Chapter 8

Katabasis

Nat should have taken the car. It's almost tradition at this point that, when Ron and them fight, he takes the car and they go by foot. Nat is trained in survival, they've learned how to make it anywhere with just a few rations and their trusty knife. But fuck him, they should have taken the car. They're trudging through the desert sand, away from the city, away from Ron, hunched angrily around the pit in their stomach, hands crossed over the surgical wounds on their arms, tears drying on their face in the evening heat.

Without a car, it's safer to go off-path, away from highwaymen and speeders. Poisonous snakes don't give a damn unless you tread on them, cliffs can be easily avoided, and most predators want nothing to do with humans. It's just the zombies that you need to worry about. That, and dying of hunger, thirst, or exposure.

But Nat is smart. They're a survivalist. They know how to avoid that shit.

Ron has been texting them. It was quiet for a while, and then it started; just one message after the other. Nat, come back. Nat, where are you. Nat, tell me you're safe. And not a single God forsaken apology in there. Asshole. Bastard. He just wants them dead.

There's no real goal to this. They're just getting away from him. There's no particular reason they're taking this exact route, no source for their urgency. No reason why they're headed south. Is what Nat is telling themself.

Until they stand, feet at the edge of a cliff, at a drop as deep as they are tall. And at the bottom of it, looking up at them through a dozen dead eyes, the thing that finally puts an end to Nat's ability to rationalize to themself where they are headed.

It's the smell. Always the smell. It's like a single silver thread wrapped around their heart, pulling through their chest in their direction. And although this thread saw them go through hell, although Ron wants to sever it so badly, here they are again.

Maybe it's self destruction. Maybe Nat wants to hurt right now, in a different way than the aching angry black hole in their guts and the thousand deep trenches Rabbit cut into their flesh. Or maybe they just want to go home.

The horde raises its arms towards them, their wrists limp, flesh rotting off bone, sores open and angry, but there is no smell of rot, only that of flowers. And their arms sway, like grass in the wind, like petals in a breeze, reaching. And Nat makes a choice.

They sit, lay their feet into the palms of the horde, and let them all pull Nat down gently, hands to their ankles, their knees, then their waist, their shoulders, their face. Arms envelop them, faces, caught in expressions half-remembered, neural pathways deeply trodden, smiles and wonder echoes of people that are no longer there. Nat lays their warm alive face against a shoulder of sweet briar, pink and soft, and feels their own lights go out, gently pulled into unthinking oblivion.

And then, gunshots.

Abruptly, Nat is thrust out of their bliss. A zombie next to them is groaning, clutching his arm. Another one screams. Another shot. Another explosion of blood, of viscera, and panic rises in Nat, a protective urge, a need to gnash, to bite to protect the unit. And then Nat remembers that they're capable of raising their eyes, and they finally spot her.

"Hey," they croak through a dry throat. "Hey!", they shout at the figure up on the hexagonal concrete building in front of them, leaning over its flat roof. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The figure lowers her gun in what looks like shock. She cups her hands around her mouth and tells Nat to "stay where you are, I'm coming to get you!" Then she flails for Nat to step back, and Nat narrowly dives out of the way of a burning bottle that drops into the middle of the group, scaring them all into scattering and leaving Nat behind. Although none of them have a functioning brain left, Nat can't say that it doesn't hurt.

Her name is Nadia. Nat rolls it on their tongue, so close to their own name; Nadia, Nadia. She's one of four sentinels watching the entry to the Saint Mary caves half a mile further west, the holy pilgrimage site that Nat knew was here, but didn't know they were heading towards. She tells Nat about how there's been a real lull in zombies lately while she sprays them down with what feels like way more water than she should be using in the middle of the desert. By the end of it, Nat stands sogging wet on her doorstep, smelling like a drowned dog, and has the rest of their mascara running down their cheeks in sad grey streaks. But at least one of them is happy.

"Now," she says. She's somewhere around Nat's age, in her mid twenties at best. She wears dark oval sunglasses on her nose, and a scowl around her mouth. "Will you tell me exactly what's going on here?"

"Sure", Nat tells her with a flick of their dripping wet black hair, sending rivulets flying all over the place, and firmly tucks the broadband sanguiherbicide pill Nadia feeds them next to their molars. "I'm a zombie researcher, and I've been testing out pheromones to keep the hordes from identifying and attacking living humans." And then, when she finally takes her eyes off Nat for a second to roll up the hose and set it back into a niche in the wall, they spit the pill into the sand and quickly shuffle dirt over it.

