“For what?”
“This.” Wallace began shaking the object in his hand—an ornate bell. The device tinkled away in the silence of the house, echoing loudly off the plaster walls. Bud looked at him dully for a long moment.
“So you just, like, rang the dinner bell? To see if there are any of those dead freaks in the house?” he said.
Wallace nodded.
Nothing came. The house was as lifeless as a mausoleum. After a time, Wallace put the bell back on the mantle, and he motioned Bud deeper into the house.
“After you,” he said.
“Why?”
“You want to die, right? I’ve got a kid to look after.”
Bud nodded soberly and did as instructed.
The house was as empty as Wallace had hoped. There was still some food left in the kitchen—stuff he’d brought up over the past few months, along with more that he’d hidden in several closets. It wasn’t a whole lot, but it was enough to keep them going for the next couple of weeks, not including the stuff in the van outside. He was happy he’d had the foresight to stock up the place in the event the big one hit. His wife had always thought he was a little crazy for that, but his preparations were going to pay off.
It was a shame she wasn’t around to enjoy it. Wallace tried to clear the lump that was forming in his throat.
“Okay, we’re good,” he said, finally. He turned back to Bud as the two of them stood in the high-ceilinged living room. “Let’s get the others.”
When Darien and the kids were safely in the house, Wallace went through and ensured everything was locked up tight. He pulled the sheets off some of the furniture in the high-ceilinged living room, and everyone sat down. He handed out bottles of warm water, then turned to Darien and Bud.
“End of the road, guys. What are your plans?”
Bud said nothing, and Wallace wasn’t sure he had heard him.
“It’s a simple question, Bud. You said you wanted to die. What are going to do?”
Bud slowly shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, and his voice was a choked whisper.
“Why don’t you chill out with us for a bit,” Wallace said, as gently as he could. “I know what you’re going through—trust me on that. Give yourself some time to sort things out. So long as it doesn’t harm me or my family or anyone else here, you’re free to do what you want.”
“Okay,” the older man said.
Wallace nodded slowly. “Darien?”
She looked up at him dully. “I need to sleep on that,” she said after a long moment.
Wallace nodded again. “We happen to have some spare beds, so you’re in luck.”
The sun sank over the Malibu range and a million stars came out over the edge of a city that no longer had the litter of lights polluting the view, and no longer was shrouded in the dome of smog that so famously hung over it for decades. Far off to the northeast some coyotes began to howl. Matthew and Wallace stood on the front terrace, looking out into the darkness. The night was as still as any had ever been. It was hard to imagine that sprinkled across the darkness were hordes of the dead. Perhaps they were dormant now, waiting for the next opportunity to satisfy their horrible craving for the flesh of the living. As the father and son sat sentinel on the hill, they walked the ruined streets of Los Angeles and beyond, forever hunting to kill their hunger, forever roaming through the near-lifeless world trying to get the next kill.
In some places too, it was possible, sprinkled throughout the black, empty shell of the city, there were survivors such as themselves. Here and there—hiding in houses, sheltered in church basements and the storage rooms of grocery stores—were the last living people. They, too, might be keeping a lonely watch at a window or through the crack of a damaged door.
Perhaps they too were holding their breath—hoping the loved ones they’re with can enjoy just one fair night of sleep before the cold light of morning returns them to the vivid nightmare of a world gone mad.
“How ya doing?” Wallace asked his son.
“Fine,” Matthew said, and Wallace wondered if the boy really even knew what fine was, any longer.
“You cold?”
“No. I’m all right.”
“Matty, I’m really proud of you. I can’t even tell you—not only that you came through like you did, but that you cared for Ally and helped see her through. That’s just a really great thing that you did. It was what a man would do, what a real man does.”
Matthew shrugged in the inky darkness. “I don’t think it was anything special,” he said.
Wallace snorted and put his hand on the boy’s head. “Little guy, you have no idea. It wasn’t just special. It was outright heroic.”
“Dad, you were right to shoot Marco and the others. In case you think you did something wrong.”
“I know. They were going to kill us. And if I died, no one would be able to look after you. Right?”
“Is Bud going to kill himself?”
“Maybe. I hope not, but he looks like he’s been through a lot.”
“I think it’s wrong to kill the living,” Matthew said.
Wallace nodded. “I think it is, too. But I won’t kill him. If he wants to go, he’ll have to do it to himself. It’s his choice.” He looked down at Matthew for one long, speculative moment. “Do you think I should stop him?”
Matthew was silent for a long moment. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” He sighed heavily and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter—I guess it’s a shame if he kills himself, but… but I sure do miss Mom right now.”
Wallace stared off into the blackness for a long moment. “Yeah, I miss her, too. I wish I’d been there for you guys. I wish…”
“You were sick, Dad. It wasn’t your fault. I never should have left the house. I was stupid, thinking it was just gonna be another normal day.”
Wallace reached out again and pulled Matthew into his arms. Matthew came willingly, pressing his face against Wallace’s shoulder.
“I love you, guy,” Wallace said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I know,” Matthew said. He straightened up a moment later. “I love you too, Dad.”
They sat silently, side by side for quite a long time. Wallace kept his left arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders, while his right hand remained clasped around the rifle’s pistol grip. Overhead, the stars did their slow, graceful pirouette in the black sky as some structural fires blazed away in the valley below. Santa Monica and Westwood were on fire, and farther beyond, more flames loomed in Culver City. They would burn for days.
“We should get back inside,” Wallace said, starting to rise to his feet.
“Look!” Matthew said suddenly. “Dad, look! Do you see it?”
Wallace looked back at the dead sprawl of the city, illuminated only by a patchwork fires and starlight. At first, he saw nothing other than what he had seen for the past hour. That’s when he saw them. It may have been a reflection, or a trick of the eye, but it didn’t seem like it was. There were lights—just tiny lights, here and there. There was one in one of the high-rises that shone for a moment, seemed to move at a window, then disappear…
And there was another, closer in the distance, which seemed to drift across the ground. It disappeared for a moment, then shined again for several seconds before it was hidden from view…
“Did you see that?” Matthew asked again, fighting his excitement.
Wallace nodded. “I saw.”
“Those lights—they’re from people, right?”
“Yeah. It’s people.” He reached down and hugged his son once more. “You know what that means?”
“That there’s still hope down there,” Matthew said. “It means we’re not alone.”
Stephen Knight is the author of the zombie apocalypse best seller The Gathering Dead and the science fiction adventure novel Earthfall. Wtih Scott Wolf, he is co-author of the These Dead Lands zombie military adventure series, and The Retreat series with Craig DiLouie and Joe McKinney. He can be found o
n the web at:
http://knightslanding.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/stephen.knight.376695
Find more of his fiction at:
http://www.amazon.com/Stephen-Knight/e/B004SVKJH6/
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