Life Sentence

by Kim Paffenroth

  I always had the funniest notions during these stories. Usually I'd have my typical sad thoughts of how all the people were dead and gone and we were stuck here in our little world and could never see those places again. Such places might as well be on another planet if they were more than a few miles past the fence.

  Sometimes I'd think how the animals must like it. Without people to bother and kill them, there must have been thousands of buffalo and wolves roaming freely all over Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon, alligators and tropical birds all over Disneyworld, Gila monsters and coyotes all over the crumbling ruins of the luxury hotels on the Vegas strip. It's not a nice thought, exactly, to think how it's good in a way that there aren't people anymore, but it was always a fantasy that filled me with wonder more than dread or loss.

  We'd read books late at night, too. And sometimes, when we worked really hard during the day, the grownups would treat us to movies at night. They'd use fuel to fire up a generator and we could watch an old movie on the television. The older people would tell us how they used to watch television every day and how there weren't just tapes and DVDs, but new programs and movies that constantly came to the television from all over the world through an antenna or a cable. We would just look at them in disbelief. When I was really little, it had seemed like they had lived in some paradise of treasures and luxuries, being able to do something every day that we were rarely allowed to do now. But by the time I was twelve, it sounded more like some kind of strange excess and waste, like an addiction. I couldn't imagine watching television every day. But I'm sure we do lots of things now that people from the past wouldn't be able to believe, things they'd find odd or enviable or grotesque. And again I thought how hard it must be on the people older than me, that they had lived to see both worlds, and all the ugliness and senselessness and pain of each.

  The old people told us that they used to drive for hours, so they could go somewhere else to work. And they'd work there all day, five or six days a week. Some would have two different jobs. I figured that was why they watched so much television, because they were so tired from all the work and driving; it made me glad that we could just watch a movie once in a while and have fun, and I definitely no longer envied them for being able to watch television every day.

  The older people even said that many people would be at work so long and so far away that they'd pay someone to take care of their children. I asked why their neighbors didn't take care of their kids, the way we did now, and they couldn't exactly explain it; they just said you couldn't do that back then, that you didn't just ask other people to do things like that without paying them. They said sometimes you could ask family members to do it, but often they lived too far away, which also was hard for me to fathom, even if I knew in the abstract how spread out people were all across the country back then.

  Even when we worked on the farms in the summer, we didn't work as much as they described. It just wasn't necessary, to work so many hours to get everything done. And it certainly made no sense to live so far away from where you worked that you had to spend hours a day driving, never mind all the fuel you'd be wasting. I couldn't understand why they hadn't lived closer to where they worked, or why someone would work and then give the money to someone else to take care of their children so they could work some more. They'd tried to explain that sometimes houses were too expensive, or the schools were better somewhere else, or you bought a house and then had to change jobs, and it all got too confusing and complicated and just too far away from reality for me to understand. It again made everything from before seem completely alien, and even slightly ugly and absurd.

  As in the couple of years previous, I went to summer camp with Vera. Away from others, our slight difference in age seemed to matter less, and we could play more and enjoy ourselves without the roles or expectations of others. We'd build dams in little streams or race little boats we had made out of sticks. We would make cornhusk dolls and put them through all the tribulations of their tiny lives-keeping house, raising children, plowing fields, fighting zombies. And for us, there were berries to gather and can, meat to hang and smoke, ditches to dig and maintain to water the crops, weeds to pull, manure to spread. Every day was the most invigorating mix of leisure and work, with nothing dutiful or lazy, burdensome or distracting about either.

  We worked a farm with a woman named Fran Clark. Unlike any other adult I knew then, she always had us call her by her first name, and I didn't feel uncomfortable or naughty doing so. Around her a first name seemed more appropriate, even though that didn't mean she was friendlier or more compassionate than other adults. If anything, she seemed slightly awkward and gruff around kids and had never had any of her own; she was just more forthright and direct as a way of dealing with the awkwardness, and calling her by her first name was part of that.

