“And the truth is . . . ?”
“My dad was a good man. Many people thought he was a great man, but he wasn’t great. He was a good man with a streak of cowardice. When I got pregnant, my mother deliberately turned him against me. She told him lies, she told my friends lies, she sabotaged a lot of relationships I had with people. I think at first he believed her, and by the time he figured out what she was doing, the damage was done. But then something happened not long before I moved here that really opened my eyes.” Doc stayed silent, waiting for her to go on.
“I was in the elevator at work, going to lunch, and one of my dad’s best friends got on the elevator. He seemed genuinely happy to see me, and when I told him I was going to lunch, he asked if he could join me. I hadn’t seen him in years and was glad to have his company. As we sat in the cafeteria, he told me something I’ll never forget. He said that a few weeks earlier he seen my dad and asked how I was doing, and at first Dad told him I was doing great and how proud he was. But then my dad broke down and started crying. He said he really was proud of me, but to be honest, he didn’t know how I was doing. He said my mom had him over a barrel and she refused to let him have anything to do with me. My dad’s friend sat there in the cafeteria with tears in his eyes, telling me how my dad cried and said that he hated what was going on but didn’t know what to do about it.”
Michelle stopped and turned to Doc. “I never heard from my dad after we had our falling out. He never once told me he was proud of me, not when I graduated from nursing school, not when I became a nurse practitioner. My six-foot, two-inch dad, the big game hunter, the guy who shot and killed a rampaging grizzly bear, one of the most respected men in the community, wasn’t man enough to stand up to my five-foot, six-inch mom and say No. Enough. I will not treat our daughter like this. It didn’t make sense when I learned it, it doesn’t make sense now. It never will. I’ll never understand.”
“What did your dad mean when he said your mom had him over a barrel?”
“I have no idea. Maybe some kind of dirt on him that could ruin him. Maybe he cheated on her, or maybe he hit her once, or maybe he had some strange sexual tastes. You tell me: what kind of dirt could a mother have on a father that would force him to disown his own daughter?”
“I honestly don’t know, Michelle. I’ve never heard a story like that. I’ve heard lots of stories where the tables are turned—parents get divorced and the mother turns the children against the father. I know several men who went through it. I even went through it myself. When my wife and I got divorced she took the children and moved out of town. I had my practice, I couldn’t just up and move. But I called them once a week, sent them birthday cards and Christmas cards and presents. I always sent my child support checks in full and on time.”
“But after a while she started saying they didn’t want to talk to me, and during my scheduled visitation they balked about spending the weekend with me. I got angry with my ex and said some rude things to her and she responded by getting a bogus restraining order against me. I wasn’t allowed within one hundred yards of her. I couldn’t go to any of their school activities or sports because she was there.”
“Not quite ten years ago, my son came unexpectedly to my house one Saturday afternoon. He’d been drinking. He was angry and confronted me. He demanded to know why I gave up on him and his sister. Why I never tried to stay involved. Why I didn’t love them. Why I couldn’t have been a decent father. And why, with all the money I had, I refused to pay child support. I was dumbfounded. I told him I had paid child support, every month. He called me a damn liar. I went to my filing cabinet and brought out the folder where I kept all the cancelled child support checks and birthday and Christmas checks. I showed him the restraining order she took out against me. Then it was my son’s turn to be dumbfounded.”
“Their mother had told them all through childhood that I refused to pay child support. That I had plenty of money but didn’t care enough to pay anything. That I didn’t come to their games and school plays because I didn’t love them. They grew up thinking I was a wealthy asshole who didn’t give a damn about them, and at the same time I was deeply sorry that my own kids wanted nothing to do with me. I told him about the birthday cards I sent, the Christmas presents, the phone calls. They never knew about any of that. She was cashing the checks the whole time. She deliberately turned them against me.” Doc fell silent.
“Doc! I am so sorry! That’s horrible, and believe me, I understand how you feel!” Michelle put her arm through his and they continued walking. Doc went on.
