All Our Tomorrows

by Peter Cawdron

  My heart races. What is he doing? We need those horses. What has he seen? I can’t see anything, just trees in the forest, but whatever spooked him, it must be behind us, out of sight behind the log. I want to say something, but Ferguson is deathly quiet. His eyes dart up and to the side as though he’s expecting Zee to come bounding over the top of the log.

  I’m petrified.

  The horses look relaxed. One of them bends down to eat some grass growing by the edge of the trail. The other looks back at us with bewilderment.

  I want to run.

  And it’s then I see them.

  Zee is all around us, hiding behind the trees.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ferguson whispers, shrinking down another half a foot below the edge of the fallen log.

  Across from us, on the other side of the trail, dozens of zombies turn behind the trees, keeping a tree trunk between themselves and our horses. There must be hundreds of them, perhaps thousands stretching back into the woods. The closest is not more than ten feet away—a young girl with ragged, dirty clothing standing behind a tree just off the track, but she’s motionless, like a statue. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old when she turned. I shrink a little further into the ditch.

  “They’re supposed to be dumb,” I say under my breath.

  “That’s pretty damn smart,” Ferguson whispers in response.

  For now, they haven’t seen us. Their hands touch the tree trunks as though they’re a part of the woods, as though they can feel the cellular life pulsing within the bark. None of them peer out from behind the trees. They stare blindly at the wood. Perhaps that’s why they don’t notice us crouching beside the fallen log.

  Ferguson peers back along the trail. There are zombies as far as we can see off behind the trees.

  “They’re stalking us.”

  It’s all I can do not to scream at the terror of so many of these monstrous creatures. Torn rags reveal rotting green skin. Dark eyes peer out from behind gaunt, starved cheeks. They have only to turn their heads slightly and they’ll see us.

  “No breeze,” Ferguson whispers. “Our scent will stay on the path. It won’t drift.”

  I’m struggling to understand how that’s relevant, but Ferguson thinks it’s important.

  With his hand resting gently on my forearm, he whispers “Follow me. Stay low. Don’t make a sound.”

  He slips his backpack over one shoulder and holds his gun by its wooden stock, which leaves me thinking he doesn’t intend on using it. And why would he? He might drop maybe half a dozen zombies, but there are hundreds of them lining the path. Gunfire is only going to make matters worse.

  Crouching as he moves, Ferguson darts along the edge of the track, staying in the shallow drainage ditch. I’m not letting him get more than a few feet away from me. I have my fire iron out, which is feeble, really. I could take one, maybe two zombies before they dragged me down.

  Once we’re out from behind the log, it’s apparent the zombies on this side of the trail can see us. They’re not more than a few feet away, but somehow we don’t register. Zee stares blindly at the tree bark. Zee is focused on remaining hidden from our horses. Regardless of the soft crunch of pebbles under our boots, the zombies don’t react. It’s as though they’re in a trance.

  Ferguson ducks under a low bridge, hiding in a culvert and I understand what he means about our scent. By staying on the path we traversed, we’re blending in with the original scent trail.

  The horses wander back to where we dismounted at the top of the rise. The zombies adjust their stance, remaining hidden. It’s strange seeing so many of them from the rear, all staring away from us, staring blindly at tree trunks just inches away. How do they know? They can’t see the horses, and yet they align themselves perfectly with them.

  Something spooks one of the horses. It can’t be the scent of zombies as the stallion has a zombie strapped to its back, but that one, sudden action, kicking violently at the trail is enough to spring the trap. Hundreds of zombies converge, swarming out of the forest and onto the trail.

  The horses rear up, lashing out with their legs, but Zee overpowers them. The poor animals scream with fear. I know horses can’t scream as we do, but that’s all I can think of to describe the terror they’re in. Bloodied arms reach for them, clawing at their thick hides. Teeth sink in, tearing at their skin. They fight, but they’re overwhelmed by the crush of zombies and within seconds they sink beneath the swell.

