"Yeah. Well, you didn't see what they did to the fence. Not just a hole to drive their truck through, but they deliberately tore up a huge section of it. You all should go to the next farm and send for a crew to fix the fence as quickly as possible, or we won't know how many zombies have gotten in and this whole area will be dangerous. I'll burn the bodies and then I'll double back to the hole in the fence and try to round up any zombies that have wandered through. Zoey, could you take this for me? I want to travel light and I don't want to lose this out there." Will handed the girl the little pack with the books we'd gathered from my college. It all seemed so long ago and unimportant now.
"It's a good enough plan, Will," the woman agreed. "What a mess. Come on, girls."
She led the girls away. The older one, who had seen us, looked back toward me. I thought she looked like a very kind, and most of all, very intelligent person. I was again in awe of Will and his friends, that they could all be such fine and virtuous people. But the dead men had also been able to talk-and bleed-and they seemed the absolute opposite of fine or virtuous. There was something more to their differences that I still couldn't figure out. I don't know if I ever will.
I touched Lucy on the shoulder and she finally looked up from her monstrous feast. Her mouth and chin were covered with blood. Stringy bits were stuck between her teeth. I helped her stand up, then bent down to tear off some of the dead man's clothes; I cleaned off her chin with the pieces of cloth. The blood was still hot and wet, so it came off pretty well. I couldn't do it perfectly, but it definitely looked better. I supposed Lucy hadn't been able to help herself, and it was a little enough of a weakness; as Will had said, we were no more perfect than the other people. It had been fortunate indeed that Lucy had acted so decisively against the man, as I don't think I would've been able to do much against him by myself. But I was glad she was done feeding and back to normal. I could never understand why living-any kind of living, even the most regular and necessary of tasks, like eating-had to be so ugly.
Will dragged the bodies into a pile in front of the house. The woman and the girls had walked out of sight, so I dragged the gunman's body out to the pile as well. As soon as Lucy saw what I was doing, she lent a hand.
I looked down at the dead bodies as Will splashed fuel all over them. Now they didn't seem so wondrous or revealing, just embarrassing, like they should be put out of sight as quickly as possible; all their mystery was gone and replaced with disappointment and meaninglessness and ugliness.
Will had us step back, knowing our fear of fire. I watched impassively as the flames reached into the bright, sunny sky and smeared it with a greasy, foul smoke, an offering of something worthless to something inscrutable and unknown.
Chapter 17
After we left Will and his zombie friends-if that's the right word for them-the three of us walked down the road to the nearest farm. It was a couple miles, so they might have heard the shots, but they might have thought we were shooting some animal-a coyote or fox that was attacking our livestock, or a deer for food. Guns were so much a part of our lives it wouldn't necessarily have set off any alarms. We walked for a while in silence, but eventually we needed to talk.
Fran looked down at me. She knew I was always thinking about something, and at a time like this more than ever. "You okay?" she asked. "They didn't hit you too much. You either, Vera."
"No, they didn't hit me too much," I said. Vera agreed. I looked up at Fran. Both her eyes were blackened. Some blood had dried at the corners of her mouth and under her nose. She walked kind of slow, like something hurt inside-probably a bruised or broken rib. It probably wasn't worse than that-if the rib had punctured something, she wouldn't be walking at all. "They hurt you a lot worse."
She shrugged. "Not too bad."
"I think he didn't want to hit me in the face too much before he… you know. Before he did what he was going to do." I could use the word "rape" when I thought it to myself, but saying it out loud wasn't possible yet, especially in front of Vera.
Fran looked at me again. "That might have been what he was thinking, yes. Sometimes there's no telling what people like that are thinking, or if they think. Most days I've hoped that we were rid of all that. I'm sorry you had to see it at all. You kids see so much violence and death already. That kind of shit should just be over and in the past. You shouldn't have to live with that, on top of everything else."
"It was lucky Will showed up when he did," I said. It was what we were really thinking-not what had happened, but what could have happened.
