Dead Frontier/Issue 103

This is Issue #103 of Dead Frontier by Walkerbait22, titled ''Fool's Paradise. ''This is the first issue of Volume 18.

Issue 103 - Fool's Paradise
Chloe sits at Cole's bedside in the infirmary, a clipboard and pencil in hand. His bed is slightly elevated so he's able to sit up, and his knee has been treated with some new bandages. She’s spent about ten minutes asking him a multitude of questions, and only now is she finishing up. "How severe would you rate your pain, on a scale of one to ten?" she asks, ending with a yawn. She rests her chin on her fist as she waits for an answer.

Cole has been concerned about her during the entire question-and-answer session. Her eyes are slightly glazed over, and she can’t go a minute without yawning. He’s surprised she hasn’t dozed off in the middle of listening to some of his answers. However, he keeps his mouth shut and answers the questions systematically.

"About an eight. Eight and a half," Cole says. She scribbles something on the clipboard sluggishly.

"That's better than expected. Good, really good."

"It varies, though. Sometimes it's pushing ten, sometimes it's like...a four." She quickly notes something else. "So...what does this mean?"

"Hm?"

"For my leg. For walking,” he says.

"Do you want me to be really honest with you?" she asks.

"I'd appreciate it, yeah."

"Alright," she says with a heavy sigh. "With your knee the way it is, I'm almost a hundred percent sure you walking normally again, without some kind of assistance, is completely out of the question. There's just...way too much damage. We don't have the technology or the resources to repair it the way it needs to be. But we'll try our best."

"So...I'm supposed to use crutches for the rest of my life?"

"Not necessarily. It'll heal, with time. But never fully. This is a massive injury, Cole. Being able to put weight on that leg is gonna take a long, long time. And when you finally can...don't be surprised if you have some kind of chronic knee pain, or a limp. I can almost guarantee it."

He crosses his arms and gives a slight nod of his head, a look of loathing on his face, but he’s still letting the words set in his mind. “Kind of hard to joke about now…Gonna be the weird guy with the crutches who can’t get down the stairs without someone holding his hand,” he spits out, and he laughs dryly before his face goes dark and he looks down at his lap. He tries to stay expressionless, but Chloe can sense everything--shame, anger, frustration, and maybe even a little bit of nervousness.

“It’s not gonna be like that,” she says after a short period of silence. “And do you know why?” He keeps his head down, but transfers his gaze to her: a silent request to keep talking. “Because no one’s going to baby you, no one’s going to look down on you for something that wasn’t even your fault. And if anyone does, you know you've got people that have your back, no matter what. Okay?"

"Yeah, I know, but it's--this whole situation is really complicated."

She’s smiles at him. "Cole, I'm not just your 'doctor'; I'm your friend. And that means I'm here to make sure you're okay, not just your knee. So you can talk to me."

He takes a few seconds to pause before continuing. “I’ve gotta get used to having a fucking...bum leg. Whatever, I’ll get over it.”

She has the urge to pry more; he couldn’t make it more obvious this digs deeper than just the pain in his knee. But she lets it go. "If that's all, I'll let you get some rest."

"Thanks. You should, too."

"I would, no time for it," she says.

"That's not an excuse. When was the last time you slept?"

"That's not important--"

"Chloe, I'm serious."

"So am I. There's a lot of people in hospital beds that need help right now. I'm in charge of every doctor and patient here, and I can't ditch them just to take a nap."

"All I'm saying is just relax for a little while, okay? Or you might end up in one of these beds, too."

"I'll be fine."

"Whatever you say. Drink some coffee or something."

"I'll keep that suggestion in mind, Cole," she says as she stands. She pushes the chair away from the bed and against the wall.

"I'm not kidding," he says, and she begins to close the curtain around his bed, shutting him off from the rest of the infirmary.

"Yep, I know."

"Coffee!" he reminds one last time, but he can already hear her footsteps retreating in the opposite direction toward her next patient.

Griffin almost immediately commenced a reworking of the Hyatt after the attack, which includes reinforcing gates. He boasts that it's time for a new era, and he's taking any precautions necessary. Duke works with a few others outside the front doors, his hoodie zipped up tight and a pair of leather gloves covering his hands to protect from the harsh winds. It's nearly April, but the cold still hasn't let up.

He takes a look at his watch, does the math in his head quickly, and realizes they've been working for nearly two hours straight. He claps his hands together, and all attention is turned toward him. "Yo! Everybody! Take a break. Nothing longer than fifteen minutes," he says. There's a chorus of grateful sighs as people put down their tools and disperse, either inside the hotel or into small groups outside. Someone offers Duke a water bottle, which he accepts with a grateful nod.

