Pushing Up Gravestones - Pushing Up Gravestones – Chapter 22

Night had filtered darkness through the sky
with steady progress over the course of an hour. It had eventually reached a
bruising shade of rapidly blackening grey as Ferrah’s eyes glossed aimlessly
across the horizon. There was no particular direction to her lookout. Her only
requirement was to dodge directly watching the streets below where the patterns
of scarlet, scenes of decay and, even worse, the reanimated bodies could be
found. And so it was the skyline that preoccupied most of her attention.

The needling wind, exacerbated by the
height of the rooftop, pulled at her hair and tumbled strands across her face.
Disrupting her vigil on various occasions with flashes and flutters of vibrant
auburn. It was as if surrounded by fire and having the prongs of flames whip
across her cheeks. The constant distraction forced her to push the nuisance
strands behind her ears from time to time; using increasingly rough gestures
with each movement.

Her irritation must have grown apparently
obvious as a tap at her shoulder alerted Ferrah to company. She tilted her head
upwards to find Denise standing by her side and brandishing a scrunchie dangling
off the tip of her outstretched finger. A crinkle of a frown got caught between
Ferrah’s eyebrows as she studied the offering.

“I usually have a spare lying around,”
Denise said with another encouraging nudge of her hand brandishing the
scrunchie.

“I hate wearing my hair up. It looks
horrendous.” Ferrah’s reply came wrapped in sharp indifference as she drew out
the pronunciation of every syllable in the last word.

She would have turned her head back to the
horizon had she not caught the expression sifting across Denise’s face. Her
head was pushed forward and tilted to the side, seemingly questioning if she
had heard correctly, her eyes narrowed into an accusing stare of distaste;
pressing fracture lines of irritation across her forehead.

“Oh chill out, I didn’t mean you look horrendous.” Ferrah spat out
the reply with a dragging roll of her eyes.

The sense of an argument brewing was
apparent to both of them. It hissed threateningly under every exchange of words
and even lingered in their glances. And it was Denise to be the first to decide
that it wasn’t worth it. She dropped the scrunchie to the floor and took a few
steps away in retreat; the swish of her ponytail announcing an irritated
abruptness to the exit.

In normal circumstances that would have
been the end of things. Ferrah would have continued with the rest of her day
safe in the knowledge that her disliking of Denise remained intact. The dispute
never fully reaching a peak and continuing to simmer away unregulated. However,
something caught on her conscience in that moment.

Perhaps it was the mere fact that animosity
was not a welcome addition to a small and very isolated group of company. Maybe
the nightmarish images of ripped flesh and gushing blood, etched into her mind,
had made her go soft. Either way the hushed muttering of an additional remark
slipped into the open before she could stop herself.

“You suit ponytails because you have nice
cheekbones.”

The admission was some what sullied by the
sour tint of embarrassment at giving the compliment splashed across her face;
most evident in the sucking in of her cheeks. But it had been a compliment
nonetheless.

Denise had paused to an absolute stop on
hearing the words. It took her a few moments to process the words as if her
mind repeatedly rejected the notion that Ferrah could utter a sentence offering
anything other than an insult. The notion must have settled into her thoughts
eventually. In a gradual and very careful motion Denise turned to once more
face Ferrah.

“…Thanks,” Her response fell uncertain;
balancing precariously on a shaky foundation of near questioning.

And a frown wound its way onto her
expressions.

“You don’t have to look so shocked,” Ferrah
didn’t intend to sound so confrontational as the words rattled off her tongue
with a biting insistence.

Denise seemed to be able to peel apart the
layers of her sentence and locate the vaguely joking undertones. She returned
to Ferrah’s side and sat down; carefully wrapping her legs into a crossed
position.

“I was just thinking it might be safer to
wear your hair up. There’s less chance of something grabbing hold of it.”

“Well that was morbid…” Ferrah’s tone was
betrayed by her actions as she immediately scrabbled for the abandoned
scrunchie and set about securing her hair into three separate strands needed to
make a French plait.

“Sorry,” Denise muttered the reply half
heartedly in muted breath.

Clearly she was growing weary of the trail
of abrupt replies her every attempt at conversation provoked. Ferrah wasn’t
blind to her own motives. She could accurately associate the source of her
animosity with boredom. Removing a source of conversation was not going to ease
the monotonous drone of waiting around for nothing to happen. Her gaze
fluttered briefly to study her company, before she gave into the monotony and
rescued the conversation with the accompaniment of a breathy sigh.