"Sure was." Fran could be more laconic than my dad.
"And what if he hadn't?"
We walked for several steps without an answer. "I remember the first time I saw you, Zoey. Me and Jack and Jonah-we got there in time to save you. But later, we didn't get there in time to save your dad. I don't know why. I remember when I was little, my mom told me everything happened for a reason. And I try to still believe that. But I don't know what that reason could be when I think of things like what happened to your dad, or what almost happened to us."
"I guess all you can do is be grateful when the person does show up in time."
"Yeah, I guess. Will's always been a brave kid. It helps when someone knows what it's like to suffer; it makes them more compassionate, I think. Those pieces of shit back there didn't know what it's like to suffer. Or maybe they did, and it just made them meaner, made them want to hurt people more. I don't know. I don't give a shit. Some people aren't worth it. I would've made them suffer worse than a bullet through the head if I could've."
We walked on. It was an eminently practical solution-to just not care, to accept things as they had happened, or even to rejoice at the suffering of the wicked. I felt fairly sure, however, that I would never have the kind of stoic outlook that would make the first reaction available for me, and I just didn't have the visceral emotion that would make the second one possible. There was too much wonder and terror in the world for either response. The pull of those two qualities-wonder and terror-in such seemingly opposite directions made any other response seem extremely difficult or dishonest.
We got to the nearest farm, and the people there washed our wounds and gave us food and water. One of the adults left on a bicycle to tell the people in the city what had happened, so workers could be sent to repair the fence and to search for intruders, living or dead. By sunset, I could hear vehicles pulling up outside the cabin. I went outside, and my mom and dad took me in their arms, as Vera's parents hugged her. Mom cried a little and fussed over my new black eye-the earlier one from Ms. Dresden was barely noticeable-but when they saw I was okay, they calmed down.
My dad and the other adults discussed what to do at that point. Fran described the men and their vehicle, but couldn't give any information on where they came from or whether there might be more. She did say they seemed afraid of more people showing up, and were planning on leaving as soon as possible, so it seemed they were alone and not part of some larger group. (Fran left out what they had planned to do with us before leaving, to spare our parents as much as us, I'm sure, even if everyone could fill in the details on their own.) The flag did make everyone wonder, though, if they had come from some sort of "community." She said the men hadn't used a radio to communicate with anyone else, at least not since they broke into our house. She also told my dad that Will had gone back to the breach in the fence to see what was happening there, and no more gunshots had been heard.
After some discussion, it was generally agreed that we weren't under an invasion from some other, large, organized group of humans, and if we could seal the fence back up and clear the area of any zombies that had gotten through, we'd be safe again. My dad, along with Vera's dad and some other people, would keep watch over the breach tonight and make sure no one else got through. When the construction equipment arrived in the morning, they would start the repairs. My mom pulled me away to take me back to the city, along with Vera and her mom.
I knew I'd have to ask my mom while my dad
was still around, because I knew what their answers would be. "Can't I stay with Dad? I'm not hurt. I don't want to go home."
They looked at each other. You realize when you get older that divide-and-conquer is how you got most everything you asked your parents for when you were younger, though at the time it was just a natural, reflexive way to approach any request. "No," my mom began, "you can't be out there at night, not with the fence torn open. No."
Negotiation and compromise was another important element in adolescent maneuvers. "No, I didn't mean going out there at night. I'll stay here tonight, with Fran. Then we'll go out to the fence when they go out with the construction equipment in the morning."
"Why in the world do you want to do that? You can't help with the construction. You should just come home."
Logic and practicality were the final, deciding elements you brought in for these kinds of conversations, even if they were, in fact, the furthest things from your reasons. "They'll need someone to keep watch with a rifle, right, Dad?"
He looked between me and my mom. He knew what I was doing, I was sure even then. But he knew I wanted to be with Fran. Vera was young enough that she'd want to be with her mom as soon as a crisis was over. I was just old enough to want to be with the other people who'd survived the crisis. And as I said, he always pushed me to do more dangerous things, to take responsibility, rather than just be kept safe; and there was something in me that always responded to this.
