What We Left Behind, page 5
part #1 of Z is for Zombie Series
I’m scared.
If there was any other way, I’d gladly take it, but my dad has no hope. For him, there is only now. Tomorrow holds darkness.
Mom turned after catching her hand on a barbwire fence. We’d been clearing carcasses from the back forty acres. She should have been wearing leather gloves, but in the heat of the day, she removed them. Such mistakes should not cost someone their life.
As much as he hated to, dad let me see mom after she turned. It was the only way I’d accept that she was no longer there, that the shell of her body was inhabited by a demon. I still remember the sound of that one, lonely shot. The bullet seemed to tear through my own soul. Perhaps Jane is right. Perhaps “zombie” is too soft a term. They’re monsters.
I can’t cope with the thought of seeing dad like that. Seeing my father baying for my own blood would be more than I could bear. I can’t give up on him. I have to go down there and find that medicine. And I have to be quick.
I find a box of shells in a desk drawer. I put the box in the rucksack along with the map, and hoist it over my shoulders, leaving a note on the desk.
Dad,
Hold on.
Don’t let go.
I will make it back.
Love,
Hazel.
Quietly, I creep out into the darkened living room. I need food, water, and weapons. The moon has risen over the distant hills, casting an eerie glow through the house.
“Haze,” a voice says softly from the shadows.
Steve gets up from one of the couches lining the room. Jane’s there too. She nudges David, waking him from a deep slumber.
“What are you guys doing?” I whisper.
“Waiting for you,” Steve replies.
“You should be asleep.”
I walk into the kitchen and find some canteens in one of the cupboards, filling three of them with water from the rain tank.
“What are you doing?” David asks, walking into the kitchen behind Steve and Jane.
“Shhh,” I reply, wanting him to keep his voice down.
Steve rests his hand on my arm. “Haze, what’s happening?”
I choke up as I speak. “It’s my dad. He’s infected. He’s got a day, maybe two at the most. I’ve got to help.”
“How is going out there going to help?” David asks, having already figured out what I’m doing from the dried jerky and grain bars I’m stowing in my pack.
“There’s a cure.”
I don’t know this. Really, it’s a lie. Even dad doesn’t know for sure, and I feel bad about lying, but I have to lie. I cannot sit by and watch my father die. I have to believe there’s a cure.
“You’re sure about this?” Jane asks. “A cure?”
“If my dad’s right, then we can kill the parasites that make people turn.”
“So you don’t know this for sure,” David says, calling my bluff. “You’re guessing.”
“It’s not a guess,” I insist. “My dad’s been studying these creatures for years, slowly eliminating the possibilities.”
Creatures, now I sound like my father. And yet, being challenged by David is helping to solidify my thinking.
“So you think they really are alive?” Jane asks. “You think dead science can help destroy Zee?”
I say, “What else do we have? Everyone trusts someone—something. So what are we going to trust? Tea leaves? Astrology? Are we going to find answers in superstitions?”
“We trust our own experience,” David offers. “We’ve all seen them. They’re not alive. They’re the undead.”
“Are they?” I ask. “How sure are you of that? Do you really trust your own experiences? Do you trust your own eyes? Tell me, what happens each day? Does the sun rise? Does the sun set? Or does Earth turn?”
David is quiet as I continue.
“We have no reason to believe the ground beneath us actually turns, spinning around like a kid’s toy, and yet it does. Science tells us not to trust our own eyes.”
Now I really sound like my dad.
“You can’t go out there,” David says, accepting my point but rebutting my plan. “You won’t last five minutes beyond the barricades, not at night. Besides, I doubt you’d even get that far. The guards on the fence would mistake you for a zombie and cap you before you made it through no-man’s-land.”
“I have to,” I insist, even though I know he’s right. “I’ve got to try.”
“I understand,” Steve says, taking hold of my hand. “There has to be hope.”
