A Bat & A Blade

“Used to be, Eva, if you were lucky, you could just coast through life on your famous name. Or your money. Or even your good looks.”

Declan reaches out and grabs my face, twisting my head this way and that like he’s judging a prizewinning pig at the fair. I struggle to pull away but his grip is like a vice.

“I bet you could have coasted along just fine. But that was back when the world was still bright and shiny, like a nice new penny. Nobody’s lucky anymore. The world’s all spent now, and we just get to try and make our way in what’s left.”

Declan releases his hold on my face, and a hint of what seems like satisfaction tugs at the corners of his mouth as I rub at the sore spots where his fingers had dug in behind my jaw.

“Which brings me to you, and how you’re going to fit into this brave new world of ours.”

We’re in a room full of row after row of desks and computers – maybe an old call centre or something – and Declan drags a battered metal chair shrieking and screaming along the worn floor tiles to rest across from me. When he sits in it, his face is even with mine, and I can’t avoid meeting his gaze.

“Now, you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but that doesn’t have to mean you can’t stay with us, safe and sound and snug as a bug. Is that something you’d like?”

I’m trembling so hard my teeth are chattering, and all I can manage to do is nod.

“Of course it is! Who would want to go back out into that?”

Without taking his eyes off of mine, Declan hooks a thumb over his left shoulder, towards the bank of windows that dominates the nearby wall. I know what is out there, however, and I don’t need to remind myself, so I hold his gaze.

“But staying with us means you need to learn the rules. There are only two, and breaking either one will land you right back out there.”

This time Declan points out the window with his long, bony index finger. Still I keep my eyes on his, and after a long moment he lowers his arm and starts to count the rules off on his fingers.

“First rule is, don’t cause any trouble. Or in your case, don’t cause any more trouble, I guess. Do you think you can handle that?”

Again I can’t find my voice. Hot tears burn down my cheeks as I vigorously nod my agreement.

“I hope you can, for your sake.”

A second bony finger is extended.

“Rule number two, there’s no dead wood here – no pun intended. Everyone contributes. Anyone who’s just another mouth to feed, anyone who takes and takes and gives nothing back, belongs on the outside with the other mouths. You want to stay here, you have to pull your weight. So the question is, what do you bring to the table?”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I don’t want to tell him that I was a grad student before The Turn. English Lit. The last nine months have shown me that my skill set isn’t suited to the end of the world. Like I needed Night of the Living Dead to tell me that.

I don’t know what else to do, so without a word I reach down and start pulling my ragged blouse up over my head. But I don’t expose much more than my navel before Declan’s iron grip is forcing my hands back down. His skin is like ice against mine.

“That’s not the kind of contribution I mean. Jesus fucking Christ, how long has it been since you met someone who didn’t just want to fuck you or eat you?”

“I... I don’t know. A long time.”

Declan nods slowly, and then finally releases his white-knuckle hold on my hands, apparently satisfied that the hem of my blouse is staying put.

“A long goddamn time. I bet. Well I’m not going to fuck you – not unless you ask me nicely.” A lascivious wink. “And neither is anyone else here. No, we’re asking for a different kind of contribution.”

Declan stands up abruptly, curls his long, thin fingers around the back of his chair, and then hurls it at the nearest section of the wall of windows. The chair merely bounces off the glass and clatters to the floor, leaving the pane cracked but still in one piece.

Frowning, Declan asks me to hang on a second and then marches over to the upturned chair. He picks it up again, examines it for a moment, swings it into the fractured pane of glass, again and again, until the cracks kink and curve from sill to ceiling.

Finally, Declan throws the chair at the window once more, and this time it sails through with a crash and a hail of glass that sprays out over the street below.

At first the only sound that fills the ensuing silence is Declan’s heavy breathing, ragged and raw from the exertion of smashing the window. But after a moment other sounds drift in through the jagged wound in the glass: low moans; shuffling footsteps; the soft, muted thumping of dead fists on first floor windows.

Declan crosses the distance between us in a couple of strides to loom over me like a wave about to break. I can feel the heat from his laboured breathing as he leans in, hands on the arms of my chair, wild eyes not six inches from my own.

“You want to stay with us, you have a choice to make – the same choice each and every one of us gets to make each and every morning.”

Declan raises his left arm and stabs his index finger towards the ruined window.

“You can go out there with us, make your mark with a bat and a blade, and help us take our world back from the dead.”

Declan must see that I’m doing my best to avoid looking where he’s pointing, because his arm snaps down and he locks his iron grip around my wrist. Before I can even try to pull away, Declan pulls me out of the chair and drags me over to the windows. He propels me towards the yawning opening with a shove, and I have to brace my hands against the shattered edges to stop myself from falling out.

Now I can’t help but look out over the nightmare scene outside. Hundreds of dead eyes and empty sockets look back up at me. Dozens of reaching hands, raw and bloody and shorn of flesh, and dozens more gruesome stumps and shards of exposed bone. And the wet, rattling moans reach a new intensity, as if the sight of me excites the army of walking corpses that fills the street below.

“Or you can go out there with them.” Declan’s voice floats over my shoulder and out into the wind. “It’s up to you.”

There is another crash of breaking glass, somewhere below us, and the mass of shambling dead surges and presses in against the side of the building – into the side of the building.

“Better choose quickly, though. It sounds like we’ve got company coming for dinner.”

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