Dead Frontier/Issue 138

This is Issue #138 of Dead Frontier, titled Take My Hand. This is the finale of Volume 23.

Issue 138 - Take My Hand
Everyone is silent, their expectant eyes turned to Ivy. She sits at the kitchen table, and they've put themselves into some kind of half-circle formation around her. Everyone is listening intently, except for Tora, who can barely keep herself awake.

"They didn't tell me a lot," Ivy says. "But I figured some stuff out. The Dr. Vermi or Verma guy had a lot of people coming in and out. So I kind of listened to what they said."

"Alright..." Hunter prods.

"Tora should be okay. When the outbreak stuff started, I had the same thing she did. The doctors thought it might've been some kind of really bad flu or something--but it wasn't. But after about a week I was fine. The doctor and this other woman were talking--she said something about the new virus being there once the disease-flu thing passes."

Daniel lets out a sigh of relief and, with his arm around Tora, plants a kiss on the top of her head.

"That's good," Hunter says. "Anything else?"

"Umm...not really. I guess they knew I was listening because they started talking really softly after that."

Dean lifts his hand up briefly. "So, Tora's sick. Farrah was sick. The rest of us aren't," he points out. "What does that mean for us?"

"No one knows," Hunter replies a bit harshly.

"I was hoping we could come to some kind of conclusion, but not caring works too, I guess," Dean says, plastering on the sarcasm.

"Let's focus on the fact that Tora's gonna be fine and not be assholes," Lienne suggests. Her disapproving look lingers from Dean to Hunter. She looks to the door next, where outside there’s a sudden rush of commotion. They’ve barricaded themselves inside, however, using a dresser and the coffee table. They’re certainly not opening that door again--until tomorrow, when they’ve decided to find a way out of Denver for good. With the darkness outside has come an increased amount of hysteria; they’ve chosen to sleep through the night rather than fleeing now. And with Tora’s condition, it’s obvious they wouldn’t be able to, anyway.

They disperse silently. The apartment contains a single bedroom--Tora is given the bed to rest and Daniel offers to keep watch over her. The rest use whatever they can--pillows, blankets, sweaters--to form makeshift beds that don’t provide very much comfort but will have to do for the night.

A single candle lights the room. Hunter stares at it blankly, situated on the floor next to Adam. They both sit up, not saying a word. He honestly can’t believe Farrah’s dead. He didn’t even get the chance to apologize to her for practically saying her life was worthless. That last look she gave him, one of such unadulterated hate, is one he’ll never forget.

Hunter turns his head to Adam. “What happened to Farrah?” Hunter asks.

Adam sighs and sits up a little straighter. “I wasn’t there but...that room they locked her up in, I guess somebody shot at it or a stray bullet hit the door or something,” Adam says. “We saw her body through the window, man. I’m sorry.”

Hunter nods and lowers his head. “I...I was such an asshole that girl. Really can’t believe it.” He pauses. “Can’t even tell her sorry, that’s the worst part. Even if she didn’t forgive me, she deserved to hear it.”

Adam’s not really sure what to say. “Did you know her long?” Adam asks.

“Eh...pretty long, yeah. Not since the beginning, though. She...she had a hard time. Harder than a lot of people, I think. When I met her, it was this back-alley deal thing. She needed some guns; she had the money, so I gave it to her. Just another deal, I didn’t think much of it. A week later she knocks on my door and thanks me. Says I just lifted the biggest weight off her shoulders...and then she was gone. Never told me what she used the guns for, either.”

Adam’s silent for a long while. Different responses play out in his head. “Don’t worry about it,” Adam says. “She was obviously grateful for...whatever it was you helped her do. And she didn’t hate you, man. She was pissed--we all get pissed. Maybe she didn’t forgive you. But there’s a chance she did, too.”

Hunter sits in quiet contemplation. He fiddles with the string on his hoodie, Adam’s words resonating slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, thank you,” Hunter says. “And good job today. Bringing Ivy back here.”

