Batteries and Holy Ghosts
Buried in my bag of bones
He said they would help me to grow.
-Marika Hackman, Deep Green

Dan

"Wakey wakey, sunshine."

A harsh, gruff voice cuts through the numb darkness, snapping me back to reality from a haze of vague, fearful half-dreams. I groan and try to roll my shoulder to shake off the lingering ache, only to find that I can't move. I'm lying sideways on the ground, my face pressed against cold, solid stone and some kind of rope binding my hands. I'm finding it very hard to open my eyes. Every part of my being hurts, and any effort to lift my eyelids feels sends a shooting pain through my skull. I start to sink back into oblivion again, desperately wanting the discomfort to ebb away, when a hand smacks me harshly across the cheek, causing my eyes to snap open and a stinging pain to explode where it struck my skin. "Wake up!"

Everything comes rushing back to me, along with the return of a dull throb where the plank had struck my head. I recall the predicament I've gotten myself into, focusing on the man who's hit me as all the while my senses are being assaulted by a sickening mix of unwashed clothing and the metallic tang of blood. It's the same greasy man who forced me to the ground and knocked me out, his sunken face grinning creepily from ear to ear. He cackles when he sees the defensive inward curl of my body against the attack, before thrusting his hand forward and yanking a cloth gag from my mouth.

"Dan!" I hear a much more familiar voice exclaim as I gasp, spluttering in reaction to the burning sensation from the rough removal of the object. I breathe deeply and turn my head to catch a glimpse of this much kinder voice, my eyes locking suddenly with the wide, dark ones belonging to Mark.

He looks awful; one eye is badly scratched and purple and a deep bruise has flowered grotesquely across his cheek. He's sitting up straight but is tied tightly also, his back propped up against a rounded boulder. His expression is terrified. It looks so out of place, every time I've ever seen him he's exuded an air of being brash and abrasive. He still looks defiant but it's directed at the man, not at me. He must have been beaten, probably receiving the wounds after putting up a massive fight when they first attacked us. I would have been able to do the same, had I not been caught so completely off-guard. He's scanning my face worriedly, as if confirming that I'm actually conscious.

My head is swimming and I have to let it drop back down again, my face opening up in tiny scratches as it's pressed against the gritty surface. I close my eyes, wincing as pain throbs in my skull.

"C'mon, sit up!" The man hisses, gripping the rope that's digging into the back of my neck and lifting me off the ground vertically, dropping me back down so that I'm upright with a heavy collapse onto my tailbone. I clench my teeth so that only a hiss escapes my mouth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of inflicting more visible suffering. Scratchy laughs echo all around the clearing and I realize we're propped up near the bone pile in the center of the survivor's camp. People have gathered around to view the spectacle, their skeletal faces filled with glee.

They're all psychotic, every last one of them, all sunken-faced and wild-eyed; they look certifiably insane.
It only takes a quick scan of the area to confirm that we're hugely outnumbered. Nobody else has stepped towards us yet, but it's clear they're itching to seize the first opportunity to leap on us should trouble arise.

The clearing is about the same size as our camp back near the ghost town. A lake sits in the centre, trees closing in the camp thickly on all sides, cedars choking up the empty spaces. Zombeasts wander through the area, weaving in between the sickly looking people without any outward expressions of aggression. There are only a few wooden structures, and I wonder vaguely if these people ever sleep. Torches are tied hazardously to trees or twisted firmly into the dirt on the ground, casting an orange glow over everything in the fading light. Bones and bloodstains litter the ground, making me shudder in repulsion.

My chest tightens with a thrumming and overwhelming feeling of intense anxiety. I don't even know what's become of Marzia and Phil. I can scarcely even think of them right now. We're surrounded by murderers all gathered into some primitive cannibalistic tribe, the modern world completely forgotten to this gaunt mix of people.

"Your friend over here has been up for quite a while," the man informs me, gesturing to Mark who is glaring at him defiantly, his body positioned defensively in front of me so that we're almost elbow-to-elbow. "He's verrrry fiery, the boys and I had to put him in his place." he places a bony hand atop his fist, as if to demonstrate how this was done.