  She was slightly younger than my mom and was one of the tallest women I knew. Her hair was blond and she kept it very short. Though her hair and bright blue eyes made her quite pretty, she was definitely less feminine than either my mom or Ms. Wright. Fran was athletic and muscular like Ms. Wright, but her body type was completely different: long and evenly muscled all over. As I often felt that summer, I was constantly in awe of how comfortable Fran was with her own body, especially when we'd swim in the pond near the farm; she showed no hesitation or embarrassment at being naked, while I tried to get in the water as quickly as possible, just to be covered up.

  Fran would take us hunting and she was as good with a rifle or bow as anyone I've ever seen. The weeks with her and Vera were always exhilarating and calming at the same time, the three of us removed from society in our version of summer vacation, and yet so busily supplying our city's physical needs. Every night I'd fall asleep completely exhausted and fulfilled, content that everything was right and balanced and whole.

  Like all of the farmhouses in the countryside beyond the live zone, the one we shared with Fran was a small, one-room house on stilts. It was the only kind of structure that made sense in an area where the dead might still be roaming around. If they found the house, you could easily kill them-if it unfortunately came to that-or you could fire off a flare and wait for help.

  The actual room we lived in only contained our beds and a few other simple pieces of furniture. We did all our cooking and cleaning outside, near the building, before we climbed up into the house at night. The whole structure was only used during the summer, so it didn't need a fireplace or other source of heat. The generator and toilet were in separate little sheds, the former right under the house, the latter farther away, obviously.

  All in all, it was a lot like living in a tree house, and there was even a tradition where the kids and adults gathered most nights to read stories like Swiss Family Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, or Tarzan. Reading ancient books that described people surviving or even thriving in rustic, primitive living arrangements made our own situation seem less like an oddity or burden of our harsh existence, but more like a treat-a fun, carefree adventure. (Of course, by that summer I'd already read Lord of the Flies on my own, so some of the romanticized notions of "the wild" had taken on other, more sinister implications for me.) Hard work aside, when they were ten or twelve, all kids thought the summer camp farmhouses were the greatest places to live and sleep.

  Our particular farm was growing all kinds of vegetables, so it needed a lot of water. The large pond right by the house was a perfect supply, and had only required some minor construction to irrigate the plants. It also spilled over in a little waterfall into a stream below, making a constant roar that was soothing and-along with the drone of the summertime insects-a delight to fall asleep to. I was eager and relieved to be in such a peaceful place, after so much death and so many things fraught with meaning and sadness.

  One day after working hard in the fields, we cooled off in the pond, ate lunch, and climbed up into the house. We'd often go inside during the hottest part of the day, and either take a nap or play board games or read. This day we were all tire
d enough to sleep a little bit. We got dressed in our lightest, coolest cotton clothes, and we all lay down for a rest.

  Sometime later, I awoke to a roaring, tearing sound. I wasn't fully awake, and looked around to see the whole room tipping, completely dreamlike and unbelievable. Our beds slid across the floor and crashed into the far wall, and that sensation, along with Vera's shriek and a curse from Fran, jarred me completely awake.

  I stood up among the remains of my bed. Standing was difficult, the floor was tilted so steeply, and I was stepping on wreckage with my bare feet.

  "Girls," Fran said, making her way through the broken furniture, "find the guns. Find the flare, too." She picked up an aluminum bat out of the rubble. "There must be a lot of them, if they could pull out one of stilts. No moaning, though. That's weird."

  I felt icy cold at the prospect of that many zombies outside, but Fran's voice was so even and calm it took away a little of the panic and made me search carefully and methodically.

  I climbed down to the floor and rummaged among the pieces of a little table, which had stored a loaded handgun.

  Vera shrieked again, and from the window came an animal roar. A hairy, unkempt man was climbing into the house. He held a huge knife and was dressed in a hodgepodge of skins and various bits of fabric. He definitely wasn't dead, he moved too fast and fluidly.

