It doesn’t have much left, but I approach from behind, drawing my hunting knife from its sheath. I straddle the pig and slice the blade across his neck, hot blood spraying my arms and face. With one more struggling spasm, life fades from its eyes.
“You win,” I say, turning to Thorn. “You got the first hit.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but I didn’t kill him. It doesn’t count.”
“Seriously though,” I reply. “You’ve gotten a lot better. You’ve learned a lot in the last few months.”
“Maybe I’ve had a good teacher,” he says, stepping forward to help me free the hoof from the grate.
After field dressing the pig, we load it onto the wagon, one of many stashed around the city for just such a purpose. It takes us a solid hour to get back to camp, but when we arrive, we are welcomed with cheers and handshakes.
“It will be nice to have something besides fish,” Clarice says, helping us haul the carcass to the hoist.
“Hey!” the older man, Charlie, I believe, protests from his spot on the pier a few feet away, manning his fishing pole. “I don’t hear you complaining when the larders are full.”
Clarice laughs, her bright smile shining like the sun. “Yes Charlie, you are absolutely right. We are lucky to have you.” She turned to the two of us, gesturing us toward the fire. “Come. Let the others tend to the boar. You two have earned the day off.”
Thorn wanders to the ever-present fire crackling in the circle of stones just above the high tide line. I kick off my shoes and step toward the gently lapping waves, splashing the water up my arms and face.
My clothes feel stiff from the morning’s activity, the pig’s blood having already dried against my skin. I peel away the shirt and tee underneath, stripping down to my bra and wading forward until the water meets my waist. The cool saltwater feels good, washing away the sweat and crud from the day’s events.
Charlie waves to me from his spot on the edge of the pier, his gray mustache bobbing up and down as he squints out at the ocean. Next to him sits a cooler, loaded up with his cache of caught fish.
A pair of the older children run over to collect them, carting them off to the wood-smokers up the beach. I smile and wave back.
Up on the beach I hear the sounds of the citizens emerging from their houses, following the excited voices of the children celebrating our victorious hunt. Being this early in the day, Clarice and the others will have the pig roasting on the spit and ready before nightfall.
I turn to head back toward the beach when I see a tiny glint of light, just on the horizon. Perhaps just a flash of sunlight on the water, but Charlie stands up, raising one hand to shade his eyes.
He sees it too, whatever it is. I keep an eye on him as I head back over to Clarice, shaking the remnants of saltwater from my clothes.
“You haven’t changed your clothes?” she says, looking me over with amusement. “What could be so important?”
“I’m not sure actually. There’s something out there.”
Clarice raises her hand and peers out to the horizon. I watch her face, surprised to find her concerned expression light up with a smile. “Ah, they’re here,” she murmurs, taking a step towards the water.
“Who? Who’s here?”
“The islanders.” She returns to assist with the preparation. Another jubilant cheer rises from those gathered as she brings their attention to the arriving guests.
“Who are the islanders?” I ask Olivia, who had joined us.
“The Sea Dwellers,” she says. “They live on the ocean, nomads. They came from the islands, originally. Bring us coffee and dried fruits and such. We offer them medicines when we can. Stuff like that. A chance to rest their feet on solid ground. It’s always a big deal when they arrive.”
“Yes, I see that.” I peer out toward the horizon, trying to make out shapes, still only seeing a sliver of light as the sun hits them. “They live on the sea?”
“Oh yes,” she replies. “They found a way to survive and thrive in this crazy world. They follow the currents and the wind from the islands up the East Coast, collecting and trading as they go.”
I shake my head in disbelief, one hand absently rubbing the back of my neck. “There’s no zombies on the ocean.”
“Exactly,” she grins. “It’s genius really.”
Alma and Rose emerge from the beach house in which they made camp, walking up the beach hand in hand. As the ships loom closer, the children make a game out of running in and out of the waves.
I smile at their mirth, once more revealing the vast difference in the lifestyle these children will have compared to my own. Their happiness brings a smile to my face.
“Are you still having those headaches?” Olivia asks. I don’t even realize I’d been pressing my fingers against my scalp.
“It’s nothing,” I reply quickly, lowering my arms. “Probably just the sunlight.”
“You know, I’m sure Clarice could find something for you in the infirmary…”
“I said it’s nothing!”
Her expression darkens for a moment, but she quickly gives a stiff smile. I immediately regret snapping at her, but already she joins the others in their merriment around the firepit.
Over the course of the day, the ships veer closer to the coast, moving as one unit. Once close enough, I can make out the structure of their flotilla. A series of small wooden boats loosely bound together by a series of ropes, enough give between them for steering.
One person sits in each vessel, men and women with considerable strength in their arms and shoulders, no doubt, from the practice of rowing. While the boats are small, the collective creates a considerable blot against the sea.
As they draw nearer, I realize larger ships and houseboats make up the far side of the fleet. All together their structure appears like a huge floating island, each vessel making up a part of a larger structure.
The complexity of the combined structures takes my breath away, reminding me in some ways of the buildings in the center of the city.Windows and balconies along the outer houseboats have persons peering back at us, waving and smiling to those of us on the shore.
