Dead Frontier/Issue 111

This is Issue #111 of Dead Frontier, titled ''Renegade. ''This is the third issue in Volume 19.

Issue 111 - Renegade
“He wanted to leave...and take the food?” Adam asks one last time as confirmation. He stands in the kitchen across from Chloe and Lucy, his arms crossed.

"Heard the conversation myself," Chloe says.

"And Dean confirmed it," Lucy says. "Winston asked him if he wanted to leave, too, but he said no."

"So, you think Dean is actually in on this, too?" Adam asks, standing up a little straighter.

"No. He didn't want anything to do with it. The whole stealing-our-food part."

"He told you that?" he asks, and she nods. "And you believe him?"

"Yeah," she says undoubtedly. "I know--it's Dean--but he wouldn’t do something like that."

"He'd say anything to save his own ass."

"He wouldn't. Yeah, you weren't there so it's hard to believe, but he was telling the truth. He didn't wanna go through with it."

Adam looks at her quizzically. He knows he should trust her; but he's too caught off guard by how drastically her view of Dean has changed in such a short amount of time. It strikes him as a little odd and only increases his skepticism. "Look," she continues, "just trust me. He wanted to leave. The only thing holding him back was Winston's idea to take our shit. And he's not going out there alone, so his only choice is to stay. We've made it bad enough for him; I think the least we can do is give him the benefit of the doubt here."

"But not Winston?"

"I think he's shown us enough times he doesn't really...function well with us," Chloe says. "It's your choice in the end what to do with them, but...consider that."

"That's bullshit!" Winston shouts. Adam stands across from him, his hands up in a defensive gesture. Winston pushes past him, out his bedroom door. Adam hesitates for a second then chases after him. He grabs Winston by the back of his shirt collar; Winston retaliates immediately by spinning around and slapping his arm away. "Dean told you didn't he? Where is he?"

"It doesn't matter who told me," Adam says. "All that matters is it's true, and it's really fucked up."

"So what? What're you gonna do about it?"

"Just chill. We'll let everyone know what's going on, and we'll talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

"...What to do with you."

"Dean, too, right? Tell me you're not just pinning this on me."

The front door opens, and they both turn to see Dean and Duke entering, each holding a gas can after an unsuccessful day of siphoning. Dean's face falls when he sees Winston. The gas can tumbles to the ground as Winston grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against the wooden door. Dean lets out a small shriek, but before any damage is done, Duke has Winston gripped by the arm. Duke easily pulls him away, throwing him to the ground recklessly.

"The hell is wrong with you?" Duke says, looking down at Winston.

"I'll--I'm gonna explain everything," Adam says, his eyes on Duke. "Just get everyone down here."

Everyone congregates in the living room, either standing or spread out on the couches and few chairs. The silence is only broken by a heavy banging somewhere down the hall. “You can’t fucking lock me in here!” Winston screams out at them. He slams his fist against the door repeatedly, but it’s no use. He’s being completely ignored. Another outburst against Dean put him in this position, locked in his room with a table blocking the door. Eventually, he gives up, ceasing his pounding and slumping against the door instead.

“So...my idea was to just kick him out,” Adam starts. “He obviously doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t want to take any more chances with him. But, it’s not my choice.”

There’s a long pause before anyone else says anything. “That’s seems...a little extreme to me,” Tora says. “I’m as angry as the rest of you, but he’s still a person, and sending him out there with nothing is his death sentence.”

“If we never found out about this, he would’ve taken everything, and we’d have nothing,” Cole says. “He didn’t feel too bad about that.”

“We’d be right back where we started, Tora,” Lienne adds.

“We can give him another chance, and we can keep an eye on him,” Tora says.

“We can’t watch him 24/7.”

“It’s better than throwing him out to starve to death.”

“What if we let our guard down, just once?” Cole asks. “What do you think he’ll do, then? First, shooting that lady in the head, now, stealing everything we’ve got. I’m not keeping him around.”

“Because you’re in charge?” Tora retorts.

“Okay, okay,” Duke says. “Be cool. No need for that. This is what we’ll do. A simple vote. If you want him out, just raise your hand.” Nine hands rise: Duke, Cole, Lucy, Lienne, Adam, Jake, Dean, Dre, and Chloe. “Majority rules.”

“Listen,” Mae says, “I’ve known Winston longer than any of you. What he did to...Mindy, or whatever her name was, was justified. He said it himself: we were struggling, and he didn’t want to add another person to the mix.”

