by M. D. Massey
The fire smolders a low amber beacon. The other two have fallen asleep, based on the steady sound of their breathing. The forest surrounds us with pitch darkness on all sides, tree trunks only illuminated by the dancing flickering light.
I hear a crack of branches in the underbrush.
My hand flies to the knife at my waist, and I roll forward into a crouch. The crossbow lays on the ground beside me. Another snap of a twig, a rustle of leaves. I bring my knife up, ready for the side slash which would take down an approaching zombie. What I hear next alerts me that this is not the usual shuffle of mindless movement. I slowly push myself to standing, hooking the strap of my bow over my shoulder and placing my hands against the tree.
It is close.
I hold my breath.
Another step.
I move forward as quiet as I can against the leafy ground, catching a glimpse of Rachel sleeping with her hands tucked under her cheeks, breathing softly. Marcus' bag is piled in a heap between me and the fire. Every muscle in my body is taut and alert. Whatever is moving through the forest stays in the darkness at the edges of the clearing. My eyes strain to try and make out the shape. It steps into the flickering light of the fire and I swing around with my knife at the ready.
Marcus peers up at me, his hair kicked up creating a rooster at the back of his head.
“What are you doing?” I whisper in an exhale, not without some annoyance. I lean back against the tree and slide down to the ground.
“I couldn't sleep,” he says with nonchalance, settling into the ground next to me. He pulls his feet up and looks at me in that unnerving way. I can't help but feel that he is watching me, as if I have something for him.
The darkness grows around us. “Fine,” I say. “You can stay but you have to be quiet okay?”
He nods with a comfortable look on his face.
“You wanna know something?”
“What?” I say with a sigh.
“Our names are the same.”
“Are they? How do you mean?”
“My middle name is Blaze.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “Marcus Blaze. We both have fire names. Pretty cool, huh?”
“I guess so.”
He smiles and settles in, perching next to me as if we had done for years, instead of being near strangers, tossed together by circumstance.
“Marcus, did you need something?” I ask.
“I cry, too, sometimes,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“I heard you yesterday in the library. I didn't want to say, but...”
“No, it's alright.” I wave my hand, though it is not alright.
“It's okay, you know.” He scoots over to me and picks up my arm, draping it over his shoulder like a scarf. I sit in silence and let him lean in underneath the small comfort he seems to get from me. I cannot decide if I want to smile at him or if his presence makes my neck bristle.
* * *
Bolting awake, I immediately recognize the sound of the creatures moving through the trees, sunlight fingering through the branches. I had fallen asleep on my watch. Something about the presence of Marcus had lulled me into a relaxed state and I had nodded off. He sleeps with his head on my lap and his arms tucked around my waist.
I try, at first, to push him off. The zombies are close. I don't know where, but I can tell they are nearby. I twist around, catching a glimpse of Rachel still sleeping at the edge of the circle. If I can get her to wake up, we might be able to make a break for the truck before they spot us. Marcus' arms clutch around my waist in a sleep induced grip, his hands locked together.
“Marcus,” I whisper through clenched teeth. “Marcus, you have to let go!”
I spot the first zombie step through the trees.
“Marcus,” I say with urgency. “You have to let go. Rachel! Rachel!” I say over my shoulder as loud as I can while not giving away our position. If Marcus would just let go...
I kick out my feet and try to get some purchase against the tree to loosen his grip.
The zombie makes it to Rachel before I can. Seeing him hover over her gives me an extra surge of adrenaline. I shove Marcus off of me and toss him aside. As much as I hate it, I know it is our only chance. He stumbles back onto his backside with wide eyes, his mouth dropped open. I glance back over my shoulder.
It is too late for her.
The zombie chomps into her neck as she sleeps, severing her vocal cords and crushing her windpipe. She struggles for a moment, her feet spasming in a quick seizure as her nerves fight for one last grasp at life. She is gone in seconds. I know the wheezing of the air working through her broken trachea is a sound that will never leave me. Marcus' chest is hitching up and down and his face goes white.
Grabbing him by the hand, I bolt towards the truck. By now there is no time to go back and gather the supplies. We make it as far as the passenger door. The herd filters around us, moving slowly through the trees, one at a time. I turn and see them lurching in slow motion, step after step. I yank the handle, but the door is stuck.
“Come on!” I mutter as they move closer, shuffling in behind us. Marcus begins to hyperventilate, clutching one hand in mine and craning his head around to see their steady approach.
“Don't look, Marcus,” I say. “Don't look at them. Let me get the door open.”
I run around the truck, letting go of his hand, thinking I can move faster, get him inside faster, if I go on my own. Lunging through the driver's side, I scramble across to push open the other door. He stands for a moment framed in the flaked blue painted door frame. Everything moves in slow motion. I reach for him, my hands clutching into thin air as I attempt to grab his shoulders and pull him inside.
I am too late.
He screams as the monstrous hands and fingers wrap around his arms and start to pull him away. I manage to get a hold of his wrists, but he slips away in seconds. They drag him into the forest as the sound of his wails echo into the night sky. The last thing I see are his hands clasping towards me, vanishing into the darkness of the forest.
