The Opposite of Living (Wayfarer's End Book 1)

  The Opposite of Living

  by

  Genevieve Mckay

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Mudge and the menagerie; for keeping my feet on the ground and for believing in me. And it is also dedicated to my Mom for first introducing me to the magic and power of the written word.

  Table of Contents

  HUNGER

  The Worst (and only) Dream

  Escape Routes

  The Many Truths about Me

  Day 370 of my Incarceration

  Another Incident that was Totally Not my Fault

  Tuesday at the Hotel Carolina

  My Version of Polite

  The Wayfarers End

  The Interrogator’s Daughter

  Assassins Log

  The Blue People

  The Fight

  Outside

  Cutting

  The Way I Hated Horses

  Aunt Sandra’s Confession

  The Incredibly Creepy Man

  Moving Day

  FIRST BITE

  The Fat Man in Pajamas

  Louisa

  I get yelled at. Again.

  The Door in the Wall

  Petra

  The Strange Old Man

  Lemons

  The Diary

  The Little Girl

  The Last Dream

  LAST SUPPER

  Sunrise

  Goodbye to all things Quiet

  The thing about Tornados

  August

  The Red Devil

  Bird Watching

  The Day to End All Days

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  HUNGER

  “Let us beware of saying that death is the opposite of life. The living being is only a species of the dead, and a very rare species.”

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  “A hungry man can’t see right or wrong. He just sees food.”

  —Pearl S. Buck

  April 1st

  The Worst (and only) Dream

  No matter how hard I fought, I couldn’t stop the dream from coming. I turned fitfully in my bed, struggling to keep my eyes open. There was the inevitable pulling sensation in my stomach and the next moment I was wrenched outside into the morning light. I floated upright a few feet above a crumbling sidewalk, my bare toes dangling uselessly in the air. There was no delight in the weightless feel of my dream body as it bobbed up and down like a balloon tied to a string. My heart sunk somewhere around my toes. I knew where I was.

  The dirty row of faded brick warehouses stared back at me with cold, empty eyes. Graffiti covered almost every available surface, making the street look even more gritty and abandoned. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest and fought to keep my panic down.

  It’s only a dream, I told myself fiercely. It will be over soon and you’ll wake up safe in your bed. You can handle this.

  Off to my left was the same rusted brown car that was always there. The one with the little girl crying in the back seat. I couldn’t hear her yet, but I knew she was there. I knew the dream by heart and it never changed. As if she sensed me thinking about her, the little girl turned around to face me, her dirty tear-streaked face pressed up against the window, hands flattened desperately against the glass.

  Look away, I thought, fighting back tears. I forced myself to stare at the ground instead as the familiar wave of helplessness and nausea washed over me. I didn’t rush over and yank the car door open and tell her everything was going to be okay. Part of me still wanted to, even after all this time, yet that was not how the dream worked. I was a puppet tied to an invisible string, a witness forced to watch this scene play out over and over again. I had given up trying to change things a long time ago.

  Out of nowhere, a large man appeared. His muscles rippled as he walked toward the car and a terrible smile played across his face. His eyes were fixed on the girl like a blood-thirsty tiger stalking its next meal.

  The tight grip I kept on my panic slipped another notch and I fought like mad to keep it under control. I was right at the worst part of the dream, the part where I usually woke up screaming, covered in sweat. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest I was sure anyone standing within twenty feet could hear the thundering.

  There was a quick flash of silver. He had pulled out a knife and had the blade hidden in his other hand. Each time his pointy boots hit the dirt, dust swirled, rising around him in a halo, making him look like he walked through smoke. Tattoos of wild angry horses breathing fire, or standing on their hind legs raking the air with sharp, bloody hooves covered his bare arms and shoulders. The horses’ eyes and sharp teeth shifted as he stalked toward the car, rippling as if they were alive and hungry. I wanted to run over and tear them off his arms. When he reached out to grab the car’s door handle, the little girl turned toward me, opened her mouth, and screamed. A terrible keening like the wail a rabbit caught in a trap would make. Fighting to keep from throwing up, I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hands over my ears. I told myself over and over, it was only a dream. I twisted back and forth, fighting against the invisible ropes holding me in place, struggling to force myself to wake up. Abruptly, I stopped dead, caught somewhere between my dream and the everyday world, my skin prickling, warning me of danger. Someone in the real world had eased my bedroom door open and now crept slowly toward where I lay sleeping.

  I came out of the dream carefully, controlling my breathing, letting my senses test the air around me.

  There were three of them; two were strangers, but the Warden’s lavender deodorant lingered in the hall behind them—she was lurking out there somewhere, too. I allowed myself to relax a fraction of an inch. The Warden might not like me, but she was hardly a killer. If she wanted to get rid of me, she would have smothered me in my sleep herself a long time ago for all the stuff I’d put her through over the last year. Then why bring strangers here in the middle of the night to stare at me?