“I’m just glad it’s over.”

“Same here,” Hunter says, and Adam’s response comes in a tired sigh. Adam stretches out his fingers, wincing at the pain in his bandaged hand. “Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Ivy, after a long period of attempting to sleep, is sure she hears sniffling somewhere to her right. She occupies one of the couches, and the sound comes from below her. Groggily, she lifts herself up and looks down at the carpet below.

Lucy sits with her back against the wall, a pillow in her lap. She wipes at her eyes and takes a breath.

“Lucy?” Ivy whispers. Lucy is clearly startled; her head snaps upward, and in the dark, she can make out Ivy’s face.

“Hi,” Lucy says quickly, in a voice as quiet as Ivy’s. “I thought everyone was sleeping, I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she assures after some hesitation. “Go back to sleep, Ivy--it’s okay.”

"Are...are you sure?" Ivy can't conceal her worry; but at the same time, she doesn't want to be a bother.

Ivy can barely see her nod in response. Ivy chooses to let the issue rest, so she settles herself on the couch again. Still, she can't fall asleep--and she doesn't hear another sound.

Daniel sits on a chair next to the bed; Tora lies there with the blanket pulled right over her shoulders. “Cold?” he asks.

“Freezing,” she mutters.

“I’ll see if I can get you another blanket.”

He rises from his chair and exits in the living room. He returns about two minutes with a thin, light blue blanket. He drapes it over her; she mumbles a quick thank you as he takes his seat again. “Anything else?” he asks.

“No, Everett. Thank you.”

The lone candle in the room flickers, and it eventually goes out. Daniel curses under his breath, moving to the closet to search for some other light source. In one of his bags, there’s a small, battery powered lantern.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Tora says.

He tries to turn it on, but it only makes an odd sound before the light bulb flicks on for just a second and dies out. “Light’s fucking trashed anyway…” he says, and he tosses the defunct device back into the closet. He clumsily plops himself back into the chair and rubs his palms across his face a couple times.

“You know you were pretty much my hero today,” she says.

“Nah, that was you. How’d you get out of that room anyway?”

“Some guy let himself in, and he wouldn’t let me leave. He thought if I opened the door I’d get us both killed. Hit him across the head with some toolbox.”

Daniel laughs and shakes his head in disbelief. “You?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tora ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly’ Kamura knocked some guy out?” He scoffs. “Not believing it.”

She laughs, but it’s a weak, nearly inaudible sound given her lack of energy. Instead of laughing with her, he frowns. “Are you gonna be okay to leave tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course. I’m not gonna hold everyone back from leaving.”

“That’s not my point. I need to know if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, and we’re leaving tomorrow.”

The frown doesn’t leave his face, but it’s instead accompanied with a sigh. He can’t do anything but take her word for it.

Early that next morning, everyone awakens, not really well rested but feeling better than they did the night before. The view out the window has drawn their attention: the rioters still haven’t let up. They’re more out of control than ever.

“We’re supposed to go out there?” Dean asks.

“Nah, we’ll just teleport past the walls,” Adam says, and he gives Dean a slap on the shoulder. “Yeah, we’re going out there.”

Lucy stands at the table, doing one last check through some of the bags. They’ve got some food packed, water, clothes, and a very meager amount of medical supplies. She pretends she’s occupied by searching through the bag once more.

Ivy strolls over casually and places her palms on the table. “Is everything ready?” she asks.

“...Think so,” Lucy says, zipping up the backpack. There’s a quick silence, but Ivy fills it quickly.

“You know, my mom always said I was a good listener even if I talked too much,” Ivy says, and she looks up at Lucy, whose lips have formed into a subtle smile.

“Bet you are,” Lucy says. “Thanks for the offer, but not today, okay?”

Jake eyes the exchange with a frown from his place near the window. To his right, Dean has just picked up his backpack and slings it over his shoulders. “Do w-we even have weapons?” Jake asks.

