Suffer the Children Read online

  Suffer the

  Children

  Janden Hale

  Copyright © 2016 by Janden Hale

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States.

  ISBN-13: 978-1541291058

  ISBN-10: 1541291050

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit his website:

  http://totaldanarchy.com

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

  William Shakespeare

  Also By Janden Hale

  As Daniel Donche Jr.

  Jester's Down

  Locker 6T3: A Punk Story

  Everwind Titles

  The Facility

  Legion of Liberty

  Snowleaf

  Poetry

  Paper Walls

  Philosophy/Inspiration

  Unlock the Master Within

  Graphic Art

  Darkana Tarot (with expansions)

  Twitcher

  ONE

  The creature is right outside, probably trying to get in. Dan can’t tell for sure. He knows it’s there because he heard it, faintly, out there rooting around. He also knows that if the bastard gets inside, he and Amy will both die and it will be agonizing.

  He tries to hold his breath, but he’s also fighting against panic. Every exhale is more like a shudder. He can feel his pulse throbbing through his grip on the rifle.

  Needles of morning light stab through the cracks between planks over the barricaded window. He eases onto his toes to get a better view, but all he sees from here is weary grass and the cracked pavement of the empty parking lot. Tom Birkman’s flat-tired Ford slumped across the street by the charred skeleton of the post office.

  “How many?”

  He adjusts his angle, squints, but still can’t see where it is. He whispers. “Just one, looks like. I can’t see any others. Could be more. Be quiet.”

  The only good news is that it might not know about them being there. He wants to keep it that way. Truth be told, he doesn’t want to have to fight the thing. Most of his mind is focused on trying not to piss himself. Not in front of her at least.

  Only the two of them huddled just inside the front door of what used to be the Cheatham County Public Library. He had never had a desire to spend much time here, and the desire to stay well away is stronger than ever in this particular moment. Of all the places to die, and of all things to be doing. He is going to die in the fucking library. Because the internet doesn’t exist anymore, having starved to death during the collapse of infrastructure, they were forced to go old school and look for books. It’s the only reason Amy is here, actually. He doesn’t know how to use the card catalogue. He supposes it’s a fair trade; she doesn’t know how to use a gun.

  They were trying to find information that might help him get some solar panels to work. Being that every electrician he ever knew was dead, the responsibility sort of fell upon his shoulders, the closest thing to an electrician left in the community of Ashland. That responsibility evaporates from his mind, though, replaced by the realization that he’s the only thing keeping Amy Runkle alive right now.

  Amy Runkle. One of the only females left who’s technically available. About ten years older than he is, and would normally be outside his league. He absolutely cannot dick this up.

  He hopes he is up to the task of keeping her alive. Hopes he doesn’t piss himself. Hopes the twitcher will just go away without ever finding out they’re there. So much hope coursing through his veins and it causes him to worry even more. Too much hope breeds disappointment. Even so, he cannot help but add another request to the mountain that’s been piling up:

  He really hopes the thing out there is not what’s left of Amy’s son.

  Because he might have to kill it. He doesn’t think she would forgive him, never mind the circumstances. She’s not stone cold like Stephanie Miller. Stephanie’s husband, John, killed both of their children without hesitation when the moment of truth arrived. Stephanie Miller never held anything against him. Dan and the Ranton boys had helped John dig the two graves in the back yard, and Mrs. Miller had shown her appreciation with glasses of fresh off-brand powdered lemonade. Stone cold, as if they’d come to help load shit onto a moving truck. She accepted everything with no reservations. Not all people had that kind of fortitude, though, and Dan thinks Amy Runkle is one of them.

  His eyes sink to his rifle briefly, the only firearm between the two of them. It seems to weigh a lot more than it did a minute ago. Why the hell is he the only one in the room with a gun? The only explanation has to be her reluctance to use them. There is no reason for not having one if there are plenty to go around. The way times are now, there’s no room for being squeamish around firearms. What’s worse is that she made that decision, chosen not to carry a gun of her own free will, which might very well get him killed. Maybe him dying because of her aversion will finally be a wakeup call to quit being ridiculous.

  The creature slams against the door and he feels her flinch behind him, biting the shoulder of his jacket to keep from making any sound. He can feel the heat of her breath through his jacket. The force of the slam has him thinking the beast is on the heavier side.

  He can feel her back there trembling, pressed against him. His frustration with her not having a weapon changes to something else entirely, the feel of her squeezing closer behind him seems to soothe his nerves. He doesn’t mind her doing it at all, but he wishes she would be less erratic about it; now is the worst time for sudden movements. It’s a good thing he keeps his finger off the trigger, the way Dressler showed him. Her sudden jerk just now would have probably made him accidentally discharge.

  Disaster averted.

  He’ll be damned if ineptitude is going to do either of them in today. He also doesn’t want to disappoint Dressler or else he’ll never get to leave on any scavenging runs. He doesn’t want to disappoint Amy by letting her get mauled. He doesn’t want to disappoint his uncle, Judge Hafer, by sullying the family reputation. He doesn’t want to disappoint himself by disappointing everyone else, like he normally does. It’s a lot of pressure for a 19-year-old to withstand.

