The Undying: Shades: An Apocalyptic Thriller

CHAPTER ONE

YEAR THIRTEEN

REN smirked as he stared into the stairwell, schooled in disappearing into the shadows. The crowbar clanged on the sidewalk as he gripped the security gate and pulled. Metal screeched while the gap spread, protesting years of inactivity. Letting go, he stepped into the light and elbowed his friend in the ribs, hard enough to draw a grunt.

You first.

No way.

Refuse cluttered the basement landing, congealed paper, possibly an animal carcass or two mixing with the garbage, no indication anyone had descended for a decade. The teens gaped at the storefront—Ren’s hood drawn over his head, Óscar’s hair stuffed beneath a ratty baseball cap—fixated on the door. Bright sunbeams filtered three steps before tapering into the gloom.

Come on, chicken.

Cabrón, I don’t know. I don’t want any trouble.

A dry wind blew down the narrow street, stinking of burnt rubber. Behind the gate, the glass door teased from below, plastered with signs from another time. One in particular made Ren antsy. White background, big green letters. ABIERTO. Open.

The building sat on the outskirts of Ronda, blocks past the failing barricades where the ruins—mostly apartments—had burned during the fallout. Tattered sheets blew from balconies as dust devils twisted about the lane, remnants of the recent sandstorms. Ren, the taller of the two, gripped the gate and spread the gap wider.

Óscar, he pleaded. Vamos, amigo. I’ve been stuck at home for a week dreaming about this place. You’ve been doing the same since the storms hit, admit it.

Óscar adjusted his glasses and stared appreciatively down at the broken barrier. You’re getting pretty good at opening these things, you know? Real pro, Ren.

Busting old locks is easy. You’d know if you tried. Now see if that door is open.

No sé, Óscar replied and shuffled, uneasily. We should tell someone. If mi padre finds out—

You and your padre. No one’s found anything like this in forever. We’ll tell them, we just won’t say we searched it first.

Slipping from beneath his hood, Ren brushed his unkempt hair from his ashen face—dark brown tips lightened by the year-round sun—and wiggled past, knowing his friend would have no problem following. Although Ren’s body had filled out, Óscar’s remained rail thin. One of many wonderful side effects of starvation.

I don’t know, we’re supposed to be getting agua.

What’re you so worried about? Ren said, shrugging as he took the stairs. "There could be shoes, amigo. Ones that fit. Wouldn’t you like that? Or new glasses? Maybe even batteries."

With a chuckle, Ren wiped the glass clean. Peering through the door he spotted dusty aisles and shelves. His heart skipped a beat. Lots of shelves.

Ho-lee shit. A market.

Óscar’s stomach growled like a feral cat. A market? Don’t tease me. I haven’t eaten anything but gachas for weeks. I dream of oats. See anything else? Anything . . . moving?

You stay right there. I promise not to eat all the candy. Or is that chocolate con leche?

But what about them? If one of—

Ren snorted. No one’s seen a walking carcass since that skinny thing in the fields last June and you know it. The moribund are all in the cities, wasting away like we are. Come on.

But what about the stragglers? The ones who remember?

Ren peered inside, his hazel eyes—green leaning toward gold—gleaming as he reached for the doorknob. Óscar was right to worry, yet Ren would be damned before he let fear drive him. Unlike most of the adults, who either locked themselves up or slunk away at night, leaving the safety of town for the villas in the plains, lured by the hope of farming dead soil.

The chime rattled as he opened the door. My bad. That’s not chocolate. It’s Coca-Cola. Red cans, right?

Óscar’s hollow belly gurgled as he shimmied through the gate.

Standing in the aisle, Ren took a bite of dry almond cookie and grinned. Plucking a can from the shelf, he blew dust and squinted at the label. ANCHOAS. Anchovies. The fact that none of the adults had unearthed a store on the outskirts of Ronda, nestled between the burnt-out buildings and spitting distance from the barricades?

Amazing.

Ren handed Óscar a second roll of cookies and laughed. For months he had eaten nothing but oats. Dry. Difficult to swallow. He barely remembered the tang of gazpacho. Crunch of paella. At a party once he had tried sheep’s milk cheese with jamón ibérico—but that was years before rationing. Now only occasions like Christmas or birthdays afforded broth-soaked oats.

