Alpha and Omega

Part 3 - The Them Under Him

He was older, now—at twenty-six, the oldest of the Them, because everyone from before had either died or left—and Mags was long gone, only the shadow lurking around every corner, the absence he felt in every room, every tent, courtyard, and ravaged graveyard.

She wasn’t dead, he hoped. No, not hoped. It was more of a knowing, because she had never seemed the type of woman to, after everything she’d gone through, just die. She had always been the strong one, the fighter, warrior, hunter. She was the mother and father, sister and brother, cousin to them all; every Humani in the Valley of the Sun knew her name and, more importantly, her mark. Even now, more than a decade after that summer, he would sometimes see it, spray painted in bright, bloody red on the side of a building, or under the ‘10, or next to a Dumpster, telling every Humani, Ripper, and Empty in the city that it was her territory. Usually, that was enough to keep the deadheads—she’d always snorted when he called Empties deadheads, but once or twice, he’d sworn he saw her smile—away from the area. He would be lying if he said he didn’t take advantage of that, or that he didn’t sometimes leave her mark around himself, even if was just to let her know he was still fighting.

El-Tee stood at the window—less a window and more a hole in the decrepit old building with the faceplate of 15 EAST MONROE, nothing between him and a twenty-foot drop—and looked down upon the Them. The ragtag group of survivors had changed since Mags’ days as leader—members had come and gone, some killed by the Rippers, others infected with the Spyder Virus and turned into deadheads, some committed suicide to save themselves from either one; still, the Them were still a family, the closest approximation any of them could get after D-Day. He was the leader the now, and it was his job to keep them safe, just like Mags had done for him.

El-Tee watched them running about below on what he guessed had once been a hotel lobby or something like that; he watched as the crumpled soda can went flying through the air, and smiled grimly as their laughter rose up above the cloud of misery that hung about him always. This—what they were doing, running about in the open like they weren’t being hunted and tracked every day—was dangerous, and sometimes deadly. Keep moving—always moving and always vigilant; he heard her voice in his head and his smile disappeared. She was right, of course she was right. She was always right. That was how all Packs operated now: The Law of Mags. The Them wasn’t any different.

Still, things had been quiet for the past few days and he’d decided to risk it, even if only for the sake of the youngest members of their troop, tired of walking and itching to play. He vaguely remembered a day when he’d been like them, brief feelings of joy and giddiness and the impression of children’s’ laughter echoing in his head. His head was funky like that; there were a lot of blank spaces in his stub of a brain where phantoms dwelt, where memory had once been. He’d asked Mags once if her memory was the same; she’d never answered, only told him to stop asking stupid questions before she cut out his tongue and left him for the Empties.

He’d shut up, because he knew she would.

El-Tee sat down on the edge of the hole, his legs hanging out into empty space, and groped behind himself for the—ah, there. He opened the stained, hole-riddled bag and retrieved his share of the day’s load: A warm can of some generic soda pop, a plastic bag of walnuts, and—he smiled, pleased with the small triumph—a shiny, red as all hell strawberry. He let the Them have any practical supplies or weapons as long as he got his pick of the food and a share of the ammunition. It was an arrangement no one had a problem with. He slid his lips over the tip and took a large bite of the berry and moaned orgasmically, red juice dripping down his chin. Fresh fruit was a black market rarity, but occasionally, someone would have the public decency to plant a garden. God bless them. He smiled and took another bite.

"RIPPERS!” The Madd Hatter’s screams fractured the afternoon peace as she burst into the hotel, running as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. El-Tee leaped to his feet and pulled his blaster from his waistband. She came to a stop amidst the broken kick-the-can match, and paused to catch her breath. Her chest was heaving, her hair falling out of her ponytail; Madd Hatter was the designated look out for the Them, mostly because she sucked at interpersonal stuff. Finally, she sucked in a deep breath and straightened, looking around until she found El-Tee far above.