The Meek (Unbound Trilogy Book 1)

by J. D. Palmer

  We stand there in silence, rooted to the spot like wayward parishioners at an unholy wake. His eyes dart to each of us in turn, his face dented as he nervously chews on the inside of his mouth. I think, for a second, that he is going to shoot me. He then points an accusatory finger at the man on the ground.

  “He slept with my wife. Took her from me. This fucker got a fancy lawyer and they got my house too. My kids stopped coming by cuz he’d buy them fancy stuff and...” He waves his hands in the air, too agitated to speak. His words have a tinge of pleading under the anger. As if embarrassed that he has to convince us of what he is doing.

  “He took everything from me. And now they’re all dead. He didn’t even try to protect ‘em. So now he dies.”

  John steps forward. “That’s not your decision to make.”

  The man raises his rifle. “You going to stop me?” He swings the rifle along our group. “Any of you going to try?”

  I don’t know what to do. There are no laws anymore. There is nothing to hold us accountable except our own morals. Can I judge this man? I look at the man on the ground, his eyes imploring me to help. I wonder how much is true. Is the man deserving of this? Or maybe he is a Stuart, and merits whatever harsh justice this man sees fit.

  “No. We aren’t.” I turn and walk away and the only one slow to follow is John. I look back after we reach the road and I see that he is digging again. Why is he bothering to bury him?

  We no longer live in a civilized world and it might be best to stop acting like we do. I could no more stop that man from killing the man who cuckolded him than I could have stopped Beryl from stabbing Stuart.

  We begin to walk again, John catches up to me. “We can’t let him do this.”

  I shake my head. “And do we die trying to stop him? Or do we save that man at the price of killing the other?” John doesn’t really know what to say, but I see him mustering an argument. It’s hard to see wanton violence committed, and we have been programmed to stop it. Or report it. Or gawk at it as it is reported on the news.

  A gunshot rings out and we stop. The man drags the corpse to the hole and pushes it in. He stands staring down into the hole for a second, and then looks to the sky. He says something but is too far away for it to be discernible. He then drops to his knees by the pit, puts the end of the rifle in his mouth and another shot rings out. John flinches as the man topples over the edge to join his enemy in the pit. Vengeance was the only reason he had continued to live and now, purposeless, he is impatient to be judged for his deeds.

  We don’t find a car but we don’t look too hard. The small town has an unseen water source, the trees and fields holding onto green in the middle of the desert. We find a large tree shading sand and grass and set up there. I think we all would rather sleep on the ground than see more bodies today. John is quiet and he avoids looking me in the eye. I understand why he is upset. I wonder why I am not.

  I tell Steven that I’m going to look for food. He nods and goes to sit by his brother. Maybe they can talk it out. Beryl comes with me. I feel empty, like I did something wrong and got away with it. I ask her if we should have done something for that man and she looks in my eyes and shakes her head. Her mouth opens, then she remembers that she can’t speak and she grimaces. I think back to Stuart, hands held out before him, pleading to us to have mercy. Had a stranger walked into that home as Beryl went to stab him, would they have stopped us? And had they tried, would I have killed them? I suspect I know the answer and it offers me no comfort.

  Slowly we begin to take longer breaks during the day and travel more during the night. Less and less we go into houses or homes, scavenging less clothes or supplies as we become hardened to the road.

  John is quieter now. More introspective. I know the deaths we witnessed have disturbed him. And had I not gone through a crash-course of horror with Beryl it would have bothered me a whole lot more. But he seems to have taken it personally, rarely talking to either Beryl or myself now, as if we are cut from the same cloth as the man who did the killing. And maybe we are. But it still hurts. We seem to be strangers to each other in a world in which that is truly a tragedy.

  Late in the day I find him walking next to me. Whatever had been eating at him has finally forced him to say something. Even so, we walk in silence for at least a mile before he speaks.

  “I know he had a gun. I know you don’t want Beryl, or us, to get hurt.”

  He chews on the inside of his cheek and doesn’t appear to want to continue.

