After the Fall

by Robin Summers

  I kiss her then, not having the words to tell her just how much she is loved, how brave she is, how she has saved me and brought joy and peace and hope back into my life, or how I will spend the rest of my life trying to make her happy.

  We are both breathing heavily when the kiss ends, and she gives me a deliciously wicked smile.

  “Still tired?” she asks devilishly.

  I grin and step back to close the door, giving her all the answer she needs.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Winter had officially come to Burninghead Farm. Snow had not yet fallen, but Mother Nature had delivered the first hard freeze of the season, leaving no doubt as to her intentions. Duncan sat huddled on the porch of the farmhouse, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. He had grown accustomed to coffee of late, no longer minding its bitter flavor. It seemed to fit his mood these days.

  Duncan stood and stretched, shaking out his legs, trying to restart the flow of blood. He grabbed his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and began to pace the porch, still gripping his mug. Sentry duty could be mind numbing if you did not keep moving, and the last thing Duncan wanted to do was let his guard down.

  Buck had set up the sentry system the day after Duncan and Taylor had returned to the farm. Three guards per night, with a system of repurposed church bells to warn if and when something happened. Buck’s news about Zeke’s return had sent shockwaves through the farm, or at least most of it. It was clear to Duncan that a few people had already known what had happened, including Taylor and Kate. For a while Duncan had been mad they had not told him. That they had not trusted him. But eventually he had let it go, deciding he was being childish. What he needed to do was focus on the problem at hand, namely, the threat to the farm. And so Duncan had been the first to volunteer to serve as a sentry.

  It was a man’s job, and Duncan did not take the responsibility lightly. He was well-acquainted with a rifle, having been taught by his daddy to hunt when he was only twelve, as his father had been taught by Duncan’s grandfather. He was a good shot, but he knew there was much more to pulling a trigger than the accuracy of your aim. You never picked up a gun you did not intend to fire, and you never pointed it at anything you did not intend to kill.

  Duncan had volunteered for extra shifts, although Buck would not let him take as many as he had asked for. Duncan was frustrated by that, although he understood it. Too many shifts keeping watch could drive a man crazy, make him hear noises that meant nothing and see things that were not really there. That was how accidents happened. Or worse yet, a man could go the opposite way, grow complacent from too many nights of nothing happening. Neither possibility was good.

  Still, Duncan stayed frustrated. The need to do something gnawed at him. It was building up inside him, this nervous energy born of waiting for something to happen and feeling impotent against it. With work halted on the wall on account of the weather, the only outlet Duncan had for his growing anxiety was guard duty, which sometimes felt more like doing nothing than something. All he could do was wait, wait for Zeke to come back, wait for something—anything—to happen. And Duncan was tired of waiting.

  It was not that he wanted Zeke to come back, or that he wanted a confrontation over the farm’s future, but he knew it was coming. They all did. Zeke said he would be back, and Buck had ordered armed sentries posted for a reason. It was not a question of if a fight was coming so much as when. The inevitability of it hung in the air, in the stillness of the trees and the way the moon rose ominously overhead. And if it was coming, Duncan just wanted it to get here already and be done with it, one way or another. It was time for a reckoning.

  But night after night, nothing happened. Duncan paced the porch of the farmhouse, watching and waiting and finding nothing changed. Even when he was not on duty, he found himself pacing over near the barn or outside the dorm. Still watching. Still waiting. And it was making him crazy.

  It was an itch deep beneath his skin that he could never reach, that prickled and burned so far down it made his whole body twitch and ache. The only thing that helped was to keep moving, to walk the farm and scan the horizon and know, when the time came, he would be ready. He would see them coming. He would warn the farm. And he would stop Zeke and his men from destroying all that he loved.

  He would stop them.