Cole gets ready to say something again, but Adam speaks up before he can. “Dean heard it for himself. So, Dean...what’s the story? I’d like to hear it from your mouth.”

Dean looks around nervously, then clears his throat. He wipes his moist hands on his pants before starting. “I didn’t know anything about it until--he came to me directly,” he says. “He said, it’s obvious he didn’t fit in here, and he...wanted to go, basically. He asked me to come with and I--I’ll be honest with you, I wanted to. I was going to, but he brought up the whole idea about stealing the food and I...couldn’t.” Cole scoffs obnoxiously, but Dean ignores it. “And I already know all of you probably think I’m a piece of shit, you don’t like me--whatever it might be. But I’ve never done something like that, and I never would. Winston would, and he wouldn’t feel the smallest ounce of guilt. You all know that.”

“You’re just pissed your sorry ass got caught,” Cole says.

“Caught? I’m telling you, I never agreed to anything.”

“And we’re taking your word for it? Why isn’t there a vote to kick you out?”

“Because you’ve got no Goddamn proof I did anything!” Dean suddenly explodes, rising to his feet. “Do you see anyone else here campaigning against me? No, so drop whatever fucking grudge you’ve got, and get over yourself. I’ve got more right to be here than you, stumbling around on your little fucking cane, while we’re all actually doing something!” Winston has continued his pounding, but, otherwise, it’s quiet for a few long seconds. “I’ve helped out enough--I’ve done my part in this group, I’ve...never killed anyone. I keep my word. I’ve shown I have a right to be here even though I know most of you probably don’t even want me. Yet you want to kick me out, Cole, because you don’t like me. Cry me a fucking river.”

He sits back down, his clenched fists shaking involuntarily. His stare burns into Cole’s; but Dean knows any kind of physical retaliation won’t make his case any more convincing. “Okay,” Adam says quietly. “Looks like it’s settled.”

Winston travels along the barren road in front of him. The nothingness of the last few miles has been mind-numbing. He has nothing but a light pack around his shoulders; he was provided with just a bottle of water and can of ravioli before his forced exit from the group. He has only a hatchet for defense, which he stuffed in the pack as well. He hasn’t had to use it yet, and he’s not sure when he will. His surroundings have become a blur, and all he can do is walk as the sky makes its steady descent into darkness.

His sense of time has disappeared when he collapses near a decrepit shed somewhere in the Iowa countryside. The moon shines down bright, a spotlight on his desperation. He covers his face in his hands and mumbles some kind of prayer. A few minutes pass before he decides to reach for his water bottle, unable to deal with his thirst any longer. Only then does he notice the figure in the distance, some kind of blunt object in his hands, swinging wildly against the infected that surround him. Winston can’t make out any of his features, except that he’s built like a football player. He takes out the infected like he’s playing a casual game of whack-a-mole, and Winston does nothing but watch, aware that if he helps he’ll likely just be a burden.

The man holds a metal bat covered in scratches and dried blood. He takes one swing, clocking an infected in the jaw, then another swing, nearly decapitating the next infected with the sheer force of the blow. It’s a repetitive process: swing, hit, swing, hit, don’t let too many surround you at once. He goes about this for only a couple of minutes, until the ground around his feet is blanketed in corpses. He has since spotted Winston, but considered him a non-threat given his lack of response. The man sets the bat on his shoulder, inspects the area quickly, and, after deducing any infected are either out of sight or dead, lets out a hefty grunt. His eyes fall onto Winston, and a deranged smirk finds its way onto his face.

Winston watches wide-eyed as the man approaches him. As the moonlight falls onto him, more of his features come into view. He has dark skin and a long scar that stretches from his forehead all the way across his eye and cheek. He stands at maybe six feet, five inches, and his muscles bulge menacingly out of his T-shirt, which, once a dark grey, is covered in splotches of red.

He’s soon crouched down in front of Winston, who still hasn’t reacted. He’s not sure if he should, for fear of irritating this stranger. Looking farther out, Winston’s not sure if he sees two other figures standing in the distance, but his focus is still on the man.

“Good evening,” the man says. His voice is booming, even outside, and Winston doesn’t know how to respond. However, it doesn’t look like the man is expecting an answer. He stands to his feet as Winston can do nothing but stare up at him. He adjusts his grip on the bat and swings it down once on Winston’s head. A loud crack fills the air, then another, and another as he brings the bat down repeatedly, with no remorse. There’s no reason he should continue: Winston’s head has already been battered to a bloody, unrecognizable mess. But the man continues until he breaks out in a sweat and he's afraid he might ruin his precious bat.