  “But,” I say.

  “But it was still wrong. And you gave up so easily.” He waves a hand in the air in front of him. “I know you had some stuff… happen. But you can see it, right?”

  I don’t like this conversation. “No. I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say brusquely.

  He holds out a hand to stop me. “I don’t wish to fight. What I’m trying to say is… It would be easy to let this be the end. To let civilization go and start acting like we didn’t have laws. Justice. To let what happened make us just another group of heathens.”

  It was a nice speech. And nicely done. John is passionate about everything he says, it makes it hard not to feel guilty when you’re on the disagreeing side. But though I could empathize with what he said it was still unfathomable to me.

  “I’m sorry, John. Maybe one day law and order can return. Until then…” And I shrug.

  We walk in silence for a short while before he fades behind me to walk alone in the road. Perhaps I was too offhand with what he said. Maybe all he wanted from me was an “I’ll try.” Whatever it is there suddenly seems to be a small rift between the two of us.

  I shoot a rabbit the next day. We had amassed plenty of bullets and I thought fresh meat would do all of us good. I know I, at least, was tired of eating out of a can. John snapped at me in a rare show of anger. “With everything dead how can you keep adding to the tally? Jesus, are you happy this happened?”

  He did not eat any of the meat but sat alone, looking out over the empty landscape. Steven came over to me later, tried to smooth things over. “Yo man, don’t worry about him trippin’ bout the rabbit. He is just having a hard time, you know.”

  I nod. “I get it.”

  “He was a lawyer, man. But he was always like that. Liked knowin’ exactly what was right and wrong.”

  I look at him. “And you?”

  He gives a smile around the cigarette in his mouth. “I was flexible.”

  Another storm batters the distant hills, a strobe-light of lighting followed by thunder that rolls out and leaps and jumps from hill to hill around us. We make camp even though it is early in the night, finding a flat piece of land in front of a pair of derelict sheds that I’m positive were abandoned long before the downfall of man.

  I rip off pieces of wood from the side of the house and from the steps leading inside and layer them around bits of cardboard and paper I’m using for kindling. Steven watches me closely. I realize he hasn’t made a fire yet, it’s always been me. I can tell he’s too proud to ask me to show him. So I go slow.

  The fire ignites but is sluggish, hesitant to build to something we can use. We are all hungry, and tired, and eager for a hot meal. It’s hard for me to not pile the wood on top of the flames in an effort to rush it into a bonfire. I remember how my father taught me, though, how much he emphasized patience and respect for the flames. So I feed it slowly, to everyone’s annoyance, but knowing how utterly depressing, in more ways than one, it would be if the fire were to go out.

  Beryl boils cans of vegetables, careful to puncture the tops with her knife. She almost learned the hard way about cans exploding the other night. I had never seen Beryl’s embarrassed face and it was hard not to laugh.

  The veggies don’t do much for our hunger and Beryl passes out protein bars and no one talks. I lie down on my side and eat, watching the distant storm. Steven draws something in the notebook and shows it to Beryl who gives a small smile. The smoke changes direction causi
ng John to get up and move over by his brother. The firelight plays off of their faces, sharpened and tanned by long days of sun and toil. A fork of lightning flares behind them and I wish I could freeze it, show them the beautiful tableau.

  I am proud. These three are strong and it gives me strength. I open my mouth to say something, then stop, wondering if it would lead to an argument with John. He’d probably think it a mark against us that we are doing well. Fuck it, say something anyways. I sit up and smile as lightning flashes and I see the three silhouettes approaching behind them.

  “Hey!” I scramble to my feet and pull my gun. The others are jolted to their feet by my yell and look behind them to see what scared me. The figures keep walking, slowly, and men materialize out of the darkness. One older man, probably mid-forties to fifties walks in front of a pair of young men. His black and white hair is slicked back, by sweat or gel I can’t tell. A nice blue shirt is tucked into a pair of jeans, a prominent belt buckle catching the firelight. He holds his hands out, a smile on his face.