  He made for Fran, but the tilted floor was just as awkward for him, and she'd already seen him. As graceful and sudden as Ms. Wright had been, she struck him in the head with the bat. There was an arc of blood and a rasping groan as he spun and fell.

  I saw the handle of a gun among the wreckage and grabbed it. The gun's cold, solid weight sent confidence surging through me. It was Fran's magnum, so I'd only have six shots, and it was hard as hell for me to fire it at all, since it was so big and heavy and the recoil would nearly knock me over.

  I was trying to stand as two more men dressed in skins came through the window. At the same moment, another man crashed through the door. They had Fran from two sides now.

  She stepped back and swung the bat at the man who had come through the door. He blocked it and groaned as the metal slammed into his forearm, and the other two men threw themselves at Fran, knocking her down. It'd be risky to shoot with them on top of her, but I tried to take aim.

  I raised the magnum as two more of them came through the window and started towards me. It was good to see the hideous, animal lust in their eyes turn for the briefest moment into fear as they looked down the magnum's barrel. You never got either of those looks from the dead-just blind incomprehension, like a fish-and it always made killing them seem wrong, unfair, culpable. Tightening my fingers on the pistol's grip that day, I didn't feel any of that, but instead a sudden rush. Later I wasn't sure which feeling was worse, but I knew both were necessary.

  The magnum exploded and jerked way up above my head. I was deafened and my ears started ringing. Both the ceiling and the man nearest the window were splattered with brains as the bullet tore out the back of the other man's skull. Fully awake and armed and well trained, I felt no fear or confusion. I was clearheaded enough to wonder, briefly, why Fran had loaded the bedside gun with hollow points.

  I brought the gun down as quickly as I could, but the brain-splattered man swatted it to the side. I twisted and screamed and tried again to bring it back up, but he had grabbed my hand. Training or no, there was no way I would win, wrestling with him for the gun.

  He smashed his left fist into my face. I was stunned and could barely see. He'd hit me so hard it bent me down almost double. I dropped the gun and it fell among the debris.

  He still had a hold of my left hand. I raised my right to block as he punched down again. The blow hurt my arm like hell, but at least I'd deflected it. Another punch like the first and I doubted I'd be able to see or stand at all.

  It was hard to keep my balance, but I kicked him with my right foot, as hard as I could, right in the groin. He loosened his grip on my left hand and I wrenched it away.

  With a shriek, Vera jumped on the man's back. She wasn't well trained, but it was an unexpected attack and it kept him distracted and off balance. I rummaged around on the floor for the magnum. It must have slid or been kicked away, because I couldn't find it. I saw that a piece of wood had splintered off from a table leg or a slat from the bed. It was about a foot and a half long and very pointy. I grabbed it.

  The man had pulled Vera off his back and had flung her away. As he turned to me, I shoved the wooden spike as hard as I could, upward, beneath his ribs on his right side. He grabbed my hand and let out a shriek. I'd heard pigs slaughtered before; this sound was a lot like that. I could feel his grip loosen on my wrist and he staggered back and collapsed. The wood had probably slid all the way through his liver; he'd bleed out after a couple minutes of intense pain. Of course, he'd get back up then, but we had more urgent problems.

  I looked to Vera, and she was getting up and looked okay. I was turning back to see what had happened to Fran when there was another explosion, audible over the ringing in my ears. Someone else had a gun out. Fran was on her stomach on the floor, still struggling, and two of the men had her pinned, punching and elbowing her intermittently as she fought them. The third intruder was standing, and he was the shooter. His gun looked like a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. "All right, cue ball," he said evenly, lowering the barrel till it was pointed at my head. "That's about enough out of you."

  Staring at him and panting, I felt sorry I'd failed Vera and Fran and I hoped they could forgive me. Vera came up next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. It was good to have her there, but I really hoped he'd just shoot me, so I wouldn't have to see her suffer. I had a somewhat fuller concept than I thought she did, of what they would do to us.

