01.04.202X - Union

Union

“...pin-eyed God, break on you, pin-eyed God, coming free...”

Kate grimaced and turned down the volume. The radio had – as usual – turned on, shuffled her playlist, and landed on what was possibly the most distasteful choice available.

At least she caught it before the first joyful “time to die”.

Jesus Christ.

She was driving way over the speed limit, foot pushing down on the gas as hard as humanly possible, road signs flitting by in a haze. There had been a tell-tale flash in her rear-view at some point, a speed trap going off, and while she'd usually curse and complain about the pointlessness of it all, she almost found herself hoping she'd get a ticket in the mail.

Sayori had buried her face into her shaking hands, and with the music silenced Kate could hear her breathing heavily, clearly trying to steady herself after what she'd just witnessed. No blame there. The rifle fire had died down at some point, and while every single burst in the distance had caused her to jerk nervously, the silence was far, far worse.

Maybe they'd survived.
Turned back the horde.
“Pacified” what was left of the population.
Purged the entire town of cannibals.

Or they'd simply been overrun and eaten alive.

Judging by the horrified scream she'd heard just as she started the car, the latter seemed far more likely.

That scream.

Jesus fucking Christ.

That was the one thing she could never stand about her work – the noises.

Catatonic, wrinkled, demented patients lost inside their own heads, constantly moaning in unfathomable pain, unable to even comprehend their existence anymore. Mothers-to-be screaming in total agony while forcing a new life out into the world. Gunshot victims crying for their mothers, their organs ruptured, their intestines peppered with shards of lead.

Seeing blood had never fazed her much, and everybody was red on the inside, but...

The noises were what stuck with you.

She'd had a dream like that, once, years ago.

A gigantic, monolithic machine, the walls of an iron chamber filled with naked humans in pods. The machine would reach into the pods, fish out a male and a female, and mash them together in some cruel, demented parody of intercourse, grinding their bodies into a pulp, feeding itself off of the anguished screams, then-

 

“Pull over.” Whatever it was, it sounded urgent. “Please.”

She did as much, stomping on the brakes with all her might, tires squealing in protest, and when they finally came to a halt Sayori had already opened the door and jumped out, dry-heaving into the underbrush.

She looked absolutely feral. Eyes wide open, pupils like pinpricks, shoulders tense, jaw set – all reason seemed to have left her.

Then, a final dry-heave, heavy, irregular breaths, and the light returned into her eyes. Sayori was back, for better or worse.

She sat into the car, quietly, her breathing slowly returning back to normal, and Kate shifted back into first gear.

“Are... are you alright?” She wasn't, that much was obvious, but what else was there to say?

“Y-yeah... I'm...” Sayori gave a shaky nod. “I'm... fine.”

“Yeah.” What the fuck am I supposed to say? “That's... that's good.”

They drove on in silence, Kate's eyes on the road, the scream from before still looping in her head, Sayori staring blankly out of the window, mouth slightly agape. Neither of them was capable of breaking into the silence just yet.

“T-they fired into...” They were just about to turn left, back home, when Sayori finally piped up. “...into the crowd.”

“Yeah.” What else was there to say? Of course they had to – you couldn't reason with those creatures. “I mean... they had to, right?”

“B-but... no hesitation.” Her voice was stilted, heavy with worry, and suddenly Kate felt a cold sweat breaking out. “They... just fired. Like they knew in advance.”

“...what do you mean?” Of course they knew. They had to know. They had to have mission files, something, reconnaissance, whatever. “They... that's... that's their job, someone has to know, right?”

“Y-yeah... I suppose.” Sayori seemed unconvinced. “It... just doesn't feel right.”

“Maybe they just... learned something from COVID. Made... made back-up plans, or something.”

Kate heard Sayori gasp for breath, and hazarded a glance towards the passenger, fearing another panic attack or wave of nausea.

She was met with something completely different.

“Fucking 'back-up plans'?!” Sayori looked absolutely livid. “How the fuck do you plan for something like this?”

“I..I don't-”

“What's the infection rate?” Kate had never heard Sayori like this, never imagined that the timid girl could sound so utterly venomous. “Tell me, please, give me your professional fucking opinion!”