"It was very funny," a ragged lady pipes up, her Lancashire accent reminding me painfully of Phil. She must be like him, from the northern part of England. Her face holds no remorse, just amusement and cruelty. It's in no way at all the same person, but the similarity still gives me a pang. "Poor boy was so scared when we broughts ya, thought you was dead cuz' Borg hit ya so hard!"

The group explodes into laughter, mockery dripping in their tones. The man who I now know to be Borg grins at me wickedly, his hand caressing the wooden plank. I wonder what they're talking about and glance frantically at Mark, whose face is dejected as he opens his mouth in response.

"I thought he killed you." he says softly, and my eyes widen in shock at the actual fear in his voice, not to mention the implications. "You went completely still and your head was bleeding, I tried to reach you but the other guy hit me from behind, and knocked me out too." He stiffens and glares out at each and every one of the sneering faces, rage burning in the look.

"I will kill you, each and every single one of you if you don't let us go. Untie us now."

His threat is met with a mix of reactions, shouts of anger, aggression, mockery and amusement. Borg lumbers forward and thrusts his skinny arm to clench at Mark's shoulder, yanking him forward by the shirt so that they're eye-to eye.

"You're in no position to argue with us." he says silkily, evil intention saturating his every word. "Besides, you're really not useful to us. It's the boy that the boss really wants, you can cooperate or get fed to the puppies. It really doesn't matter to me." A couple people whoop and chatter enthusiastically at this picture, apparently what they want exactly. My stomach sinks when it hits me that for whatever reason, Borg has just said something dreadful.

They want me for something. For some reason. I can't even fathom what it would be. Visions of vicious attacks or torture bounce wildly across my mind, and I fight with myself internally to stop my expression from betraying these thoughts. Maybe it's something to do with me being younger. Some special form of horror for more delicate flesh. Borg is preoccupied at the moment though, not even looking at me.

He gazes down to make sure Mark has gotten his point, lowering his head and raising an eyebrow. Mark doesn't react outwardly at the statement, just clenches his fist and stares right back at him with unwavering eyes.
"Why the hell do they want Dan?" he spits. "You don't get to keep him. That's not your choice."

Borg throws him back down, thumping his back against the boulder with such a force that will probably make another bruise. Finally Mark is silent, and the crowd prepares for whatever Borg is going to say next.

"Who-" my voice wavers at the end and I have to reopen my mouth again to address him, my throat feeling dry and raw and my mind racing.
"Who are you? What is it that you want with us?"

I ask it in the most confident voice I can muster, not really feeling afraid but my nerves on a razor's edge with the overwhelming danger. As it is, it comes out sounding like a challenge, and I see Borg's face crease in annoyance. Saying these words feels surreal, I've heard this exact line or similar uttered in the most cliche scenes of movies, seen it written in the inked lines of some of my favorite books. Never in my wildest imagination could I imagine the feeling that comes attached to the necessity of saying them, the dehumaniztaion and the uncertainty that would reduce a person to this plaintive demand. Just like in every story the villain reacts the same way, giving me an unwelcome sense of deja vu.

"I ask the questions. Who are you?"

I am in no way willing to volunteer anything about myself. The less these savages know about me the better, and I shake my head and look up at him coolly.

"Don't make this any harder on yourself." he growls, tapping the plank against his palm. "You don't look like a corpse or a half-life. You're alive. Better talk if you wanna stay that way. Or maybe we can leave you in the cell for a while, that'll bring ya to your senses."

"Maybe you could explain why you knocked us out and tied us. Maybe if we weren't being beaten senseless for talking, we'd be more willing to share with you." Mark retorts, his tone dangerous.

"Or." I interrupt warningly, shooting a look at Mark before he gets us both killed. "what is this about all of you being half-lifes? What the hell does that mean?"

I know corpse likely means zombie, but the term "half life" is foreign to me and sounds definitely bad. They clearly aren't entirely human. Before the apocalypse, to look at a person and describe them as anything but human would be considered being confused by your overactive imagination. But the longer I've survived out here, the more the lines between what's imagination and what's reality seem to be blurring, and now I just can't think anymore.

"What's it sound like to ya?" Borg spits back. "We're half-alive. Got bit by a corpse, became part zombie. And that doesn't answer my question."