They make their way to shore on small row boats carrying no more than thirty or forty people. Not one of them looked like me, either. They all had beautiful dark skin like Clarice and Simeon, carrying the same bright smiles as well.
By the time evening rolls around, the majority of the newcomers have made their way ashore. The crackling scent of the roasted pig wafts over the beach, beckoning the remaining citizens.
Clarice takes the initiative, serving out generous portions of food. Potatoes, carrots, and zucchini, grown in the inland plots, nestle in the coals until brought to a steaming crisp, topped with sizzling, shredded pork.
Once the younger children go off to bed, and the laughter dies down, one of the elder women regales us with stories of her homeland, describing how they created their floating community after the islands had been overtaken by the zombies.
She takes her seat by the fire, and the flickering light glows against her white hair and brown skin as she tells us the story of their history. Silence falls over those of us listening, taking in the seriousness of her words, the pain reflected in her eyes as she recalls the days before the Fall.
“When we die,” she says, nearing the end, “there will exist a world in which no one remembers how it was before. A world in which you have grown up knowing only this, how to survive day by day. But perhaps therein lies the hope.” She turns her gaze towards us, Thorn, Alma, Rose, and I, sitting among the others near our age, Olivia, Sarah, and the rest.
“Perhaps you can succeed where we have failed,” she continues. “Create a new world where such a tragedy would never happen again. A world in which you can not only survive, but thrive, as you are intended to do.” She raises her hands, facing her palms towards us. “May Papa Legba open the doors and the loa guide your footsteps as you walk.”
This final declaration seems to break the s
pell. She stands, brushing her hands against her legs. Chats and good nights float through the crowd. Sleep tempts behind my eyes and the excitement of the day catches up to me. My mind drifts through her story as I wander back to the house where I had my camp.
I can’t imagine a world different than this. Constantly watching around every corner, aware of every sound, every step, every movement. But the presence of SeaHaven proves that people can live without fear.
And now, having learned about these people, who have made for themselves a whole community on the water, living free of zombies, could such a thing be possible, I wonder, on a grander scale?
It is too much to think on. I make my way back to my room, one of many in the large, abandoned house. I spot Rose and Alma outside the door of Alma’s room, standing close to each other, talking quietly. They don’t see me approach at first.
Their intimate talking segues into a kiss in such a way that I have seen others kiss, Clarice and Simeon, and some of the other young couples.
I stay to the shadows, slowing my movement. They embrace, slow and lingering, arms around each other. It had never occurred to me that two women could kiss like that. I step back, kicking my feet a bit to alert them of my presence. They break apart from each other and smile my way, Alma’s arm draping casually over Rose’s shoulders.
“Everything alright?” Alma says, arching an eyebrow.
“Of course,” I say with a smirk. “Carry on. Don’t mean to interrupt.”
Inside my room, I find Marcus curled up on the animal skins laid out for our bedding, his soft breath steady in the depths of sleep. The shadow of his lashes flicker against his pink cheek.
I kick off my shoes and take my place perpendicular from him, pulling the skins around my shoulders. My mind calms in the silence of the room, the darkness and moonlight streaming through the window, leaving a puddle of silver on the floor of the otherwise empty room.
Three
When I wake, at least a few hours have passed. It is now fully dark, but the angle of the moonlight casts against the wall.
I hear distant hoofbeats against pavement, moving at a steady trot, triggering adrenaline. Immediately, I sit up, moving away from Marcus carefully. The horse is blocks away still, and for a brief moment, I am grateful for my elevated senses.
Someone is coming.
As slow as I can, I reach for my crossbow, moving at a crawl until I get past the door frame. I stand up, moving the weapon against my back and keeping my arm at an angle to grab it quickly if I need it.
Barefoot, I run up the beach away from the camps until I arrive at the wooden planks of the docks. I circle around to the east side of the houses, nearing the street where the sound is coming from, inland. I make my way down the stairs, tucking into the shadows underneath and watching the length of the moonlit streets.
The horse appears, slowed to a walk, head down, ears forward. At first, I think I am seeing brown winter fur, but as it moves closer, I realize it is mud and dirt caked on the creature’s flanks and tangled mane.
The rider also has his head down. I cannot see his face. He might be injured. In the dim light, I cannot quite make out what I am seeing.
With one swift movement, I swing around the crossbow, positioning the cross hairs on the rider, just in case.
The horse steps into a patch of moonlight. With a rush of recognition, I place the crossbow on the ground and step out into the light, hands raised at shoulder level. The rider holds steady, but fatigue shows on his face. I know this face all too well.
“Ash, is that you?” A long-ago, familiar voice comes from the figure on the horse.
“Yes, Ezekiel. It’s me.”
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, pitching forward. I catch him, just as he loses purchase on the horse, tumbling into my arms. The moment his feet touch the ground, his knees buckle. “Ash. You have to come back. She’s figured out how to control them.
“It’s okay,” I say, steadying him. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Ezekiel.”
“The horse,” he mumbles.
“We’ll water her. She’ll be alright.”
With one arm around him, and the other holding the horse’s bridle, we head back towards the encampment. I take him to the fire pit, still smoldering from the day’s activities.
