Between Life and Death

by Ann Christy

  “So, you really are going the route you said?” I ask. Her group always marks a map with their intended route and destination before they go. They just don’t always actually go there.

  She winks and says, “Sure we are.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  That makes her laugh, her head thrown back like she used to when I first met her. But her laughs aren’t quiet now. They’re loud and full of life, full of joy.

  “Yes, we are. We’re going to see if that farmland to the west is good for you guys. It’s got water if that lake is what it looks like on the map and in that guide book, so it’s worth the trip. And we’ll clear as we go,” she says.

  It’s all very matter-of-fact for her. She’s free to walk around this world. Whatever power she once had over in-betweeners is gone, but the ability to be put under the power of a female in-betweener is one that seems to fade the longer they remain human. They can sense one, but they don’t feel compelled by her. If they hadn’t gotten over that, they couldn’t make these runs. And in-betweeners and deaders still ignore them, never see them as food.

  And that makes them very effective at clearing out the dead.

  At the gate she hugs me again, pulling Charlie close with her other arm. She whispers, “You two should get married.”

  I pull back so I can see her face. “What a strange thing to say!”

  She only grins, lets us go and then pats my belly, her grin changing into a knowing smirk. Then she winks and walks out of the gate, never looking back.

  Charlie and I stare at each other for a long moment, our mouths hanging open. I can hear Emily laughing as she walks down the street.

  Finally, Charlie says, “No. Can’t be. It was only three weeks ago that…uh…you know.”

  I nod. It was only three weeks ago. I figured it was time and I’m sure not sorry about that night—or any of the nights since then, for that matter.

  “Well, I guess I should propose then, shouldn’t I?” I ask him and push his mouth closed with a finger under his chin.

  “Yeah,” he says, recovering his wits. “You’ve sure been taking your time. Where’s my ring?”

  Epilogue Two – Two Kinds of Peace

  Watching Jon get ready for his wedding is bittersweet for me. He’s so handsome in his suit and so very much in love, but he’ll leave us after the wedding. Those are the rules. I think many mothers must feel the same about the weddings of their children.

  He and his new wife will go to a new village, one that hasn’t already reached five hundred souls. He’ll go where new blood can mix, his children marrying outside the lines and continuing the health of the human race.

  It’s the only way, I know, but it doesn’t change how much I’ll miss seeing him every day.

  Charlie smooths the fabric at the shoulders of Jon’s suit, smiling at how dapper he looks. It’s made of cotton. Cotton that’s been grown by hand, harvested by hand, and turned in a cotton gin powered by human arms. Looming, dyeing, cutting, and sewing…all of it is done by hand or close to it. What can be converted to mechanical power is, but in the end, the infrastructure of the old world is just too big for us now. And all of those endless hours of labor have brought my oldest son his wedding suit.

  When Charlie is satisfied, he turns to me and holds out his hand for the box cradled in mine. His fingers graze mine as he takes the box, and his smile holds all the love in the world. From inside the small wooden box, he draws out the tie. It’s not really a tie, but rather a long slender piece of fabric, carefully hemmed with tiny stitches.

  It’s special because it’s blue. Blue is one of the colors we’ve lost. Only nature and the sky own those colors now. We can’t make it ourselves. The indigo plant used to be cultivated all over this part of the state, but we’ve yet to find any. Maybe someday, but not yet.

  This piece was cut from a carefully hoarded bit of cloth that retained its vibrant color. His little sister wore it at her wedding only months ago, tied into a neat bow to hold back her glorious curls.

  “Something blue,” Charlie says, flipping up Jon’s collar to put it on him.

  Jon grins at me and says, “That’s for the bride, mom.”

  “Who says?” I ask him, reaching out to smooth down his hair even though it doesn’t need it.

  There’s a sharp, impatient knock on the door and I hear Amanda call, “Aren’t you ready yet? I didn’t take this long.”

  Jon takes a last look in the foggy mirror, the only one we have, and nods. “I’m ready.” To the closed door he calls, “Yeah, but I’m prettier than you now.”

  I hear her giggle through the door. She might be married, but she’s still an eighteen year old girl. Her giggles have not yet faded in favor of matronly seriousness. I hope they never do.

  For a moment, I want to call it all off. I want Jon to stay in this house forever, right by my side. I know why he waited so long to marry. He waited until Amanda did, so that she could be the one to stay in this village, knowing that she would need me, but not understanding that I still need him.

  He hugs me to him, his hand on the back of my head and messing up my carefully pinned bun. I won’t cry and ruin his suit, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

  “I love you, mom. It’s only twenty miles. I can do that in a day. I’ll come back and see you often. I promise.”

  “I know, Jon. I know. It’s not the same.”

  How do I explain how special he is to me, perhaps even more so than the two children I bore from my own body, or the two that I have adopted? All that we went through, him tucked close to my side, forged a bond not even biological or legal motherhood surpasses.