"Well," he began tentatively, watching for my mom's reaction. I knew he'd give in to her if she were really adamant about it, but with the conclusion that we were not under a general siege, I suspected she might not be completely dead set against my staying out here. Danger was all around anyway, as Mr. Enders and Ms. Dresden's baby had shown. "She's as good with a rifle as anyone I know," Dad said. "We could use her and Fran looking out for anything sneaking up on us. If you think you'll be up to it tomorrow morning, Fran."
"Sure," Fran replied. "I just need some sleep tonight. I'll keep an eye on her. We'll just sit there with our binoculars tomorrow."
I looked back to my mom. She finally agreed. She hugged me. "You poor, little thing," she whispered, "always trying to be so big and responsible. You come back and just stay with me after this and not do anything with guns and dead people for a while."
I hugged her back. "I will, Mom," I whispered. "I want that too."
I slept in the farmhouse with Fran and the other people that night. I was on the floor. Fran was on the bed closest to me, since her injuries were worse and would cause her more pain. Before we fell asleep, she leaned over and rubbed my head.
"Thanks for sticking up for me, Fran," I said quietly. "I wanted to stay out here with you and Dad."
She smiled a little. Like Ms. Wright, it wasn't a frequent expression with her. "I know, Zoey. But your mom is right too. You took your vows and everyone knows what you can do. I saw you in the cabin, so I definitely know. But you don't always have to be hard and strong and in control. You can be a kid sometimes."
"I know. I want to be. But later. Not right now."
The next morning I was awakened by the sound of big, diesel engines.
The other people in the cabin were already making breakfast outside. I joined them as the trucks pulled up, hauling the construction equipment and supplies.
Ms. Dresden got down from the cab of the one truck. Unlike Fran or Ms. Wright, she smiled more frequently, even after all she'd been through. Her smile was pretty, too, like the rest of her. Her eyes sparkled and she seemed radiant that day. "Oh, I'm glad to see you," she said as she hugged me. "I was so mean to you, and then to have this happen. I just wanted to see you as soon as I could."
Someone passed me a plate of fried eggs, and I shared them with Ms. Dresden. They were hot, with runny yolks, and we both giggled a little as it ran down our chins and we tried to wipe it up. It felt good to laugh with her. As Fran had said, sometimes suffering made you feel closer to other people.
"Come on, ride in the truck with me," Ms. Dresden said as we finished eating. We walked over to a big flatbed truck. On the bed of the truck was a backhoe that had been fitted with a post hole digger. Ms. Dresden climbed into the cab next to the driver and pulled me up next to her.
We drove to the fence and I saw the damage Will had described. It was senseless and excessive and useless. Maybe they were trying to let in more zombies so we'd be less able to defend ourselves. Or who knew? I remembered the etymology of the word "vandalism" and that's what it reminded me of-barbarians destroying something civilized and peaceful, not even for tactical reasons, but just because of what it represented.
Ms. Dresden drove the backhoe off the flatbed. Other people moved about, unrolling fencing, mixing cement. Fran walked over from one of the other trucks and handed me an M16. No scope, but for picking off things at a distance the M16 with iron sights was a perfect choice. It felt good to hold it-solid, reliable, powerful. Fran had the same kind of weapon. My dad came up to us a minute later. He smiled and squeezed my shoulder. "You okay, kiddo?"
"Yes, Dad. I'm fine."
One big panel truck used to bring supplies was parked on a slight hill away from the others. My dad pointed to it. "I figure that's a good spot for you two."
"Sure is," Fran agreed. "Where's Will?"
"He was here when we got here last night, but then he went off to scout around farther out. You know how he is. There's no telling him to do anything, other than what he thinks he should do. And I don't worry much about him, the way he handles himself.
"Anyway, I got to check on the supplies," my dad concluded. "The hole's a lot bigger than we thought. Give a holler if you see anything."
