Terminus: A Novella of the Apocalypse Read Online Free Page B

in her left hand and a savage hiss on her lips.
    Warily, she squares off against me, crouched low, head held high and eyes forward.  Her powerful, shapely legs work beneath her to maneuver into the best position to fight or run, but I know she will choose the former over the latter, since running only prolongs any new-world conflict.
    Seeing her there, my head swivels to search for Terminals.  Finding none, I drag a rough hand across a rubber face, sigh, and return to my easy chair.  I have experienced her kind many times since Terminus.
    I groan, “Fetch me something to eat and drink.”
    Her eyes press thin to suspicious slats.  She holds her attack pose for several seconds longer, but I can see acceptance rising in her gaze.
    I add, “And toilet paper.  Don’t forget toilet paper.  Get the good stuff.  I don’t want any poke-throughs, you know.”  When The Girl continues to linger, I remove my hand from my face, lean forward across my knees and bark, “Go!”
    She jumps.  She goes.
    I wonder if she will return.  Then I don’t care if she does or not.  Unfortunately, I expect she will.  They always do for a day or two.  Until they learn me.  She will try to wiggle herself into the cracks and crevasses of my psyche and allow me to use her as I please until she figures me completely.  Then she will learn how the absence of my wife and children has filled every gap in my thoughts and every space in my heart.  She will learn how complete my torment has become, such that nothing remains of my former character to show her anything close to kindness or mercy.  She will get the hard, brutal Terminus leftovers and nothing more.  Then she will leave or force me to kill her.  They always do.
    Five minutes later, I hear footsteps in the char and cinders of the windswept ruins.  I open my eyes to find her tromping along the street toward me, her arms laden with canned goods and a plastic-wrapped six-pack of TP.
    Instead of approaching my chair, however, she stops at a nearby pew from the church, which someone has long ago dragged onto the curb opposite that now defunct structure.  Sitting, she deposits the TP at her feet and then arranges the food beside her.  Methodically, she selects a can of something she likes, uses an opener drawn from a designer purse to cut away its top, and then extracts a spoon from the same voluminous bag to begin eating.
    Curiously, I size her.  She is tall.  Well made.  Muscular and fit.  Her sandy blonde hair is long but tied severely into a bun.  She wears expensive athletic attire, which I know will breathe well and keep her warm without encumbering her, should she need to fight or flee.  Indeed, she has pressed her feet into a pair of cross-trainers that look rugged enough to hike the wilderness yet light enough to run a marathon.  The bag is the only anomaly.  It is huge and gaudy.  Before Terminus, it might have been expensive.  She probably pilfered it from a boutique somewhere.  I guess it has everything she needs within it, including multiple weapons.  In fact, I note the knife is nowhere to be seen on her person.
    Her face is pleasant.  Placid.  Her eyes are green.  Brilliant.  Disinterested.  She is beautiful in a plain yet perfect way, save for a savage scar etched across her cheek from her left ear to the left corner of her mouth.
    “Well?” I demand harshly, my voice strange in my ears.  “Bring me breakfast.”
    She continues eating.  She does not ignore me, exactly, since her flat gaze remains fixed on me, but neither is she compliant.  She simply eats and stares.
    Exasperated, the grumble of my stomach drives me up and out of my easy chair.  Moving stiffly for the abuse of my former endeavors, I hobble along the sidewalk to the bench.  As I near, she drops her spoon into the can of soup and then gingerly places the can onto the seat beside her.  Reaching into her massive, brilliant bag, she extracts the knife.  This, she lays across her