  “Hello there, hello there. Just saw your fire and figured we would introduce ourselves. Not looking for trouble.” The man speaks well, his voice deep and measured. He smiles again, bright white teeth glaring in the darkness.

  John lowers his gun, beckons to the fire. “Please, sit, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Stop.” I glower at John before gesturing to the men. “Take out any guns, slowly, and put them on the ground.

  John shakes his head, “if they wanted to attack us they would have. Go ahead-

  I cut him off. “They will take out their guns or they will leave.”

  The man eyes us, taking in the dissension. He gives a chuckle. “No need to argue over this, we understand. We only have this one gun anyhow and here,” he slowly reaches into the back of his waistband, “I’ll put it down on the ground.” He takes a slow step forward and puts the gun by my feet. “There. Now we are all friends.”

  The men step closer to the fire and we all slowly sit except for Beryl. She stands behind me.

  “My name is Don,” the man says. “To be honest though, with everything that happened, damned if I didn’t think about changing my name. Never liked Don. But can’t think of what I’d prefer so…” He gives a laugh and John laughs with him, eager to be friendly.

  Don gestures to the teenage boy on the right, short and squat with thick arms and a scowl. He wears a NASCAR hat and has a dip in his lip. “The guy with the pimples is Ben. Go on Ben, say hi to the folks.”

  “Hello.” His voice breaks. Nervousness? Or just puberty?

  Don gestures to the other one, a tall, lean man with greasy, slicked back hair and a nose long ago broken. “This is Richard. I knew Richard’s father.”

  As if that should mean something to us.

  Richard raises a hand and nods, his eyes darting to me and then to Beryl. When he speaks it’s filled with gaps, as if he’s snatching together pieces of thoughts and piecing them together to form a sentence. “What did… How is she… livin’?”

  I feel our group tense. Even John looks uneasy. Don slaps his knee and throws his arms up. “There you have it, I get stuck with two of the best conversationalists to ever grace God’s green earth.” He looks around. “It’s true though. You don’t see many women that survived. She’s the first. Well, the second.”

  He looks at Beryl and gives a nod. The fire crackles and wood splits and Beryl cocks her gun. I know Don hears it but he pretends not to.

  “What do you mean? About the women?”

  Don gives a slow shake of his head, his eyes wide as he stares back at me, as if the whole situation is beyond his comprehension. “I couldn’t tell ya. Just haven’t seen any. Only men. How about you tell us your names now.”

  I shake my head. “You said there aren’t any women that survived. You’ve met other people? Other groups?”

  Don’s smile is gone. He looks at John. “This guy doesn’t trust anyone. That’s smart. That’s really smart. Except when it’s not.” He looks back at me. “Yeah, there’s a whole bunch of us up the road. Bunch of survivors.”

  “Why are you out here?” John’s voice is even, calm, but I can tell he’s worried.

  “Well. We are trying to find other people, help them to get back…”

  He trails off as he looks around the group. There is a moment of silence broken by Richard, whose eyes never leave Beryl. “We are out finding… other survivors.”

  Don nods along. “Yes sir, doing our part to help. Got to start rebuilding. You know, it looks like you all have had a rough go of it.” He spreads his hands. “So. We are here to help.”

  “What do you have that we don’t?” I scan the group again. They are well fed. Clean. Or, I should say, cleaner than us.

  Don is condescending. “I’ve been trying to tell you. We have food. Water. Shelter. And something else, too. Something I don’t think anyone else has.” He leans back, smug. “I wish you all could maybe share your names?”

  Steven leans forward. “And I wish your man Richard here could stop staring at our friend.”

  Richard blanches and looks to Don for help. The kid, Ben, has a hand behind him now. I can feel Beryl behind me, the fear palpable in the air. This is wrong. I didn’t trust my instincts when I met Stuart. I don’t plan on repeating that mistake. My guts have turned to water and the hairs on my neck are standing up. My heart is beating so hard it thrums in my ears and the thunder over the hills is all but gone.

  “Get the fuck out of here. Now.” I stand up and gesture towards the road.