Mouth full of cookies, excitement seized him and he shoved Óscar into the shelves, cackled and took off, laughing as he sent pasta bags spraying into the walkway.

Come get me, loser!

Rounding the aisle, he slammed against the refrigerator doors, snickering so hard his ribs hurt. An undiscovered market?

Find of the effing century.

Ay cabrón!

With a hoot, Óscar laughed and loosed his slingshot. The rock whizzed past Ren’s ear, smashing glass. Launching the anchovy can from his hand, Ren turned before it struck Óscar, plucked a bottle from the shelf, and blindly tossed the thing over his head.

He shouted—spittle flying, loving the sound of glass exploding on the floor—reveling in the joy of letting go.

Taking the corner, he hurtled over the front counter, avoided a jar of olives, and crashed behind the cash register. Suppressing laughter, he scrambled for anything to throw—energy pills, fútbol magazines, packs of cigarettes—and glanced directly into teeth.

Ren cried out, backpedaled, and on instinct, froze.

A desiccated clerk was slumped in the corner, draped in a ratty smock, revolver resting on its lap, shrunken finger on the trigger. A hole cratered the man’s skull where the bullet had passed.

Ren wiped crumbs from his mouth and exhaled.

At least this suicide isn’t messy, he thought as he peered over the counter. Unlike the family the boys had stumbled across last month. Seeing the crispy mother leaning into the oven, her three children in their beds—decapitated heads left on pillows above their necks—had given Ren nightmares for weeks.

Grabbing a dried stick of chorizo from the counter, he pushed the corpse away, cringing as the body crumpled. With a shudder, he turned to the shelves. Some tins had distended, their contents likely spoiled, but most jars appeared in great shape.

If the townsfolk knew, he would get busted. Only forty-two people left in Ronda, and almost a third from different countries. During Ren’s studies he’d read that thirty-seven thousand had crowded Ronda’s streets before the EMP—even more during bullfighting season.

What are you, scared? he called out. El padre que te parió!

Leave my father out of it! Óscar shouted, his mouth full of food.

Ren plucked a bag of nuts from the counter. Wrapped, sealed, canned. Rice, dried cakes, almendras. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, they would keep the discovery to themselves for a day or two. A couple of candy bars, maybe a soda pop. The thought made his pulse thrum.

I’m eating chocolate!

No you’re not! Óscar scrambled, and rushed closer.

Ren dipped down, stifled a giggle as he went cold—stalling all feelings like his mother had taught him, slipping into darkness—his natural gift, she called it, his ability to hide from the moribund as they preyed on emotion—staring blankly as he waited for Óscar to get closer and shot up, whooping as he let the peanuts fly.

The jubilant shout came off as cocky—Ren liked this newfound bravado, rearing its head often as he neared his fourteenth birthday—turning into a gasp when he realized the bag of nuts was hurtling toward a figure rising from the gloom.

CHAPTER TWO

SEATED on the curb, Ren tossed a pebble into the street, watching it bounce beneath a car. Beside him on the sidewalk, Óscar fingered a hole in his sneaker.

Puta madre, Ren. Mi padre, when he finds out—

We’ll be fine. Let me do the talking. After they’re done, go peek behind the counter. I saw a fútbol magazine. Iniesta is on the cover.

Serious? Iniesta?

Ren opened his mouth to reply and the sound of footsteps slapped around the corner. Their pace told him two things. One, she had rushed all the way from Old Town.

Two, his mother was furious.

He pulled his hood low as Jeanie rounded the building, coming to a ragged stop. She stepped forward, sleeves rolled to her elbows from doing laundry with the last of their morning water.

Mom, it’s all my fault. I—

"Mom-I-nothing. Dude, you are in sooo much trouble."

She wiped her brow, winded as she glared. His mother had raced from Old Town, he knew, passing Ronda’s abandoned eastern apartments. He glanced away when she pointed to the staircase and raised an eyebrow. Outside the barricades? Again?

We were just—

You’re lucky someone found you before you did too much damage. I’ll give you credit—no one expected a store out here—but when Hector hears you broke a bottle of olive oil? Really? When was the last time we had olive oil?

Ren tossed another rock, knowing he should shut up, but not wanting to. Get more water, Ren. Dig a new ditch, Ren. The old walls don’t mean shit anymore and I’m sick of doing stuff for other people. Look what we found—

Shit? What if you got hurt? Did you think of that?

