All the Devils Here

By Astor Penn

Brie Hall, a sheltered and privileged teenager, is in her final year of boarding school in New York City when disaster strikes. A worldwide biological crisis, the origins of which are unknown, quickly decimates a large portion of the population, and there is no known cure. The threat of contamination is always present, and she cannot trust anyone she sees on the road, and as time goes on, she sees fewer travelers.

While journeying to find her family, Brie meets another wanderer, a girl with a past she can’t or won’t divulge. Circumstance force them together to escape notice of government-issued hazmat vehicles sent to deliver them to unknown conditions. With no hope of a cure, they do only what they can to survive and remain free, picking up new skills and hardening into people they never meant to become. While struggling to answer the question of how to survive a plague, they must also ask how they can survive the version of themselves they’ve become.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: Oct 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781632162540

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Prologue

IT’S JUST past noon, if I had to guess, based on how high the sun is. Of course, this is only a guess because I don’t have a watch; never really wore one before, but what I wouldn’t give for one now, because trying to guess just what time it is by looking at the sun is not something they trained me for in my posh boarding school in the city. There we listened for bells to tell us when to wake, when to move, when to eat. Then, I hated those bells. Now, I would give anything to hear just one again, to let me know exactly what I should be doing and when.

What I should be doing is sitting in the end of my calculus class, wondering when I’ll ever use a matrix while listening to my grumbling stomach. What they should have been teaching us in math courses is how to navigate correctly without any instrument of help, or how the sun moves, or how many miles it is between New York and the equator. All useless now, what I know. Of course, there are few people who would have been prepared for this.

It’s noon, or somewhere thereabout, and I’m sweating profusely in the only set of clothes I have left. My right hand grips a hunting knife of some variety—also something I know nothing about from my education—but it’s long and jagged, possibly designed for skinning animals. I use it for everything. My hands are bandaged with old scrap material because the sunburn is so bad there and yet I can’t cut my hands any slack; I’m just sunburned everywhere, actually.

It hurts to move, not just because of the sunburn, but because of the overall fatigue that aches right down to my bones. There are no desks to sit in now, no dorm rooms to shelter myself in. Now I’m on my feet at least eighteen hours of the day, and I sleep crunched into the tiniest form possible at the base of a tree, or sometimes in a tree to avoid being seen.

It’s summer. That much I am sure of. It should be the summer postgraduation, the summer before I start college. Should be. There are a lot of should-bes now. I am seventeen, but not for long, although the days are no longer marked, and whenever the day comes that I turn into a legal adult, it will pass in obscurity without my noticing. It matters little. There are few laws left to uphold.

I am alone. I haven’t seen another person in a little over two weeks. I haven’t spoken to another person in almost two months, maybe longer. It’s been at least three months since I left the city on my own. I left exactly four days after the phone lines started to fade into static; I hadn’t spoken to my parents in at least a week before it was too late—not a phone call or an e-mail could be sent. In school I was a loner, and I never considered myself extremely close to my parents, but now the loneliness kills me. It’s not the constant struggle to find water or food or the exposure when the temperature drops sharply after the sun goes down. It’s the empty feeling when my voice barely croaks from neglect or how startling it is when I catch a reflection of myself in the windows of an abandoned car.

No one would recognize me now; I don’t recognize myself. The fat in my cheeks and around my hips has melted into bone, diminishing what might have constituted a girlish figure beforehand. My hair is patchy in length and quantity after not only a sharp decline in my nutrition, but also less than a handful of some bad berries that immobilized me with cramps for some time. My skin too is patchy, in rough flakes from extreme sunburn from the first weeks, when I thought the best way to combat heat was to shed as much clothing as possible, but such mistakes haven’t been made since. The knife glued to my hand is perhaps the most discernible part of my image; previously, the most dangerous thing I carried was a cell phone.

I am not dangerous, but I live in constant danger. We all do now. Laws are gone. Organized government has decayed into something we can’t trust, mostly biohazard vans that roam the roads between rundown or broken cars, collecting people under what are often false pretenses of safety in mystical places. There are no safe places. I’ve traveled around three hundred miles by rough estimation, and I’ve seen enough of big cities, the suburban neighborhoods around them, and even the secluded country homes that are all equally ravaged by our current epidemic. The plague to end all plagues. The apocalypse, hysterical people said.

It must be roughly July, maybe even August. It gets harder to count. I’m seventeen. I’m dying. We’re all dying. I should be dead already. Maybe I’m in Virginia, or West Virginia if I’m lucky. The items I carry on my back can be counted on both hands. I haven’t spoken to anyone in so long I forget the words for things like safety or necessity. There are no organized laws, but the laws of nature still rule. I follow just one above all.