  I focused harder: bird sounds, light rain on the roof, the smell of morning coffee. I cursed myself; I had somehow missed my usual 4:00 A.M. wake up time. That was bad. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, my skills had slipped over the last few months. I slept in past my alarm more than I’d like to admit. I did my schoolwork almost every day and I even liked some of my assignments. I hadn’t bitten anyone in months. Every day I lost pieces of my armour and that terrified me. I had no idea how I was supposed to protect myself if it disappeared completely. Without the protective wall I’d built around myself, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be.

  Low voices drifted through the room.

  “We don’t know for sure what she remembers.” The Warden’s voice was barely a whisper.

  I concentrated on listening, but the words faded in and out before I could make sense of them.

  “She’s been a . . . trouble. All she cares about . . . food. You must be careful of . . . biting . . . watch her . . . .”

  Yes, they were definitely talking about me. I wished I could hear more clearly. Maybe I had been wrong about the Warden not being angry enough to kill me; maybe she was finally done with me and had brought in assassins to finish me off. I clenched and unclenched my fists, fighting to stay in control of my fear. I always got panicky when people talked about me, or stared at me, or tried to assassinate me. I had a special surprise for them this time, though.

  I silently thanked Mrs. Smith, who had unblocked my internet to allow me to get on the ‘Recipe for Survival!’ website. She’d thought the site was about how to cook things you found in the woods, not how to survive the end of the world. Thanks to her I had
learned how to build weapons for any occasion. I knew how to make bows and arrows, rope ladders, even small explosives. I also knew how to defend a fortress from attackers.

  With lightning-quick reflexes, I slid over to the furthest side of the bed and dropped down through the body-sized gap between the bed and the wall, landing with a thump onto the mounded blankets I had piled into a comfy nest below. I reached up, slammed the bed back against the wall, snapping on the clips to attach the bed legs to the radiator. I was in a perfectly defendable fortress big enough for me and my books and weapons. Protected on two sides by the walls and on the other two sides by the traps I set up for anyone stupid enough to try and corner me.

  Stay calm. Don’t make any sudden moves. Let them come to you.

  I breathed slowly, allowing my thudding heart to fall back into its rhythm, listening for my attackers. Nothing. I didn’t move. There was silence for such a long time, I inched myself forward on my elbows to see what was happening. The Warden and the strange man were gone, leaving one pair of feet standing alone at the door. Sandaled feet with bare toes, the toenails painted with red and gold swirls. That was new. All the wardens had to wear those ugly white rubber orthopedic shoes and the inmates downstairs usually shuffled around in slippers. The sandaled feet shifted back and forth a few times before edging toward me, moving silently until they stopped a few feet away from my lair.

  Her voice when she spoke surprised me. The sound was soft and musical, rising and falling in a way that almost sounded familiar. A voice a specially trained assassin or kidnapper might use to lure someone into their trap.

  “Carolina, honey? Can you hear me? We’re not here to hurt you. You’ve never met me, sweetie. My name is Sandra and I’m your Aunt. Your father was my brother.”

  Her voice broke. It sounded like she might even be crying.

  Wow, I thought, these assassins know how lay it on thick. She sounds like she’s actually crying.

  She sniffled, then spoke again. “We didn’t know you were in trouble, sweetheart. We’d love you to come and stay with us. We live not far from here, in the country. Can you hear me?”

  Oh. I breathed a sigh of relief and laughed shakily under my breath. They’ve made a mistake. They’ve mixed me up with one of the rich criminals downstairs. They want to kidnap me and hold me for ransom.

  Maybe someone had played an April Fools’ Day trick on them. I didn’t have a father or any family, and that’s the way I liked it. The only good part about being plain old inmate #31—no one and nothing in the outside world anyone could use to hurt me anymore. I had to be cautious, though; the assassin was obviously convinced it was me they were after. In case things turned dangerous, I slipped my blowgun into my hands and held it ready in front of me.

  There was a stretch of silence before the feet moved slowly toward me again. The woman stopped and knelt beside the bed with a grunt. She tilted her body sideways so she could peer into my lair with large brown eyes damp with tears. She managed to look sweet and friendly, but I knew it was all an act. A wave of dark hair exactly the same shade as mine fell to the floor over her shoulder and pooled across the floor. I stared at it for a second as if it were a living animal. It was silky and alive, whereas my dark hair was always a dirty, tangled mess that clung in mats to my head.

  Easy, steady now. I pushed my panic away and moved the gun to my lips, waiting for that one perfect opportunity. As she bent closer, I saw my chance. I took a sharp breath and blew it out in one swift blast. I watched my tiny army of sharpened, poison-tipped missiles launch toward her face. I had a short, happy instant watching her expression change from fake smiles to surprise to horror in less than a second before the screaming began. Feet came thundering into the room.

  “Carolina!” The Warden’s bellow echoed down the hallway. She was too late. I was already curled deep into my nest, unreachable.

  *****

  After what the Head Interrogator called “my troubling incident,” I was locked in Solitary with only weak, watery vegetable soup and dry, cardboard-flavoured crackers to eat. My whole collection of Gordon Ramsay DVDs were taken, too, even though I bit and scratched like crazy to keep them. The Warden came in without saying anything. She slammed down my food tray so hard soup sloshed everywhere, then stomped out, throwing a murderous look over her shoulder. I didn’t know what the matter was with her. She was the one who’d sent in a badly trained assassin who didn’t know how to defend herself. She should have known better. I was so angry about losing Gordon, I chewed my nails until they bled. Nobody offered me so much as a Band-Aid.