  Ferguson taps me on the shoulder, signaling we should stay on the move while Zee feasts. He creeps beneath the bridge, leading me down into a gully. Water sings merrily over rocks and stones, dancing and giggling, and yet behind me, the last pitiful cries of the mare I rode send a shudder down my spine.

  The sides of the gully are steep, hiding us from view. Ferguson wastes no time, running along the edge of the narrow stream. He leaps from one rock to another, barely touching them as he springs from side to side. The speed with which he picks out each rock is astonishing. I’m a fraction his age and I can barely keep up, trying desperately to copy his every leap.

  My lungs are burning. We’re running hard, but where? All I can see is rocks and boulders, fallen trees and weeds growing on the bank of the stream. I’m so focused on Ferguson, I can’t see more than five feet in front of myself. He could run into a horde of zombies and I’d blunder blindly in behind him.

  The further we run down the gully, the more energy he seems to have. After a hundred yards, I’m tiring quickly, but Ferguson shows no sign of slacking his pace. I’d like to stop. I’d like to talk about what happened back there. I’d like to know where we’re going, but I don’t dare call out. My breathing is so loud, I feel as though every zombie within a mile can hear me wheezing.

  My backpack bounces awkwardly. I’m not even sure what’s in it any more, but I can’t abandon it.

  The gully flattens, opening out into swampy ground and Ferguson sticks to the left, following an animal trail. At least, I hope it’s an animal trail. Does Zee follow trails? I have no idea. I hope not.

  We’ve been on the run for almost ten minutes and Ferguson has not looked back once. I could have dropped behind or become lost and he wouldn’t know.

  We reach a fence leading into an open field filled with waist high grass, and for the first time, Ferguson comes to a halt. He turns back to me, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he sucks in the cool air. He says something between breaths, but either he’s too incoherent to speak clearly, or I’m too dazed to pick up on what he said.

  I hold onto the corner post and lean forward. My lungs feel like they’re about to explode. My heart is beating so hard it hurts.

  “What—What was that?” I ask between hurried, gathered breaths.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Ferguson replies, looking up the hill past me. Zee isn’t following, which is a relief.

  “Will they come after us down here?” I ask. My mouth’s dry. Neither my breathing nor my heart rate have returned to normal yet.

  “Gully will hide us,” Ferguson says in a clipped, half-sentence. “The scent. Blows around in the open. Sits low in a gully. Have to stumble upon it.”

  I get the gist of what he means. Unless Zee ambles into the gully, he’s not going to realize we’ve headed down here. But how does Zee realize anything? Zee is mindless. And yet there must be some cognitive function, as zombies hunt on smell and noise.

  “You were right,” Ferguson says, straightening up.

  Although those three words were spoken quite casually, I’m aware there’s a weight of consideration behind them.

  “I would have never picked it,” he continues. “We’ve always thought of them in isolation. We’ve assumed they go solo. But that. That was scary.”

  “You’re not kidding,” I say, but I’m thinking more about the sheer number of zombies we saw, not the tactic they employed.

  “Your comment,” Ferguson says. “About the old ones. You saw them?”

  �
��Yes.”

  “They control the others?”

  I say, “I don’t know if control is the right word. Maybe steer or herd? But, yes.”

  “Damn.”

  Ferguson climbs the fence. As he drops down on the other side, he says, “This changes everything.”

  I mount the fence, stepping on the lowest wire and swinging my leg up and over. My boot catches on the wire as I step away on the other side and it’s all I can do not to fall flat on my face. I stumble through the grass, trying not to look like the klutz I am.

  “So what are we going to do?” I ask, pulling a canteen from my pack and taking a drink. I offer the canteen to Ferguson and he takes a long swig, wiping his chin before he replies to my question.

  “We have to go back.”

  There’s something in the way he phrases those few words that tells me he doesn’t want to turn back.

  “They’ll come for you,” he says.

  Not the reassurance I was looking for.

  Ferguson hands the canteen back to me, adding, “Eventually, one of them is going to stumble across our trail, and they’re going to follow us back to camp.”