  “Harlan, there is a community. We need to listen…” John trails off at my stare. Steven is standing now, glaring at the men. Don slowly rises, arms back up in front of him, a pained look across his face.

  “We are just here to help, but if that’s not what you want then we will be on our way.” He pauses. Scans us with an anguished expression. “I have to say that you all are being a bit rude. Very rude. We just wanted to help.”

  “Get out.” It’s all I can say. “Get out.” Anger and fear are the only things running through my veins and my hearing has been stoppered, my vision clouded by rage. At this moment I exist only to see these men’s backs or to kill them.

  Don is asking me something. “May I please have my gun back?”

  “Get. Out.”

  Something in my eyes tells them that they have pushed their luck to the limits. They walk away from the fire, Richard still casting glances at Beryl, and out towards the road. Don stops at the edge of the firelight. “I’m sorry things went this way. You never know, we might see each other again. I hope it will be under better terms. Harlan.”

  As soon as they are gone I’m waving at the others to grab their packs. John doesn’t move. He lunges in front of me and grabs my shoulders. “What if they had a home for us?”

  Steven saves me the trouble. “Harlan was right, yo, those guys weren’t looking to give us a home.”

  John shakes his head. “Not now, but they might’ve—”

  “Quit being a fucking moron, bro, seriously.” Steven looks at his brother, almost incredulous.

  John’s eyes narrow. “And what are we doing, Steven? Tell me. Tell me! What are we doing? Are we going to stay on the road our whole life? Pointing guns at everyone that approaches us?” He turns back to me, his finger stabbing into my chest. “You didn’t trust us, remember? And now…”

  He kicks dirt on the fire until it is dead and we are plunged into darkness, but not before I see tears tracking down his cheeks. The storm flickers farther off and a scythe of a moon glows yellow-orange on the horizon. I remember how it felt when Stuart took away hope from me, and looking at the hunched figure of John as he slowly packs I wonder what I am doing.

  Chapter 16

  We walk until morning before stopping to sleep. The night fraught with false sightings and freezing for long moments at every distant sound. We move inside a house, too paranoid now to risk being in the open. There are four bodies upstairs. Heavil
y decomposed. Putrid. We go to the basement. Everyone is dead on their feet, ready to collapse.

  “We need to start standing guard. One of us, at least, to make sure that no one sneaks up on us.” The group stares back at me, glassy-eyed, too tired to argue or agree. “I’ll take the first. Sleep.”

  I walk across soft, plush carpet and just that softness on my feet makes me drowsy. Upstairs I find a spot by the window with a view of the road. A few minutes later there is a light tread on the stairs and I turn, expecting Beryl, to see John.

  “Mind some company?”

  I shake my head and he drags a chair over from the kitchen. He leans against the wall, eyes closed, and the silence stretches long enough that I wonder if he has fallen asleep. Then he speaks. “What happened to you and Beryl?”

  “Not going to talk about that.”

  He sighs. “Okay. I didn’t figure you would want to. I wanted to say that I’m sorry.” He looks up at me. “I am sorry, Harlan.”

  I don’t handle things like this well. What do I say? “I’m sorry, too.”

  He snorts. “No you’re not, but that’s okay.” He pauses. “Look. Think about the future. Right now everyone is alone, just surviving. But we will try to rebuild. And we can’t do that without finding a way to trust people. To bring them together. Otherwise we will just stay out in the wild, killing each other until all the food is gone.”

  “I just want us to survive.”

  He nods. “I know, me too.” He stands, holds out a hand. “Wake me up next.” We shake hands and he touches the wall the whole way back down the stairs.

  Perhaps John worries I want death for the sake of death. That I am so angry, or hurt, that I want revenge upon the world. I don’t. I think I simply see things differently than him. Being chained in a small room while a man rapes a woman will give you a new perspective. How fortunate, how rich our lives were before all of this. We were never exposed to death growing up. Not firsthand. People got old, or there was the occasional accident. But not harsh death. Not wanton death done not by evil men but for evil purposes. John hasn’t seen that.