We pass by some tents, and I call out to wake the others. Rose appears, still in her tee shirt and boxers, her usual sleeping clothes. She immediately starts stoking the fire to get it going again. Alma meets me on the other side of Ezekiel, supporting his other arm and helping him sit down by the fire. Simeon rushes from his tent, carrying with him the water skein for the new guest.
“I know him,” I say to the gathered few. “This is Eden’s son, Ezekiel.”
“I’ll tend to the horse,” Clarice says, approaching us from the same tent she shares with Simeon.
“Yes, but come back quickly,” Eva says. “We may need your help.”
“Yes, of course,” Clarice says, picking up on her meaning. She and Simeon exchange a glance, before she pulls on her boots and slips away.
Simeon tips the water flask to Ezekiel’s lips and he drinks. When Clarice returns, she carries with her a vial of oil, tilting his head back and placing a few drops on his tongue.
Together she and Simeon carry him to the infirmary, such as it was. Whatever he had to say to us could wait until morning.
“It can’t be good,” Eva says. “Him being here. What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. But you’re right. It can’t be good.”
Not until well into the following day did I receive word that he asked for me. One of Clarice’s girls came to fetch me at the water’s edge.
I had not slept since his arrival. This had been the longest night since arriving at SeaHaven. We walk in silence up the grassy hillside toward the infirmary, one of the few buildings which has not been taken by the overgrown flora.
Ezekial sits up, sipping at a plastic cup of water. The room appears plain, a bed in one corner and a side table containing a pitcher, which had been filled from the water stores.
Olivia had placed some bright purple flowers in a vase at the window. These details I have yet to get used to in this new way of life. Pieces of beauty such as this are a luxury that bare survival does not allow.
Ezekiel’s eyes widen when he sees me. “You’re alive,” he says.
“Of course I’m alive,” I mutter.
“Well, thank god I found you.”
He looks like he’s been through hell. A greasy sheen permeates his hair, dirty brown from the layer of dust. He would need a bath sometime soon.
“Are you infected?” I ask.
“Ash!” Olivia chided.
“What?” I reply. “No point in beating around the bush. Either he is, or he isn’t.”
“I’m not,” Ezekiel replied. “It’s a fair question.”
“Okay, then. You have my audience. What’s going on Ezekiel? What brought you here?”
“Ash, we need your help.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, settling in at the edge of the bed.
“We need help,” he says, his voice tinged in desperation. “There’s not enough of us left. She’s taken too many of us.” His gaze darts around the room, as if searching. For what, I can’t know.
“Wait, wait. Slow down. We have time, Ezekiel. Start from the beginning.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes, let’s do that.” He glances around, taking in Olivia and Simeon, and then back to me. I can see the torture behind his eyes.
“What happened after we left?”
“After you left, I decided to leave the farm. I wanted to try and find my way on my own. Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled about the idea, but they couldn’t stop me. Dad said I was old enough, and I knew how to survive the land. I promised them I would go into the mountains.”
“The mountains.” A sense of dread bloomed in my stomach, recalling the scoundrels who had accosted us, the ones who had
Marcus.
“For a couple of weeks, I camped. I had my bug-out bag, and I had literally trained my whole life for over-ground survival. I did alright. I really did. I got as high as I could, hiking up the mountain, just moving forward. I didn’t know how many days I’d been hiking when I stopped seeing them. By the time I realized it, I hadn’t seen a zombie for at least three days.
“I set up camp then. A real camp where I could stay for a bit. Before that, I’d been sleeping in trees. Trying to keep moving.”
“How does that work?” Olivia asks. “Sleeping in trees…”
He rolled his eyes towards her, cocking a half-smile. “I tied myself in my sleeping bag to the largest tree branch. Trust me. After that, I never knew the cold hard ground could feel so comfortable.”
“I know that feeling,” I said.
“So, I camped out for a few weeks without much trouble. Spent my time hunting, mostly. Foraging, filtering water. That kind of stuff. I guess I was just trying to figure out my next move. And then one day, I woke up and discovered I wasn’t alone.”
“Zombies?” I ask.
“No.” He gives me a half-grin. “Them.”
“Them? What the hell does that mean?”
“The scavengers. The ones who live in the mountains,” Ezekiel continued. “Seems you may have had a run in with them on the way over?”
I recall the moment we found out we were not alone. The woman dressed in white who held our lookout at knife point. The stand-off between the two of us. I had been the one who spotted Marcus in their midst. For whatever reason, I believe it was the crossbow I had leveled at her head, she returned Marcus to us. She had called me Baby A. I never got her name.
“I remember.”
Ezekiel continued, “I woke up to find them surrounding my camp, weapons drawn. The woman was the only one unarmed. She looked… I don’t know how to describe her.”
“Clean,” I said. “She looked clean.”
“Yes, oddly so. I’ve never seen anyone outside of the farm that clean, especially wearing all white the way she did. She approached me. Hell, I was barely dressed. I’d only managed to pull on my jeans before stepping out of the tent.
The Rising Ash Saga | Book 2 | Falling Embers Page 2