Maybe the store will lift spirits for New Year’s? Óscar added, softly.

Jeanie sighed as she turned. Maybe, Óscar. Maybe. After Christmas, Ronda certainly deserves good news.

We could look for medicine on the shelves, Ren muttered.

There could be aspirin, yes. But no antibiotics. Not in a corner store.

And Selene?

Her fever is getting worse.

Ren pulled his legs up and hugged them. He liked Selene. The only Greeks in town, she and her husband were always nice to him and Jeanie, unlike most locals. Dmitri had taught Ren to whittle and make small traps, and occasionally they played fútbol in the town square.

You can’t keep pushing, kiddo. Bored or not. Not with rationing coming up again. You know Hector—

Óscar groaned as his father rounded the corner, running without running, anger in each step. Stout and ruddy-faced, his button up shirt tucked into his slacks.

Hector, Jeanie interrupted, palms up. See? Both boys are fine.

His thick mustache curled beneath his nose as he towered above Óscar, forehead dappled with sweat. His finger went from Óscar, to Ren, back to Óscar.

Papá, I—

Hector cuffed Óscar across the face so hard his glasses fell off.

Pick them up, he commanded.

Ren stiffened and moved to speak. His mother shook her head once, sharply.

Not our place.

Americana, this is a second time in a month your son has ignored el perímetro. We no longer guard the barricades, but Ronda still has rules. He whirled to Ren. Because you are the youngest, you think you can get away with everything. But you’re not special, you’re—

They’re just being boys, Hector. Look, they found a store.

A store? What if they died? Or woke something up? He bristled over them, face purple with anger. Then he paused. The Greek?

Rests inside Santa María with her husband, Jeanie replied. Luc stays with them, day and night. Without medicine, we run out of options. The pueblos are picked bare, Hector. Luc is right. We must send someone to Sevilla. Look for medicine, food, before—

No, Hector said, ending the discussion with a swipe of his hand. I will not risk the cities. We widen our search in el campo. Go further north this time.

Hector pulled Óscar to his feet and shoved his son toward town. When he motioned for Ren to follow, Jeanie nodded.

Go.

Los malcriados can spend the rest of the day gathering wood for a bonfire, Hector added. Pray the Greek does not die at night. If she turns, we should all be ready. Ronda has not seen such evil in some time.

I’m sick of this mierda.

Ren tossed his wheelbarrow end over end as they reached the mid-span of the bridge, sending scrap wood tumbling onto Puerto Nuevo’s cobbled way. They crossed the gorge from La Ciudad—Old Town—where foreigners lived in the Moorish buildings damaged during the fallout—toward El Centro, where the Spaniards resided in the finer apartments near the bullfighting ring.

Por favor, Ren. No more trouble. Mi padre—

How long are they going to treat us this way? We’re not kids. But after we finish the pyre you know they’ll send us for more agua.

The water containers grew heavy, filled at the cisterns near the Arab Baths. After fighting them up the streets, Ren would become so hungry his stomach would cramp. Sometimes the pangs were so awful he spent all night clutching his belly. Lately even his fingernails hurt. He hadn’t known nails could hurt.

He kicked a piece of wood and glared at Hector’s home. Nestled above El Tajo canyon, its faded HOTEL DON MIGUEL sign above the door. Across the Plaza de España, the grander Parador Hotel perched high above plains dotted with the skeletal remains of cork trees.

During the days after the electromagnetic pulse, half of Ronda’s residents had holed up inside the Parador, hiding in its lower floors. Now the luxury hotel stood as an empty testament, as his mother called it, to Ronda’s survival.

Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he stared into the ravine. A hundred meters below, Río Guadalevín trickled through the canyon. Dead plants were mixed in with a few living ones, mostly brown, struggling grasses. Sometimes, if he waited long enough, he would spot a bird in the underbrush. They reminded him of the swallows of the Alhambra. He often wondered if they still survived.

What about the Bruja? he asked, and flicked a thumb toward the Serranía de Ronda mountains. Everyone says the old woman has medicine. She took army stuff from the garrison, right? Who knows what else she has stashed in her cave. Maybe food.

La Bruja? Óscar fidgeted. No one has seen her in months. Mi padre thinks she and her son died over the summer, or they would have come to trade.