Steve surprises me. Just when I think I’ve got him figured out, he throws me for a loop. I guess he’s been here before me. At some point, he fought for his family, watching helplessly as they turned. His fingers are warm. They’re a reminder of what we’re fighting for—life.
I say, “Without hope, what is life but torment?”
“Haze,” Jane says softly, taking the rucksack off my shoulder. “You can’t go. Not now. Not in the darkness. David’s right.”
“I—”
“Wait till dawn,” Steve says.
“We’ll go together,” David says.
“We will?” Jane asks, looking briefly at David before adding, “Yes. We will.”
“But your father,” I begin, even though I know Ferguson isn’t David’s real father.
“My father is a dick!” David says. Given David’s loyalty to the marauders and how closely he works with his stepfather, I didn’t expect him to be so forthright. I figured he’d rationalize what happened in some way and try to make light of the accident, but it’s a pleasant surprise to hear him be so blunt.
I say, “My father needs—”
David cuts me off, saying, “If you want to help your father, you have to listen to me. Traveling through the forest at night is suicide. You’d never see Zee coming.”
They lead me back into the lounge. Steve gestures to the couch and I slump into the sunken cushions. The worn springs sigh as they give way beneath me.
“Listen,” Jane says. “We have to consider the possibility your dad won’t make it. I’m sorry, but we have to.”
Sitting on the couch, I feel my life draining from my body. Like my father, I want to get up and stay active, but I’m too tired. I try to hide my shaking hands, holding them in my lap.
David says, “There’s a storeroom beneath the old boiler room. Only a few of us know about it. McKenzie keeps his distillery equipment down there. We could hide your dad there. He’d be safe from Ferguson. And if he—”
David stops himself at that point. We all know.
Jane says, “David and I will take your dad there. We’ll talk to McKenzie. We’ll get him to keep your dad safe until we return.”
“But if they find him—”
Jane rests her hand on my forearm, saying, “They won’t be looking for him. They’ll think he’s gone with us.”
I nod, resigned to fatigue.
Steve sits down and slips his arm over my shoulder. I guess he wants to comfort me, but I’m frustrated. I shrug away from him. I don’t want to be touched. I want life to be reset, and not just to yesterday. I want life to go back to how it was before the outbreak.
I’m angry, but there’s no justification for my anger, no focus, and so I don’t know what I’m angry about or who I’m angry with. In the end, I’m disappointed in myself.
Jane and David creep into my dad’s office. I try to get up. I feel as though I have to help them, but my legs are like lead weights.
“Just relax,” Steve says, but I don’t want to relax.
“You don’t have to do everything,” Steve adds softly. “You can’t fix everything.”
He’s right, but I don’t want to admit that.
I try not to cry. I’m stupidly tired, but going to sleep feels like giving up.
“It’s okay,” Steve says. “Don’t you see? We waited for you. We care. We can help.”
I turn and bury my head on his shoulder and cry. I hate myself. I feel like a whiny, selfish child. All I can think about as I drift off to sleep is how I don’t deserve friends like these.
Chapter 04: Daylight
Jane wakes me, rocking me gently by the shoulder. I push off the cushion on the couch only to realize I’m pushing against clothing, and beneath that, muscle and bone. Steve groans. I’ve been lying beside him, half on top of him, squishing him against the back of the couch like a crumpled throw rug.
For a moment, the world seems normal. There’s no horror, no zombies, nothing wrong with my dad, and then reality washes over me like a flood.
“Come on,” Jane whispers, not giving me time to wallow in self-pity.
It’s still dark outside. There’s a faint glow on the horizon, but it’s not yet dawn. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days instead of a few hours. I’m surprisingly refreshed.
Steve follows us into the kitchen. A candle casts a dim light on four backpacks—they’re much more robust than the rucksack I’d been preparing the night before. David works feverishly, but without making any noise. It’s impressive to see him handling machetes and baseball bats, strapping them to the side of the packs with just the briefest sound of Velcro catching.
“We let you sleep as long as we could,” Jane says. I’m still a little overwhelmed. The events of last night are as hazy and cloudy as my dreams.