“Uh...I think Hunter’s got a pipe or something. That’s about it.”

Jake looks out the window warily. He wonders if they should wait a little longer, until the crowds begin to let up. If they begin to let up. But he knows they don’t have forever.

As Hunter and Adam move the furniture away from the door, Daniel speaks to everyone else. “Try to stay together...if you can’t for some reason, at least stick by one other person. Don’t talk to anybody, don’t stop for anybody.” He nods to end his statement, and everyone reciprocates the movement.

There’s wild, excited shouting from outside the door. Bags on their backs, everyone looks around in uncertainty. Daniel’s eyes land on Tora. It’s obvious she’s trying her best to appear well, but her efforts are unsuccessful. “Stick by, alright?” he says. She nods and he gives her hand a tight squeeze.

Ivy has her arm locked with Lienne’s. “Just pretend like it’s Black Friday,” Lienne suggests. “Like they’re all just a bunch of wild people trying to get a TV.”

“They’ll still trample me,” Ivy counters.

“Good point.”

Ivy chuckles at her. It fades quickly when Hunter begins to open the door. He peeks his head out, then looks back at them. “Some troublemakers out there; not many. Don’t think they’ll mess with us.” He opens it wide, in his hand a single rusted pipe he pulled from under the bathroom sink. Everyone else follows suit, and Hunter makes sure to shoot a look at the group of people he’d mentioned before.

They’re in a close cluster, men with tattoos and close-cropped hair. The deformity Hunter’s eye is enough to make them wary, but couple with his intense stare and the pipe in his grasp, they look away without a word. Hunter continues to the stairwell, and the keep quiet besides the rapid tapping of their footsteps on the cold, metal stairs.

Surprisingly, the building’s front entrance is empty. When Hunter opens the door, however, they’re met with a harsh burst of freezing air and strong winds--and people who just refuse to give up.

Cars are turned over, sidewalks are covered in glass, and storefronts are riddled with bullet holes or set ablaze, some of the fires dying out into small flashes of orange and red. A few infected roam among the lively rioters. One approaches Daniel; he’s going to ignore it, but he sees that it was once a guard, and on either side of his waist a pistol is attached. With his forearm, he whacks it across the face. It falls to ground, and he gives it a stomp to the skulls. He moves into a crouch, detaches both weapons, and stands back up again. The group has jogged a little ahead, and he catches up easily. He keeps one gun and in his haste he hands the other to Lucy, the first person he sees.

“Should be a ton of shit to pick up,” Daniel says in a voice just about a shout. And they do. By the time they traverse a couple of blocks, they’ve encountered a substantial amount of infected. Their arsenal increases from just 2 firearms to 6 pistols, one held by Daniel, Lucy, Adam, Dean, Lienne, and Jake. They haven’t had to use them yet, as Hunter has been extremely efficient with his pipe, its top tinged with red.

In the passenger seat of a large, military-style truck, Private Elliott Black sees the walls of Denver coming into view. Guards stand atop them, firing wildly down below. He can’t see what they’re shooting at, and he’s not sure if he wants to know. To his left, the driver, a woman a few years older than, Elliott is, notices Elliott’s anxiety.

“You okay, El?” the woman asks. Stitched into her uniform is the name “Harlow.” Under it, in fine, gold print are the words “Serving Los Angeles.” Elliott only glimpses at Harlow, then toward one of the side mirrors. A few other trucks follow them closely.

“Yeah. Pretty good,” Elliott replies. Truth is, he’s not, and it’s especially clear to Harlow. Elliott’s only 23, but the stress of the last few years has reduced the youth in his appearance. His first time out of California, and he’s being sent into relative hysteria. As if he’s supposed to know what to do in a situation like this. But his superiors had faith in him, so here he is. He just hopes they weren’t mistaken.