They're like Cat. All of them have been bitten by zombies and survived. Somehow they've all found each other, become united because of a similar affliction and banded together. How can that be possible? Up until this point, I'd thought Cat was the only one. How could so many people be partially resistant to the infection, end up experiencing the same thing, and still somehow find each other? Suspicion tugs at my conscience and I feel doubt begin to creep in.

"Every single one of you," I repeat, just to make things clear. "Each and every one was bitten by a zombie?"

"Well not all of us, actually." The woman butts in, stepping closer to me as if to get a better look at my face. "We likes the taste of flesh, we does. Some of us were visitors like you pair, but we can't help it when we gets excited." A creepy leer stretches across her face and she extends a bony hand to caress my chin.

I jerk away from her touch, somewhat repulsed.

"Excited... or mad." Borg growls, a dark look crossing his face as he fixes his stare on me. "I want answers out of you two when I come back to you tomorrow, or I might just consider taking a lovely chunk out of your friend's neck. Enough for some of my friends to share. Until then I'll leave you in the cell. Can't have you running away now."

He lowers his hand to stroke one of the zombeast wolves, the puppies, tracing his finger along the edge of its ears. The beast relaxes under his touch but doesn't tear its silver gaze away from us, it's probably been watching us the whole time.

"So you're flesh eaters too then?" Mark asks angrily, adding up all the reasons this place is completely horrific. "Couldn't stop at just killing strangers who wander in, you have to eat each other too."

Borg's look is getting dangerous. His face says he'd love to do the very same to my counterpart, clenching his teeth and gazing down at him with a look full of scorn.

"We don't feel hunger. Any biting or tearing we do is for our own pleasure, or for the ceremony, to get someone to turn. Wondering how there got to be so many of us? We're all happy here, when you become part of the clan you start your new life."

"Our new life!" A deep-voiced man shrieks. He's standing back near a line of tents along the treeline, his face wild with an overgrown brown beard, peering at us with eyes widened in madness. "When you come home you get reborn!"

All through the camp other half-lifes start chanting, joining in with him while Mark and I exchange looks of intense unease. "Reborn! Reborn!" They shout together, sending danger signals surging through every fibre of my body. Some of the zombeasts start barking and growling, just adding to the chaos reverberating in the air. This is weird. This is really, really weird.

"You get a new name and you get a new family." The woman cackles, shifting from foot to foot like a hyperactive child. "We've turned our backs on the old society. They didn't know how to cares for us, see. Didn't take care of the world at all, did they? We gives each other bites, gives each other our new names. We's gonna hold the ritual for ya, you're gonna be reborn."

The half-lifes start shouting louder, the madness no longer contained. My mind is racing as I try to see a way out, not willing to even find out what the 'ritual' to infect us is. That's what they're planning on doing. They took normal people like us and infected them, then kept them captive until they slowly wasted away from insanity.

"What does that even mean?" Mark hisses, his expression disturbed.

Borg looks at us seriously, his face dead calm despite the racket all around him.
"You can say goodbye to the life you had before." He trills quietly, still caressing the dog. "From now on this is your life, and don't even think about escaping. Because oh yes, we'll find you. We always do. You'll find you don't mind the taste of flesh, once you've had it more than once. Nobody gets out once they find this camp. Nobody."

Except Phil. I think silently. And Marzia.

Because even with another quick scan around the camp, I can see that our friends aren't here. They've somehow not been spotted, even with Phil wounded at the top of that hill and Marzia stuck watching over him, the two of them rooted there like sitting ducks until he's better. Hopefully they're aware of our predicament. Maybe they'll go back and get the others, and together we can work out how to escape this place. It's our only hope until something else happens otherwise, seeing how there's not much I can do with my upper body bound with tight coils of rope.

"There's no way you're keeping us here." I say in a low voice.

"I'm not giving you a choice." he says firmly. "It's more of an order. You can cooperate, or you can die. Painfully. Honestly either way, I really don't care."

Like hell I'm going to become part of some ravenous half-life tribe. For now maybe they can make us bend to their will, but one look from Mark tells me something else. We're busting out of here as soon as we're untied, and we're fighting them every step of the way. My hate towards him is irrelevant at the moment, we've both been thrust into the same unfortunate situation, and now it's working together or death. Funny how trivial all our conflicts suddenly seem. Despite the position we're in, I still feel distinctly uncomfortable being stuck alone with him. We're basically being forced to get along.

