All Our Tomorrows

by Peter Cawdron

  Finally, I’m left alone standing beside the grave. There’s a little dirt still piled to one side so I shovel it tenderly in place. Someone’s fixed the cross at the head of the grave. The rain has eased. I pause for one last look as the rain falls gently, forming puddles in the mud. Crouching, I pat the wet soil, saying, “I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry. But you won’t be forgotten.”

  Chapter 04: Hunted

  A cup of hot soup, a warm towel and a change of clothes are surprisingly refreshing. The house is packed. People lie asleep on the table, on the floor, anywhere they can find some extra space. Olivia bandages my hand, but the blisters don’t bother me. I’ve had blisters before. They’ll heal.

  I fall asleep in a lounge chair that seems to have been conveniently left empty for me. I’m not sure what time it is when I wake, but it’s still dark.

  I can’t stay.

  If Zee realizes I’m still here, he’ll storm the compound again. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find Steve. Listening to these thoughts bouncing around inside my skull, I realize how silly I am. Find Steve. Yeah, it’s all that simple. I’ll just waltz out of here and find him. Stupid. And yet, I feel compelled, driven to search for Steve. Why? If I’m honest with myself, he was probably dead by the time he reached the fence. Is this irrational drive love? Can love spring so soon? So deep? I think it can. It’s stupid, but then love never makes sense. Besides, I know he’d do the same for me. He’d keep searching until he found me, even if all that remained were bloody rags.

  Quietly, I get up and creep into the kitchen. It’s still dark. A soft glow above the distant hills announces the coming dawn.

  A worn pack hangs on a hook by the old cast iron stove. I begin working my way through the cupboards looking for supplies to take with me: a couple of canteens, a knife, a compression bandage, and a hammer for self-defense at close quarters. In my mind, the slightest clink of items in my pack sounds like thunder, and I’m sure someone is going to wake. I wrap items in scraps of cloth to keep the noise down, knowing these rags will double as extra bandages out beyond the fence.

  A light flares in the darkened pantry behind me.

  I flinch.

  A burning match highlights a face in the shadows. A few puffs and a cigar glows with a soft orange ember.

  A quiet, but gruff voice says, “Well, you took your goddamn time.”

  I almost drop the bag in fright.

  Ferguson rocks back in a chair. Wood squeaks rhythmically with his motion. He draws in deep on his cigar. The embers flare, highlighting the shelves on either side of him.

  “Just what the hell were you thinking?” he asks, and my legs shake. “Did you seriously think you could sneak out of here again without anyone noticing? What? Were you just going to creep through a double posting of guards, each with a nervous trigger finger ready to shoot at shadows?”

  “I—ah.”

  I don’t know what to say. My plan was to plead with one of the guards, to ask them to turn a blind eye. Not the most coherent of plans, but I’m desperate to find Steve.

  “My boys would have put a hot lead slug inside that pretty little head of yours before you made it fifty feet from the fence.”

  Busted.

  I want to beg for the chance to leave the commune, but my words would be wasted on Ferguson. And I won’t lie to him. All I can do is appeal to his priorities.

  “I can’t stay,” I say, keeping my voice low. “They’ll be back for me. I have to leave or they’ll kill everyone just to get to me.”

  Ferguson doesn’t respond. He draws in long and deep on his cigar. A pungent, fruity plume of smoke drifts through the air.

  “You’re not wrong there,” he finally says. “Your dad is determined we should protect you.

  “Marge is indifferent. She’s no fool. She can see the danger, but she never was one for decisive action.

  “And me? If I had my way, I’d tie you to the back of a cart and run you straight through the heart of the city. I’d take a dozen men with me, and we’d use you as bait to draw out the undead. You’re a magnet. I’d use you to my advantage. Sweep along the interstate and out into the countryside to the north. If we could clear downtown, we’d have access to far more supplies.”

  My heart sinks.

  “But things change,” Ferguson continues. “You and your damn speech.”