  Duncan stepped down from the porch, extending his pacing into the less confining ground around the farmhouse. The grass, which had been alive and spongy beneath his boots only a few days ago, now crunched and shattered with every step. Duncan was once again reminded of how quickly things could change. Just when you thought you had everything figured out, that you understood the world and you knew your place in it, something came along to blow apart all you had carefully constructed. Control was an illusion, a trick of the mind and sleight of hand wielded by a faceless master magician. Duncan was just the lowly magician’s apprentice, one without any real chance of mastering the magician’s secrets or taking over the act.

  It was hard to accept that tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Duncan knew that Franny and Mrs. Sapple and a few extra helpers had been working for days in preparation, baking pies and shucking corn. A few of the men had even managed to shoot some wild turkeys on the farm’s western edge, and while it would not be enough to truly feed the entire farm, everyone would get a taste of the traditional turkey dinner. Still, it did not feel like any Thanksgiving Duncan could remember. Maybe this was the way Thanksgiving would feel now, after the plague, though Duncan did not think so. It seemed to Duncan it should be better somehow, like they had more to be grateful for here in the after. And maybe some folks felt it was better, but not Duncan. Instead, Duncan was consumed by the irony that as they prepared to celebrate all that they were grateful for, Zeke and his men were preparing to try and take it all away from them.

  Up until now, Duncan had managed to retain his sense of self and his optimism. While the plague had stolen away his family and his childhood, he had rebuilt his life on Burninghead Farm and found a new family here among the ruins of the world. Life was vastly different than it had been before the plague, but in some ways, it was also entirely the same. You still worked hard, treated others as you would want to be treated, paid respect to those to whom it was due, and tried to help wherever and whenever you could. Those were the lessons he had grown up with, the lessons of before, and they carried over into the new world.

  There were dangers to be sure, people who had allowed their desperation to push them into doing things which would have once been unthinkable to them, and other people—bad people—who no longer felt bound by society’s rules once civilized society had vanished. Duncan had known those truths when he first arrived on the farm, before Zeke had begun demanding the world be remade in his own image, before they had begun building the wall, and even before that day sitting out on those rocks with Taylor, when she had told him the story of Pennsylvania. But Duncan had convinced himself that was the exception and not the rule, that most people were inherently good and would not go out of their way to hurt anyone, and that somehow Burninghead Farm would be immune from the dangers that lurked beyond the farm’s boundaries. Despite some doubts along the way, Duncan had believed the life he had built would last forever.

  And now Zeke and his ilk were threatening everything.

  Duncan felt his anger rising. He had never known such bile, had never thought himself capable of this thing that had begun welling up inside of him the day Buck had told the farm to start preparing to face Zeke’s threat. But Duncan’s outlook, as well as his illusions about the world, had begun to unravel. In their wake came a churning storm that fired his blood and left him unable to think of anything but stopping anyone who dared threaten what he had built. No matter the cost.

  Duncan climbed back up onto the porch and leaned his gun against the house’s exterior wall. He glanced down at his watch. It was nearly three a.m., time for the next shift to come and replace him and the two others keeping watch. Not that it mattered. Du
ncan knew he would not be sleeping that night. No, like every night, he would stay awake until dawn broke over the eastern horizon, as he watched and waited for the beginning of the end. Only when light had cast its first full shadows across the farm, chasing away the stealth of night and, with it, Zeke’s ability to take the farm by surprise, would Duncan finally fall into a restless sleep plagued with demon-filled dreams.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I awake to the sound of bells. At first I think it is part of a strange dream I’ve been having, the result of too many mashed potatoes and that extra piece of pie Kate and I snuck out of the kitchen late last night. But as I climb out of the dream and toward consciousness, the clanging of the bells grows more distinct, and I recognize them for what they are. This is no dream. The nightmare we have been dreading has finally come to life. The distant sound of a gunshot confirms it.

  I can barely hear the shouts out in the hallway over the thudding of my heart.

  “Baby, wake up,” I whisper urgently into Kate’s ear, shaking her.

  She wakes with a start, blinking up at me in the darkness, trying to get her bearings. Realization dawns.