“I don't fucking know what the infection rate is, Sayori!” There you go. A familiar spark had lit in her chest. “All I know is that my fucking family's gone, the roads are empty, and the Army's on the fucking streets getting eaten alive!”

“So is it worse than COVID?”

“Yes it's fucking worse than fucking COVID!” The car had stopped. She couldn't focus on the road, not like this. “What the fuck do you even want from me?”

“I want you to tell me...” Sayori managed to calm her voice down, somehow, but her eyes were still like ice. “...how on Earth anyone could come up with a 'back-up plan' for something like this.”

She huffed and looked away. Kate wanted to retort, to come up with something to refute her accusation, something that would explain everything clearly, something reassuring, but all she could come up with was....

“I don't know.” 

 

Her voice was bitter. What the fuck was her problem? Kate had risked life and limb to get the girl out of Rosewood, get her somewhere safe, and this was what she got? She'd taught her how to drive, how to perform first aid, clothed her – even taken her into her parents' home and treated her as well as she could. Of course she'd get screamed at and cursed out in exchange. The world wasn't fair, and it would never be.

Kate stepped on the gas and drove onward. She'd be home soon. What joy.

The oak door opened, as quietly as ever. Mom had always made sure to oil the hinges carefully – the noise seemed to set her off. As did a lot of things. She'd apparently been different before she lost her husband, although Kate had never seen her like that. The only Mom she knew was the obsessive homebody, the archetypal American housewife that worked herself to the bone trying to maintain the facade of a perfect home.

But there was no sense in dwelling on it now. Mom was gone, but the dish rags still remained, and there was work to be done. A late lunch, first off. Then, cleaning up after, chopping firewood, the lawn would need a trim...

Kate sighed. Why couldn't she just take it easy, for once? They had firewood, enough birch to keep the boiler piping hot for a month, and the damn lawn could rot and turn into a swamp for all she cared. The only thing she really had to care about was food, and even then she didn't feel particularly motivated to cook anything.

Although, maybe her guest would grace her ears with another string of curses if she did really well...

She smirked, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

The boots were easy enough to take off – the zippers on the sides made sure of that. Clunky and comfortable, with steel toes and slip-resistant soles, they'd lasted her for quite some time thanks to frequent maintenance, and-

Oh, right. She'd have to clean her boots as well.

Fuck.

She heard someone clear her throat and make a little noise behind her, and made damn sure not to pay it any mind and walk to the couch instead, just to sit down for a while.

She was past caring, at this point – maybe tomorrow would bring a newfound sense of clarity to the situation. Let her squirm, if she wanted to. She'd made her own bed, now let her lie in it. There wasn't any point in solving this – there was nothing to solve. It didn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Kate sighed, again. She hadn't moved an inch towards the couch.

“What is it?”

Sayori looked alarmed at the sudden attention afforded to her, and Kate felt a slight rush when the girl broke eye contact after a mere half-second, her blue eyes probing the beige welcome mat instead, gingerly rubbing her elbow all the while. She inhaled, opened her mouth as if to speak, and – nothing.

“Well?” She knew that tone like the back of her hand – the same one Grandpa used whenever he needed something done. It was almost magical. When it worked, that is.

But, still, nothing. They stood there for a moment, both locked in place, transfixed, neither of them willing to make the first move, to open themselves up. There was a rift between them, a gap, and whoever took the first blind step forward risked tumbling down.

Kate tasted the air. Silence and dust.

Why'd she have to be so fucking stubborn?
And why do you have to be so fucking stubborn?

Was it a matter of pride? If it was, it was misguided, at best – Tennessee could have been as far away as Japan for all the good it did her. This was supposed to be a team effort. For all Kate knew it was just the two of them, alone against the world – they didn't need to make it any harder. She didn't need to make it any harder, and Sayori...

Well, the girl had been through a lot, and that was putting it lightly. And, yet, while Kate completely understood the rationale behind her lashing out – irrational as it was – it still stung. Couldn't she just get a fucking thank-you, something of the sort – a bit of carrot instead of constant stick?

But she'd gotten her thank-you. Several, in fact. More than she'd gotten in ages. So many, in fact, that the phrase had lost all meaning – or perhaps it never had any meaning to begin with. Perhaps she simply couldn't accept it. Maybe Sayori's opinion didn't matter, maybe she was being willfully blind to the importance of her actions – either way, the end result was the same.