  I’m not sure about his background before the apocalypse, but Ferguson uses damn quite freely. Although, as far as swear words go, damn is pretty lame. Not that I’d tell him that. Ferguson makes damn sound defiant.

  He gets to his feet and walks into the kitchen, clenching his cigar between his teeth as he talks. His cowboy boots resound fearlessly on the wooden floor. Ferguson doesn’t give a damn who he wakes.

  “You’re crazy going back out there. Stark raving mad. I’ll help you, but you have to do something for me.”

  My eyes go wide in surprise. Ferguson wants my help? I cannot think of anything I have to offer him.

  “Help me find David.”

  I rest the bag on the table.

  “Sure,” I reply, curious as to why but not game to ask.

  Ferguson must sense my curiosity. With a growl, he says, “I’m gonna bury my boy.”

  And suddenly I’m seeing a whole new side to this grizzled old man. Beneath his tough exterior, he’s as soft as a marshmallow. He’s willing to risk his life to bury his dead son—his adopted son. He too must see that all we are in life demands more in death. We’re not refuse, some crumpled up piece of trash to be tossed carelessly into the garbage when our body no longer works. Life means more than that. Life transcends physics. We may be made from complex chemistry, but we end up as far more than a bunch of molecules and cells and electricity or whatever. DNA might shape our bodies, but we shape our own lives.

  Life demands respect even once its gone. Life needs to be remembered.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and nod in response.

  “You packing?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, patting the gun tucked into the small of my back.

  “Good.”

  Ferguson never was much of one for conversation. He strides to the door making enough noise to wake the entire house.

  “You coming?” he asks, standing in the doorway.

  “Yes.”

  I grab an iron poker from the cold kitchen fireplace, wrap a cloth around its heavy, weighted end and shove it into my pack. I’m more concerned about soot getting everything dirty than noise. When I look up, Ferguson is already walking across the grass without me.

  The old man walks off at a blistering pace. I can’t walk and keep up. I have to half walk, half run, alternating as I try to keep pace with him.

  The night air is cold. A soft mist sits low in the grass.

  The clouds have cleared. Moonlight casts long shadows through the forest. A warm glow sits on the horizon. The sun is slowly waking the countryside.

  In the distance, a horse neighs. Hooves kick at the ground, impatient as we approach. Zee snarls in the darkness, but it’s not until we walk up to the horses hidden in the shadow of a old oak tree that I understand why. A live zombie has been strapped across the hindquarters of each of the horses. Zee’s arms and legs are bound and a muzzle has been fixed over his face. He squirms and fights against the strapping as we approach. The horses respond, kicking at the gravel.

  “Easy,” one of the marauders says, holding the two bridles and calming the terrified horses.

  Ferguson mounts his stallion with a single, smooth, seasoned motion. The marauder senses I’m not quite as experienced and moves around the side of my mare. Still holding the reins loosely in his fingers, he grabs the horn of the saddle with one hand and holds one of the stirrups with the other, helping me climb up.

  “This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” Ferguson asks, stubbing out his cigar on the saddle horn.

  “No,” I reply, lying.

  I’ve only ridden a horse on a handful of occasions, and never with
much success. I’m fine as long as the horse is content to plod along, but if it starts to trot I find myself bouncing awkwardly. Most of my friends find riding quite natural and seem to glide above their horses. As for me, breaking into a gallop is terrifying. It’s all I can do to hold on for dear life, but pride won’t let me admit as much to Ferguson.

  Zee sniffs at the air behind me.

  “Yes,” I say softly, looking back at the pitiful creature. “It’s me.”

  The gates open and Ferguson rides his horse forward, trotting out onto the dirt track before pulling his horse to a halt. His stallion seems primed for a race, snorting, and stamping at the ground, restless to ride on. One of the marauders walks up beside Ferguson, talking with him as I ease my mare forward. She’s reluctant to leave the compound.

  I don’t catch everything that’s being said between Ferguson and this young man, but a few words drift on the breeze.