He roams around for a little while, taking periodic sips from his water, until he sees Jake sitting alone against one of the hotel's brick walls. He's examining his finger with a grimace as Duke takes a seat next to him. "What happened to you?" Duke asks.

"Just a c-cut on my finger," Jake says. "It's not that deep...I d-don't think."

"Why are you out here anyway? Coulda hurt yourself worse."

"I wanted t-to help, I guess."

"You wanted to help? Maybe it's just me but that's a little hard to believe."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're....uh--you're not...nice? And I didn't know you could lift more than ten, fifteen pounds."

"You should t-teach me to be as f-funny as you," Jake says.

"C'mon, man, I'm just tryin' to get you to laugh. Maybe smile. Something. When was the last time you had some fun, dude?"

"I have fun all the time."

"I'm not talking about when you're in your room by yourself with those magazines you got stocked up--”

“Dude. Gross,” Jake says with a chuckle.

“But look at that, it got a smile outta you.”

“Whatever.”

“There you go again. So damn serious. Just be a kid, man, while you still can.”

"It's not that easy...If I c-can't even be a kid before the w-world ended, how do you expect m-me to be one now?"

"So that's the problem. Alright."

"What?"

"Jake, I dealt with kids like you all the time. So angry all the time, at everybody."

"Did you j-just hire yourself as my therapist?"

"Hell no. I don't have time for that. But if you want to tell me what the hell's been wrong with you these last couple days, I wouldn't have a problem with it."

"Too bad I don't," he says, and he stands, wiping some specks of dirt from the back of his pants. “Break ends in a few minutes.”

Duke smirks and shakes his head. He can’t blame himself for trying.

''Jake walks down the cramped hallway of his high school. It’s only his first week, and each day he makes a conscious effort to be invisible amongst the crowd. He proceeds to his locker after muttering several rounds of “excuse me” and pushing past the students that all seem to be much bigger than he is.''

''He pulls off his backpack, sets it on the ground next to him, and enters his combination. He pulls at the lock, but it doesn’t budge. After a few more tries with no success, he kicks the locker in frustration.''

''“Stupid fucking th-thing,” he mutters. He reaches down to grab his backpack, but someone pushes him forward before he can grab it. His face smashes into the metal door of his locker; he falls to his knees and instantly feels the warm blood rush from his lip and down his chin.''

''“Holy shit, is this him?” he hears someone ask. Jake turns his head slowly to look up at his assailants, wiping his chin with his sleeve. Their figures are blurred by the tears in his eyes, but he can make out that there's a guy and one girl. Both look older, and bigger, than him.''

''"Yeah. Kid, say something," says the girl. He learned from someone in his fifth period class that her name’s Janice. He has to admit he has a bit of a crush on her. But her traditional blonde-hair-blue-eyed beauty is way too intimidating for him to have the guts to talk to her. The guy, he’s aware, is her junior boyfriend Drew Phillips. His hair is brown and cut short, and he’s built like a traditional athlete.''

''"He's mute now?" Drew says. He has to slightest tinge of a Southern accent. Certainly not from Chicago. He grabs Jake by the hood and lifts him to his feet. Jake, wide eyed and shaking, nervously transfers his gaze between the both of them. "Say something. What's his name again?"''

"Jake," Janice says.

"Are you sure this was him?"

"Yeah. Jake Rice. Ms. Robinson had him read in Lit."

"Okay. Jake, I'm gonna say something and I want you to repeat it."

"Fuck off," Jake says.

''Drew furrows his brows together. "Why's he talking normal?"''

''Before Janice can answer, Jake gives him a quick, rough jab to the stomach. He grunts and lets Jake go, giving him just enough time to grab his backpack and slip away. He ignores the yells as they chase after him, and sneaks into his next class just as the bell rings.''

''He goes throughout the rest of the day as normal: avoiding anyone and everyone, keeping his mouth shut, and exiting the building as fast as possible once the final bell rings. He dodges the crowd that collects around the front doors at the end of each day and speeds down the sidewalk, keeping his head low.''

''The streets are always filled with kids heading from school, but he's configured a route that'll get him home faster. He takes the first shortcut through an alleyway instead of taking the main road. Unlike the last few days, though, the alley isn't empty. He stops in his tracks when he sees Drew and Janice, his hand on her hip, lips on hers. They break, and she giggles, but then her eyes shift to Jake. Drew, smiling, too, turns to where she looks, and his face hardens at the sight of Jake. Jake takes his glare as a signal to run, but Drew is already one step ahead of him.''

