It’s only insecure assholes who think that being afraid or angry when confronted with something terrifying is something to be ashamed of. For people with even a modicum of self-awareness, it’s easy to identify these as perfectly healthy and normal reactions.
It’s just that letting either guide me would be bad.
I heard muffled conversation through the floor above, then heavy footfalls. Someone opened a door behind me and walked down a set of squeaky old steps. You know the kind; warped from years of traffic, bending slightly in the middle from wear and age.
Whoever it was grabbed a chair and did the old ‘drag the chair behind them so it scrapes around the floor and unnerves the person tied to the other chair’ routine. It was super effective.
A man came into view. He sat his chair in front of mine and sat. My first impression? This wasn’t a man any longer. It was a zombie. The body language practically screamed it. His muscles were bunched, his movements stiff and jerky. He sat with an abruptness that could only be caused by a lack of coordination.
But it was a man. A living, breathing person. Especially the breathing part—his chest rose and fell in sharp, rapid stutters.
He wasn’t remarkably large or particularly small. A white man of early middle years, with a thick shock of salt and pepper hair and a plain farmer’s face. Other than his mannerisms, a single thing told me something about this guy was off.
Thick, dark lines overlaid the veins in his neck. I risked a look at his eyes and saw nothing out of the ordinary there, nor on his wrists. Whatever crept up from his chest, it only showed in the workhorse blood vessels leading up to his brain.
The common misconception that mental illness equates to violent behavior is a bad one, but that being said, I’ve seen a few aggressive and violent people with personality disorders. That’s what this guy reminded me of. Specifically I recalled the short time I’d lived in New Orleans, when a crazed junkie tried to rob me. This guy looked like every artist’s rendering of a pleasant rancher, but with a monkey on his back angry for a fix.
I had a sneaking suspicion drugs had no part in it.
The man stared at me, tendons in the sides of his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth over and over.
“Where are the rest of your people?” he asked suddenly, as if he could surprise the information from me.
“No idea,” I said.
He grimaced, wide, clenched teeth showing. I got the sense he was trying hard to hold something back. “Yeah, right. You don’t tell me, I’m gonna have to knock it out of you.”
Though my heart tripped over a few beats at the words, I nodded calmly.
“You’re welcome to try,” I said. “Won’t be my first rodeo.”
12
“What’s your name?” I asked as the farmer slowly worked himself up to tearing my head off. He’d moved the chair out of the way and was rolling his sleeves up. My assumption was that whatever had killed people with injuries and brought them back to life had infected him in some way I didn’t understand.
There was clearly a fight going on in him between the person he was and the urge to harm his sickness pushed through his brain. While he might want to hit me, the rational part of him had to throttle up slowly. Otherwise he risked killing me through a loss of control.
Man, did I know what that was like.
“What’s yours?” he asked.
I just barely smiled. “If I tell you that, you might figure out where my friends are.”
It was his turn to smile. “So, they’re at your place.”
Damn. I outsmarted myself.
“I’m Len,” he said, standing before me in a twitchy, ready-to-fight stance. “I don’t want to hurt you, lady, but we need food.”
My curiosity was piqued. “We all need food, man, but it’s only been a day. You can’t be that hungry yet.”
Len crouched down in front of me, angling his jaw sharply and jamming a finger against the dark lines in his neck. “See
It’s just that letting either guide me would be bad.
I heard muffled conversation through the floor above, then heavy footfalls. Someone opened a door behind me and walked down a set of squeaky old steps. You know the kind; warped from years of traffic, bending slightly in the middle from wear and age.
Whoever it was grabbed a chair and did the old ‘drag the chair behind them so it scrapes around the floor and unnerves the person tied to the other chair’ routine. It was super effective.
A man came into view. He sat his chair in front of mine and sat. My first impression? This wasn’t a man any longer. It was a zombie. The body language practically screamed it. His muscles were bunched, his movements stiff and jerky. He sat with an abruptness that could only be caused by a lack of coordination.
But it was a man. A living, breathing person. Especially the breathing part—his chest rose and fell in sharp, rapid stutters.
He wasn’t remarkably large or particularly small. A white man of early middle years, with a thick shock of salt and pepper hair and a plain farmer’s face. Other than his mannerisms, a single thing told me something about this guy was off.
Thick, dark lines overlaid the veins in his neck. I risked a look at his eyes and saw nothing out of the ordinary there, nor on his wrists. Whatever crept up from his chest, it only showed in the workhorse blood vessels leading up to his brain.
The common misconception that mental illness equates to violent behavior is a bad one, but that being said, I’ve seen a few aggressive and violent people with personality disorders. That’s what this guy reminded me of. Specifically I recalled the short time I’d lived in New Orleans, when a crazed junkie tried to rob me. This guy looked like every artist’s rendering of a pleasant rancher, but with a monkey on his back angry for a fix.
I had a sneaking suspicion drugs had no part in it.
The man stared at me, tendons in the sides of his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth over and over.
“Where are the rest of your people?” he asked suddenly, as if he could surprise the information from me.
“No idea,” I said.
He grimaced, wide, clenched teeth showing. I got the sense he was trying hard to hold something back. “Yeah, right. You don’t tell me, I’m gonna have to knock it out of you.”
Though my heart tripped over a few beats at the words, I nodded calmly.
“You’re welcome to try,” I said. “Won’t be my first rodeo.”
12
“What’s your name?” I asked as the farmer slowly worked himself up to tearing my head off. He’d moved the chair out of the way and was rolling his sleeves up. My assumption was that whatever had killed people with injuries and brought them back to life had infected him in some way I didn’t understand.
There was clearly a fight going on in him between the person he was and the urge to harm his sickness pushed through his brain. While he might want to hit me, the rational part of him had to throttle up slowly. Otherwise he risked killing me through a loss of control.
Man, did I know what that was like.
“What’s yours?” he asked.
I just barely smiled. “If I tell you that, you might figure out where my friends are.”
It was his turn to smile. “So, they’re at your place.”
Damn. I outsmarted myself.
“I’m Len,” he said, standing before me in a twitchy, ready-to-fight stance. “I don’t want to hurt you, lady, but we need food.”
My curiosity was piqued. “We all need food, man, but it’s only been a day. You can’t be that hungry yet.”
Len crouched down in front of me, angling his jaw sharply and jamming a finger against the dark lines in his neck. “See
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