Fran and I walked up the hill to the truck. With the driver's door open, she pulled herself onto the roof of the cab. I handed the rifles to her, then she helped me up. We had to stretch to pull the door closed, but once we did, there was no easy way for someone to climb up after us, which was always the first thing you looked for in a spot you wanted to occupy all day out here. We climbed to the top of the cargo part of the truck, eleven feet or so from the ground. Fran spread a blanket, so we wouldn't get burned as the sun heated the metal roof. We sat cross-legged, facing opposite ways, leaning against each other's back. It was a funny position, but it felt nice-sturdy, restful, and intimate. Our rifles lay across our laps and Fran handed me binoculars as she got out a pair for herself. We scanned all around as the people began their work beneath us. Beyond the workers, out in the fields and hills for hundreds of yards around, we saw the occasional rabbit, deer, or bird, but no humans, either living or dead.
"You sleep good?" Fran said to make small talk.
"Yes, really peaceful," I replied. "You?"
"Great. I remember I used to have trouble sleeping, years ago. But not since we've been living in our little group. I always sleep so well now. Straight through the night, and I either have no dreams, or nice ones about my parents or friends I knew when I was little. I bet people would think we'd have nightmares now, living the way we do. Isn't that funny?"
"Sleep is the cousin of death." I remembered reading that somewhere.
Her back moved a little against mine, like she was sitting up straighter and partly turning toward me. "What?"
"Sleep is the cousin of death. They're related, similar. They're almost the same. So maybe we got so used to death being around all the time that sleep comes to us more naturally, more easily." I really had never thought of it before, but it just kind of came together that way in my head.
Her back shook a little bit from a chuckle, and her muscles rippled and slid against me as she turned back the other way. "Zoey, you say the damndest things sometimes. You really do."
"I know. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I like it."
"Thanks, Fran. Thanks for not thinking I'm weird." I wasn't sure where this came from, either, but it also just occurred to me.
She reached over her own shoulder to squeeze mine. "I'd never think that, Zoey. Y
ou should know that."
"Yeah. I guess I do. I'm glad you're my friend."
"I'm glad too."
We sat up there and kept watching, talking on and off about unimportant things. It couldn't be as carefree as things had been before, but it was still peaceful and calm, as the thump and rumble of the workers steadily edged up and past us, and we watched over them like friendly gargoyles perched there with our glass eyes, our weapons of black steel, and our softly spoken questions, jokes, and secrets.
Chapter 18
When the flames had died down enough that Will wasn't afraid of it spreading, he led us away from the pyre and took us toward the dead men's truck. It had been such a strange and overwhelming day, first at the college with all its revelations, and then with the terrible violence wrought by those men against Will's friends, and the deadly response of Will and Lucy. I remembered the very kind and intelligent-looking girl, and I looked over at Lucy, wondering again how such beautiful and graceful creatures were always surrounded with pain and ugliness. It never seemed right.
As we walked over to the truck, Will looked to Lucy. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to get you into all this. But I'm glad you were there to help with Zoey-that's the name of the girl you met. But, well, I don't want to be mean or ungrateful, but I have to ask: are you still having that feeling where you need to eat people? I mean, that was a little hard for someone like me to watch and not get nervous."
Lucy looked embarrassed and shook her head. I knew what Will meant, but I also knew that he and the other men had been the ones who had started the killing, not poor Lucy. She just had been a little overwhelmed and had lost control.
"All right. You know I trust you. And I need your help."
Will inspected the contents of the men's dump truck. The back was full of miscellaneous practical things-tools, chains, ropes, rolls of tape, tarpaulins, extra cans of fuel. Near the back of the truck bed, Will gathered the ropes and chains and some of the rolls of thick, grey tape. "I'm not exactly sure how this is going to work," he said to us, "but we should have some plan before we get there. The truck will act like a zombie magnet. Things that make mechanical sounds always do. I'll lead them away from the hole in the fence and we'll try to restrain them. Depending on how many there are, I might need you to help. Are you up to it? I won't hurt them if I can help it. You know that."
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