  April 2nd

  Escape Routes

  4:30 A.M. My alarm clock went off. I rolled out of bed already dressed and fully awake before my feet hit the floor. I’d gone over my usual escape routes the night before, but the visit from the strangers left me restless and jumpy. I checked my exits two or three times a day and still didn’t feel nearly paranoid enough. Deep in my bones I sensed change was coming. I had to be prepared for anything.

  I padded to the window to see if the latch was unlocked. The window opened easily allowing me to peer cautiously into the darkness. There were no stars, just a vast wall of black that pressed in on me, fog rolling miles in from the ocean. I shuddered and shut the window with a bang. It wasn’t like I could use that escape route now anyway unless I wanted to leap two stories and squash myself on the pavement like a bug. My carefully-made sock rope had been confiscated during one of the Warden’s room searches and I’d completely forgotten to make a new one. To be honest, there was probably zero chance I would ever step foot outside again, let alone crawl out the window, but the idea of being cornered and trapped made me feel sick inside.

  No, I can’t be penned up again, I thought.

  I stared at my thin, pale reflection in the window and ran my hands over my lumpy, matted hair. In the dim light the dark shadows under my eyes and sharp angular bones of my face made me look older than I was. One of the inmates downstairs told me once that my big eyes and pointy chin made me look like an alien and everyone had laughed. I’d made him pay for saying it, but the words stuck. My face was also one of the many reasons the wardens didn’t like me much.

  “She’s an unnatural-looking child.” I’d overheard one of them say. “She stares right through me with those dark eyes. It makes me shiver.” The other wardens had shushed her, telling her she was being silly, but she’d clucked her tongue knowingly.

  I shook my head to clear it of bad thoughts and got back to work. Piling my books in a tower on the bed, I carefully climbed on top of them, balancing like an acrobat. I took a second to steady myself before bouncing gently, higher and higher, until I was able to touch the tips of my fingers to the covered ceiling vent. I managed to hook my fingers under the edge and pushed hard to flick the vent cover off. The plastic square hit the bed without making hardly a sound, and I stared up into the dusty black hole leading into the ceiling. I wasn’t exactly sure where the hole went; I’d been up there twice before, but hadn’t made it far before bailing out. All I’d seen was darkness and a couple of oversized spiders. Still, it was reassuring to know the tunnel was there if someone broke in and I needed to hide.

  I knelt to look under the bed. The secret exit I’d been carving into the dingy white drywall near the headboard was almost big enough to fit my body. Every day I dug the edges slightly deeper and wider with a spoon I’d stolen from the kitchen. With any luck, I would be able to fit inside in another month or two.

  I double-checked my bedroom door to make sure the latch was unlocked and the metal handle was cool to the touch—in case there happened to be a fire raging on the other side. I didn’t expect there would be, but it was always best to be ready for anything. There was no fire, and since there was nothing else to do, I decided to do a quick run to gather more supplies.

  Supply runs were usually one of my only joys in that cold and boring place. I loved creeping through the semi-dark halls by myself, my bare feet padding over the cool, plastic
tiles. I’d practice jumping from square to square in the linoleum, avoiding the lines, and explore the rooms I never got to see in the daytime. In the dark quiet I could relax and be myself. I wasn’t supposed to creep around all alone, of course, but I didn’t hurt anything. I was also careful not to get caught. If the Warden and the Head Interrogator had been people who followed rules, or if I’d lived in any other type of prison, I would never have been allowed outside of my room at all.

  Just a quick ten-minute trip, I told myself, no lingering.

  I did a rapid inventory in my head. The last of my fiery hot sauce mixture had been used on the assassins’ poison-tipped arrows; restocking that was my first priority. A few snacks and small supplies should do it for tonight.

  I slunk down the hall like a shadow, moving fast and silent in the darkness. After a few steps I hesitated, listening. Something felt wrong. The air was heavier than usual, and the dark did not feel like my friend this time. I slowed to a crawl, my skin prickling and nerves on edge. The walk down the hallway felt endless, my body jumping at every noise the old building made. When I finally slipped through the kitchen door, I breathed a sigh of relief. The supplies hardly mattered now. I rifled carelessly through the cupboards, grabbing random packages and sauces before quickly moving back toward the safety of my room.

  The mission should have been dead easy. I’d walked the route a million times. But the reason the night was so oppressive became clear. The Warden was not safely in her own home where she was supposed to be. Instead, she waited in the darkness for me like a puma. When I was within range, she pounced. Even on a good day I would never have been a fighting match for the Warden. She had me held in a tight headlock with my arms pinned to my sides before I could lash out. She shook me so hard I couldn’t think straight.

  “Car-O-Lina.” She hissed in my ear, biting each section of my name into angry pieces. “Young lady, you will stop this nonsense and get back to your room right now. You’re not a child anymore, you’re a teenager. It is time you grew up and thought about someone other than yourself for a change.”