  They hear the click of long fingernails on the broken cement outside, the occasional scratch. Sniffing. It might not be trying to get in after all, just rummaging around. Still, he doesn’t want to incite its curiosity any more. He breathes as slowly and as quietly as possible. He can feel her heart drumming against his back.

  By the sound of it, this is one that had gone quadruped. Somehow mutated from walking on two legs to four. The whole mutation process still perplexes him, he never fully understood it. How they changed from kids into these things. That some of them go on all fours now is even more confusing to him. What’s important right now is that the thing is dangerous, a murderous hulk of teeth and claws. It’s important to remember that the thing outside is not what it used to be. Thinking otherwise is what got a lot of folks killed in the early days. In the early days they still resembled kids, though, mostly.

  She digs her fingernails into his sleeve. Her breath washes over his neck, warm and slow. It pries his mind off the task at hand. She doesn’t know better. Has no idea what she’s doing to him. To her, everything is innocent, lacking any intent other than seeking comfort. None of it is innocent for him, though. He thinks there’s more to it. Neither of them realizes they are both assuming the other feels the same as they do, one innocent and th
e other tinged with lust. He’s suffocated in thoughts of liking her close to him, the way she wants him closer. He doesn’t know what her reasons are, and it doesn’t matter. It’s a formidable distraction. He can smell her perfume over the stale air and musty books. It surprises him she still wears any at all. A nice surprise, though. He wonders if she can smell him now. He stopped being able to smell himself a long time ago. That’s how you know it’s time to worry about hygiene.

  His heart thrums against his ribcage, partly because of the twitcher outside, partly because of her. If he’s not careful he’ll get dizzy from everything. He needs to focus so he can protect her, but he also needs to feel like he’s protecting her. Right now he doesn’t feel anything but overwhelmed. He also needs her to feel like he’s doing the job sufficiently. If she gets the idea that he can’t protect her, any chance he has of anything more (assuming he survives) is shot to shit. It seems to him that he needn’t actually do a great job, the only requirement is that he appear to do so.

  He clamps his eyes shut for a second. They’re just one door away from being torn to ribbons; he needs to keep them both alive until the thing is gone. He only needs to outlast its presence. Still, he doesn’t want the twitcher to leave yet. He wants to keep her close just a little while longer, and the twitcher is helping make that happen. And there’s her breath again on his neck—

  Focus, Dan. He considers the benefits of them making it out of this alive and it spurs him into concentration. He thinks he can feel her breasts on his back. It compels his heart to beat harder. It’s hard to wrench his mind from that possibility. This woman needs him right now, needs him to get his shit together. Maybe she’ll like him if he can save her, maybe something even more than that will come of it, like getting to feel and see her breasts for real. It’s all the incentive he needs to apply his full attention to their survival. For once he can be the hero, get the girl. Well, the woman in this case.

  She sniffles and tries to choke back tears. Her trembling hasn’t subsided. He wonders if she thinks it’s her son out there. If she’d be stupid enough to try interacting with it, to see if it could remember her. If she does anything like that she deserves the result, regardless of how the interaction went. If she’s that dumb, he’ll leave her to her fate and use the opportunity to save himself. He doesn’t want to have to do that, of course, but there’s only so much risk a guy can take.

  He turns his head enough for her to see and lifts a finger to his lips. He doesn’t think she needs to be reminded, but with the creature this close it pays to be safe. He hates that he can’t just comfort her right now, but that’s the way this hand was dealt. He feels like an asshole for not wanting her to cry. He hopes she doesn’t think he’s an asshole. Add that to the stack of everything else he hopes. Even so, better to be a living asshole than a dead Sweetie Petey.

  All that separates them from the twitcher is a few inches of wood and the creature’s ignorance of them. He really has no choice in the matter. She needs to stop her bullshit crying.

  The damn thing had somehow slipped through their perimeter. Not enough survivors to patrol the wall full-time, they have to deal with the occasional rambler like this one. They had twitchers get through on multiple occasions and they’d gotten lucky so far. Lots of people had died, sure, but none since they made the walls. But that might change today. Usually the guys pulling guard duty up on the scaffolds end it quickly without incident. He wonders if anyone outside is aware of this thing’s presence. He needs to assume they aren’t, lest he start to develop a false sense of security. He can’t be hoping for too much. It seems to be a problem for him.

  He considers opening the door and trying to shoot it, but that would defeat the purpose of protecting Amy. It would be like letting the fucker in for dinner. It’s not like shooting rabbits or squirrels at all, the twitchers are resilient. And if he can’t get Amy to keep quiet, it’ll force its way inside anyway.

  He doesn’t want to think about what will happen if anyone outside stumbles upon it by accident. Old Buck Weaver is out there somewhere, surely, doing the best he can with the biggest sense of purpose he’s had since he fought the Koreans. The old fart has to be pushing 85. They can’t afford to lose anymore people. They’d already lost too many. No way to warn anyone else, no way to do anything really besides shut the fuck up.