He wipes the tip of the bat against the grass, wiping off the excess bits of Winston's brain and skull. Looking down at Winston's headless body, the man lets out a quiet grunt.

Only a day passes after Winston's departure, and Cole can already feel the guilt of what he said to Dean pounding down on him. He's been standing outside Dean's door for at least two minutes, contemplating whether or not he should even apologize. He knows it'll probably be a waste of time: what are the chances of Dean accepting an apology from him? Pretty slim, he's sure. But he knocks anyway, waiting patiently as he hears someone approach the door.

Dean appears in the doorway a few seconds later, the sight of Cole obviously putting a damper on his mood. "What?" Dean spits out.

"I just want to get this over with, alright?" Cole says, sighing and scratching his head afterwards. "I...apologize."

Dean raises his eyebrows and smiles slightly. "Look at that. Trying to be the bigger man?" Dean asks.

"No--I mean, I'm being serious here. I shouldn't've said what I said. No reason for you to be...kicked out." He sighs again. "Look, I'm trying to be nice here. I'm sorry. That's it."

"And what do you want me to do? Accept your gracious apology?"

"I don't care if you do or don't. I just wanted to let you know."

"You know it's kind of hard for me to believe you're not completely full of shit right now," Dean says.

"It isn't. You've got your opinions about me, too, but I can admit when I've done something shitty. So...whatever."

There's a brief period of silence as Dean tries to determine if this is legitimate or not. He assumes Lucy put him up to this, but he can't be sure. His expression does look truly apologetic. But he thinks two months of dirty looks and obvious loathing are going to be forgotten with a simple 'I'm sorry'? "Yeah. Whatever," Dean says. "Try again next time." Cole opens his mouth to respond, but the door has already been slammed in his face.

Lienne taps her fingers absentmindedly on the couch's arm rest, humming a familar song. She's snapped out of her daydream by the slam of Dean's door, but ignores it for the most part. Everyone seems to be in some kind of mood, so she brushes it off as nothing serious.

"What song was that?" Ivy asks. She sits on the carpet, flipping through some old novel. Half the pages are torn out anyway, so she tosses it carelessly.

"Not really sure," Lienne says. "I probably heard it somewhere before."

The front door opens, and Jake enters breathlessly, beads of sweat scattered here and there on his forehead. "It's...so...hot," he mutters before collapsing face first on the nearest couch. He groans as his face hits the soft cushion.

"Done packing?" Lienne asks.

"Yeah. Thank God," he says, his voice muffled through the pillow. They've decided to pack everything tonight, so they can leave early the next morning without worrying about gathering all the bags. Jake sits up and reaches into his pocket. "Brought you g-guys some food, though." He tosses Lienne an energy bar, and prepares to throw one to Ivy, but she declines with a shake of her head. "Not hungry?" Jake asks.

"Not really," Ivy says.

"We've finally g-got some food and you d-don't want to eat? I mean, you found it. You've got m-more right than anyone." He rips apart he wrapper of his bar and takes a grateful bite. "Ya sure?" he asks.

"Yeah. Not our food anyway."

"Yeah right it's not our f-food. We found it, no one was there. R-rightfully ours."

"It might not be ours, Ivy," Lienne says. "But we've gotta eat, too. And we didn't take it all. Whoever's it was, they'll be fine."

"I'm gonna eat this if you d-don't take it in, like, five seconds," Jake says, waving the last bar at her. She shakes her head again, and he sighs. "Okay. You can feel guilty or w-whatever, but it's too late to g-give it back now. So mope, or st-starve."

"Was that your attempt at being caring?" Lienne asks him.

"How was it?"

"Needs some work." She grabs the bar from him, and she leans over to hand it to Ivy. "Nothing to feel bad about," Lienne assures her. Ivy takes it, and hesitates before opening it. She can't deny, an empty stomach trumps guilt any day.

"Looking a little moody there, Dre," Tora says as she stuffs the last of her bags into one of the trucks. He hasn't said much all day, and his brooding expression has her concerned.

"It's that time of the month," Duke says as he walks by, patting Dre good-naturedly on the shoulder.

"Fuck off," Dre says with a chuckle, shoving him away. Duke laughs as he enters the house, grateful to be escaping the late afternoon sun. Tora closes the trunk and leans against it, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

Dre sighs and leans against it as well, crossing his arms. "Been thinking about yesterday," he says.

"What about it?" she asks.

"The whole Winston thing. Kicking him out."