  As we leave the room, then the house, and walk to the town square where the wedding will be, my mood lightens some. It’s hard to be glum when your child is about to marry the woman he loves and the day is as bright and clear as it is today. The street is a little dusty and I worry for the hems of their pants and the shine buffed into their shoes through hours spent working with a brush and cloth. My dress is high enough on my legs that it should be safe, but I won’t have my boy looking scruffy for his bride. I’m just about to send one of the children back for a cloth when Charlie grabs my hand.

  He says, “She came! She’s there. Just behind the chairs.”

  Then I see her and her family—or tribe, or whatever they are. They look uncomfortable in the presence of so many people. But they are here and that’s all that matters. While we approach, I see Gregory jog over to his brother from the other end of the grassy square and enfold Matt in a hug. Their laughter reaches all the way to my ears, big and hearty.

  Gregory’s four children—two by Savannah and two by his second wife—follow along behind, clearly anxious to see their mysterious Uncle Matt. I hear him give a whoop when he sees them. Seeing the dark hair of Savannah’s children gives me a pang, even now after so many years. We lost her during the birth of her third child, along with the baby. That danger has become a very real one in our new world.

  Emily must smell me coming, because she turns away from Gregory and Matt and waves excitedly.

  “Veronica!” she shouts and takes off running. She runs like a teenager, one that’s fit and in the prime of life. I, on the other hand, am showing my age. My knees don’t like bending as much as they used to and my back hurts more often than not. I’m glad to see she’s well though. As always, her dog lopes by her side, tongue hanging out and enjoying all the excitement.

  I wave back and then turn to the rest of the family following us. “June, August, there’s your mom and dad!”

  They both peer forward and see her running toward us, but neither of them darts ahead to meet her as one might expect. They’re shy around her. The children are like us; human. They don’t have that sense of smell, that same need to be outside, or that ability to communicate with scent.

  To them, she’s something more than we are, a half-mythical creature of the woods and fields that swoops down once in a while and shines her light upon them. Cha
rlie says he thinks it must be a bit like those old Greek tales when a child was determined to be the progeny of a god, like Zeus or something. All the children of Emily’s kind are held a bit higher in the estimations of their peers. I suppose it’s natural for something like that to happen, but in truth, they’re just normal kids.

  All the children borne of Emily’s kind are normal. None of them seem to inherit the gifts or the handicaps, so her kind will eventually die out. This generation of children will be the only generation of such children.

  Perhaps that’s how it’s supposed to be. There are no more dead roaming the world, at least not that anyone has heard of, and certainly not within a hundred miles or more of our network of villages. The last were sighted years ago. I suppose there might still be some, but any human we’ve had contact with is clear of nanites now. Princeton and his team are still based out of a hospital in Virginia, supporting that hospital’s decaying infrastructure so that nanites can still be made. There must be a mountain of nanites in storage up there by now. Every team that goes exploring brings with them a sack of nanites, and every human they meet receives doses to share on. It is ending, that old nightmare, in favor of a brighter day. Brighter, if somewhat lacking in modern conveniences.

  Emily slows a little as she nears, but only enough so that she doesn’t knock me over. She hugs me tightly, lifting me into the air and covering my face with kisses. She sees the children and lets me down, reaching for them. They allow themselves to be held and it only takes a few seconds of her kisses and exuberant hugs for them to loosen up, giggling as she blows air into their necks and tickles them. They’re ten and eight and will soon be too old for that to work, but for now, it lifts my heart.

  She tried to stay with them. I know she did. But in the end, the world outside called with too loud a voice and she left them with me. She loves them. She just can’t stay with them.

  Emily and her particular group of people are part of our five-hundred souls, so they have a home here and every right to stay—a situation that has caused some friction as mothers say goodbye to their grown children. But they can only remain in company for so long before they leave again, their two barn-like houses shut tight against the months of weather that will batter the structures until they return. When it’s time for planting, harvesting, or one of the other times where labor is needed by every soul, they always show up and do more than their share. Then they disappear into the green world once more.

  It’s not as if they don’t contribute, even while they’re gone. They bring news of the deer populations, mapping the best places to hunt for the winter. And while there are no cows or chickens in this world, one year they brought us eight squealing piglets. Those became the founding bloodline for all our pigs. Another year it was puppies, and another year they brought the best gift of all; goats. They are the monitors of the world beyond the villages and no one seriously begrudges their place in our number.

  As I watch her listen with delight to all the news her children have to share, I hear Charlie call Matt’s name. He comes more slowly, limping a little as he does. It’s a lingering reminder of his trip to Dover, where he found nothing but miles of soot-blackened craters where the base once stood. Whatever danger might have come for us from there, it was certainly ended somehow, by someone.

  There’s gray in Matt’s hair, but his face is unlined and filled with that simple happiness he’s shown since the day he woke up human again. We endure another round of kisses and hugs from him. When he hugs his children, he breathes them in, his eyes closing in delight.

  From down the street I hear, “She’s coming! She’s coming!” A small boy runs toward the square, heralding the imminent arrival of the bride.

  That ends all our dawdling and hugs, but I clasp Emily’s hand before she rejoins her group and ask, “Later? Will you stay a while?”