  He can acutely sense the beast, along with his own mortality.

  He wonders if they can sneak away from the door enough to make a dash, maybe out the back. There has to be a back door in this place. Just get away enough to create some distance and make the kill. Or at least attract help from someone. No telling how long it would take Buck Weaver to get here from wherever he is. Old guy might as well be putting around with a walker. Someone else, though. Dressler or those backwoods Ranton hicks would be the optimum choice, but again, he can’t take any chances with fantasy like that. He enjoys a longer breath, letting Amy’s perfume linger at the front of his awareness. As good as it sounds, running out the back would be too risky, not with it so close to them. No idea how long the door could hold out if the thing really wanted in. And it would if it knew what was inside. It will eventually smell them. Her perfume will do all the heavy advertising.

  Another slam against the door and this time she squeaks, faintly, but it’s enough. All movement outside halts. She snared its attention. It knows they’re inside now, and Dan starts backing away from the door, bringing the rifle up to aim. It’s pounding now, ramming, and they can see the sunlight pulse around the edges of the door with each blow as the hinges struggle.

  “Go. Out the back. Get Dressler. Run!” Dan shoves her off with one hand and fires the first shot through the door. A hole erupts in the wood and a finger of light seeps in through the breach. The twitcher shrieks and slams into the door harder, cracking it like an egg. Dan is thankful the library is old enough that they never put glass doors on it. A canyon opens up where a big splinter sloughs off and he can see the creature better now, thrashing like a riled hog trying to get at the slop trough. He fires a volley of rounds through the door, which are answered by more squawks and an angry roar. He’s only pissing it off. The twitcher punches through farther, its head emerging from the widening hole, a misshapen mass of lumps and bristles. Its stench infiltrates the room ahead of it. Ropes of frothy spittle flail and hang from its gnarled mouth and he can smell that, too. He chokes back the gag that threatens to wring out his stomach. Dan backs away, unloads several more shots in the beast’s direction until the trigger’s tick-tick-tick usurps the clamor of gunshots in the now smoky room. Its gnarled front legs dig at the opening, twisted claws that used to be fingernails scratching at the door like it’s an itch. It pulls at a shaft of cloven wood with its glistening teeth. Dan backs away and attempts the trigger again, hoping, but the magazine is dry. Like the magazine, it seems like his hope has finally run empty. He wants to run, but his legs are numb, unresponsive. A waist-high bookshelf blocks his retreat. He knocks over one of the self-improvement books on display. Stupid piece of shit. None of this would be happening if the internet still existed.

  It’s almost through. What little time he had to make it out the back now is gone, so he braces for the charge. At least Amy got away, a thought that offers a split second of solace, but he has no time to reflect on it. He tries to skirt around the bookshelf while keeping his eyes on the door, and frees himself of the rifle sling so he can use the weapon as a club. A last resort. Something.

  God, he should have made a dash from the get-go.

  The twitcher punches through and bounds forward, clearing the distance with a celerity he could never replicate. The thing seems to soar. He hoists the rifle up to provide a barrier as it vaults. The collision sends him flying, tears his feet out from under him. They meet a violent bookshelf behind him, a splash of more self-improvement titles. They slam to the floor in a fray of ragged teeth and spit, paper, a pillow of dust. Smiling self-help author photos on covers,
oblivious of their uselessness now. His vision blurs. He shakes the dimming feeling off, fights for every scrap of clarity. The beast’s odor infiltrates his nostrils at close range and his stomach lurches. It’s putrid enough to wrench him from his stupor. He shoves back against it with the rifle, already feeling his energy dissipating. It’s fruitless. These things are stronger than their former child selves used to be, stronger than adults. They used to say a chimp is five to eight times stronger than a human, and those only weighed like a hundred pounds. Dressler had said the same thing probably applies to the twitchers, that they’re stronger in proportion to humans.

  Everyone is going to be so disappointed in him, Dressler especially. Him dying would mean Dressler was a shitty teacher. At least he’ll be dead, though, so he doesn’t have to see any of it.

  Hot breath like rotten meat surges over him, drawing the water up out of his eyes. The twitcher clamps onto the rifle barrel with its teeth and flails its head back and forth like a dog playing tug of war, jarring the weapon free, sends it scuttling across the hardwood floor. He watches it pull away in slow motion while the dust swirls in the fingers of light poking through the cracks in the boarded window. Dan doesn’t even try to reach for the rifle, it’s too far. It would make him feel better to have it, even though it’s useless without bullets.

  This is it, his final moment. He puts all his focus into watching the dust playing and dancing. He hadn’t stopped to really enjoy something like that since he was a child. It’s beautiful, like watching a ballet without the music. He tries to fill the moment with music in his head, a lone piano. He doesn’t know if they use pianos for ballet, but that’s what he hears. The piano is interrupted by bones crunching under the weight of clamping jaws. He hears it before he feels it. The pain is like a lightning bolt. He feels it all the way in his guts. Then his arm goes warm, wet. He can’t tell if it’s saliva or his own blood. He no longer gives a shit about the swirling dust.