  “Oh God.”

  Kate scrambles from the bed as I quickly slip on my already laced sneakers. Like others on the farm, we have taken to sleeping nearly fully dressed in preparation for the inevitable. I grab Mugsy and slip her securely over my shoulder. Kate is already at my side by the time I finish. She squeezes my hand, and I kiss her quickly, stealing a moment we can’t afford.

  I love you. We will survive this. We will still have forever.

  We each have specific tasks to accomplish, and they will be taking us in different directions. I hate that I won’t be with Kate to protect her, but I am grateful she will be heading away from immediate danger.

  We flee the room and run straight into an orderly chaos. People are everywhere, some evacuating, some trying to wake up others, and some heading to other assigned jobs. Everyone has a place to be, and they are going. Fear thickens the air, making my limbs heavy, like I’m swimming against the current in a river of mud. With one last squeeze, Kate lets go of my hand and runs down toward the children’s rooms. She, Margie, and a few others are responsible for gathering the children and leading them off the farm. They will head east toward the wall then follow it north, using the trees as cover, until they reach an open section and can escape. With any luck, they will miss Zeke and his men, who we expect will head straight for the heart of the farm—the dorm—from due north, not wanting to pin themselves against either the western or eastern wall.

  I head outside, where I am to make my way over to the barn and help free the horses. Better they run free than be taken by Zeke or caught in the crossfire. I reach the open air and sprint toward the barn. It is nearly pitch black, the clouds obscuring both the moon and the stars, but my vision adjusts quickly. Muzzle flashes explode in the darkness from up near the farmhouse, lighting up the night like a fireworks show gone horribly wrong. Gunfire thunders across the farm, the echoes mixing with angry shouts and strangled cries. I can hear Rusty barking frantically off in the distance. I pray someone grabs him before he gets himself shot. Dozens of fast-moving shadows line the horizon, and some of them are already heading my way. My heart lodges in my throat, choking me as it pounds frantically against my windpipe, and I gasp for air. Oh God.

  Time spins wildly out of control, speeding and slowing as the ground lurches up before me. I am back in Pennsylvania, running and stumbling through the woods, broken and bleeding, pursued by brutal men with murder in their hearts. Tree branches tear at my arms, sulfur assaults my nostrils, the coppery tang of my own blood seeping from my lip fills my mouth. I fight to right myself, to shake the memories from my skin and nose and throat. All around me, guns keep exploding and people keep shouting, and I struggle to find my way back to the present.

  You’re not in Pittsburgh. You’re on the farm. You’re under attack. Now move!

  Adrenaline surges, snapping me back to reality. I am running again, faster than before, my legs hammering the ground. As I reach the barn, a horse comes flying out into the night, nearly running me over. Franny is already there and has begun throwing open the stall doors and chasing the horses outside. I take the other side of the barn and follow suit. I find Stu’s stall and open it. He whinnies bodily, clearly agitated. I have no doubt he knows what is happening. I run into the stall and clap my hands at him, trying to chase him out. He bolts for the entrance to the barn, only to pull up in the barn door. He turns and eyes me, stomping his foot once as if to tell me to get a move on.

  “Not this time,” I say sadly. “But you need to go.”

  He refuses to move, and so I shout. “Go!”

  With a final snort, he turns and races out the door, soon followed by the remaining horses.

  “That’s all of them,” Franny yells to me as she comes running up. We can hear the shouting outside getting closer. “We’ve got to move.”

  We are supposed to flee west once we have finished freeing the horses, then north and off the farm. The plan is to get the children and elderly off the farm and away from Zeke and his men. It is simple numbers—there aren’t enough guns to go around, and not everyone can shoot them anyway. There is no sense in leaving the farm’s most vulnerable to be killed or used as hostages. The other women will leave, too, not because they can’t fight, but because of the things that will happen if Zeke catches them. Things I know all too well.