Move. Just keep moving. Moving is breathing; moving is life itself. One foot in front of the other until you no longer can. Rest, but not for long. Get up when your feet still bleed. Move, because when you don’t move fast enough or far enough, something will inevitably find you that you wish hadn’t. Hungry, desperate people. A biohazard van. Scared animals. The disease. Virus. Contagion. Agent. Whatever they never decided to call it.

It’s been well over a hundred days since the last televised news went off the air. Back then they didn’t know what it was or what to call it. Anyone left now knows exactly what to call it—the end.

Chapter 1

IT HAPPENS on a day when I can’t remember ever falling asleep or waking up, just a moment of realization that I’ve been crouching somewhere for a while because my feet are numb and my thoughts sluggish. When I reach into my bag, there’s a half-eaten granola bar I’ve been saving for some time. I go ahead and eat it for breakfast, even though it must be late evening. It’s usually safer to sleep in daylight hours, and easier too, because it’s too hot to move often.

Until the last couple of weeks, it had been relatively easy to find supplies on the go. Ransack an old grocery store here and there, although those are often picked over to dust now. Still, there are small drugstores with things to be found and residential areas with abandoned homes where I can often find food hidden in kids’ rooms even when the pantries are empty. Of course, I’m not the only scavenger out there, and I have fewer and fewer places on the map to find. Now I’m moving farther and farther into wooded areas. It’s safer in the woods, but my food supply is nearly gone and so is my sanitized water, although I have the means to boil water from any kind of river or stream, and not only that, but moving off the road means detours farther south instead of cutting west like I mean to.

It’s with some great pain that I eat my last bit of granola and wash it down hastily. When I rise I stomp my feet in place before risking a step forward. I feel light on my feet while they’re still asleep, hardly an ache to be felt in my pirated men’s hiking boots, stuffed with bloodied rags.

I’m sweaty despite inactivity; the day is cooling down finally, but it’s still stifling below the cover of trees. Above me and around me I hear faint signs of life, all quiet enough that I believe I’m safe, that it’s animal life. It’s good. It’s natural. Today, before nightfall, I become the hunter.

My lack of protein is increasingly apparent. Besides my sleepwalking-to-waking episodes that I now apparently suffer, it’s difficult to concentrate for long periods of time. Migraines plague me. My body dwindles down to nothing. If I don’t get a proper meal soon, I won’t be able to keep moving and I’ll effectively be dead, but without any proper long-range weapon I’m forced to run down prey, which has never worked well.

Fortunately, from our long lists of gym activities for the upper class, I dabbled in archery lessons at school. Not that I have a bow, but I do have an eye for distance and aim. Throwing a knife not meant for throwing is no easy task, but once well acquainted with the drag and uneven weight, I can hit a target with some accuracy from several yards away. A stationary target, that is.

In the dying light, I look for small game. Bunnies or squirrels. Even a plump bird, if it stays still long enough. I clip a rabbit and miss a bird by a mere inch. As I climb back down a tree after retrieving the knife, my stomach cramps so suddenly my hands slip, and I drop like a rock to the ground. Gasping, I clutch my stomach.

Until my skills as a hunter improve, I have only one option. Return to civilization. Or what’s left of it.

Chapter 2

BY THE time night falls, I have nothing useful on me, especially not the dead weight of my own feet. I should stop and rest except I haven’t covered much ground beyond my pointless hunting exploits, so I push myself to walk in the general direction of west. Homeward bound. I’ll be lucky if I make it to Ohio.

The good thing about being from the Midwest is I’m not scared of big, open spaces. The bigger the better. I used to crave them while at school; no matter how many times I traveled to the park, no matter Central or Union Square, I loathed how small I felt. In this, a tiny part of me has been restored since leaving the city. Everything else may have changed, but I am given back to nature.

It’s of little consolation.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen direct sign of other human life—maybe a ditched campsite here or there, sure—but I don’t understand what I see next until it’s too late. I’ve wandered into unknown territory, but what is known territory? I don’t recognize the difference when I step onto solid footing, a paved way, the kind I once knew, only knew, instead of the wild earth I now travel.

The roadway is barely a road, so old and filled with potholes I doubt it was used much in the old days, but this is not the old days. Roads less taken are always best now, and this is a fact known both by moving refugees like myself and those who pursue us.

So uneven are my steps that it’s not until the headlights that I realize where I am, but before they are headlights, they are just spectacles from a distant memory. Too bright, too far to place until they’re close enough to hear the crunching gravel that accompanies them. That’s when I realize it’s a car, and not just any car, but a van. A van with a distinct biohazard symbol on the side.

Pivoting, I dart toward my left, which as soon as I’m sprinting toward it, I realize is a mistake. The other side of the road had the heaviest cover to hide in, but it’s too late now. The trees are so far from me—just where had I been going? Still west? How long have I been sleepwalking?