  “Unusually quiet, especially given all we’ve been through... I don’t like it... We normally see two or three stragglers a night. To double the guard and not see a single zombie over the course of the whole evening is unnerving... James reported seeing thousands of them... Something’s wrong.”

  “Keep your men back in reserve,” Ferguson says with the authority of a general commanding his troops. “If you see a flare, converge in force.”

  “Understood,” the man says.

  “We’ll make three passes, slowly venturing deeper toward the city limits, and try to figure out what the hell is going on out there.”

  “And the girl?” he asks, glancing at me.

  Ferguson looks at me before he replies, thinking about his response.

  “If there really are tens of thousands of zombies over that hill, we’ll run long. Draw them away from the camp. She’s the bait.”

  “She knows that?” he asks, looking at me for some kind of confirmation.

  “She does,” Ferguson replies as I nod, and I’m impressed by the caliber of men Ferguson has under him. Although I’m also left realizing he just lied, at least in part. Finding his dead son escaped mention. As for me, I have no intention of being dragged along behind Ferguson on a bait run. He must know that. First chance I get, I’m going to venture out to find Steve.

  I’m nervous, but I want to press on. I’m pretty sure Marge has no idea about this. Ferguson’s going rogue, and that’s fine with me. There’s no way my dad would let me do this, but I have to go. I have to find out what happened to Steve, David and Jane. I can’t live the rest of my life trapped behind a chain link fence.

  Ferguson kicks gently at his horse and continues on as the guard walks back to the gate. As we trot away from the camp, I find myself settling into a gentle rhythm in the saddle. I take some of my weight on my feet, pushing against the stirrups and rocking with the motion of the horse. What had seemed impossible is now natural.

  My horse pulls alongside Ferguson and he talks freely.

  “We cannot risk being overrun again. Ours is the largest settlement in the south. If we fall, there’s nowhere left to go. Marge wants to sit tight. She wants to double our fortifications and wait for their next move, but even if we saw them coming, there’s no way we could stop a horde numbering in the thousands.”

  Dawn breaks in the distance. If I was doing chores back at the farm, I’d be up by now. I’d stop to admire the beauty of the pink and scarlet clouds streaking across the sky, but today those clouds look blood red. This could be the last dawn I ever see.

  “Smell, sound, sight,” Ferguson says. “In that order. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, although I’m unsure where the sir came from as I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before.

  “Dealing with zombies is somewhat counterintuitive. Move in a large force and you’re loud and you stink. You’ll bring them right to you. The more zombies there are, the smaller the units you deploy. Small and nimble, that’s our best chance. Stay on the move.”

  I point at the zombie strapped behind Ferguson, saying, “And these guys cover our scent.”

  “Exactly.”

  We ride on in silence for a while.

  As we round the bend where Steve, Jane, David and I dropped down from the cart onto a small wooden bridge, Ferguson asks, “Tell me about him.”

  Him. He wants to know how David fared during our escapade.

  “Well, he was just like you,” I begin, and I catch a grin on Ferguson’s face. “He taught us what to look for, constantly using things around us to prepare us for what lay ahead. I don’t think he was ever nervous. If he was, it never showed.

  “A zombie jumped us on one of the forest tracks. David was ruthless. He dispatched him with a machete before Steve and I realized what was happening. Afterwards, we asked him about it. We asked him how many zombies he’d killed. David just laughed, saying, one.”

  “Haw haw,” Ferguson laughs. “Damn. I wish I could have seen that. He he he! You know, he had actually killed one before then, but we held it with ropes and poles, making it easy. I guess he figured that didn’t count.”

  Ferguson sounds distant, lost in fond memories. Although that particular thought isn’t something I’d consider fondly.

  “He was always so calm, so confident,” I say as we plod along on our horses. “Without him, we would have never made it.”

  Ferguson nods quietly as he sways in the saddle, moving with the rhythm of his horse. I’m not sure, but I could swear there are tears in his eyes.