And she definitely wasn't fucking apologizing.

No, not for that.

She didn't even start it – it wasn't her job to un-fuck the situation.

It's not on you.

So why'd she feel like she had to do something about it?

Because, at the end of the day, somebody's gotta fucking do it. That's just the way of the world. Has always been, will always be, and you know this as well as anyone.

Just let go.

“Listen...” Kate finally broke the silence, mouthing the words with barely-hidden distaste. “I don't know what your fu- your problem is, but we can at least pretend to get along.”

Another sharp gasp of breath, whether from her barely-hidden slip or her accusatory tone Kate didn't know, yet nothing followed it. She hazarded a glance – the girl seemed sullen, at worst. Regretful, perhaps – or maybe just sad.

“The situation is shit enough as it is.” She almost regretted the little jab the moment she said it, but the girl made no indication of having caught on. “There's no point in making this any harder than it has to be. We're both adults. Let's just try to... act our ages, alright?”

A shaky nod, and another little murmur, most likely an affirmation. The girl wasn't stupid. She could extrapolate as well as anyone. Actually, judging by what she'd screamed about in the car, maybe a little too well, and...

No. No time. Focus on the here-and-now first. You can scare yourself silly later. It doesn't matter who's right, just get through this as well as you can. There's gonna be plenty of finger-pointing after the dust has settled, either way.

“I have– We have a lot of stuff we need to do.” God damn it. Asking for help shouldn't be this hard. She fought back the embarrassment, as best she could, and continued – “Do you... Do you wanna cook or chop wood?”

She seemed to wrestle with the options for a moment, clearly tense, before deflating again, trying her best to look neutral.

“How... how much wood d-do you need?”

“Grab some boots.” Kate slid her muddy ones back on. “I'll show you.”

Thwack.

The wood split, even and fine, straight along the grain. If it wasn't for the absolute and total absence of thought, Sayori might even have felt a little surge of pride at her work. As it stood, however, she was floating in a comfortable Xanax haze, occasionally waking up enough to stamp out the little pangs of regret from the earlier argument that bubbled up to the surface.

Thwack.

Bring it down, let it guide your body, not too tight, then turn the log sideways and prepare for another swing. Surface, indeed, but what kind of surface? A toxic swamp – that was her go-to answer, but... at least the swamp was calm right now. Placid.

Thwack.

Lake Placid – where had she heard that? Perhaps it was a book – or a game, maybe, she couldn't quite remember. Not that she even remembered anything past the name which had stuck with her, for whatever reason. Maybe it was the simplicity of it all? The name itself evoked a certain image – nothing further was needed.

Thwack.

She wiped her brow, glanced at the slowly growing pile of cut logs on each side of the larger log that served as a... cutting board? No, chopping block, that was it. Like for executions and such. She envisioned the gray-faced cannibal in the gas station, on his knees, head served forth on a plate, moaning unintelligibly, and brought the axe down.

Thwack.

Her imagination filled in the aftermath quite well – although she was unsure of how much blood there should be. Maybe she'd find out, some day. Any day, now. With how things were going, that was the most likely answer, but even then it didn't quite faze her. Whatever happened, happened. She was just here for the ride, as it stood.

Thwack.

Blood had a certain smell, especially if there was a lot of it – old blood stuck to clothes, for example. A bit greasy, a bit sick, the copper tones having washed away long ago. Meaty. Maybe she was making herself useful. Did the axe make her useful?

Thwack.

Well, she was fairly useless without an axe, all things considered, but the axe was equally useless without her. Maybe it was the marriage of person and tool that created the value? Possibly, but the task was equally necessary, as well – her and the axe didn't have inherent value.

Thwack.

She blinked, slightly frustrated. That was the issue – the tasks. Figuring them out, getting off your ass, doing something... well, useful. She wouldn't have the tasks without Kate. Speaking of, how much wood did she need? There was a lot of it – the term had slipped her mind, if she ever even knew it.

Thwack.