  I get the feeling he’s talking himself through the possibilities, trying to figure out what our next move should be.

  “But we’ve got to warn Marge. She needs to know what she’s up against. Seems your dad was right. There’s more to these damn things than we ever imagined.”

  That’s two admissions in two minutes. For a man like Ferguson, bursting with pride, ego, and an absurd amount of confidence, I would have thought those words would be difficult to speak aloud, and yet he’s quite matter-of-fact about it. Again, I’m surprised and impressed by him. Seems I had him all wrong.

  Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of feeling naked. I’m fully clothed, of course, but the familiar weight of a pistol tucked into the back of my jeans is gone. These aren’t my clothes. And I chide myself. I should have been more careful. I should have known loose-fitting clothes would be a problem.

  “I lost my gun,” I say, feeling as though I’m confessing to a murder.

  Ferguson purses his lips. I can read his mind. Stupid, dumb, little girl. But I’m not stupid or dumb. It wasn’t my fault, I want to say, but I’m quiet.

  “How far back?” he asks, and I can see he’s thinking about retracing our steps. Being unarmed out here is suicide.

  “I don’t know.”

  I cringe as the admission slips from my lips, feeling even more stupid than before.

  Ferguson crouches, laying his rifle in the grass before unbuckling an ankle holster. He’s got a small, snub nosed Glock strapped to the side of his leg.

  “This is a G42,” he says. “Standard 38 ammo, but the mag only holds six rounds, so you don’t have the usual fifteen round clip. You need to reload more often.”

  I go to step back, not wanting to take his personal gun, when he says, “Whatever happens, don’t lose it!”

  It’s all I can do to nod as he pulls up the cuff of my jeans and straps the holster to my ankle.

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  Still kneeling before me, his eyes glance up. I’m not sure if it’s resignation or compassion in his eyes, but it’s not anger.

  “Betsy here will look after me,” he says, picking up his rifle. “Just be sure to count your shots. Six is all you get.”

  As we walk through the long grass, a zombie stumbles into view walking along an overgrown road raised above the field. Ferguson ducks, and I follow. Zee is no more than twenty feet away. His putrid skin stinks, and I’m reminded of something David told us about staying upwind. If we can smell him, he can’t smell us, and yet Zee raises his head, sniffing at the air and snapping his teeth. He knows we’re nearby, but he can’t quite place us.

  The crazy thing about Zee is how all zombies are the same. Doesn’t matter if Zee is a grandma in her nineties, a businessman in a slick, black suit, a football jock or a girl of only eight—Zee is always ravenous, always angry, always hungry, always relentless.

  Zee is a teenaged boy not much older than David or Steve, which is unnerving. His clothes are clean. Red shorts, white shirt, running shoes. His shirt is still tucked in. A festering sore on his neck hides what must have been a bite mark. His skin is a sickly yellow. He couldn’t have turned more than a week ago. It rained last night, but his clothes are dry. Wherever he’s come from, it had to be somewhere within the city. I want to yell at him. What were you doing in there? What were you thinking? I don’t recognize him, so he must have come from one of the northern settlements. Perhaps Olivia knew him.

  There’s a small leather pouch hanging around his neck. I bet it still holds an unspent bullet.

  Someone out there is probably still grieving for him and here he is hunting us.

  His arms twitch. He sniffs at the air, turning slowly, trying to pick up on our scent. I can’t breathe. I feel as though I’ll betray us if I do.

  He snorts like a dog and walks on. His athletic shoes scuff the ground, kicking at pebbles on the path.

  Ferguson grinds a few grass stems together and fine seeds fall like dust from his fingers.

  Taking my fire iron from me, he whispers, “We’ve got about thirty seconds.”

  I’m still trying to figure out what he means as he lays his rifle in the long grass and creeps up onto the track. It’s the angle on which the seeds fell. He was looking at the direction of the breeze, realizing Zee will stumble into our drifting scent as he wanders further along the path.