Taking one hand off the wheel, Harlow pulls one hand off the steering wheel and into a bag set on the seat behind her. Two men sit back there, chatting amongst themselves, their cheerful tones out of place. She unzips it, flicking her gaze from the road and back, and retrieves a water bottle.

“Drink this,” she says. She hands the bottle to him. He uncaps it with shaky hands and takes several eager swigs. He caps it and places it in his lap.

“Thanks,” he says. He looks at her uncomfortably but moves his eyes away soon after.

“They asked you if you wanted out.”

“I know, but I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. So why’d you come?”

“I don’t want out. Stop saying that,” he says. He shifts in his seat, staring out his window.

She looks at him and shakes her head. “You better get yourself together fast,” she says. Coming from her, it doesn’t sound demanding. Instead, it sounds like she’s expectant, like she wants more from him. It calms Elliott down just a little. And she’s right, because the walls of Denver are closing in.

The group is able to escape Wabash without a hitch. Most of the guards that were keeping watch of the sector were shot down anyway, making their job a lot easier. But they aren’t prepared for the chaos that is downtown.

The first of their problems is that they don’t know downtown as well as Wabash. It’s difficult for them to maneuver without getting lost or running in circles. Hunter tries his best to lead, watching out for hostiles and infected alike, but coming across nothing that gives them too much of a problem.

Another issue arises in the form of an extremely rowdy group of protesters. They grab soldiers and guards, knocking their guns out of their hands and throwing them over their soldiers. There’s a large raging fire pit burning somewhere down the street, and they head toward it.

“This way, this way,” Hunter says, ushering everyone away from the commotion. It’s hard to push through when they’re being sloshed around recklessly in the crowd. Lucy grabs onto Hunter’s sleeve, and after a few seconds of confusion, they emerge. No one else is with them.

“Fuck!” Hunter shouts. He wants to go back, but the crowd is too thick. “Daniel! Daniel!” His screams are washed in the cacophony.

“Let’s go,” she says. She keeps her grip locked tight on his arm. He stares longingly into the crowd one last time. He doesn’t see anyone, and he knows it’s time to go.

Hunter makes sure he keeps Lucy by his side. Besides the fact that if she’s gone he’ll be alone, she has the gun. Finally, there’s a hitch in the chaos and he finds an alleyway to dip into. No one’s here, but on the ground lay garbage from an overturned dumpster and a few dead bodies. Hunter yells and gives the metal dumpster a strong kick. He sharp pain shoots up his foot--he ignores it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouts. He grabs at his hair and kicks the dumpster one last time.

“Calm down--” Lucy starts. She walks toward him with her palms forward.

“Oh, fuck that! What the hell are we supposed to do?”

She doesn’t know--he doesn’t know--so they’re left to silence. Going back is an option, but what if that means the death of both of them? And the death of her is the death of her child too, he realizes. But not going back for them just isn’t going to sit right with him, and he’s not sure he’d be able to live with himself. He’s messed up before, but abandoning the people who took him is on an entirely new level.

“We need to get them,” he says. “We’re not leaving them there.”

“Where would we--”

She’s stopped by two men who turn into the alleyway, yelling in an almost cheerful, excited way. They look to be...under the influence of something. And their intentions certainly aren’t nice.

This isn’t going well for Elliott. The bullets in his rifle are at a minimum now, and he’s on his own. Harlow is with him, but she moves at a much faster pace. He’s never been witness to something like this, and as much as he’s afraid, it’s mostly fascinating.

“Black! Let’s go!” Harlow orders from over her shoulder. He speeds up his pace. They’re supposed to be looking for innocents or children, bringing them back to the trucks and hopefully to safety later on. But with the rest of Harlow and Black’s crew gone to who-knows-where, they’re not sure if that goal will be adequately fulfilled.

Elliott nearly reaches Harlow but stops short. A woman has fallen in the street, on her knees. People rush past her, and she’s the victim of unintentionally stomps and harsh kicks. Harlow turns and sees the change in Elliott’s expression.

