The Risen: Remnants Read Free

are living through. Sometimes.
    There is no foot traffic here. It helps to keep whatever the things are that now hunts us as we once hunted so many other animals away from this area. I guess people don’t come to see the dead when there are so many dying every day all around us.
    The crypts are set far enough back that even if there was a road driving through, we would be safe from sight. The thick stone walls hide our scent, making these new predators miss our presence. The few that have come by, for whatever reason, without any windows to peer into to see us have never hesitated outside. As far as other people, the cemetery holds no supplies, making it barren of panic-driven looters. It is just Genny and I in this small private crypt and the many true dead that lay in coffins around us and under us. I don’t mind these dead, no matter what the extra nails may imply.
    “Why do you always write in that thing?” Genny’s annoyed voice signals that the nightly “I’m bored” routine is about to start.
    “Why do you always ask me obvious questions?” I close the newest addition to the growing catalog of notebooks as journals that I keep. At first, I looted them as needed for kindling for fires and the many other of life’s necessities that the proper paper items are becoming in short supply. Over time however, they became an escape. A place to jot down what stores were already empty, what places were overrun and where the most unsavory have claimed as their own. I used them to make lists to keep my mind focused when the panic struggled to take over. I used them to make plans should we become in danger. Now I just use them to unburden the thoughts that I can’t share with Genny.
    “Um, because there is no one else to talk to around here?” Genny’s comment holds more meaning for me than it does for her. This is not how a sixteen-year-old should be living. Her long brown hair is held high in a throw together of a thick bun style. Strands of hair have escaped, framing her face and long neck. They hang limp without their normal shine and bounce from the recent lack of washing to which her hair was accustomed. Her clothes, a possession that once defined her and her friends, show the abuse of constant wearing with faded colors and shredding.
    Friends that she used to spend hours with on the phone texting and calling, making me dread each phone bill, are no longer surrounding her with conversations and laughter. I know sometimes when her mind wanders she is wondering if they are held up somewhere like this unsure of what the future brings, too. This is not the life I had planned for her, and as her mother, I can’t help but feel guilty over her misery.
    “That is not true. Mr. Welton over there looks bored to death. I’m sure he would love to hear your positive outlook on life.” My horrible humor is met with an eye roll that would strike a lesser person with shame. As a mother though, I am immune to eye rolls, stomping of feet and slamming of doors.
    “I can always call Ginjer over?” It is more of a threat than a question and it has its desired results.
    “So tell me Mr. Welton, how do you enjoy your darker mahogany over the plain light pine of your relative here?” Genny drops her voice to a mockery of a serious debate, her face matching the false, dedicated tone. She nods and responds with a deep fascination to the pretend conversation and I smile. Her mood swings can bring me to fits of frustration, but at least she can still find the humor of this life.
    I should feel ashamed of using Ginjer as a joke to avoid dealing with a teen’s mood swing, but I have done much greater sins to preserve my survival and sanity than ridiculing my past employer. I used to clean houses to help the days between paychecks seem less bare with the constant demands of supporting a “me generation” youth. This need is how I met the woman that filled my weekends with hidden laughter over her comments about life. Ginjer, with a