No time.
No time to think. Even if they can not kill me, I could still get injured because of them. That many of them could overturn the truck. I scramble forward, grabbing the passenger door and pulling it shut.
“Come on,” I mutter, willing the truck to move. “Come on!”
At last, the keys turn under my fingers, bringing the truck to life. The engine turns over with a disgruntled rumble. The roar of the engine grabs the attention of the creatures close to me. I find the road, pulling the wheel into position to get myself turned on the gravel. I drive until I hit pavement, leaving the creatures behind. I press the palms of my hands against my cheeks, wiping away the tears and doing my best to focus on the pressure of my foot against the gas pedal.
This had happened before, and yet...
He was a child. Marcus was a child.
I drive as far as I can, ignoring the nagging urge to circle back to the city and examine more evidence in the laboratory. All I want to do is move forward. It hurts now. Such a loss always does, but if I can just get enough distance between myself and what happened then maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
So many questions bubble in my mind, but I try not to focus on that. Despite my attempts to avoid the image, I play it over again in my mind. If I could have gotten her awake I could have prevented the whole thing. I could have saved him, saved them both. The sound of his screams would echo in my mind for the rest of my life. How many times, I wonder, do I have to live through the pain of seeing someone I care about, someone I loved, being ripped to shreds? I have seen enough of that to last a lifetime. Should have known better than to believe that this time would turn out any different. I swipe the back of my hand across my face then rub the wetness of my tears onto my jeans.
Pressing forward, the city fades into the distance. I have no destination in mind. The sun casts a yellow glow on the road. Hunger gnaws at m
y stomach, but it is a welcome distraction from the thoughts churning in my head. I need to find food and soon. At the next exit I pull off, motivated by the green road signs with invitations to Mom's Diner, Pete's BBQ, trucks welcome and so on.
The scent of grilling meat piques my interest as I turn the truck down the off ramp. I pull over in the parking lot of an abandoned grocery store. The light is fading fast, and I am hell-bent on finding where the scent of roasting meat is coming from. Stepping out of the cab, I lift my face to the wind, turning to catch the breeze. Finally I see it. Against the far northern horizon, rising from the treetops, is a thick gray plume of smoke dancing into the sky. Climbing back into the truck, I shift gears, pulling the wheel back onto the road.
7
The truck lurches forward. My focus remains steady on the gray beacon, the pillar of smoke rising from the tree-topped horizon. My cheeks feel sticky with drying tears. Pulling around to the main road, twisting the steering wheel with some effort, a sign comes into view, hand painted on bare wood with a red arrow pointing ahead.
“Food and Safety”
The prior tragedies of the death of my travel mates tuck themselves away in my mind, overtaken by the immediate desire to survive. The hunger gnaws at my stomach and can no longer be ignored. Up ahead I see another nearly identical sign with the arrow pointing to the gravel road off to the right. Forest surrounds me on all sides. At least I see no zombies in sight. I continue on following the tantalizing scent of food.
The road arrives to an open gravel circle, large enough for four of my trucks to park side by side. Up ahead, a metal fence topped with rolls of silvery barbed wire circles the expanse of property, vanishing into the forest on either side. A simple farmhouse nestles into the crook of the meadow. Behind the house is a warehouse and a sizable smoker, puttering along next to a huge fire pit, the source of the beacon which drew me to this place. The porch wrapping around the wooden sided house stretches across the front and sides of the building.
The scent of the cooking meat makes me feel weak with hunger.
I step out of the truck and approach the gate, trying to find a way to enter. The gate is locked with thick chains padlocked together. My eyes focus as I approach, allowing me to see the second layer of fencing creating a moat of sorts, an expanse of land acting as a buffer in case the outer fence becomes compromised.
A man emerges from the back of the house, following the path leading through the grass and towards the gate. He walks with purpose, even as he lifts his leg in an uneven gait. The limp is not enough to slow his approach. In his hands, he carries an old fashioned shotgun in a loose grip across his torso.
“What's your name, there?” he calls. His mustache bobs up and down as he speaks, rendering his mouth nearly invisible. He speaks in a relaxed, matter-of-fact drawl. If not for the shotgun, he would almost seem friendly.
“Ash Donovan,” I reply.
“You got any weapons, Ash Donovan?”
“I have a crossbow inside the truck,” I say, knowing better than to try and lie to him. “I also have a couple of knives. One in my belt and another at my ankles.”
“Here's what'll happen, 'kay? I'm a goin' ta open both gates, you can go ahead and drive through. We'll leave your truck parked right here. But we're going to do everything real slow like so there's no funny business with that crossbow, ya hear?”
“I don't intend any funny business, sir,” I reply.
He nods and gives a half wave, nothing more than a lift of his fingers from the hand wrapped around the butt of his shotgun. I climb back into my truck, rolling down the window before placing my hands back in view on the top of the steering wheel. Both gates are open and I pull forward. Through the rear view mirror, he closes the gates and returns to the window.
“If you don't mind, would you come out of your truck there, slowly. I'd like you to keep your hands in sight if you don't have any particulars.”