"When the ceremony takes place tomorrow, you'll be given the opportunity to tell us anything interesting that the Confederation would care to know. I would say that you in particular," Borg says pointedly, looking at me, "would do well to tell the truth. You'll be given your new name, you'll cast off your old ways, and you'll become one  of us. They all do, eventually. You'll figure it out real quick that it's either join us or live the remainder of your life wishing you were dead. A pretty easy choice, if you ask me."

I let out a frustrated noise, getting desperate now. What's he on about, mentioning the Confederation? I vaguely remember hearing something about them on TV, a newscaster mumbling in my life's background before any of this shit had begun. They were some sort of scientist group, trying to get support from the government for a project that went nowhere. I haven't heard about them in months, years maybe even. Are these people that mad? Do they all think they're serving this random group?

"Put em' in the cell." Borg orders, waving his hand dismissively as though he believes we'll come to our senses with a bit of solitary confinement.

"What's this about the Confederation!?" I blurt, trying to forge some sort of mental connection between myself and the wants of those people. An uneasy feeling has settled in my stomach, and I'm willing to bet that Borg's words are only going to make things worse. A pair of silver eyed half-lives lumber forward and yank Mark and I up by the ropes on our backs, slowly starting to drag us away as Borg sneers. He looks highly amused, like we're idiots that are definitely missing something. I want to spit in his smug face.

"Surely you've heard about the Confederation." He taunts with an air of superiority. "They're the reason you're here, the reason we half-lives are doing so well."

I dig my heels into the ground, trying to thrash my way out of the zombie man's grip. I can't be kept here, I need to get us out. I realize Marzia's gun is poking out of my back pocket, concealed from the half-life's views by the drape of my baggy sweater. I have no idea how it could have gotten there, I could swear I'd dropped it when I fell. I stretch out my fingers, trying to loosen them enough to grab it, but my arms are held fast. The half life dragging me punches me in the stomach to stop my fighting and I go limp, but I still don't miss the end of Borg's words.

"The Confederation created the virus." He says wickedly. "They're the ones who started the apocalypse."

A strangled choke escapes me as I register his words, not believing at first that this could be true at all. To finally put a name to the people who caused all that we'd been through, how is it possible? The half-lifes must worship them like gods. Those people created their affliction and made them invulnerable and strong, in return they do services for them, wrapped around the corporate finger. It's disgusting, it's horrible, and I painfully lift my head to look at him incredulously.

"You're lying." I hiss, my eyes blazing with defiance. "I don't believe you. You don't know anything about that."

"I wish I were," he says coolly, though his tone of voice suggests he's not saying that bit meaningfully. "But unfortunately for you, I'm not."

Then I'm yanked ferociously backwards and Borg is now too far away to hear any longer. Mark is shooting off obscenities directed at his captor, dodging their attempts to silence him as we're being taken to another part of the camp. I see silver, lamplike eyes gazing gleefully at us from all sides as we're dragged past the onlookers, my feet bumping over scattered and discarded bones. I see a particularly tiny half-life who looks to be a nine year old boy, and I find that I can't look away from him, causing our eyes to lock. He starts at my eye contact in surprise, and unlike the others reeling all around him, he doesn't smile. He raises his finger to his lips and looks at me urgently, almost as if to wordlessly command me to just say silent.

Then he gestures to his own back jeans pocket, lifting up one hand to make the shape of a finger gun. Then almost as quickly it's gone.

I realize we might not be alone.

---

I don't mention the boy to Mark once we've been deposited in the "cell", a six foot square enclosure made entirely of roughly rounded wooden poles resembling prison bars, tightly bound with barbed wire and encircling a shallow square pit. It's completely open air, and we're thrown in unceremoniously, our leg binds swiftly cut but our arms still left tightly wrapped.

I groan and roll my legs around gently, trying to regain some blood flow back into the limbs. The sun dips lower on the horizon and I think again of Phil, he has no idea what's happened to us. They must suspect something by now, from what I can deduce it's hours later, my unconsciousness had been long enough that Mark had been worried about how long I'd been out.