Ren spit off the bridge, and both boys watched it disappear into the gorge. We should go, Ren said, his wavy hair billowing in the breeze. See if she has medicine for Selene. The adults—they’re too scared.

The cave is an hour away. We’re supposed to finish the pyre. We’d never make it back before nightfall. Ren, mi padre—

Rides you all day long, amigo. I think—

—says we grow lazy, that we neglect the barricades. That moving to the villas is dangerous. That we forget what it was like.

I’m tired of rules. Living like I’m already dead, afraid of every rusty nail I see. Let the old folks live that way. We get medicine, we won’t need a bonfire. Your padre can’t be angry if we bring back antibiotics. He’d be proud. On New Year’s Eve?

"But what if one of them is out there? They’re—"

—all in the cities and you know it. Likely shriveled up and dead, too. No, we ride to the cave and back before anyone notices we’re gone. The highway runs straight there.

You should have told the adults about that dead hombre.

Ren’s eyes shined as he pulled out the clerk’s revolver. Oh, I’d love to see their faces when they find that old bag of bones. Come on, compinche. Target practice on the way?

Compinche? Cómplice en crimen, you mean.

Ren slid the heavy handgun into his belt, glancing over the countryside as the cork trees blew in a burst, settling as the wind died. The whole town will thank us. All of them, afraid of their own shadows.

Yo no sé . . .

He socked Óscar’s shoulder. Hey, your stomach still growling?

"Qué? It was my idea to try that neighborhood! You owe me for those cookies in your pocket. Don’t think I didn’t see you take them."

Ren smirked as he flipped up his hood. Come on, it’ll be a blast. You and me, the heroes of Ronda. Think of it as my birthday present. What’s the worst that can happen?

CHAPTER THREE

SWEATY from their ride, the boys lay on the hillside, bicycles resting beside them as they stared into the valley. The baking sun had risen past midday, stretching the shadows of a nearby cork tree.

Beneath his hood, Ren squinted down the barrel of the gun, feeling uncaged and—for the first time in forever—full. Unable to eat another bite, he set the cookie down. They should hurry, he knew, find the medicine and return. Instead he imagined his mother and Hector in the aisles of the store, tallying foodstuffs. All the adults thought of—food and not dying. Never really about leaving, except to raid the pueblos. Gone for days, only to return empty-handed.

Never been this far out of Ronda, have you?

Óscar rolled onto his back and shook his head. With a smirk, Ren wiped the hair from his eyes and glanced down the gun sight to the opposite side of the vale, where the entrance to the cave cut the parallel slope like a gash in a sea of brown. A farmhouse squatted in the midst of the valley, flanked by a cropping of dead trees lacking the sense to fall over. Unlike most of the ruins in Ronda, the building appeared untouched after a decade of neglect.

Untouched by the last century, he thought. With sparse cloud cover, the temperature left him parched.

Why don’t you admit it, Ren? Óscar asked, as he stared at the sky. You’re americano. Tu mamá is americana, that means you’re americano.

Ren aimed, smiled wider at Óscar’s ignorance, and fired. The crack echoed through the valley, dinging the farmhouse a foot from a window. "Ridiculous. Do I suck or what?"

Why not admit it?

Because I’m not. Ren spun the chamber and—against better judgment—reached for another cookie. My mom came from the States but I was born in Paris. I grew up on the highways between France and Spain. You, on the other hand—he spoke between bites—have been pueblerino since you were born.

Óscar snorted and sat up. Pueblerino, he repeated, and grabbed the binoculars. Turning his cap backward, he stared past the farmhouse at the gravel trail climbing the hillside to an empty parking lot. Hewn steps led to the cave above. Tu mamá comes from America, you’re americano. Don’t have the balls to be español.

Ren’s grin faded as he stared at the cave. He did not keep many secrets from Óscar—they were the only two people in town younger than twenty-seven—yet no one in Ronda knew Jeanie was not his birth mother. Ren’s parents had died in Paris. Jeanie came from Seattle. The idea of revealing the true nature of their relationship left Ren feeling alone. Alone terrified him more than anything—the fear of waking up to discover his mother missing. Nightmares from youth, which sent him to sleep on her bedroom floor until she woke. She always held him until he settled. Even now. Another thing he wouldn’t tell