So, Kate – tasks – tool – her. A nice flowchart, but there had to be something behind Kate, right? She thought for a moment, and settled on something as simple and nebulous as survival. Whatever that meant to her, it probably meant something completely different to Kate – her idea of survival was chopping wood and preparing for the long haul, Sayori's idea of survival was getting through the day and into bed.

Thwack.

She hadn't noticed the sweat before, or the heavy breaths – or had tried to forget about them, more like – but now they were impossible to ignore. Her lower back burned, her hands felt unpleasantly raw, and every hurried breath exiting her mouth came out in the form of a little white cloud. There was sweat breaking out on her bare head, her upper back was completely slick, and suddenly the entire winding train of thought she'd followed so far seemed completely, utterly, absurd.

 

Humans want to survive.
What a striking conclusion.
Thank God you didn't waste your school years on pointless shit like this, right?

Maybe there was enough wood now. She definitely didn't feel like chopping more, at least not quite yet, and she might as well have cleaned up the yard a bit. Pile them in the wheelbarrow, stack them in the woodshed, you can't miss it.

Allegedly.

The smell inside the shed was as familiar as it was comforting. Dust danced in the air, fluorescent lights filtering through grimy plastic casing illuminated the newspaper- clad floor. Seems like a fire hazard. Either way, Kate hadn't lied to her.

It was impossible to miss.

On both sides of a narrow corridor leading into the outbuilding proper, there was log upon log – most of it birch, but with a few scattered pine logs here and there. All of it was cleanly cut, as well, neat triangles fitting together like an impromptu wooden mosaic.

So, she got to work, wondering all the while what the outbuilding had been used for previously – the door leading deeper was slightly ajar, yet she couldn't see much through the crack. The smell coming through was slightly more familiar, though, rotting wood bringing to mind her days exploring abandoned buildings and similar places, snapping photos and relishing the thrill of adventure.

Maybe she could take a look after the wheelbarrow was empty?

Kate won't mind.

 

 

 

The building – maybe a former barn? - was larger than expected. Perhaps it just felt like it, it was hard to tell in the darkness. Whatever renovations had dragged the woodshed into the age of electrical lights and the house proper into the age of the smartphone had left this place well alone, and every creaking step was a further reminder of that fact.

Here was a torn-apart snapshot of life as it had been, long ago, scattered tools and stained boxes littering the dusty floor, and every new thing she found almost felt like a piece of a puzzle falling into place.

Rusted agricultural implements, a plow here, a scythe there, all of them far past their prime.

An old farmer's almanac, faded almost beyond legibility, torn and frayed, still showing a date from the end of the last millennium.

Shoes that hadn't been worn in ages, an old chipped coffee mug, the inside housing a little spider web, the silken strands glinting in the light from her phone...

She let the beam of light slowly dance along the walls, and took a few tentative steps on an old, worn staircase leading up to what seemed like a hayloft, the structure reaching barely a third across the length of the building before dropping off abruptly.

Stairs had the potential to be bad news, especially stairs as old as these – she'd always been smart enough to take her time and not risk too much, but some idiot kid in her town had decided to test the tensile strength of a rusted catwalk by jumping up and down on it, straight on the middle part, to boot.

The fall had been long, but death had been quick.

It didn't take long for the place to get bulldozed after that, and last she'd visited the place there had been new, expensive-looking high-rises standing proud instead, the entire area in the painful throes of gentrification. It didn't take long for any place to get bulldozed, anymore.

If she was fast enough, she might have enough time to visit once or twice, snap some pictures, but...

It started feeling hard to care a few years back. Sleeping was easier.

The staircase held, as did the hayloft. Whatever group of farmers had originally erected the old barn had done good work – the planks moved, sure, but wood was supposed to live a little, wasn't it? There were more boxes scattered around, more tools as well, old faded newspapers, and even a small wooden chest tucked into a corner...

She couldn't help it anymore.

Curiosity killed the cat, sure, but cats have nine lives.

Specks of dust flying into the air with every footstep, she finally went for gold and opened a box. Papers, a dull knife, rust marring the stainless steel, nothing that would be worth choking on several decades' patina to get to. Another box, this one empty except for a few tell-tale black bits in the corner and a gnawed hole in the side – of course they had rats.

