Weavers Book I: The Cutters

Tip #4: Forget The Past

For a moment I am literally in the house, watching my friends die around me. Fitz... god knows what happened to him. Never saw nor heard from him again. Probably dead. Or worse. I'm so caught up in memory that I realize that I haven't been listening to anything Ryan is saying. I'm so caught up in past Ollie that I can't come to terms with present day Ollie. A monster. A Weeve. A worm. A zombie.
    A Cutter.
    I shudder despite the suffocating heat, humidity coating my lungs like an unwanted blanket.
    Sunscreen. The word pops into my head, so random and out of place that I almost ignore it completely. Then it hits me. Shit. If I stay out in this sun long enough, I'll be cooked alive. I might be mixed race, but I'm pale enough that five minutes in the sun and I look like a pissed off chameleon in an apple orchard.
    The subway tunnels are only a few miles away. I could make it before dark, but fucking Ryan is slowing me down. I can't really stay mad at him though. I'm more mad at myself. He's gonna go Weeve on me and then we'll both be in trouble. He's more trouble than he's worth.
    But for some reason, I can't leave him behind.
    "It's getting dark," Ryan says, looking around nervously. He's survived as long as I have, obviously he's seen that the Weeves flock to darkness like moths to a flame. They really are like moths, except without wings. Mindlessly chasing something that will ultimately destroy them.
    Moths are like humans. Moths are like Weeves. Humans are like Weeves. Is there anything that can't be a metaphor?
    My head hurts like the devil. But if I focus on that pain and not the PTSD looming in the back of my mind, I'm okay. Think about the headache. Think about Ryan, the pain-in-the-ass. Think about anything but Eidyn's head, smashed to pieces, or Marcus vomiting, or the worms, or...
    Fuck.
    "So, remind me again why we're going to the subways," Ryan says, staring uneasily at the cracked steps leading into the mouth of the abyss.
    "Supplies. Plus, we have an easy way to travel."
    "And what about the Worms?"
    "Everywhere has worms, Kid. They're just another useless bumling creature on this useless bumbling earth."
    "But—"
    "No buts. I'm going into the subway tunnels. You can either come with or leave." He drops his gaze, following submissively behind me.
    I almost wished he had turned back, had given up on me, had gone back to whatever hole he crawled out of, so I could be alone again. But I also know that's naive, a part of me knows that he's not going anywhere. No matter what, I've got an annoying trusty sidekick by my side.
    Woo-hoo.
    I guess it didn't make a difference whether we went into the tunnels or not. We would either live like flightless vultures above ground, or live like rats deep down in the sewers. Take your pick. Either way we get the same result. Scavenging. Living off of trash and stale McDonald's Coca-Cola.
    The meek shall inherit the earth, right? Well, who's meek, us or them? I might just be a kid, but the Weeves have little to no intelligence. Which of us is more pathetic? Is it a competition?
    My headache flares up again, hitting my skull like a punch.
    "Fuck," I say, stumbling.
    "You good?" Ryan asks.
    "I'm fine," I say, waving him off. I don't need any help. I've made it this far on my own. I don't need some kid to help me. Unless he's got three-dozen Advil and a cup of water, I have no use for him.
    "Here we are," Ryan says, making wild gestures around a decaying subway station. The signs are encrusted with mold and grime, as if the whole tunnel has been used as a trash dump. Under the smell of mold and burned rubber, there is the unmistakable stench of rotting corpses.
    Ryan smells it too, but says nothing, just wrinkles up his face like a 900 year old pig.
    "Well," I say. "Let's find a nice place to sleep. We can explore this wondrous labyrinth tomorrow."
    Ryan yawns as if on cue. "Good that," he says, rolling out his giant jacket on the grimy floor. I snort, staring out at the lifeless subway. It was white with red and blue stripes, and then the whole thing was covered in an inch of black dust.
    Disgusting, but better than sleeping on the floor.
    "Get up from that," I say, not taking my eyes off the train. "You'll get tetanus or some shit. Better to check out the inside of the train car. There'll be a lot less shit in there."