“Don’t apologize. It’s hard not to be
morbid with that lot beneath us. They sometimes even make me question if it is
worth it anymore,” Ferrah tilted her head briefly in the direction of the horde
waiting expectantly below.

The statement was intended to be unmoved
and logical. However, the subject commanded a severity that Ferrah had not
expected. Mid-way through the sentence her mouth had dried and the words began
to weigh with the burden of acute fear she could not hide. Accidentally she had
drawn the subject into something very personal.

“Worth what?”

“Surviving. The constant fear is exhausting
to carry around and what waits for us when all this is over? There is no normal
life to return to. So what’s the point? Why don’t we just fling ourselves off
the roof and get it over with?” Ferrah fixed her sight on the distance as her
attentions became firmly split between expressing the thoughts that had been
whining in the back of her mind and folding her hair neatly into the plait.

There was no room to focus on anything
else. She didn’t have time to note the snap of Denise’s features into defiant
concern at the prospect.

“Normal things still exist.”

“You sure about that?” Ferrah asked in a
snort of derision, “The very fact that you and I are talking is not normal.”

“Is it such a bad thing that we’re
talking?” Denise’s gaze was almost tangible on the side of Ferrah’s cheek as
she posed the deceptively simplistic question.

Still, Ferrah occupied herself with folding
each strand of hair carefully over the other. It was a useful excuse to wait
and formulate a reply as she secured the last fold into place.

“No, I guess not,” she muttered before
following the response with a deviation into a safer topic, “How is my hair
looking?”

“Horrendous.” Denise managed to replicate
the earlier way Ferrah pronounced the word as a mocking smirk caught in the
corners of her mouth. “I’m just joking. It looks fine. It’s just hair.”

Presumably the reply had been prompted by
the expressionless stare of distaste her joke had been met with. Ferrah allowed
the impression of annoyance to continue for another fraction of a moment,
drawing entertainment from the nervous act of Denise biting her lip in regret,
before revealing it to be pretend. A smirk twisted free from the unmoving stare
as an exhalation of amusement fluttered out.

“Anyway, thanks for the scrunchie,” The
smile slipped from Ferrah’s face a little as the conversation trickled to an
end.

“No problem,” Denise gingerly rose to her
feet and, after brushing herself off, she began to walk away.

Ferrah watched the retreating figure and
surprised herself to find a disappointment seeping through her thoughts and
settling in a pool of twisting discomfort in the pit of her stomach. The urge
to continue the conversation steadily rose along her throat and against her
better judgement she drew Denise back with another remark.

“I’m not going to lie. I still think this
is all a plot to expose my inferior cheekbones.”

Once again Denise was prompted to turn on
her heel sporting a hint of vague confusion. On noting the smirk creeping along
Ferrah’s lips she dropped the confusion in favour of a mockingly exaggerated
defensiveness. Her hand rested ostentatiously on her hip as she bobbed her head
in a skit of offence.

“Hey, my cheekbones speak for themselves.
They don’t need cheap tactics to prove their worth.”

“Well the least you could do is keep me
company… great cheek-boned bitch.”

Ferrah had thrown many excuses at Denise
over the years. They had come in many forms; in verbal jibes and in cruel
stares. And yet this was a first. Never before had she uttered an insult
towards Denise with a smile clearly illuminating the words as a harmless joke.
It was the sort of humour that relied on an intimacy of understanding and for a
moment she regretted the risk. However, it disappeared in an instance as a
chuckle came bubbling out from Denise and filtered across the rooftop. Rory and
Tina could only look on in surprise as Denise selected a permanent position at
Ferrah’s side.

***

The bleak stretch of grey continued to
dominate the skyline well into dawn as morning arrived with a steady downpour
of rain. With no shelter to seek they had been forced to endure the constant
splatter of raindrops decorating their skin for a period of nearly two hours.
The eventual end to the rain had brought with it even greater discomfort as the
weighty drag of their drenched clothes clung to their skin.

The mutual gloom had settled the group into
a huddle of absolute stillness; the three teenagers keeping watch over Tina who
had somehow continued to sleep through the storm. It was Rory who finally
injected life back into the silence as he got to his feet and proceeded to pull
his shirt over his head. The movement had teased the waves of his hair into an
endearingly dishevelled variation of its usual style.

Not that it was Rory’s hair that had
captured Ferrah’s attention. Her attention was unashamedly focused on the newly
exposed skin as it flexed with the movement of him stretching the lethargy out
of his limbs. And it didn’t escape her attention that Denise was observing with
a similar avid attention. When Rory had walked an appropriate distance away to
hang up his shirt Ferrah flashed Denise a wink.