  Shadows move in the woods, but as the early morning light is dim and a mist sits on the ground, it’s hard to tell if it’s just a soft wind rustling through the trees or if there are zombies out there on the edge of our vision.

  We reach the rise of a hill a couple of miles from the commune and Ferguson brings his horse to a halt. Vapor condenses into a mist as our horses breathe in the cold air. Fall is upon us. Winter isn’t far behind. Zee slows up with the cold. I’m hoping that will give us an advantage, but with the sun already on my face, I know it’s going to be a warm day. We might get some rain, but we could equally have a bright, sunny day in spite of the change in seasons.

  Ferguson peers through a set of binoculars, looking out over the forest. A few of the distant oaks are beginning to turn, with hints of yellow and orange preceding the brilliant reds of fall. I wait patiently, keen to hear about all he can see. From where I sit on my black mare, the track ducks in and out of the trees, winding its way down toward the river. Beyond the river, rooftops mark the outer suburbs. Most of the buildings are only one or two stories high, but in the distance, skyscrapers rise out of the fog.

  After roughly a minute, he says, “I’m not seeing them.”

  Them. Zee.

  “That’s good, right?” I say, somewhat naively, and then I remember David’s warning—it’s not the zombie you see that gets you.

  Ferguson ignores my comment.

  “There’s a small clutch of zombies feeding on the carcass of a horse down by the river, but there’s no more than ten to twenty of them.”

  That must be where David and Jane fell. Ferguson has to be thinking the same thing.

  “No bodies.”

  And I hear the sadness in his voice, understanding the implication latent in his comment. David would have saved two bullets—there should be two bodies, or at least torn remains. Perhaps we’re still too distant to see bloody rags strewn in the forest.

  I’m silent as Ferguson asks the question I’m wondering as well.

  “Where the hell is the goddamn herd?”

  James warned us about thousands of zombies in this valley. Could such a large number of zombies disperse within a day? We’re only used to hearing about small bands of zombies in the woods. The hordes keep to the cities. Hundreds would be unusual this far out. Thousands is unheard of. Where could they have gone?

  “Too quiet,” he says, almost to himself. “Something’s wrong. Feels like we’re walking into a trap.”

  I’m impressed by Ferguson’s resolve. H
e isn’t distracted by his desire to find and bury his son. He’s seeing the bigger problem before us, or the problem that’s not before us, as the case may be.

  “Maybe they’ve returned to the city,” I say.

  Ferguson holds his hand up, signaling for me to be quiet. The slight turn of his head indicates he heard something out in the forest to our left. Slightly behind us. I listen. I can’t hear anything, not even birds. And that’s when my blood runs cold.

  Ferguson dismounts without making a sound and pulls a lever action rifle from a scabbard on the side of his saddle. A quick glance at me, and I copy him, lowering myself quietly to the sandy track. He holds his finger to his lips, signaling for quiet, and directs me to duck down out of sight.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  Moss grows over an old log lying in a ditch beside the trail. A tree must have fallen across the track at some point as the marauders have shifted it to one side, stripping most of the smaller branches.

  Ferguson leans his rifle against the log and unhooks a bag from his saddle, resting it quietly on the ground. I crouch beside the log not knowing what I’m hiding from. Paranoid, I look around. There’s nothing but forest. There’s no movement anywhere beyond the gentle sway of nature. Knowing how easy it is for Zee to blend in with the trees, I scan the woods for the slightest sign of motion, but there’s nothing.

  Birds fly high overhead, but they don’t settle in the trees, and I remember how David looked to them for early warning. Zee is close. But where?

  Ferguson positions himself between the two horses and yells, slapping them hard on their hind flanks, just behind the bound, growling zombies. The two startled horses break into a short gallop, but within ten to fifteen yards, they slow to a trot and finally come to a halt not more than fifty yards from us.

  Ferguson ducks down beside me, pushing his back against the log and breathing hard, surprising me with how quick he can move. He holds his rifle to his chest with the barrel pointing straight up. Slowly, and with pains to be quiet, he works with the lever, silently loading a bullet into the chamber.