My feet are still asleep, and I slam into the ground, swallowing dirt as my bag flies over my head. It takes more than one shove before I’m on my feet again, and I hear the monster behind me, tracking me. It’s no longer on the road but on the equally uneven field.

Then a second set of blazing lights switch on from behind me, overpowering what now seems like feeble headlights. These lights wash everything out, blanketing the landscape in front of me in universal exposure. It’s so bright I have no shadow in front of me, insubstantial, incorporeal.

It’s disorienting and hard to focus where I’m running, but I’m so close to the woods. I nearly smack right into the first tree, and by the third, something heavy knocks me to the ground a second time. At first I think I’ve been shot, but there was no telltale crack, and there’s no pinpointing the pain that flares across my body.

Then something starts moving on top of me. I’ve not been shot so much as I’ve been ambushed by someone hiding up a tree. When she stands up in a groan of agony, I see a flash of a girl, beautiful if beauty is danger, all dark skin in the dark. She glances at me, entirely venom, before screaming, groaning. She is nothing human.

Fucking move! She darts further into the woods, but the trees are sparse, and it’s too easy to track her movements. When I get up, I follow her.

Behind us the van suddenly screeches: it’s a sharp, long siren, like the one police cars used to warn perpetrators with. Then a voice infiltrates every space of the woods with startling clarity as if we were in an amphitheater rather than outdoors.

This is a sanitation and rehabilitation vehicle. We’re not here to harm you. Please come out slowly now, and we will provide you with food and shelter.

With the lights and the sirens, it sounds about as friendly as an unscheduled visit from the undertaker. I keep running, using the last of my strength, because I’ve seen vans like these pick up other travelers. I watched from afar, cautious of people as I’d ever been but starving for food, one foot poised to take a step toward that van, when the vehicle’s doors opened and hazmat suits jumped out, guns or batons in hand. The growing mob around them didn’t stand a chance, and I didn’t stand around to watch them either.

My cautious nature around other survivors is partially what’s kept me alive so long, so when I follow this girl, it’s not because I trust she’ll help me escape them, but because I’m hoping she’ll take the focus off just me. More than one moving target confuses the hunter, something I’ve learned well enough.

Luckily, we’re not the only two people hiding out in these parts; out of the corner of my eye I see others running, not very far off to the side. In the moment it’s hard to take in details, but it’s a small group, and when one begins to lag from the group, one thing is clear: this particular group of runners has a small person with them. A child.

Someone stops to scoop the kid up and keep running. If, in between the sharp pain in my ribs and short breath I feel guilty about bringing this on the girl still sprinting right in front of me, I feel ten times worse bringing the hazmats down on a child.

You’re dead! someone screams. It’s the girl in front, and it’s not until I blaze past a newly present couple seemingly frozen that I realize she’s not speaking to me, but trying to warn the people who have stopped to listen to the message playing.

We want to help you, the man’s voice says over the speakers, and it’s a voice chosen for its calm qualities, but it leaves a freezing vise around my heart. Don’t run. You are not in a safe area. Contagions are present. Stop running.

But we don’t, except for the two people I didn’t spare a glance for, who seemed to be crawling more than standing. Perhaps they’re looking for hope, blindly believing in the intangible voice that promises them a future, or maybe they just don’t care what that van holds for them anymore. Death or life—they’ll have whichever it is. As I think this, I do it without pity, with complete understanding. I’m just not there yet; I want to live, and the only way I’ll certainly do that is on my own.

The van slows down behind me; I can hear the engine fading. Just when I think they might give up, pleased with at least taking two more people out of the equation, the girl in front of me drops heavily, without warning. There was no crack of a gun, but when something whizzes past my ear, I know they’re shooting at us.

Later, even much later when history comforts me, I will never know why I stopped for her, except maybe I was feeling guilty, or I thought even then that letting her get caught and killed would be just as bad as getting caught and killed myself.

At first I fly over her because I can’t stop or have no intentions of stopping, but when my feet land, I tumble into a heap not far from her. She’s cursing, pulling her leg up to her chest, and distantly I note there’s no blood, but there’s no time to fully process that.

Give me your arm! I yell, even as I reach for it myself. At first she resists, yanking it away, but when she fumbles trying to stand on her own, she crashes into me, clutching at my side for support.

Move! she says, as if I’m the one holding her back, but when I stand with her weight thrown against me, I can barely breathe. I’m drowning under both her weight and my exhaustion. When we stagger into something not quite a run, it feels more like we’re constantly falling forward rather than moving on horizontal ground.

We’re also not moving straight forward, but more and more at a sideways angle as she pushes against me. One of her legs, the one next to mine, is completely useless, the other crumpling every other step. Her arms, too, slacken, and it’s up to me to hold onto her.

She grumbles something inaudible, and it’s not until her head begins rolling forward that it clicks. The bullet lodged somewhere in her body isn’t a bullet so much as a dart—a tranquilizing dart, and its effects were local. Now they’re spreading throughout her whole body, including her tongue.