David props open the door with a wooden wedge, again without so much as a sound. He picks up two of the packs, handling them as though they weigh nothing, and carries them outside. In seconds, he’s back again, grabbing the last two packs. Steve’s still yawning while I’m trying to figure out if I’m lost in a dream.
We walk out into the cool of the morning and I start to say something, but David holds his finger to his lips, gesturing for quiet. He points at the first-floor windows, and I understand. We each take a pack and creep away to the oval.
I’m breathing hard by the time we reach the bleachers. It’s been a hundred yards, which is nothing compared to what we have to cover today. We rest on the concrete steps and Steve asks the question I’ve been silently wondering about as we hiked over to the oval.
“How do we get out of the commune?”
“Oh, getting out is easy,” David replies. “This isn’t a prison. No one’s trying to keep us in. The guards won’t be looking for someone leaving.”
I rummage around in my backpack.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask, pulling out a set of knuckle dusters and a length of steel chain. It’s no wonder my pack is so heavy.
“Redundancy,” David replies. “Once we get out there, we’re on our own. We’ve got to carry everything we need.”
Jane adds, “And we need at least two of everything in case we lose equipment along the way.”
I’m busy emptying the contents of my backpack.
“I won’t make it half a mile with all this stuff,” I say, knowing David means well. “I’m no marauder. I can’t carry all of this stuff.”
David’s silent, but he’s watching as I separate the contents of my pack into two piles. It’s pretty obvious which pile I’m taking with me, as that’s the one with water and food.
“At least take the arm pieces,” Jane says.
I count ten greaves, but I’m guessing everyone is carrying the same number. You only ever need four at a time—two for your legs, two for your arms. I’m thinking David’s given us two complete sets each as they’re designed to break away in a zombie attack. And the remaining two are for good measure.
I look at one of the greaves. It’s just over a foot long and designed to wrap around my forearm or my lower leg as a shin pad. The strapping is flimsy because if Zee bites, the greave is supposed to come away. I’ve never seen them used, but I’ve heard they’re intended to confuse and disorient zombies. I was told Zee will think he’s torn off my arm and be too busy chowing down on the supple leather to notice as I flee with all my appendages intact. Such a delightful thought, but such is life in the apocalypse.
I put four greaves back in my pack and strap one on each arm. I’m not going to bother with my legs. If things get so bad that I’ve got Zee all over me, snapping at my legs as well as my arms, I doubt extra greaves will make any difference.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to acknowledge the work David and Jane have put into preparing the packs while dumping almost half the contents. David doesn’t look impressed, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.
Steve lightens his pack as well. I put my hand on his arm and say, “Listen. I appreciate everything you guys have done for me, but this isn’t your fight. It’s my dad, my fight.”
“No, no, no,” Steve says, shaking his head.
“Just get me outside the gates, and I’ll go on alone.”
“Honey,” Jane says, sorting through her pack but not taking anything out. “That’s not happening.”
David says, “No offense, but you’ll never make it out there by yourself.”
Yet again, he’s probably right, but the thought of my friends risking and possibly losing their lives on my fool’s errand is too much.
“I have to try.”
Sitting here on the bleachers, looking out at the blood-stained grass and smoldering embers from the fire, I struggle to hold back tears. The cart is still there, knocked to one side. The burnt remains of the frame that held the skin is just visible in the ashes. The broken glass and decapitated zombie head are gone. Probably tossed over the fence by one of the marauders.
“I’m not leaving you,” Steve says, losing his normal calm demeanor and speaking with a passion that shouldn’t take me by surprise, but does.
“But this could cost you your lives!”
“It could save our lives,” Jane replies. “If your dad’s right, this could change everything.”
“Quick,” David says. “The wagon’s coming.”