''Before Jake even gets a good distance away, Drew has him pinned to the ground, face down. He's quickly turned over, and Drew shoves his knee against his throat.Jake chokes for air; quickly, he can feel himself getting lightheaded.''

''Janice is quickly by Drew’s side, looking down at Jake in disgust. "You really thought you could get away with punching me?" Drew asks.''

"D-dude, I'm sorry. P-please--" Jake starts.

''Drew laughs, childishly amused at the stutter. "You sound like a fucking retard, dude."''

"Let me g-go, man..."

''Drew responds by delivering a punch to his face. Jake cries out and covers his face with his hands. Blood gushes out of his nose and he covers his face with his palms almost instantly. With Jake's face concealed, Drew resorts to punches to the stomach. Jake can do nothing to defend himself as the hits keep coming; with the air rushing from his lungs with each blow, he can hardly breathe. He loses track of time, only aware that the pain won’t stop.''

''Eventually, as Jake floats in and out of consciousness, he realizes the assault is over. No more punches, but he still cowers behind his hands. He opens his eyes with a groan and can just make out Drew and Janice speeding down the other end of the alleyway. He’s not sure if someone came to his rescue, or they were caught in the act. He can hear voices above him, but can’t decipher a word they’re saying. He mutters for help to no one in particular; it’s the last thing he can do before he lets his eyes close.''

''He suffers no serious injuries from the attack, but he’s bedridden for nearly three weeks. School staff and his mother make several attempts to find out who the perpetrators were, but Jake refuses to reveal their identities. “I don’t remember,” is his go to response. Eventually, they give up, and Drew and Janice go unpunished.''

That is, until Jake returns to school.

''He has his first day back planned out to the last detail. His mother drops him off at the front doors. He gives her a peck on the cheek before he goes. His teachers drone on through every class, and he’s able to breeze through each one without uttering a word.''

The final bell rings.

''He waits patiently in the lobby as students bustle in and out of the building at the end of the day. He scans everyone that passes by, until the familiar faces of Drew and Janice cross his vision. He lowers his head and makes his hood a little tighter, just as a precaution, before he follows them out the door.''

''Hand in hand, Drew and Janice walk in a straight path away from the school. This time they don’t depart into the alley for their usual fun, and it looks they’re headed straight home. They don’t notice Jake’s presence for the entire walk, until he beckons them.''

''“Hey,” Jake calls after them. He reaches into his pocket, runs his fingertips along the warm metal of his pocketknife. Drew and Janice turn. They can’t tell it’s Jake at first, but soon, a slow smile forms on Drew’s face.''

“Fucking mumble mouth followed us,” Drew says.

''“That’s fucking creepy,” Janice says. She stays back as Drew walks to Jake.''

“How’s your face healing up?”

''Jake removes his hood in response, revealing two blackened eyes, the bruises faded but still noticeable. Jake keeps his heated stare locked on Drew, even when Drew gives him a firm push to the shoulders. Jake stumbles backwards; when he regains his footing, he pulls the knife. The polished metal glints in the sunlight, and Drew’s eyes are immediately drawn to it. He takes a few cautious steps back, hands raised in defense. He feels himself break out into a sweat at the sight of Jake’s stare, coupled with the threat of the knife. This kid isn’t normal.''

''“Dude. Chill,” Drew says. There’s a slight shaking in his voice that makes Jake grin.''

''He takes a moment to look from Drew to Janice. Her hands cover her mouth, and she locks eyes with him. Her stare is full of a burning hatred. So much so that Jake's grin fades and his mind snaps back to reality.''

''He doesn’t even know what he was planning to do following them here. Would he actually murder someone? Waste his time on a piece of shit like this? He sighs, clenches his fist, before pocketing the knife in his hoodie.''

''“I’m sorry,” Jake mumbles. He turns and sprints in the other direction. Drew slowly lowers his arms and watches Jake flee.''

''Jake doesn’t stop until he reaches home. He runs to his mother’s arms immediately, sobbing. She doesn’t ask any questions, only mutters soothing words to him as she strokes his hair.''

''It doesn’t take much persuading on his part to convince her to transfer him to another school. Again.''

Two weeks after the destruction of Roxie’s camp, Nico sits on a bench on one of Lane Tech’s playgrounds. The weather has finally warmed up a little, and the mood has been so much lighter, free of stress, that it brings a smile to his face. A few kids run around wildly, and some adults stand at the edge of the park, sipping on beers or chatting quietly. He lets out a content sigh and crosses his arms.