“You don’t have to make it so obvious,”
Denise muttered.

 Although, it was clear that her attention was
diverted elsewhere as the words fell lazily off her tongue; lacking any sort of
serious conviction.

“Oh please, let’s not pretend that you are
not thinking the exact same thing.”

“Well now I am starting to think how unfair
this is.” Denise plucked at the front of her shirt only to watch in dejection
as it pinged back into place; tightly hugging at her skin in a damp embrace.

“What’s unfair?” Ferrah had not noticed the
action.

She was too busy admiring the way Rory’s
shoulders moved as he reached for a place to hang his shirt.

“That he can just whip off his shirt anytime
he likes and we’re stuck wearing drenched shirts,” Denise’s pondering suddenly
ignited the prospect in Ferrah’s mind.

She studied the state of her own t-shirt.
The rain combined with the material revealed a very clear outline of her bra
underneath. There was nothing she could do about the revealing nature of her
clothes. Under the realization that her appearance was already on the wrong
side of respectability she reached down to peel the hem of her shirt off her
skin.

“You know what? I don’t care,” After
uttering her defiant statement she began the process of wriggling the drenched
material up over her stomach.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” With a final tug
the material slipped easily over her head and allowed her skin a chance to
breathe.

“Would you please put your shirt back on?”
Denise hissed in an odd mixture of both shock and demand.

“I am soggy and it’s disgusting and there is
a horde of walking dead waiting outside to rip my flesh off. I think I am
entitled to dry my clothes.”

“That’s all well and fine, but…”

“There is no one here to judge. As far as I
am concerned I can do what I like. And I officially declare that it is
acceptable to take off your shirt. Are you going to join me or are you going to
sit there sulking?” she asked while wringing out her shirt, before laying it
out flat to dry.

“I’m not going to take my top off if that
is what you are asking.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Live a little.”

“There is a child present!” Denise said
while gesturing towards Tina, who still remained blissfully in the company of
sleep.

The child hadn’t moved at all from the
small ball she had curled herself into. Beneath the curtain of hair sweeping
across her face it was possible to discern her eyes flickering in the serene
comfort of rest.

“She is asleep.”

“He’s staring at you,” Across the rooftop
they were able to capture the trajectory of Rory’s gaze; it was clearly
directed at Ferrah’s chest.

On being discovered he immediately drew
away his stare and began observing every inch of the rooftop that wasn’t
occupied by the two girls in shame; his eyes bouncing from corner to corner in
flustered panic.

“I know,” Ferrah said with another wink.

“Great. Now you’re making me uncomfortable
too.”

“I was uncomfortable in those clothes! Now
I am liberated. Join me.”

“Not a chance.”

“Go for it.” Ferrah leapt to reach for the
hem of Denise’s shirt prompting an immediate tussle over the material as two
sets of hands scrabbled for control.

Denise wriggled away from Ferrah’s grasp
with determined zeal while furiously batting away the attempts to remove her
shirt.

“Guys…” Rory’s call went completely ignored
with the battle taking up all of the girls’ attentions.

“Ferrah, get off me!” Denise managed to
squeeze out the shout between heaving gasps for breaths to fuel her laughter.

“Guys…” Once again the call passed ignored.

“Take it off.”

“Guys!” It took for the words to tear along
his throat and shatter into the air with force until either of the girls took
notice.

He stood pointing determinedly at the sky. They
followed his extended finger to find an object silhouetted against the clouds.
It took a few moments to piece together the identity of the blur seemingly
heading in their direction. The hem of Denise’s shirt fell forgotten as the
pair squinted at the shape. Eventually they reached the realization almost
simultaneously. It was a helicopter.

Both girls scrabbled to their feet in
clumsy haste. They raced towards the edge of the roof and proceeded to create
an absolute racket as they bounded up and down; springing into the air and
waving their arms manically. The optimism of hope had filled them with
boundless energy. Finally an escape route had presented itself and they were in
no position to allow it to slip through their grasp.

“You know, if you took your top off too we
might have a better chance of getting noticed,” Ferrah said between pants of
exertion.

Denise’s broken chuckles made up the reply.
This didn’t stop Ferrah from running back and tossing her shirt back on as the
helicopter grew nearer, however. The pair were suddenly thrust into an outbreak
of giggles as they continued to throw themselves into the air. The jubilation
was too obvious to ignore. The helicopter was heading straight for them
carrying with it the very real hope of survival.

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