“Black! Don’t--”

But he’s already gone. He sprints to the woman, knocking people out of his way. He thinks he may smashed some guy’s nose in with his elbow--but that’s the least of his worries. He crouches next to the woman and flashes a sincere, comforting smile. “Come on, get up,” he urges. “Gonna get you out of here.” He grabs her arm, then freezes, that smile disappearing. There’s a bite on her shoulder. She sobs, staring at it. She looks up at Elliott right then, but he’s begun to back away.

It’s clear she’s beyond saving now. He’s on his feet again and he turns, expecting to see Harlow. But she’s gone. “Emma!” he screams. He shouts it again. No response. “God damnit,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s forced to give some harsh shoves in order to escape the crowd. Finally, he sees an area that doesn’t seem as hectic. There’s an alleyway, too; he hopes it’ll be a vital shortcut, so his eyes are set on it.

Lucy and Hunter stare at the two men for just a moment. “Get--get their shit!” one man slurs. Lucy and Hunter break into a run, but the skinnier of the two men catches up just enough to reach his arm out and grab Hunter’s hood. Hunter feels the fabric begin to choke him, and soon he’s fallen to the hard ground. His head bounces against the asphalt.

At Hunter’s fall, Lucy turns, but she’s immediately with a fist to the mouth. She falls to the ground, too, and she can feel the blood already start to drip. One of the men grabs at her backpack; he removes it from her shoulders, but she’s able to get a grip on it.

“Lucy--let it go!” Hunter says, rolling over onto his back.

But she can’t, not with his notebook in there. It’s the last she has of Cole--his thoughts, in tangible form. No pictures, no video. Just his writings.

And she’s not letting this go.

“Fucking--let it go, bitch! Jesus!” the man says. He rips it from her grasp, stumbling away. Immediately, he unzips it, seeing if anything good is inside. Hunter is still on the ground, holding his head. His bag is gone, in the hands of the other man.

Lucy reaches behind her and grabs the pistol she’d placed in the backside of her waistband. As she stands, she points it at the man with her bag. His eyes widen.

Too bad she didn’t know the man standing over Hunter is armed, too. From under his shirts he retrieves a small handgun and points it at her. She doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Give me the bag,” she says levelly.

The man looks at her shaking hands and laughs. “Gonna shoot me? For this?” he taunts. He’s about to say something else, but Elliott turns the corner right behind him.

“Whoa,” Elliott says. “What’s--”

“What are you doin’?” the man says to his friend, gesturing to his gun. This prompts Elliott to lift his pistol, too. He looks at Lucy, who glances at him briefly before turning her attention to the matter at hand. Blood trickles down her lip, her hands shake, her eyes are teary. He notices that her eyes aren’t focused on the man specifically, but the pack in his hands.

“Give me the fucking bag,” she says, her sentence faltering toward the end. Something in her voice shakes Elliott to his core. Coupled with that look in her eye, he feels a pang in his chest.

“Give it to her,” Elliott demands. But the man with the gun isn’t backing off. He knows there has to be some kind of food in there, maybe water. And he hasn’t been able to get his hands on anything.

Elliott looks at Lucy one more time. Something clicks in his brain.

He fires. The man with the pistol falls, and Elliott pulls the trigger again. The second man collapses with the next shot. Lucy lets out a deep breath, grateful not a single shot came from her gun. Elliott rushes over, sees that Lucy is frozen from her mixture of fear and relief. He crouches down and wrenches the bag from his hands.

“Better be pretty fucking important,” he says, shoving it into her arms.

“Th-thank you,” she says softly. The adrenaline is diminishing, so she really takes in his appearance. Light hair, blue eyes that give off a glint of fear. But then he turns and focuses on Hunter, leaving her staring at a brick wall.

“Come on,” Elliott says. He holds his hand out. Hunter takes it, and he’s lifted to his feet.