"So I guess that was a success, then," she asks as she ushers them in, attention on Nat again, and they grin, but she goes on–"You should still take off your top layer so I can check you for growths, though," and that grin threatens to falter. Nadia pierces them with a gaze, black eyes through black shades stark under her blonde hair.

"Nooo, at least take me out for coffee first," Nat laughs, and watches her face very intently. She doesn't look pleased, so Nat presses on as nonchalantly as they can. "Really? Right in front of you? I'll just go and undress in the bathroom, if you don't mind. Peel this wet stuff off. You don't happen to have a change of clothes for me? I know it won't be as cute as what I'm wearing, but–"

Nadia cuts it short. "This is easier for both of us if you just get it over with quickly." And sure enough, she has her weapon out again. A fucking sharpshooter rifle. Ugh. If she sees the flowers and believes that Nat is on the brink of unlife, it's lights out. Anyone who shoots zombies for a living knows that once an infection takes root, there is no way back.

"Okay!" Hands up, palms to her, that's a placating gesture. "Alright. But can you–" They make a few clumsy movements. The turtleneck is tight enough that they can pretend to get stuck in it, bless everything. "Help," Nat says as cutely and as pathetically as they can.

The moment she moves to help Nat, they grab their army knife from their belt and ram it straight into her chest.

The only downside to this plan is that they can only guess where she is with the turtleneck over their eyes, so of course it hits a rib. What else? She barks a shout, fires a shot that hits the ceiling in a small cloud of rubble, and in the short squabble between getting their damn turtleneck off their eyes and finally hitting the back of her head with the back of their knife hard enough to make her go down, Nat very nearly takes two shots to their person, and once also almost their own army knife to the stomach.

"What," Nadia finally wheezes from under their foot, "the fuck." They get a better grip on the government issued rifle both Nat and Nadia have been trained to use, look her dead in the eyes, and pull the trigger.

That was supposed to be it.

Her brain mass splatters, exploding viscera on the floor, a large red flower blooming right under their feet. The smell of death hits Nat like a brick wall, pungent, sharp, bloody iron. Before they know it, Nat has fallen into it, to their knees. Her neck in their hand weighs too little. Her sleeve cuts away too easily. They wish they weren't thinking, wish they could say it wasn't methodical. But as detached as they feel from the action Nat's mind is sharp as they bare her arm, sharper than it's ever felt, and yet all they can really do is watch as they feel themself bend over her and dig their teeth deep inside her flesh. It's all they know before they fully lose it.

Eventually, finally, the hunger lets them go again.

They kneel like that beside her body for a long time, then, cold, until her blood soaking their linen pants turns thick and tacky.

Her fridge is empty, which is just desserts.

There's still a whole carton of milk in there, though. Nat chugs it numbly while they look for her bathroom. Some of it spills. The lip of the carton comes back red. Their hands are shaking.

They find the bathroom at the end of her hallway.

It's dusty, and so small Nat can barely turn around in it. Flickering lights overhead make them look ghoulish in the speckled mirror, yellow, swollen. Their lips are cracked with dehydration, their face is smeared with blood, streaks of it over their cheeks, dried rivers of it down their chin.

Their mirror image stares back at them out of wide, empty eyes. They don't recognize themself. Each freckle is exactly where it should be, and yet this simply isn't Nat. Nat is not in charge anymore.

Maybe Ron was right.

Nadia's clothes fit Nat almost perfectly. It's a standardized size, Nat knows this; and yet, the way that the sleeves of her sniper uniform jacket hit Nat's wrists just so is an eerie feeling. Nat wears it around their waist instead.

People on the train give them a wide berth. It's the uniform, they're sure. But the pollen mask they're using like a muzzle probably doesn't help.

They don't text Ron back. They even stop checking. They simply curl up in their sleep compartment, hunched around their aching body, and imagine how sorry he feels, now that they're gone. And so what if he was partially right with the shit he said to them? He needs to learn how to stop being such a cruel asshole.

And then they're there.

Nat gathers all their courage, a heavy lump in their throat as their thumb presses down on the door bell of the swanky apartment building who's doorstep they've found themself on. They wait one beat, two. The voice of a receptionist rings out.

"Yes?"

Nat clears their throat, dry from disuse, before they're able to speak.

"Put me through to Doctor Bishop, please," they say. "Tell him—tell him that Chalice is here."