  She nods and says, “For a while.” Then she marches on, joining her other family once more.

  Amanda runs ahead to join Emily and get her group to their seats. She admires Emily so. She’s named after Emily’s mother. I never knew her, but I realized when I couldn’t think of a name that didn’t once belong to someone who had died, that it was the perfect name. Without that other Amanda, I would not be here. I would not be alive. And, as luck and circumstance would have it, she might be why many of these people are alive.

  Emily’s mother is the source of all this life in a very real way. It’s only fitting that it be a name that’s carried on.

  As we settle into our seats and my son moves to stand in front of the Justice of the Peace, I hear the music announcing the arrival of the bride. Tambourines and drums sound out discordant—but happy—noises. I look behind me and Emily is there, sitting in her seat just behind mine. She’s smiling and has her hand on the back of my chair.

  As always, she has my back.

  From the Author

  Thank you for reading!

  I sure hope you liked what I did with my version of the zombie apocalypse. This was an intense journey, full of sixteen hour days and endless research. It was also a pleasure to write and I hope you felt that while you were reading.

  If you’re the reviewing sort, please take a moment and leave a review on the site where you purchased this or on Goodreads (or both!). For the independent author, reviews absolutely make or break us. They are required to buy advertising and shuffle us up in the recommendation engines so that other readers find us. I can’t stress enough how vital they are. The assumption is that a book without loads of reviews is simply forgettable. I hope that won’t be the fate of this series.

  I invite you to sign up for my newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/HmNf5. I don’t spam, but I do send out new release info, hold freebie giveaways of signed books only for subscribers, give first chances to read my work before it’s released (for free!), and other occasional coolness.

  You can also find out what’s up and contact me at my website. http://www.annchristy.com

  Do you want more of the Between world?

  I’m pleased to announce that Logan Thomas Snyder, the amazing author of The Lazarus Particle (and my favorite serial, the Violet series), will be writing in the Between world! The tale, titled Between Kings and Carnage, will take you to a new location and introduce you to a new set of people caught up in the nanite nightmare. Between Kings and Carnage is a search for identity and meaning in a world where the nameless dead rule with a pitiless hunger that spares no one.

  Here’s a taste:

  Meet Squire, a teenaged boy who has been with a motorcycle gang called The Thunder Kings for so long that he no longer remembers his life before them. It’s only as he’s grown older that he’s begun to question the story of his rescue, and wonder at the true reasons for the Kings’ interest in him. Questions he may have, but he’s stuck with the Kings. He’s starting to think he’ll never get the answers he needs. Enter Hera, a teenaged girl who will turn all that he knows—and everything else in his life—on its head. Between her and the Thunder Kings, it’s all he can do to keep up and stay alive.

  And…

  You can also find more of Between world inside the pages of The Z Chronicles, another amazing collection soon to be released in the famous Chronicles series. Vindica, my story, is the tale of Violet and Gordon and their escape from the place they thought would be their haven, but became anything but a place of safety. It’s a dark tale, but so far, everyone thinks it’s delicious.

  I’ll be authorized to send out a very select number of Advanced Review Copies (ARCs) before it’s released. Want to get on the list? Sign up for my newsletter. I’ll announce it when the time comes via newsletter.

  …Finally.

  I’ve been getting email asking if readers can have more of the Between world, not just stories, but more books. I never planned on that, but I’ll leave the question open to readers. Do you want more? Another location with new people? More of Emily and Veronica? Something else entirely?

  Let your voice and opinion be heard!
Email me at ann.christyauthor@gmail.com and don’t be shy, let me know what you want. If there’s enough of one particular type of request, it might just happen!

  Table of Contents

  Between Life and Death

  Dedication

  Other Works by Ann Christy

  Today - A Sign of Things to Come

  Four Months Ago - Your Other Right

  Today - Good News, Bad News

  Thirteen Weeks Ago - Thumbs Up

  Today - Strange Medicine

  Twelve Weeks Ago - Summer on a Roof

  Today - Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe

  Twelve Weeks Ago - Small Stranger

  Today - Babysitting Monsters

  Eleven Weeks Ago - Smoke

  Today - Awakening Death

  Eleven Weeks Ago - Mail Call

  Today - Two for Two

  Eleven Weeks Ago - New, Old Friends

  Today - Delicate Decisions

  Ten Weeks Ago - Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em

  Today - Death of a Scoundrel

  Nine Weeks Ago - Danger on the Horizon

  Today – Body of Proof

  Eight Weeks Ago – Tall Grass

  Today – Singing My Tune

  Seven Weeks Ago – Fire and Garden Gnomes

  Today – Marshal the Troops

  Five Weeks Ago – Hunt and Gather

  Today – Free Range and Deliveries

  Four Weeks Ago – At Play in the Land of the Dead

  Today – A Trip to the Zoo

  Part Two

  All Day, Every Day

  Today – Girls Rule

  Today – Night Falls

  Today – Experimental Behavior

  Today – Sentience

  Today – Second in Command

  Today – Quiet Before the Storm

  Today – Last Look