I do not have any particulars, and I do as he says. Not without a pang of regret, I pull the knife from the holster at my calf and the one at my waist and place it on the ground between us. His fingers twitch but he does not change the position of his hands on the gun. His expression is one of bemusement.
“That it?” he asks in a slow drawl.
“Yes, sir.”
“Be alright to leave the truck here. It's the safest place for now, and Eden'll have one of the boys drive it over to the lot. It'd be safe enough.”
“May I bring my backpack?” I ask.
“Got any weapons in it?”
“No sir, you can look if you need to.”
“No need,” he shrugs, shifting his feet. “Figure if you'd want to kill me you'da done it already. I reckon you'll be alright.”
He nods towards the house and I walk along the worn trail through the grass while he follows in step behind me. The farm resembles something from the cover of the old magazine at the library. The open meadow slopes off to the right where the forest creates a thick dark line. The footpath threads around to the back of the house.
“Eden will getcha fed,” he says as we trudge forward. “Seems like we get a new one every time we fire up that grill.”
I remain silent as we approach the house. The orange wood siding emits a vibrant forest-y scent. We step up onto the blue-painted porch and he reaches around to open the screen door, gesturing me inside. A silver-haired woman, plump and smiling, emerges from the recesses of the house, drying her hands on a red checkered kitchen towel.
“Oh, Abraham!” she chides. “Put that gun down, now! She's nearly starving, to look at her!” She pulls out a chair and extends her generous arm out towards me. “Come in child, and sit down here. Let me make you a plate.”
She bustles into the kitchen, her long skirt swishing as she moves. A combination of delectable scents waft towards me through the arch leading to the kitchen. I spot an open screen door, revealing the corner of the metal smoker.
My knees give out.
Abraham catches me underneath my arms, taking my backpack from me and setting it down in the foyer.
“I'm okay,” I say, but my voice sounds weak, even to me.
“Here now, here now,” he murmurs as he leads me over to the table. “A bite will do you some good now.”
Eden, returns from the kitchen with a plate full of food, placing it on the table before me. Layers of roasting meat lying in a pool of thick brown gravy, roasted carrots and potatoes alongside. Specks of herbs and seasoning swim in the juices. I barely notice when she returns with an open jar full of cool clear water.
Instinct takes over. The fork is nothing more than a receptacle to bring the food, bite after bite, into my mouth. The flavor and abundance makes me feel as if I stumbled upon a feast. My truck and crossbow are fair trade for a meal such as this.
Neither of them speak as I eat. Eden moves around with serenity, fully aware of every detail of her surroundings. Her broad stance and relaxed shoulders emit the confidence of leadership.
“What will you do with my weapons?” I ask. “And my truck?”
“Don't worry about that right now,” she says with a smile, her hands crossed in front of her. “You have been through it, haven't you? You poor thing. Let's get you rested first. There is plenty of time, and we have a room open for you.”
“What is this place?” I ask, chewing the soft potato.
“Just know that you are safe,” Eden replies. “We have plenty of food and water. You look like a stiff wind would have knocked you over out there.” She sits down across from me, leaning her elbows on the table and glancing between me and the man she called Abraham. “Here is how it works here. We have many people come and go from this place. All are welcome here. You can stay for as long as you need to, to build your health back.”
“Thank you.”
“While you are here, however, you will be expected to contribute.”
“Of course.”
“You needn't worry about your weapons, either. They will be put into
storage. You may have them back should you decide to leave the homestead for any reason. Sometimes we train and you may have them then as well, depending on the need.”
As she speaks, the effects of the full meal after three days begins to creep up on me. Her words sound distant and her smiling face appears as if at the end of a long, dark tunnel. She stands and takes my arm, leading me down the hallway. The details escape me but we walk past many identical doors, some standing open, through which I see disheveled rooms, tossed clothing and open books. Evidence of life.
“Here,” she says opening the door at the end of the hall. “It locks from the inside. I know how important it is to feel safe in a world such as this.”
The bed is the only thing I see, a towering ordeal, draped with a white canopy over the four posts, piles of pillows in pristine cotton. Four grown people could have slept in such a bed with room to spare. It is the most beautiful bed I have ever seen in my life. Eden closes the door, a smile playing on her lips as she leaves me to my sanctuary. I manage to kick off my boots, but I have no memory of climbing the rest of the way into the blankets and the steep bank of pillows. Awareness is gone and I sink into the blissful darkness of sleep.
* * *
The food in this place is more than anyone could ever hope for. Mornings consist of eggs harvested from the chicken coop, smoke cured bacon from the room in the back of the warehouse, and any number of fruit preserves which they had put into storage during the time they refer to as the 'preparation years'. Eden has a gift for creating meals out of the little they have left. For example, after a day of roasted chicken, the bones are boiled into a broth. She whips up a batch of dough for dumplings and biscuits which lasts for a week.
Everyone had steered clear of me at first, but I sense now that my time of being the new girl is coming to an end. The young man next to me peers over, gnawing a bit of fat tucked in his cheek. He is not much more than a boy, maybe three years older than me with sandy blond hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose.