coincided with the fading tumult of sound nearly simultaneously. The handle nearly dropped from my hand in surprise before I caught it again, years of having random objects thrown at me sinking in.
For a full moment the two of us just stood there, breaths coming in pants in the streaming Arizona
When the attack came, we were as swift as birds. The first was a crawler, just pulling his pathetic naked body across the ground. A single sandal remained on his ravished toes, thongs having been pulled directly into the muscle of his foot. A low sound preceded his presence, a befuddled snarl building through his clogged throat.
Like a shot we were off, flying around his grasping, decrepit hands. Others began to make their selves known, rotting bodies dripping out of houses, alleyways, and garages alike. Together, we skirted a pool in our way where two of the reanimated bastards were scrabbling their way out, leaving streaks of blood across its aqua walls.
Like a shot we were off, flying around his grasping, decrepit hands. Others began to make their selves known, rotting bodies dripping out of houses, alleyways, and garages alike. Together, we skirted a pool in our way where two of the reanimated bastards were scrabbling their way out, leaving streaks of blood across its aqua walls.
Snarling under his breath, Fuego dove around a corner, shooting hastily up a cement block wall. Balancing near-daintily on his perch, he pressed his body flat on the hot stone and grasped roughly for my hand once more. Shaking a bit, I took a step back, and began to run. Sandstone bit into my fingertips, drawing blood and cracking nails. With a hard, gritty-sounding thud, my knees met the rough wall and promptly began to leak. But at that moment, there was only Fuego and the determined desperation in his eyes. With a mountainous heave, he pulled my body up to meet his, nearly losing his balance in the process.
And after a quick if thorough visual analysis, we were off again, our feet jiving along the narrow stretch. Below our fleet dance, hands grasped. It was enough to have made me fall into hysterics in a previous life. The befuddled gaping mouths, the drooping, grasping rank hands, and our dancing, flying, dirty little feet.
Leaping in a final, twisted pirouette, we flung ourselves to a clay roof, whip, possessions, and wayward supplies trailing. With a gasp, the two of us clattered to the hot roof, mouths open and eyes dilated. Gingerly, we patted each other down, ripping backpacks from the other’s shoulders and frantically checking our location for lurking watchers. Immediately, I dove to the roof’s edge, flopping down on my belly for stabilization. Below, wafts of decomposition and wailing symphonies rose up to met my waiting senses. With a grimace, I pulled myself back.
“I think they’re staying,” I sighed, crawling back. Fuego nodded and resumed his search, spreading out the last of our wares on the baking tiles. Four almost-empty canteens, a bedroll, two spare woolen blankets, one depleting first aid kit, a serrated hunting blade, three water purifiers, seven snack bars, a war-worn violin, and the last bottle of Fuego’s medication stared woodenly back at us. After a silent moment, he spoke.
“Doesn’t look any better to me,” He commented dryly. “Do you see any magical new arrivals?”
“Nope,” I replied, hiding a sick grin. Our sacks, three in total, sat limply beside the meager stack in silence. After a moment, we glanced up at each other, his own lips spreading wearily in response to my smile.
“Then let us feast!” Fuego laughed. With sardonic grins, we toasted our canteens to one another, spread our blankets, and got ourselves comfortable. Gingerly, I gently pulled the tarnished violin to my lap, embracing it like an old friend. Then, after receiving the usual encouraging nod from Fuego, I began to play.
As custom, my dear violin was working hard, her strings humming with effort. As custom, the notes were as lively, as vivacious as they could be. The first song was essential to our nights, reflecting our joy in living another day. Later would welcome the melancholy ones, in honor of the ones we lost. And as per custom, the gnashing and groaning of undead throats were whistled away.
The bullwhip sat heavy at my side for a moment, and then seemed to drift away as well. This was why I played. This, for Dmitri, and for old time’s sake. The crack of a bullwhip in an open road is a death wish. Being able to play the fiddler’s songs in a safe place, no matter how exposed, is a blessing. One we shall continue to enjoy, I hope. The notes warbled around us until I could play no longer. When that time came, I laid down my bow, placed the violin tenderly back in it’s cracked leather case, melted into my gratefully companion, and drifted off to sleep.