 

Then, finally, the chest. The lid was surprisingly heavy and covered with dust, whatever laid inside clearly staying undisturbed for ages. With a little huff, a bit of force and a massive puff of dust the lid creaked open, and Sayori felt her curiosity kick into overdrive. There seemed to be a blanket – or something – inside, but that wasn't what made her reach out.

Inside, lying on blue cloth, the texture still soft to a degree, was...

Well, it looked like a tube.

 

A tube with a little bump on one end, a ring jutting out of the middle, the opposite end expanding slightly, angular notches cut into the flared bit. There was, again, scattered specks of rust blooming on the metal, but the blued surface underneath stayed fairly visible, all things considered. She pondered the tube for a while – maybe it was more of a pipe?

Maybe there's more stuff in here?

The blanket, or whatever it was, was folded neatly – perhaps there was something underneath?

She set the tube-pipe aside, and carefully pulled up the blanket, until suddenly something clattered to the floor, hollow metal striking wood, the noise accompanied by a faint rattle. She scurried after it, her flashlight illuminating another metallic cylinder, this one far shorter than the previous, but also in far better shape. She brought it up to her eyes after wiping off the dust on her – Katie's – hoodie, and turned it to and fro.

It wasn't a tube, not as such, one end was closed with a small cap while the other was threaded, a shiny silver spring dangling out of the end. Far less rust on this one, though, and as she shone the light into the threads cut into the steel she decided to take it apart. A burst of quick, excited movement later she was kneeling on the floor, cylinder in one hand, a threaded cap in the other, a stiff spring jutting out of the metal.

Weird. Probably doesn't have anything to do with airflow, the spring seems useless for that. Blued steel is pretty expensive, as well, isn't it?

Blued steel... what was it even used for? What necessitated that kind of rust protection?

Clockwork, old razor blades, fencing foils, firearms.

Firearms.

She practically ran back to the chest, the blanket flew into the air with a quick pull, and there, on the bottom of the chest, was the missing piece.

Another threaded tube, this time parallel to a hole, leading into a half-rectangular structure, its top side rounded. As for the rest, she felt like she knew most of the rest of the words. Trigger guard, trigger, stock. It looked like it was made of walnut, perhaps? Dark wood, either way.

She sat down on the dusty floor in a loose lotus position, haphazardly wedged her light between her shins and her thighs, and got to work. First, the... the bit with the stock. She idly played with the trigger, gently squeezing, the mechanism inside protesting weakly at her attempt, but giving way.

Hope it's not too rusty on the inside.

The first tube – or perhaps more correctly – the barrel fit in from the front, quite cleanly as well, the ring looping onto the other tube. Then, she thread the cylinder from before onto the end, inserted the spring, and all of a sudden, the assemblage of strange metal pipes had turned into an actual, factual, firearm.

A weapon.

Of course it is. A rifle behind every blade of grass. And a shotgun in every barn, as well. It's a lot heavier than I thought. Smells kinda weird, as well, and isn't there supposed to be something here?

She turned her eyes towards the middle of the barrel. Maybe it didn't need a... handle? A hand-guard? Or maybe it did. There were two small cut-outs between the barrel and the tube, now that she looked – maybe something was supposed to go in there, as well?

 

A brief search through the crumpled blanket gave her the answer. Ridged walnut, two metal guide rails sticking out... She didn't see any way to fit it on, not like this, so the weapon came apart, once again, this time far more confidently than before, and as she slid the wooden piece onto the tube she felt the guide rails lock into place. Then, assembly, and...

She carefully pulled on the hand-guard, stock pushing into her belly, barrel pointed towards the ceiling as if it could go off at any moment. There was some resistance, something minor, but she pulled harder, and suddenly the action cycled back, opening a small slot on the right side, the metallic noise cutting through the darkness like a knife.

Then, she slammed the action back into place with a clack and brought the stock to her shoulder. She just had to crane her head a little bit to aim along the barrel, and while it was heavy and kind of uncomfortable – over-sized, perhaps? – it didn't feel like it mattered that much.

A gun.
Wow.
Never held one before.
There's no bullets in it, right?
I don't think so, but...
How do you even make sure?

She stood there, silent, lost in thought, mulling over the sudden development, and then, gently, carefully, she pulled the trigger.

Click.

And then, a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.