  But I have no intention of leaving. I refuse to save myself when others are still in danger. I refuse to let others pay the price for my survival ever again.

  “Go, I’ll be right behind you,” I say, shoving Franny toward the barn door. She is not so easily fooled.

  “You’re not coming.”

  It is a statement, not a question. It does not require an answer.

  She hugs me tightly before pulling back. “Be safe.” And with that she runs out the back of the barn and into the night.

  I run out the opposite door and back into the fray. I have not yet seen Zeke, but his men are everywhere. They run wildly, whooping and hollering as they shoot off their guns. It seems like many of the farm’s residents have fled to safety as they were supposed to, but others remain, running across the farm. Some are being chased, but others are fighting back. As many shots as are being fired, it doesn’t seem like Zeke’s men are actually firing at anyone. He’ll need slaves for his new world order. So the fighting stays hand-to-hand, at least until one of Zeke’s men uses the barrel of his gun to knock someone to the ground.

  My heart stops as I see Kate being chased by one of Zeke’s men, and I fight off another flashback. She has a lead on him, but he gains on her quickly. I chase after them and watch in horror as he catches her. Her scream pierces the night. He grabs her from behind and tackles her to the ground. She is kicking wildly and scratching at his arms, desperately trying to break free. He laughs as he wrestles her beneath him. I pull Mugsy out of her sheath with murderous intent. I must scream, because his head snaps up to see me charging at him.

  It all seems to go in slow motion.

  I am thirty feet away. He sits back on his knees, with Kate still pinned beneath him.

  Fifteen feet away. He raises his gun. I raise Mugsy over my head as I run.

  Ten feet. He takes aim.

  He is going to beat me. I swing at him anyway.

  He never gets off his shot.

  As I swing Mugsy at his head, he doubles over, and the bat arcs directly where his head should have been. I am moving with such force that it takes several more feet for me to bleed off my speed and turn around. By the time I do, Kate has pushed the man off and is scrambling up from the ground. I reach her side quickly. The man is curled up in the fetal position, holding his groin and crying out in agony. It all happened so fast, I missed Kate kneeing him in the crotch just before he would have pulled the trigger.

  Kate stares down at him, her eyes blazing. Rage fires her, and she kicks him in t
he crotch again, this time her foot making contact with such force I can hear the bones crack in the hand covering his damaged genitals. She pulls her leg back to kick him again, but I stop her. She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. I kick his gun away from him.

  “Damn it! What are you doing here?” I scream at her, grasping her face in my hands.

  “One of the kids was missing. I couldn’t leave her,” Kate says, smiling sadly.

  I pull her back into my arms, praying like hell she is a figment of my imagination.

  “Well, isn’t this touching?”

  Zeke has arrived. He stands there, an evil grin tugging his lips into a sneer, a shotgun resting on his shoulder like a big game hunter posing for a photo over the body of the rhino he just slaughtered. He has five men with him. We are surrounded, and suddenly I remember what it feels like to be locked in a stall with no way out.

  They round up thirteen of us and quickly relieve us of whatever weapons we have. Mugsy is tossed into a small pile of tree limbs and shovels. The farm grows quiet as the shouting and gunfire die off. Zeke has about twenty men in total, all armed with shotguns, rifles, or handguns. They push and shove us into a line and order us to kneel with our hands clasped behind our heads.

  Three more men come running over from the dorm.

  “Well?” Zeke asks.

  “It’s empty,” one of the men answers. “They’re all gone.”

  “Fuck!” Zeke shouts, throwing his gun to the ground. His men look more than a little nervous as Zeke paces angrily. Finally, Zeke slows, reaching down to pick his gun back up. When he straightens, he seems as calm as a Buddhist monk. That scares me more.

  “So Buck decided to flee instead of fight, eh?” he says, eyeing each one of his hostages. His gaze stops on me. “Figures.”

  For once, I don’t take the bait.

  “Zeke!” Another man runs up. He is clearly out of shape and takes several gasping breaths.