The two half-lifes back away quickly, swinging the door shut and weaving a leather rope tightly through one of the bars on both the door and the wall. The wind picks up and rustles the overhead pine trees, and I begin to shiver. The longer the night wears on, the colder it's going to be. I clench my chilly fingers into a fist and strain against my binds in frustration, trying to wrangle my way out.

"I already tried that, genius." Mark huffs, sitting with his back straight as he takes in every angle of the cell, trying to find a chunk of weakness somewhere in the roughly built wall. "These people don't know how to build for shit, but if we try climbing out of here we'll probably get sliced all to hell. See if you can untie me."

I ignore his rude jab and shuffle irritably forward, and he rotates himself so that I have a complete view of his back. All the knots are rested at the small of his back, above the tailbone, a difficult place for someone to reach on their own. My hands are at my sides though and unless I attempt to untie him with one hand, I won't be able to at all.

"Sit still." I order abruptly, as I wiggle my dominant hand, the left one, free. "This is going to be a compromising position."

'Whatever that means." He grumbles. Again, ignoring him seems to be the only way for me to not kick him in the head, so I try to think of something to ask him while we're stuck here, especially since I'm about to get uncomfortably close to him. I push my shoulder against his back, twisting around so that my fingers are fumbling clumsily with the knots. I hook my finger into one of the loops of rope, tugging against it to try and pull it free. To no avail. I grit my teeth.

"How old are you anyway?" I ask him suddenly, actually wondering and I honestly can't tell. He goes to interrupt me and I continue, not wanting to get discouraged because I really hate initiating talk. If he knew the effort he I was putting in, he wouldn't be making this nearly so difficult. "Just answer the damn question, I'm nineteen years old, but here I am working to save our asses. This isn't exactly fun for me. How old are you?"

He sighs frustratedly, apparently back to his old distaste with me now that he's aware that I'm not dead. "I'm twenty one." he grumbles, "and I only need your help because I can't move my hands. I don't want Marzia to try getting in here. We need to get out before they think about sending help."

I think back to what Marzia said to me up on the watchtower, about people underestimating how capable she was.
"Marzia's tough." I argue, "she can handle herself."

"That's not what I meant." He grumbles, shifting uncomfortably as I work at the knot. It's not unwinding and I give up, leaning directly against his side with my head using his back as leverage. The knot loosens and Mark stiffens like he's been burned, shooting up almost comically.

"What are you doing?!" He hisses, causing me to drop the rope as he whips around. I have no idea what he's talking about and his face is weirdly red, it takes me a while to put two and two together.

"What do you meaning what am I doing? Are you talking about me leaning on you to get the rope loose? Does that make you uncomfortable?"

He narrows his eyes, but slowly he begins to nod.

"Do you really have to do that?" He asks irritably. "Are you trying pull some sort of move on me?"

My eyes widen at his notion, which is ridiculous. He thinks I'm trying to get cozy with him because of some capture opportunity? Is he really that egotistical or is he just plain stupid?

"What?!" I exclaim, using my feet to push myself away from him as quickly as possible. "What prompted you to think anything like that? I thought you wanted the rope loose. I'm untying it with one hand. Patch up your fragile masculinity and grow the hell up. I warned you it was going to be a compromising position!"

He mutters something irritable about not knowing the definition of a word that literally no one uses and I don't even bother to try enlightening him. This is just one of the many reasons I didn't have that many friends in school. People were weirded out by my articulate use of language, they wanted everything broken down into something simple, throw in some euphemisms if possible and a hint of slang. Because that was cool. That's what Mark's reaction reminds me of right now, people who thought they were better than me because they were cool.

"Do you have some sort of problem?" I ask, shooting him a glare. "Maybe you can untie yourself after all, if you wanna make things weird."

"You're the one that decided to get all cuddly." He retorts, "I'd rather you didn't touch me, if you can at all avoid it." I shake my head in frustration, now very uncomfortable despite the fact that I wasn't before. He's impossible.

"I'm the least cuddly person imaginable." I grumble, so angry I could hit him until a sudden possibility strikes me.