Whatever she’s trying to tell me—probably screaming at me to run faster—it doesn’t matter. We almost run over the man carrying the child—a little girl, I see now. When I stop just a foot from them, the man doesn’t even spare me a glance. He’s looking behind us, toward the van.

They’ve stopped, he says, his voice naturally smooth and calming, unlike the artificial grating one on the recording. He doesn’t need to say why they’ve stopped, not in the presence of a child. She’s maybe ten or eleven. When she tries to peer around his side, he turns her away roughly.

The last person with them is standing several yards ahead; their group is either smaller than I thought, or there were others not attached to this one that have already disappeared. It’s hard to tell how old the man is—maybe in his twenties, but the man standing closer to me is older. Thirties. Maybe forties. It’s clear the girl with them belongs to neither of them, at least not biologically. The man holding her hand, perhaps old enough to be her father, is of some vague European descent: dark skin, dark hair, and cold eyes. The girl has the orangest hair I’ve ever seen. It’s also the brightest thing I’ve seen in months, and it seems like a miracle it hasn’t gotten her killed yet.

We should keep moving, the other man says. A boy, I think, from his voice. I can’t tell in the dark. I doubt he’s old enough to be the father. Bryant, come on.

But the man, Bryant, is looking over us now. The little girl peers up curiously at us. Behind us, there’s a bang—of a gun or a door. Doesn’t matter which.

You need help with her? Bryant asks. Though his hair is dark, his patchy beard is more silver than anything else, a contrast to his still-young face.

No, we’re fine, I croak. The first words I’ve spoken in a long time, and it’s surprising how quickly it comes back even after you think you’ve forgotten the right thing to say, or how to say anything at all. They’ve been replaced with a different kind of language.

In my arms, the girl slurs something. I shuffle her in my grip, hoping to provide a look of familiarity with her so the man doesn’t think I’m dragging her off to eat her.

She’s not even yours. It’s an accusation, but there’s not much malice behind it. I guess someone willing to adopt strays shouldn’t be pointing fingers, either.

I’m just helping her out. The words sound strange; I wonder if they’re a little blurred like hers. She got shot with something.

We’re walking, or at least I’m loping along at an uneven but hurried pace, and he’s following us. The other boy keeps a distance in front of us, maybe as a scout. Behind us, the van’s gone quiet. They won’t follow us farther into the woods; too many trees, they can’t drive the vehicle through it, and they almost never pursue anyone on foot, for fear of damage to their suits in the presence of the infection.

Then I can help you both out, if you’d like, the man insists. The only people who are willing to help are the ones out for something.

I have nothing of value, I say, struggling under the girl’s weight. Neither of her legs are working now, and despite her slight stature, she’s still more than a handful, and I’m exhausted. My body doesn’t have sufficient fuel for this.

This time, when the girl tries to talk, she carefully hisses each word separately. Both. Fuck. Off.

I stop midstride, almost dropping her, but holding her at arm’s length and letting her dangle there pathetically. She looks ridiculous, like a marionette. I just have to pull the right strings. Next to us, the kid looks slightly shocked, or scared, and Bryant chuckles. After a moment in which no one joins him, he gives us another somber glance.

Here. Without asking again, he picks her up so easy in his arms she might as well be a doll. The little girl takes a step back while the other boy in their group hurries toward us.

What are you doing? he hisses. It’s almost funny—Bryant, with all his muscles and huge physique, shouldn’t be bossed around by what appears to be a boy my height and hardly any older.

Relax, they’re the least of our problems, he says over the sounds of the girl’s complaints. They’re in no position to hurt us. Now let’s move.

Then he walks away, the dangling wild girl in his arms and the sour boy in front of him casting a cautious eye in my direction even when I don’t move. Standing there, I have no reason to follow. That girl isn’t mine—I don’t know her or owe her anything. They seem like a decent sort, even if I didn’t believe that still existed. Surely they won’t do her anymore harm.

I have no reason to follow. Except I’m traveling on dwindling supplies. And tired. And hungry. And there is a little girl watching me with something akin to hope in her eyes. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen hope, or anyone of such a young age. I imagine the young and the old were the first to disappear in such a crisis. I haven’t seen anyone outside of their forties in weeks, and the last kid I saw was younger than this one, and his cries got both him and his parents swiftly scooped up by a van.

What’s your name? she asks once I take a step forward. She falls to my side, a healthy portrait in a desolate landscape. I feel filthy next to her.

Brie, I say, although I could give any name. She would never know any different, and I used to hate my name. I always said I would change it in a heartbeat when I had the chance—in college, maybe. Now I could be anyone, and I cling to the only thing that is mine, and it’s the most insubstantial thing.

I’m Poppy. The