“That was when things began to change between me and my kids. My son told his sister what he learned, and she didn’t believe it at first. Eventually she came to me to see for herself. I hadn’t seen her in seven years. By then, I had two grandsons I’d never met. I didn’t even know about the youngest one. The three of us started on a concerted fence-mending campaign and tried to make up for lost time. And I became the best grandpa I could be.” Now it was Doc’s turn to stop and face Michelle with tears in his eyes. “But even though our relationship healed, I couldn’t get back the time I lost, the time their mother stole from us. All the memories we could have made but never got the chance to, just because of her.”
Michelle wrapped her arm around him and he returned the gesture. They embraced silently for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, doing their best to comfort each other. Finally Doc said, “All that’s water under the bridge. What’s done is done. All we can do is make the most of the time we have, and for my part I’ve already come to think of you as my daughter.”
“And you really are like my dad. Do you mind if I call you Dad?”
“Michelle my dear, that’s the sweetest question anyone’s ever asked me. It’s an honor. Tell you what: let’s finish this lap and then head in. It’s nearly dark and I’m starting to get a chill.”
As they rounded the last corner, Michelle looked up at the western sky and said, “Look! How pretty! Is that Venus?”
“I believe it is, Venus and Mars! And look, a nearly full moon is rising!” Checking for zombies and finding none anywhere close enough to worry about, Doc started to go through the gate when he suddenly stopped and closed it again. “Nearly forgot! Wait right here!” He walked briskly to the peony bushes and cut an armload of blooms. The smile on Michelle’s face as he handed them to her was the brightest part of his day. They walked through the gate and paused at the side door for one more look at the stars and planets in the night sky.
“I wonder what Kevin is doing right now,” Michelle pondered. Many miles away, Kevin gazed at the same stars and planets, longing to hold Michelle’s hand.
Chapter Nine
Kevin awoke abruptly with a heavy heart. He’d been dreaming he was almost home, but kept turning down the wrong street. He could hear Michelle calling him but he couldn’t roll down the windows to answer. The sealed windows of the Jeep had successfully kept mosquitos out, but it also let the interior get very stuffy and he was coated with a thin sheen of sweat. He also had a stiff neck. When he was a kid, sleeping in the car had been a fun adventure. Now there was nothing fun about it. He lifted the shirts covering the windows and checked outside. No zombies. He climbed out of the cab, his muscles stiff and complaining from his awkward sleeping position. Wishing he had a cup of coffee, he opened the cooler and pulled out a can of Coke he’d packed. It was lukewarm and it wasn’t coffee, but he was glad to have it.
He started the engine and rolled down the windows, then made a three point turn and tried to retrace his route to the road. He became confused at one point and spent five minutes on the wrong track, but eventually found a place to turn around and soon was back on the road.
Every time he came to an intersection, he opted to take whichever road headed north or west.
There were very few houses or businesses on the road, so other than having to work around a few downed trees and avoid the occasional zombie, it was a quiet ride. Somewhere east of Custer, he
remembered to turn the radio on, hoping to pick up a broadcast from Frankfort. He put the radio on Scan and let it cycle through a few times, and after a minute picked up the broadcast. It was similar to the one he and Doc had heard, but wasn’t exactly the same: “This is the civil authorities in Frankfort, Michigan. We are a community of survivors and can offer safe haven. We have medical facilities with doctors, nurses, and supplies at our hospital. All unbitten and uninfected survivors are welcome, but be warned that we are well-armed and will protect ourselves from unwanted intruders. All bridges near Frankfort have been barricaded to keep out the creatures. Survivors must cross over a creek, river, or lake to find us. We repeat, all unbitten and uninfected survivors are welcome. This broadcast will repeat in fifteen minutes.”
Kevin let out a whoop! and pumped his fist in the air, painfully hitting the roof of the Jeep. He barely noticed. The broadcast had changed, which meant it wasn’t just an old broadcast endlessly repeating. That confirmed his hope of safe haven and survivors! He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, instinctively looking in the mirror as if there could be a vehicle behind him. I don’t have to drive to Frankfort! he thought. The message confirms there are survivors!, I can go home!