“I hope you know this was all you,” someone says from behind him. He looks up and squints against the blazing sun. He finds Kendra standing next to the bench, and she soons takes a seat next to him.

“What? I didn’t building this park,” he jokes.

“I’m never gonna compliment you if you don’t take it seriously.”

“Thank you, Kendra. But I don’t take credit for any of this.”

“You’re the only one that can. You’ve done more than anybody, ” she says, but he shakes his head slowly.

“Maybe. But everything goes a lot deeper than that.”

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"It's real easy to understand. Real easy to see. Only a matter of time before something else comes along and we're running scared again. So it doesn't matter whatever I 'did.' I'm just waiting for the day."

"You really killed the mood, Nico. I was actually happy a few seconds ago."

"Sorry. But I've never been that good of a liar. Best to tell the truth."

"I'm gonna have to respectfully disagree with you."

He shakes his head and makes a 'tsk, tsk' sound with his mouth. But he cracks a smirk afterwards. "I'm jokin'. That's good. Don't be a cynical bastard like me. It gets tiring."

"I can imagine. Don't bring that attitude to dinner, though. See you then."

"Your entire knee?" Tora scoffs. As more people moved on from their injuries and have gone back to daily life at the hotel, the infirmary's been emptied out somewhat. Tora's been transferred to the bed next to Cole, and its the first time they've gotten to talk since they both suffered their gunshot wounds.

"Pretty much. It went through the back and shattered the entire kneecap,” he explains, and she winces.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad. What about you? How’re you feeling?”

“Okay. Really sore. I still can’t move that much, but compared to two weeks ago I feel...a lot better.” In the grand scheme of things, he’s exhausted, doesn’t even have a positive thought in his head, but he takes this moment to smile at her. “I never thanked you for getting me out of there.” Nearly everything from the day of the attack is a blur in her mind now, but she faintly recalls Cole lifting her away from the chaos after she was incapacitated.

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” A calm silence falls over them; it’s not tense or awkward, but relaxing, and Cole closes his eyes. Tora frowns at him. The stress on his face is clear, and she finds herself pitying him a little. The bags under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw, the absent minded clenching and unclenching of his fists: they’re all small signs that speak louder than he realizes.

“How are you holding up, Cole?” she asks gently.

“I’m doing okay,” he replies lazily, eyes still shut.

“You know...Chloe told me everything. I’m really sorry.” He opens his eyes at that. He sits up and sighs. Whenever he tries to forget, he’s reminded again. “It’s not a bad thing to talk about her.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. Flashes of Billie cross his mind--her demise, the words she said just minutes before that--and he forces himself to block them out. “Why would I, anyway? What is there to say?”

“Probably a lot more than you think.”

“Like what? If I’m already thinking about her and everything that happened every fucking second of the day, what’s the point of spitting it out to everybody?”

“The point is that you’re breaking yourself down, even if you don’t know it yet.” She keeps her voice as calm as she can, knowing it’s not her he’s angry at.

He blinks against the dreaded stinging in his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He feels an uncomfortable tightness in his chest that he lets pass before speaking again. “Am I supposed to tell you that I don’t...that I don’t care that she’s dead or that I don’t feel guilty?" he asks. "I’ve gotta live with this shit for the rest of my life. And I’m not ready to. I’ve dealt with enough.”

“There’s nothing to feel guilty about. She’s always been too headstrong for her own good. You know that. It was her choice to come back for you, and her choice only.”

“Then you don’t know the whole story. I might as well have been holding the knife, ‘cause I didn’t say a fucking word to defend her. And I couldn't even do her the favor of making sure she didn't turn into a monster because I was feeling too sorry for myself. So this person I'm so used to seeing everyday is just...gone. Like that. Because I'm a selfish asshole."

"You're one of the most unselfish people I've ever met. Don't sell yourself short like that," she says.

He wipes a tear away with his index finger and rubs his eyes thoroughly with the heel of his palm. Just talking about her is making his head pound; he hasn't eaten in over a day, and his stomach churns with the pains of hunger and guilt.

He shrugs. His elbows are set on his knees and his forehead rests on his palms. He shrugs again. It's all he can think to do.

"Cole, I'm gonna tell you one more thing. I really want you to listen, okay?" she says. He keeps his head down and nods. "I don't know if you know this or not, but there wasn't a single living person that Billie cared about more than you--"

"That's not true."

"It's completely true,” she says firmly. She waits until he looks up at her, meeting her eyes, to continue. “And as long as you're sitting here, alive, she's happy."