    "I-if you say so..." Ryan splutters, visibly shuddering at the idea. What is it with this kid? Does he have subway-phobia? What would you even call that?
    The inside smells like a homeless man's armpit, dirty and sweaty and covered with cheap perfume to pretend that they are clean and safe.
    I could live my whole life without smelling that, somehow it's even worse than the dead bodies smell.
    The car is completely deserted— of both the living and the dead. However, there's a giant Rumpke trash can that some wise-ass decided to drag in here. I kick the wheels and it lurches like a drunk caterpillar.
    "Empty," I say bitterly, making no effort to disguise my dismay. If we can't find any supplies down here—
    My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash.
    Ryan leaps away from the trash can with a gutteral shriek. "The fuck?" he yells, kicking a foot out defensively.
    "Calm your tits, calm your tits," says a muffled voice from inside the trash can. "I'm not diseased."
    "So if you're not a Weeve," I say. "Why are you hiding in the trash can?"
    "This?" the muffled voice says. "This here my armor. Ain't no Weeve can get me in here. I'm the Trash Can Man, the Invincible Stan. I've got heels and I've got wheels. With a sound like a stone grating against sheet metal, the trashcan rolls to the other side of the train car.
    "Woah," Ryan says. "Cool."
    "Why don't you come outta there?" I ask, warily clutching a brand new knife. I didn't trust this "Trash Can Man," or his claim that he was sick-free. Anyone living in a trash can had to be some kind of sicko.
    "No can do, Mr. Maroo, Trash Man is staying in the can."
    "Alright," I say. "Well, do you mind if we stay in this car, too?"
    "Whatevs, plebs. I don't care. I've got a mind of my own and an ear to the phone."
    "You make no sense," Ryan says.
    "Nope. I'm batshit fucked up, I am," Trash Can Man says.
    "So what's your name?" I ask, trying to sound casual despite the adrenaline rush in my ears.
    "I told you, I'm the Trash Can Man. My nonexistent friends call me Trashy. You can call me whatever."
    "Can you even see in there?" Ryan asks. "How do you eat?"
    "I eats through my teats and I speaks through my cheeks."
    "That's fucking disgusting," Ryan says, laughing hysterically. I don't laugh, I don't smile. I keep my eyes on Trashy and my hands on my blade. This dude is bad news. Straight outta the dump— literally.
    "How old are you?" I ask at last, my voice dry and hoarse.
    "Age is just a number," Trashy says. "False. Age is a word. I could be twenty, I could be eighty, I could be ten, I could be two. Doesn't make no matter at all to you."
    "That rhymes," Ryan says absently."
    "Indeedy-do it does," Trashy says. "But I suppose your nice lady-friend there is going to kill me if I don't give some kind of info. She's a paranoid one, she is. That a good trait to have in Apocalopolis."
    "Just tell me your age," I grunt through clenched teeth, trying to sound more menacing than I feel.
    "Fourteen and then some," Trashy says. "Same as you, dontcha know?"
    "How did you—"
    "I gots some swirlies of flotsam and jetsam in my head-sam."
    "How did you—"
    "No more questions, Paranoid Polly. Is my turn to ask some of my own. Taking turnies, you know?"
    "Like 20 Questions," Ryan says excitedly.
    "Well, since you get to interrogate me, I get to interrogate you, for a spell. Boy, what's you name?'
    "I'm Ryan."
    "I sense your lady friend doesn't want to talk," Trashy says. "Would you be kind enough to tell me her name?"
    Ryan looks momentarily stunned. "I... I don't actually know."
    Trashy gasps, sounding for all the world like a woman in the middle of an orgasm. "Well isn't that just a mighty scandal. Isn't it, Moura— oopsie-doopsie."
    "How do you know my name?" I demand angrily. The trash can rustles in silence for a moment, before a boy's head peeps out from under the trash can lid.
    "Well I'd expect I'd know it," Trashy says. "I am your twin, after all."