But then he reconsidered. Hearing a different broadcast didn’t necessarily mean it had been changed recently. For all he knew, months ago they may have recorded a series of announcements, covering all the facts survivors may need to know if they were headed to Frankfort. He couldn’t risk driving Michelle to Frankfort, only to learn that the broadcast wasn’t true. Damn! He hung his head for a moment, then took his foot off the brake and drove on.
He considered taking M-115, but was anxious to get back on familiar roads and to see familiar sights. It didn’t make much difference which route he took; both were equally hazardous. I might as well take the scenic route. At least I know the roads. He drove through the intersection and stayed on M-10.
He thought about avoiding Custer, but when he checked the map, he learned its population was only three hundred. He decided to risk it. He was on Main Street, lined with aging but well-kept homes, and grinned as he approached Bonser’s Supermarket, seeing an absolutely huge, realistically-painted model of a cow’s head attached to the store front. When he got closer, though, his smile faded as he saw it had been defaced. The eyes and mouth had been painted blood red and Zombie Cow was scrawled underneath. The windows of the store were broken, the interior dark. He saw several zombies inside. He assumed they were zombies; something inside was moving. He sped up: no point in rubbernecking. He pulled into town and passed a Shell station. The letter sign out front made Kevin wince: May God Have Mercy On Us.
It was a quaint little town. Just after he passed the Crossroads Church (God answers knee-mail! read the sign out front) he turned right onto a side road and passed a small neighborhood that transitioned to cornfields on either side. He made a few turns, passing more cornfields and a few farms, then turned right onto US 31 North.
US 31 was pretty barren: not a lot of houses, no businesses to speak of. As he traveled along, he crossed the bridge over the Big Sable River, seeing a few zombies on the bank. Stopping to fish for trout never even crossed his mind. He went out of his way to bypass Manistee, a town of about five-thousand. Manistee is known for its namesake Manistee River, a renowned trout fishing river; he noticed a few zombies on the banks of the river on both sides, just like the banks of the Big Sable.
A few miles north of town he turned onto M-22 at the Little River Casino. The marquee, which was previously lit up with splashy electronic messages, stood dark and still.
Once Kevin was on M-22, he practically felt at home. He had traveled M-22 for decades and considered it one of the country’s best-kept secrets. The drive rivaled that of any northern California coastline highway, without all the commercialism, movie-star mansions, and fast food restaurants. Kevin knew the route by heart. Manistee, Onekama, Arcadia, Elberta, then Frankfort, Empire, and Glen Arbor. Lake Menekaunee lay between Arcadia and Elberta. Over the years he’d explored each of the towns.
Normally, this was when he’d start getting excited. He never could decide whether or not it was his imagination, but knowing Lake Michigan was only a couple miles to the west made everything feel different. Today was no exception, although the sky—which had started bright and sunny—was now gray and overcast. In Kevin’s memories it was always bright and sunny. But even overcast, it was a scenic drive past cornfields and pastures as inland Michigan gave way to the rolling dunes, orchards, and an occasional blueberry farm.
Approaching Portage Lake, Kevin was surprised at how few zombies he saw. There were still the occasional random zombies walking the road and a few walked the fields. But all in all, it seemed as if there were fewer here than any place he’d been. Near the lake it started to make sense.
There are many bridges over the creeks and streams that feed into Portage Lake; each time he drew close to a bridge he saw more zombies. Many of them were on the banks of the streams. As he approached one bridge, he happened to see a zombie struggling in a small stream. It appeared to be trying to get out of the water, but wasn’t bright enough, or coordinated enough, so it simply floundered and slowly drifted downstream. Zombies can’t cross water! Kevin thought with a combination of amusement and triumph. That information could prove priceless!