He grabs his pack and runs along the front of the bleachers, disappearing into the shadows. The sky above is lit up with streaks of deep purple and hints of ruddy pink as the first rays of light cross the distant horizon. Already, the silhouette of the dark mountains beyond the city is set in contrast against the sky. The cold of night is giving way to the warmth of day.
We follow David, crouching behind him as a horse-drawn wagon trundles by. The steel-rimmed wheels are surprisingly loud on the gravel. There are two soldiers sitting at the front of the wagon, guiding the horses. The deck of the wagon is easily nine feet above the ground, putting it out of reach of zombies.
“They’re taking supplies to the workers camped out in the cornfields,” David whispers.
As the wagon passes, he runs out behind the cart and tosses his backpack on the rear deck. We run after the wagon. David has already jumped up and is climbing under the canvas. Jane swings her pack up. David grabs it and stows it to one side. He reaches out and pulls her up over the low wooden tailgate. Steve is next. He scrambles up onto the wagon, kicking with his feet against the wooden frame. If it wasn’t for the noise of the wheels, I’m sure the soldiers would hear us.
I swing my pack, but I’m short and my pack falls short, almost wrenching my arm out of my shoulder socket as it swings back down. I’m five foot nothing. Oh, for a teenage growth spurt right about now, I think as I run madly behind the wagon. David leans down with his arm outstretched. Steve’s beside him, hanging out of the wagon.
I run hard. I can see the main gate ahead. I heave my pack, more throwing than swinging it, and I risk losing the whole pack if I miss. Steve grabs a strap and pulls it up. David pats the back of the wagon, signaling for me to jump. But I’m out of breath and tiring fast.
The wagon slows as it approaches the gate, giving me the chance to catch up. David and Steve have their arms outstretched toward me. I’ve got my hands out. Our fingers touch, but it’s not enough to get a handhold.
David swings his legs down as though he’s getting off the wagon. He’s got one arm over the back of the deck while his body hangs beneath the deck. Our hands touch, but he ignores the grasp of my fingers, grabbing instead at my wrist. Before I realize what’s happening, my feet are off the ground and I’m swinging toward the deck. Steve and Jane grab me before I fall and pull me under the heavy canvas. David climbs in, pulling the canvas over us as the wagon comes to a halt by the gate.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I lay as still as possible, knowing the guards in the tower by the gate have a clear view of the soldiers and the wagon. There’s talking, but I can’t hear what’s being said.
The wagon rolls forward and David lifts the canvas slightly, giving us a peek as the gates close behind us.
We’ve only traveled a few feet, but already the countryside feels different. Spike pits line the sides of the road, running along the front of the fence. I’ve seen these before, but only ever from behind. Looking into them and seeing the spikes facing outward, I get a sense of just how much effort has gone into securing our safety. Kids, teens, even the adults—we’re sheltered from the outside world by years of hard labor. Even with the odd example being made of Zee in the school yard, I’m painfully aware that I have no idea about the world beyond those gates.
The sound of the wheels drops to a hiss, which is a little confusing. I peer out the back and see that the trail is covered in soft sand, muting out motion.
“In about five minutes, the wagon’s going to slow down as they head over a wooden bridge,” David whispers. “That’s where we get off.”
David positions the packs to one side. He whispers with Steve, talking about how to dismount. He’s warning him about the fall, saying we’ve got to drop straight down or risk spraining an ankle.
Jane’s next to me. We’re lying on a pile of sacks that will be used in the harvest. I can’t help but feel overwhelmed. I’ve eaten corn for years without ever giving any thought to what those in the commune have to go through in order to feed a child like me. I knew laborers and farmers would disappear for weeks at a time, but I never thought about them braving Zee to make sure we had enough to eat.
We round a bend and move off of the sand, back onto rough gravel. The wheels make a surprising amount of noise. I turn to ask David about them when he taps me on the shoulder and signals for me to climb over the back of the tailgate. Steve slips over the edge of the wagon and falls gracefully to the ground. David cycles through the four packs, tossing them down to Steve as Jane and I crawl awkwardly over the back of the tailgate.