"What? Worried I'm gay?" I quip, sitting cross-legged as I stare expressionlessly at his shocked face. "Do you think that, even if I was, that I would be wanting to get friendly with you, after being captured by a bunch of flesh-eating maniacs? Do you think that's what would be on my mind?"

He looks away and shakes his head somewhat reluctantly, shuffling once more to show me his back. I make my way over, clumsily maneuvering my hands over the next knot and trying not to touch him at all beyond that, not because I'm embarrassed, I'm not, I'm just really angry.

"God." He huffs, his shoulders tense. "I don't want to piss you off or anything. This is all just such a mess. I can't believe they just knocked us down like that. And I bet you're no happier to be alone with me here than I am with you. I always put my foot in my mouth when I'm stressed."

As if I give a damn at all. Another knot loosens and now his one arm is free, and he stretches it out, gazing back at me purposefully. I ignore him, working away at the final one.

"You want to tell me you're not?" He asks suddenly. "And why does it even matter? It doesn't change who you are."

"You don't know me at all." I tell him firmly. "And it seems like a hell of a big deal to you, considering your reaction. So excuse me if I'm uncomfortable."

"That's your choice." He counters. "Nothing to be uncomfortable about unless you're hiding something. And for the record, I don't care at all, but I'd appreciate some honesty."

I clench my fist tightly, trying not to scream in irritation. "I am being honest, so stop asking me. Maybe you should try getting to know people without making assumptions."
The final knot gets tugged free and he immediately starts waving his arms around wildly, shaking off the thick ropes as I shuffle away. I stare at him coldly from a distance of a couple feet, and he's immediately discouraged from pressing me.

"Forget it." He mutters. "Turn around and let me untie your ropes. We have a better chance of escape unharmed if we do it in the dark."

He's right, the zombeasts and half-lifes have eyes like Cat, silvery with terrible vision. Their senses of smell are still incredibly good, but they would have to get near us to notice them. Already the light is fading and we're in the corner of the campsite, the cell grown over with brush and trees, so if we want to start planning something, we should probably do it now. I'm just miffed about the weird way he's treating me. I had for some reason thought that he'd been concerned for me, and maybe he was a little, but mostly he was just difficult.

What made him think I was gay? All I did was attempt to untie him with a high level of success. He's still stuck on it like it's a big deal, when I could honestly give less of a shit. I decide to mess with with him as he moves to start freeing me, taking it as my own small form of petty revenge.

He starts to loosen the first knot and turn my head to face him, staring wide-eyed back at him as I try to create a convincing mock look of shock.

"Careful, Mark!" I chide sarcastically. "Don't get too close to me while you're doing that, it's makes me feel like you're pulling a move!"

"Fuck off." He spits, and I cackle wickedly.

"Now you know how stupid you sound." I retort easily, smirking as he struggles to free me even with both of his hands there to help. "How about you focus on untying me, and less on my beautiful face? I know that's probably very hard for you."

"Don't make me regret worrying about you." He growls, yanking the ropes to purposefully deliver a mildly painful snap. "I can't believe you're not dead. Do you always shoot off your mouth like that?"

"Don't you?"

He stops, the hand on my knotted rope tensing.
"Well uh, yeah, I do." He says plainly, like this is pretty obvious.

I half-smile, realizing we actually do have something in common. "Well would you look at that. You and me both, pal."

"Don't expect me to come out and say sorry to you." He says warningly. "I'm not giving you an apology." He's struggling, still fumbling over the same knot. I tilt my head back to stare up at the sky, doing my best to collect my thoughts. The purple clouds are glowing slightly with the last sunbeams of the day. The air smells of the half-life bonfire and the piney scent of trees, it's really a beautiful night for an escapade. I find it's only going to be easier if Mark and I temporarily cooperate.

"Well don't expect me to come out." I joke, still not willing to let him go for being ignorant. "You won't see it happen."

"There is no way you're straight."

"What ever do you mean?" I ask slowly, deliberately, keeping up the joke but trying to get my point across. "As far as you're concerned, I'm straight as an arrow. If that ever changes, I'll be sure to let you know."