When he traveled around the eastern edge of Portage Lake and entered Onekama he was saddened by what he saw. When the zombie infection spread through Michigan, boats were still in the water and were essentially abandoned. When the storms of November came roaring through, as they always do, the pleasure boats with wood or fiberglass hulls were buffeted about, crashing into their slips and docks. In most cases, their anchors and moorings held, but several were damaged. On average, Onekama gets nearly seven feet of snow each year. Over the past six months, snow had accumulated on the hulls of the boats, melted and found its way into the holds. Several of these boats were listing; a few had sunk, only the uppermost parts of the crafts visible above the water line. The lake was now a boat graveyard. He pressed on, anxious to finish the trip.
He left Onekama and headed through the quiet countryside on an increasingly winding and hilly road. He passed through cherry orchards, some of the trees in bloom. Their white blossoms were touched with a shade of pink so delicate he might have imagined it. He rolled down his window to take in the mostly imagined fragrance of the orchards. It was a little sad, seeing them neglected. Branches and leaves lay where they had fallen and weeds were already growing between the rows of trees.
Drawing near Arcadia, he passed the entrance to Arcadia Bluffs, one of the most beautiful golf courses in North America, built on top of sandy bluffs with wide vistas overlooking Lake Michigan. Not being a golfer, Kevin had never visited the course nor eaten at the restaurant, but even so he was sad to see the sand traps near the road covered with fallen leaves and beginning to get overgrown with weeds. The few greens he could see had stubble sprouting up. The fairways were becoming pastures.
He approached Arcadia Lake, one of the landmarks on his trips up north because the bridge across the lake brought the first real glimpse of Lake Michigan. He suddenly slammed on his brakes. The bridge was barricaded with a wood fence and several layers of barbed wire. The winding coils looked like huge, cruel Slinkys. A dozen or so zombies milled about on either side, stymied by the barricade. They all turned in toward him, and several had already begun shuffling his way. He recalled the radio broadcast warning him that the bridges near Frankfort had been barricaded to prevent zombies from reaching town, but he hadn’t expected to find the bridges barricaded this far south. He backed up a few hundred feet until he had ample room from the slow-moving zombies and grabbed his map. A side road behind him bypassed Arcadia.
The zombies were getting close. He backed up and headed east on the side road. After a couple turns, he wound up on the perimeter of the Arcadia Marsh Nature Preserve. When the road intersected M-22, Kevin instinctively looked left
and paused. He could see the Big Apple, a roadhouse built in 1937, named not after New York City, but after a popular dance. Kevin had consumed his share of beer and done his share of drunken white boy dancing in the roadhouse. It made him ache for one more draft beer, one more shot of peppermint schnapps, and one more slice of pizza. With a sigh, he turned right and continued north. The road began a fairly steep climb. Kevin had already decided that by God he was going to stop at Inspiration Point near the top, as always. It had one of the most spectacular views in all of Michigan. Pulling into the overlook's parking lot, he noticed all of the small fallen branches, and piles of leaves. An abandoned car with flat tires was covered with bits of leaves and dusted with sand. Kevin got out and despite his reservations began to climb the wooden steps to the top of the overlook.
Chapter Ten
One hundred and twenty steps later Kevin stood, breathing a bit hard, looking out over the vista. The huge expanse of Lake Michigan lay spread before him, culminating in a beach nearly four hundred feet below. The water was a cold metallic gray, reflecting the overcast sky, not the sapphire blue he had dreamed about. Just past the first sandbar he could see whitecaps.
To the south, he could see low-lying dunes covered in foliage, a deep and still green. Where the land met the water, a thin strip of vanilla cream-colored sand fringed the lake where the surf broke ashore in ribbons of blue and white. From this distance, he couldn’t hear the sound of the waves, but it was easy to imagine the roar as they spent themselves upon the beach. In the far distance he could see the buildings of the town and the twin walls of the Arcadia breakwater framing a barely-seen sliver of Bowens Creek.
His eyes followed the shoreline of Lake Michigan towards the north until he stopped and drew a quick breath. He saw two figures walking the beach near the edge of the water. Hope and fear surged within his heart—other survivors?! But no. These were not living humans. They were zombies shuffling through the sand. One looked almost normal from this distance, but the other carried a severed head by the hair.
Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2) Page 9