  The zombie ambles on as Ferguson creeps up onto the track. The creature turns, snarling as Ferguson brandishes the fire poker like a baseball bat, striking Zee on the side of the head. Blood sprays across the grass as the zombie falls to its knees, its arms outstretched, grabbing at Ferguson. Bits of bloodied bone and matted hair splatter on the ground as Ferguson brings the iron bar down again and again, carving into the zombie’s skull until finally it falls in a heap.

  It.

  Not he.

  My perception of Zee has shifted.

  As often as I’ve seen zombies die over the last few days, I cannot get used to the sudden, bloody violence and the overwhelming use of force.

  Ferguson walks back to me, swaying slightly, still catching his breath from the explosion of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He looks shaken. I guess it never gets any easier. He sinks to his knees in front of me and we’re again hidden by the long grass.

  “We need to stay on the move.”

  I can’t reply. I’m staring over his shoulder.

  Somehow, the zombie is still alive. He’s lying on the ground, pushing feebly against the gravel path with his outstretched feet. His arms are useless, lying limp beside him, but he shuffles with his feet trying to get to us. His mouth opens and his teeth crunch in a chewing motion. Even in death, Zee knows only one thing—hunger. With half his skull cap missing and his brains hanging out, the creature that was once a handsome young teenaged boy slides off the track and into the long grass, still trying to get us.

  Ferguson holds the fire poker like a spear. With both hands gripped around the shaft, he brings the thick end down in one final, bone breaking thrust, punching through what remains of the zombie’s skull and deep into the animal’s brain.

  Monster. Animal. Creature. I feel as though I’m becoming more like my dad with each zombie encounter, although it’s Jane’s love of monster that resonates more. What I cannot do is see Zee as human. Intellectually, I know he was once as I now am, but emotionally I can’t reconcile Zee as anything but a ravenous inhuman beast. What would I make of Jane or David or Steve if I were too see them as zombies? I don’t know that I could deal with that. I couldn’t kill them. Perhaps loved ones are our greatest weakness in the apocalypse, leaving us vulnerable to the memories of what once was.

  Ferguson looks up. My eyes follow. Hundreds of zombies come running out of the woods, appearing from nowhere. Rather than moving in a broad line, it is as though they form part of some monstrous wa
ve bearing down on us. They run so hard, some of them trip, with their feet coming out from beneath them, and they’re crushed underfoot by those that follow.

  “RUUUUUNNNNNNNNNN!”

  Yeah, I figured that was the plan.

  Ferguson charges off through the grass.

  He’s still got the bloodied fire poker, so I grab his rifle and sprint after him.

  The ground is soft underfoot. Long grass gives way to reeds and thick clumps of flax. Our pace is slowed by the marshland.

  Ducks take flight.

  Zee howls.

  Mud sticks to my boots. With each step, I feel the swamp sucking me in, pulling me down and holding me back. The further we go, the deeper we sink. Dark, muddy water swirls around my ankles.

  Zee is close.

  Dozens of zombies slosh through the marsh behind me. The pace and tempo they’re keeping is faster than mine.

  Water laps around my knees, washing up over my thighs. Each step is a struggle, leaving me fighting against the suction from the swamp. I can feel the weight of the Glock on my right ankle. It feels so clunky and heavy. As much as I want to stop and grab it, I’m not sure it will fire after being immersed in the filthy silt and mud, and I’d loose too much precious time firing either the rifle or the gun. There’s too many of them. I have to press on.

  Zee splashes as he plunges into the marsh. Mud and water spray up behind me, catching me on the back of my arms and neck.

  Damn, he’s close.

  I swing my arms, desperately trying to move faster, but I’m wading through molasses.

  Swinging from the hip, I peg leg out of the water, hopping forward rather than running. I can’t run. The water is too deep. Grabbing at clumps of reeds, I pull myself on.

  Ferguson is a good twenty yards ahead, but he’s waist deep in the mud.

  An old railway bridge soars above us. He’s heading for one of the pylons.