  I raised my left hand. I was up to my knees in wreckage, and I knelt down slightly, leaning to my right and feeling around as inconspicuously as possible, hoping the bed would hide what I was doing. I still hoped for the magnum or perhaps one of the other guns in the room, though I doubted I could move fast enough even if I found one.

  The shooter stepped towards me. "Other hand up, missy," he said with that same dry, measured tone. "You crazy bitches have way too many guns and shit lying around here."

  I had the very cold and unpleasant realization that his tone probably wouldn't change much during our brief, violent relationship-whether he was threatening me, mocking me, raping me, or beating me to death. I put both hands on top of my head.

  "Good. Better." He told his cohorts to take Fran outside and tie her to the bumper of the truck, and they dragged her, still kicking, out the door.

  The shooter stood staring at us, panting, until one of the other men returned. "All right. You-the nappy-headed little one. Go with him or I'll blow your friend's head off. Now."

  Vera looked to me and I nodded slightly. She climbed over the wrecked furniture and the other man dragged her out the door.

  "Good. Now we can have some fun."

  The shooter finally looked over to check on the man I had stabbed. He had collapsed on the pieces of one bed, clutching at his wound. Blood had soaked through his clothes from his chest to his knees, and it had stained the bedclothes all around him, still creeping outward from his body. He had been wheezing, slowly and wetly, with decreasing frequency as Fran and Vera were taken outside.

  "Bart? How you doing over there?"

  "Not so good, Rhodes. Kid's a crazy little bitch."

  "She sure is, Bart." The shooter aimed his gun at the other man, though he was still watching me from the corner of his eye.

  Bart, the dying man, didn't look scared like when I had trained the magnum on him, just resigned, as if this was boring and predictable, which I suppose it was to him. "Can't even wait for me to turn?"

  Rhodes smiled. It was cold, reptilian, though also grotesquely flawed from years of neglect, more like the grin you saw on dead animals as their flesh pulled back over their rotted, broken teeth. It didn't express emotion, but tension
, like a spring or a bow. Like his voice, I felt sure it would serve as his all-purpose expression for all manner of cruelty and abuse. "Nah, I'm not that patient. But hey-at least I'm using a bullet. I thought that'd be nicer-quicker and cleaner than a shovel or axe. I know you'd do the same for me, buddy."

  The other man blinked once, slowly. "Yeah. You're a real saint." He looked at me. "This is all your fault, you crazy bitch. I hope this psycho here turns you out worse than you can stand for laying me up here to die."

  I stared back at him, evenly and placidly. I didn't feel hatred or anger; I didn't feel sympathy, either. He was the first living man I'd ever killed. It's always surprised me, in all the years since, that I didn't feel much beyond the tiniest, almost tickling sensation of disgust and the slightest, almost imperceptible chill of pity. "People used to believe that things turned out better for you if you thought something a little nice right at the end." It was the only response I could think of, and I thought it was apt.

  "Screw you, bitch."

  Rhodes eagerly seconded the dying man's sentiment. "Oh, don't you worry, Bart, my man. We've got that part covered."

  I watched impassively as Bart's brains sprayed onto the wall behind him and he fell backward into the warm, wet stain of mortality on our floor.

  Rhodes turned to me. He took a step closer. Fran must've hit him a few times; his face was florid, and blood still poured from the side of his mouth. Good for her, I thought.

  "Yeah, you are a hot, feisty little piece of ass. Too hot for poor Bart there." He ran the tip of the gun barrel down my left cheek. It was slightly warm from being fired. "But not too hot for me, baby doll." Again the sick, soulless smile. "Yeah, that's what you look like, all bald and shit-a little baby doll!"

  For once I thought how my eyes weren't so ugly, as his were a sicker, paler shade of brown, tinged with yellow and rimmed with red. They seemed unusually small, especially the pupils, which was odd since it wasn't that bright inside the cabin. He slid the gun barrel down my left side, then across my belly. Training would let you withstand levels of pain you never thought possible. Training would let you watch a man have his head blown off and not blink an eye. But there was no training for humiliation and degradation; that was always personal and real and undiluted.