"Oh. You feel bad about it?"

"Guess you could say that...'hypocritical' is probably a better word. But we just sent a dude out there like that, a little fucked up."

"I tried to changed some of your minds," she says with a shrug.

"Shoulda listened...I'm...I'm just wondering why we--well, most of us--could just decide something like that. So quick, too. Like we all haven't fucked up once. And, of course, I realize this shit too late."

"Don't worry about it. It wouldn't've mattered anyway. We would've been outnumbered."

"Yeah..." he says, rubbing his face. "Damn, my mind is so dead right now. I'm gonna get some sleep early."

"Oh--" She wants to mention it can't be past five o'clock, but decides against it. Just looking at him, she can tell sleep could do him some good. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He gives her a small wave as he heads into the house. He passes Lienne, Jake, and Ivy and walks down the basement stairs, where a few mattresses have been set up. He falls down onto the first one he sees, slipping off his shoes and looking up at the decaying ceiling. He lets his mind drift, back to memories he wishes he could've forgotten by now.

''Dre tries to stop his shaking, sitting in the backseat of this black SUV. He has a Beretta M12 SMG in hand, and the three men occupying the car with him have similar firearms. But they’re obviously not as nervous as he is. He knows they can notice his trembling, but he can’t help it. Each bump on the road makes his stomach churn more, until he’s on the verge of throwing up his lunch. But he knows he can’t.''

''“Nigga, what the fuck you shaking for?” asks the heavy-set man in the front seat. He has a black Sox cap on his fat head, and he turns arduously in his seat the look at Dre.''

''“Nothin’, man. I’m good,” Dre says, gulping afterwards.''

''“Don’t fuck this up. Brought you here for a reason.” The man turns back around and turns down the radio. “We close?”''

''“Few minutes,” says the driver, a pair of dark shades over his eyes. The fat man in the passenger seat adjusts his grip on his SMG and peeks out the tinted windows of the truck. Dre feels like he wants to pass out; the sweat builds steadily, and he can feel it dripping down his face. A few minutes. Just a few minutes, and this’ll be over with. He thinks about not firing his gun at all, but he knows that’s the worst possible thing he can do.''

''The driver says something, but the words are just white noise in Dre’s ears. The windows roll down, and he sees the man in the passenger stick the barrel of his gun out the window. Dre follows his lead as his window opens slightly, revealing a street full of people, and one man in a dark red hoodie. Dre fires blindly; through the fog in his mind he can hear screaming, gunshots, and once he opens his eyes he sees a few people lying motionless on the ground, the others sprinting away from the chaos. Blood spatter covers the sidewalk, and windows of any shops nearby are shattered, coating the ground in shards of glass.''

''“Dre!” the driver shouts. Dre sticks his head back in immediately and the windows roll up as they speed off. Dre stares straight ahead, mind and expression blank, an empty feeling in his stomach instead of the nauseous one from before. They drive recklessly, weaving around corners.''

''“We got him?” asks the driver. The man in the passenger seat nods, and Dre notices he’s sweating, too. Still, he can’t focus on whether this entire ordeal was a success or not, because he can’t push away the image of a woman, holding onto a little girl’s hand. He saw them too late; he couldn’t stop himself from pulling the trigger.''

Early that next morning, everyone sleeps as soundly as they can after the recent stressful days. Cole turns restlessly in his bed; for the past 10 minutes, he’s heard an incessant tapping on his window that he’s been too tired to do anything about. It stopped only once, for just a minute or two, then started again, not allowing him to go back to sleep. He groans in annoyance and covers his head with his pillow. When that obviously doesn’t cease the irritating sound, he taps Lucy with his foot.

“What?” she mumbles, stirring slightly.

“You can’t hear that?” he asks.

“Ignore it…”

“Can you go see what it is?”

“You do it.”

“I can’t even walk, that’s a terrible idea,” he says.

“Fly, or something.”

Even in his tired state, he laughs, although she doesn’t look the least bit amused. She groans and sits up with a yawn. She takes her time grabbing her shirt from the edge of the bed and slipping it on. The sound is barely audible, just increasing her confusion as to why he has to make such a big deal about it. It won’t take more than a few seconds, so she fulfills his wishes without complaint.

Walking to the window, the tapping gets louder, more insistent. “What the hell…?” she mutters. She grabs the maroon-colored curtain and pushes it away from the window. She jumps back, covering her hands with her mouth. She’s face to face with Mae.

Only her skin is rotting and peeling, and those striking blue eyes of hers are a disgusting, pale grey.