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I know what they call me. What they reckon I’ve become. Truth is, my path was set long before the goddamn virus and the end of the world as we knew it.
Jones is going over it again – how the now we’re in isn’t the now that was. It’s not that I don’t understand the words. It’s the concept I’m having trouble with. Yet, it makes sense on a level that I can’t explain. My crew look at me and I shrug. The hows aren’t important. But if she’s right – if we can reset – then maybe we should.
I don’t know who I’d be. Not everything can be rewritten.
Tuning the scientist out, my gaze drifts to our newer member. Cassandra. See, my schooling was shit, but there’s one thing I know about that name. When she leaves, I follow, partly because I know my presence annoys her, to mostly to shove that knowledge down her pretty throat.
“D’you know,” I call after her and she pauses, cos she’s not that smart. “Cassandra could see the future but she was cursed so that her prophecies wouldn’t be believed?”
She throws me a withering glance. “Fuck off, Deacon.”
“Not interesting?”
“No,” she says, but I catch the lilt that says she’s curious. She looks back again with a slight frown. I smirk at her, knowing the assumption she’s made. “She saw the fall of Troy.”
“And look what happened.”
I’m not sure what my point is but she gives a little sigh. She shoves her hands into her pockets. She seems unsettled, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re dragged thirty years into future. Even if it’s one she’s kind of seen. Fuck, my head is starting to hurt. Hers must be completely fucked up.
“Wanna drink?” I ask, surprising myself as much as her.
Her frown deepens. Her gaze takes me in. “Why?”
“Cos drinking alone sucks.” I’m annoyed. Mostly at my stupid invitation. You don’t let people close. You don’t have friends. Not in this life. It’s really fucking lonely. “A simple ‘no’ would suffice.”
“Okay,” she says and something resembling a smile touches her mouth. “I mean, yes. To the drink.”
I blink and she laughs at my surprise. Humour looks fucking good on her face. Better than the lost little lamb expression she’s been wearing since she woke up. I offer her my arm. She shakes her head, but she still puts her hand on my forearm.
“So,” she says as we walk through the compound. “If there’s no point to seeing the future, why are we trying to change the past?”
“Fucked if I know.”
She barks a laugh. “Direct.”
“I could couch it in nicer words if you want.”
“You mean lie?”
We enter what we call the dining room, but it’s just another dimly lit dust bowl and these are the lies we tell ourselves. I pull out a chair. She quirks an eyebrow at my chivalry.
“We need lies.” I put a bottle of whiskey on the table and find two cups. They look clean. Eh, the alcohol will purge them if not. Then I drop into the chair next to hers. “Like calling this a dining room when it’s a shithole. Like saying we’re gonna see the sunrise tomorrow when we’ve no fucking idea. Like pretending that machine will be our saviour. We lie because the truth is too damn ugly, Cassandra.”
“Cassie,” she murmurs, absentmindedly. “That was surprisingly poetic.” She accepts her cup with a smile and a befuddled look. “You’re not what I expected.”
I give a short, sharp laugh. Of that, I have no doubt. “So, what did you expect?”
“Horns, wings and a forked tail.” She hides her grin behind the cup. “Cloven hooves.”
“Fuck off,” I tell her, though there’s no weight behind it. I want her right where she is because, end of the fucking world or not, she intrigues me. She’s wary of me but not afraid. It’s been a while since someone last looked at me the way she does. Like she sees the man and not the myth. “Can’t tell if you’re disappointed in my lack of devilry or not.”
Cassie rotates her glass and watches the whiskey swirl. “Not,” she says after a while. “I don’t… I wasn’t a psychologist but you seem… more grounded. Less of a monster. I suppose it’s this.” Her wave takes in the room but I know she means more. Not just the compound, but the world. A shadow crosses her face. “That’s what frightens me.”
“How so?”
I shouldn’t care, but I can’t help myself. She’s too good for this world. It’ll eat her up and spit her out, if someone doesn’t stand in the way.
“Because if it can turn someone as strong as you, then I have no chance.”
It’s like she’s read my mind and I have to drain my cup. The whiskey burns a trail down my throat and sits, hot and uncomfortable, in my stomach.
You don’t make promises that you can’t keep. I know that. I’ve lived it for years. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Hell, an hour from now isn’t. Pretending otherwise is just another lie. Fuck, I’m tired of lying. Of not daring to hope. Of being the monster.
“Might be the alcohol talking–” it’s not “–but you have a chance.”
“Oh?”
I have lost my head, but I don’t care. Just this once, I want to believe I can be better than what I was made into. That this world stands a fucking chance after all.
I look at Cassie. Hold her gaze. “You have me.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t scoff. She picks up her cup and taps it against mine, then swallows the whiskey whole. Impressive.
“Okay,” she says simply and it feels like the future shifts.