The Seven Habits

Gauge was laughing at Levi’s scowl and he put his hand on Ocean’s shoulder as he winked at the young girl.

“What do you think, honey? Think clumsy Levi there would last a couple months topside?”

Levi repeated the same gesture that Ocean had given to Corduroy and the woman’s eyes narrowed playfully.

“Seems to me, there was a time when Mr. Patterson was a bit clumsy as well.”

Though her words were delivered in a light singsong, the smile disappeared from Gauge’s face as quickly as the smoke from the fire curled into the broken pipe that served as a chimney. His grip on Ocean’s shoulder tightened and she felt his body stiffen in response to the words.

“Not funny, Levi.”

Gauge’s voice was as cold as his stare and, despite the emotional turmoil that still raged within her, Ocean’s curiosity was so great that she had to ask.

“Who’s Mr. Patterson?”

Though he answered her question, Gauge’s eyes never strayed far from Levi.

“Nobody. Mr. Patterson is dead. He died a long, long time ago.”

To Ocean, the tension in the room was nearly as thick as the pungent aroma of the wild onions. Levi, however, seemed oblivious to the change that had come over Gauge. She continued speaking with a wry smile and sparkling eyes, her voice lilting with mock admonishment.

“Nobody? Don’t let him fool you, Ocean. Mr. Patterson is a great man… and if he tries really hard, some day he might even become a good man.”

For some reason, this statement caused Levi to giggle but Gauge was clearly not amused. His grip on Ocean’s shoulder was so tight now that it felt as if her bones were grinding against one another. Part of her wanted to twist away from the pain that radiated through her neck and back, but another, stronger part was afraid to remind him that she was even still in the room.

That part remembered the sharp sting of his hand lashing out in anger, the rage that had burned in his eyes so fiercely that it could have instantly evaporated all of the water in the now boiling pot.

“That’s enough, Levi.”

“Mr. Patterson is—”

“I said that’s enough!”

Gauge’s voice rolled through the kitchen like a clap of underground thunder, it’s echoes fleeing through the tunnels outside, as if afraid that the darkness that overtook the man might be turned on them next.

Levi’s jaw dropped open and she stared at Gauge like a woman who’d just seen a flying rotter. She blinked several times before placing her hands on her hips and cocking her head to the side.

“For God’s sake, Gauge… lighten the fuck up, why don’t you? I was just playing.”

“Well, maybe you should just leave the damn playing to Pebble, you ever think about that?”

The couple’s eyes were locked together, neither one willing to be the first to look away. Out of the corner of her own eye, Ocean saw Corduroy lumber into the doorway. He’d been drawn in, no doubt, by Gauge’s shout, but his eye didn’t look at either Levi or Gauge. Instead, it stared directly at Ocean from beneath a heavy brow. Though he remained completely silent, a clear message was delivered in both his posture and expression: don’t you say a word, not a damn word. Not if you know what’s good for you.

Ocean tried to look away, but Corduroy’s presence almost seemed to demand her attention. She wasn’t able to stare him directly in the eye as Levi was doing with Gauge but, at the same time, she felt compelled to sneak quick peaks in his general direction.

“Fuck you, Gauge… I don’t need this shit.”

The water in the pot boiled so rapidly that the entire thing swayed back and forth on its tripod. From the nursery, Ocean could hear Baby’s thin wail. Usually, that would have been enough to send her rushing to the infant’s side, but on this particular morning, the child’s cries didn’t elicit the same surge of nervous panic that it normally did. Instead, Ocean remained trapped between Gauge’s painful grip and Corduroy’s hard stare, positive that Baby would be safer in the other room than he would be in the kitchen.

“Maybe you should try a little gratitude once in a while, bitch.” Gauge spat the words from his mouth as if they were saturated in bitter venom that needed expelled.

No one else said a word. No one moved.

But, in the back of Ocean’s mind, a small voice whispered. It wasn’t the same voice that used to accompany her thoughts and make her doubt her sanity. No, that voice hadn’t been present since the first night underground. This, she quickly realized, was her own voice, and the message it delivered left no room for argument. Tell them about Corduroy.

Tell them now.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘So I’m standin’ in front of the Dollar Bonanza, lookin’ at this human shaped shadow that’s creeping across the floor toward me, and feeling like I’m about to piss my pants. Every muscle in my body wants to just keep moving without even lookin’ up. Just keep on truckin’, go out the Harrison Street entrance, circle the block, and make my way back to the car.

Because, on some level, I don’t feel like I’m ready for this, ya know? Hell, I haven’t even got the gun from Steel yet, the closest thing I’ve got to a weapon is this little pen knife I use to scrape the resin outta my bowl. How far do you think something like that is going to go into the brain? Far enough to drop an undead son of a bitch? Fuck no, man. It was like I showed up for my first day of lion training class in a suit made of gazelle meat.

On the other hand, if my fears were warranted, if this dark shadow really did belong to one of Ocean’s rotters, then wasn’t I screwed no matter what? I mean, I’ve seen these things, man. They’re fuckin’ savage. No morals, no conscience, no regrets or squeamishness; they’re the perfect killing machines, driven by the primal desire to feed, to hunt. Killing is just this thing that they do, right? As natural to them as breathin’ is to us. So if you have any hopes of keepin’ your ass alive in an undead world, you hafta devolve to their level. No hesitation. No doubt. Just that ingrained instinct to survive.

So I braced myself and slowly raised my eyes.

First thing I saw was a pair of scuffed, pink sneakers, shoe laces tied so loosely that it seemed the dirt stains on ‘em might be the only thing keeping the bow together. There was a cat-shaped logo on the tongue, so faded that it looked more like the leaves at the bottom of a teacup when you’re scrying.

Above those were the cuffs of a pair of faded jeans that lead up these skinny legs. A wide black belt cinched over a green tunic covering perky tits that looked like they were smugglin’ raisins led to a long, graceful neck.

Before I know it, I’m lookin’ directly into her eyes—Clarice fuckin’ Hudson. For a second, I just seem to freeze. Our eyes are locked together, neither one of us moving or saying a word. I’m positive mine probably look like they’re about to pop right outta my skull, because it feels like my blood pressure decided to hold a convention somewhere back in the sockets.

But hers… hers are dull and glassy, registering no emotion what-so-ever, and they’re so bloodshot that it looks like she’s spent the last thirty-six hours on a nonstop crying jag.

Maybe it’s because she’s not wearing any makeup and doesn’t have her hair all done up, but she looks like a completely different woman than before. Her face is pallid and somehow longer, as if the dark bags under her eyes are so heavy that they’re causin’ the flesh to slide right off her skull. Her cheeks have this sunken look, like they’re caving in or some shit. She looks hollow and used up, nothing more than a withered husk of a woman. I mean, if she’d picked up some dude and he woke up next to her this morning, he probably thought he’d been drunk enough to give a mercy fuck to a terminal cancer patient.

That sweat is just rolling down her face like a reverse fountain of youth. Every drop seems to leech more and more color from her complexion, and it makes her hair stringy and unkempt.

For a fleeting second, I actually feel sorry for the bitch. Can you believe that? I mean, she never asked for this. All she wanted was to pay her bills, maybe get married someday, have a pack of little fuckin’ Hudsons running