"You do that, Danny boy." He says sarcastically, yanking particularly forcefully on my binds and finally loosening one knot. I want to go at him for using that stupid nickname, but he suddenly switches to another topic, stopping me before I've even started.

"What was all that shit about the Confederation? I thought those were just some dudes on TV?"

I shake my head, at a loss for any explanation at all.
"That's all I thought they were too. Just some ragtag group of scientists, they sort of sank into the background once their project was a flop."

"It was some sort of biohazard experiment, that's why it made the news." Mark adds thoughtfully, "the higher powers didn't like it because it it was immoral and stuff. 2009 was all about finding cures, not introducing a biological war weapon."

That's what's so worrying about it. For some slurred-voiced half-life like Borg, he seems pretty solidly convinced that they're the ones that apparently started the apocalypse. They're the reason for the zombeasts, the reason all of us no longer have a home.
What must London be like now? It's probably a disaster.

"And why would the half lifes say those guys would want me? What's so special about my existence that they would know about?" I ask, remembering Borg saying that the group would like me.

"No offence, kid, but I really don't see what would make the apocalypse gods so interested in having you. Maybe you smell funny. Maybe they think you'd make a good zombie. All I know is, they don't want me."

Normally I would find some of that offensive, but this time the message isn't so bad. "No honestly," I answer, feeling relief as the rope begins to loosen at my waist. "This is the one time where being below what's acceptable is a good thing. I don't want them to want me, being known by the Confederation if they're somehow that powerful will ultimately lead to my death."

The rope snaps, I guess he gave up and decided to use the power of his own fingers maybe, all I know is I can use my arms again. "Thanks." I mutter, to which he hums in reply. "Do you really think you should be calling me kid?" I ask him pointedly, "We're literally only two years apart. Phil is older than you are."

He just shrugs, choosing not to comment at all.

My hand immediately drifts to the gun wedged in my pocket, and my mind flits back to that little boy. Maybe it was him that put it there. I hope it was, because otherwise he's just demonstrated his knowledge of my concealed weapon which will make our escaping safely much harder. I look out through the bars of the cell to see the activity of the savages, and conveniently they all look to be preoccupied by the bonfire, gathering around it and dancing on some kind of strange madness-fuelled ritual. Maybe the turning ceremony isn't their only tradition, but at least for now the majority of them are distracted. As for the zombeasts, I'm not sure how many of them there are or what their location is, but I figure that's a risk we'll have to take.

It's like Mark is reading my mind.
"They all look busy right now." He says lowly. "I have a knife concealed in my jacket and we might be able to cut through the door rope to get free. We have to hurry, and the second it's open we sprint off into the woods. Don't even look back for the zombeast wolves, it's not worth the time."

"What did they do, capture and threaten us and then decide they could just toss us away?" I wonder aloud, nervousness tugging at me as this whole situation seems too easy and convenient. Like it or not, it's our only way out with minimal conflict, and it's looking like we'll have to do it soon, who knows how long the half-lifes will stay busy. Surely they thought that having us tightly tied and surrounded in barbed wire would be enough, if it were my prisoners I certainly would. I tell myself this as I evaluate the situation, looking to Mark as though he holds the answers when in reality, he's about as unsure as me.

He pulls out the knife and shrugs his shoulders, slowly creeping over to the door with eyes locked on the monsters. He can't be seen doing this, they don't even know we're free of our bonds yet. His fingers wrap around the leather tie and he slowly begins to saw through it, drawing the blade back and forth in a rhythmic motion. I move over to keep watch for him, my body tense in trepidation.

The leather proves tougher than either of us originally thought, and Mark's knife is not serrated. Thus the cutting free process is painfully tedious, and when what should have been a one minute process stretches into more, that's when I start to get anxious.

I'm about to offer to take the blade from his hands and try it myself, positive that even I could do this faster, when I look down and nearly scream as I see a small, pale face gazing at me from the shadows. It's the little boy, and Mark starts viciously when I tap him uneasily so that he notices him too.

"Are you sure you should be doing that?" The boy asks, his face full of suspicion as though he's about to tattle. His voice sounds too knowing and too calm for such a young person, and I immediately reach for the gun, instinct telling me we're in for a fight.

"The family would tear you to pieces if they knew you were doing it, and for you that would be very bad."