The realization was only just now setting in that sometime soon, the man was going to have to either make a jump for it and hope he doesn't break both his legs, or he sits up here and slowly starves to death. Neither of these options are ideal. Even if he does jump and somehow manages to get away - then what? He has nothing. No home and no one to run home to. If he is injured in the jump he will be giving the monsters below what they want... and well - fuck that! At least if he sits up here and starves it will be on his terms. He won’t turn into one of those monsters and if he could chose a place to take his last breath, this place would be it.
The pride the boy feels is almost visible. The same way the sun gives off light, but you can’t physically see it; the boy was emitting rays of pride. He stands tall with a straight back and a smile on his face.
The grandfather puts his giant hand on the small boys back and they both know that they have done a good job. They both put parts of themselves into this small house. It is an ode to a lost daughter and a mother taken too soon. It is a fort for the boy to feel safe in and use his imagination, a memory for the old man to cherish with his grandson and a shared bond of a mother and daughter. Two vastly different perspectives of the same woman loved and lost.
"Such a fine place like this deserves a name. What shall we call it?
The boy can’t believe the question. Poppy is right. Such a cool place deserves a really cool name. He stutters something out.
"I.. I ... I don't know poppy, what do you think?"
Poppy answers as if Poppy had known the answer before they cut the first piece of wood.
"When your mum was just a tiny girl, a little younger than you, we used to call her Clairy Bear. Do you think we could maybe call the tree house after her?"
The boys eyes light up and he gets so excited about the idea he answers with his entire body. Bouncing up and down he could hardly contain himself.
“How bout we call it Fort Bear? It sounds like something cool and awesome and, and it also sounds like what you used to call mum.... also it's what Dad sometimes used to call mum too."
The boy realized then that it was the first time he had thought about his father. He wondered had his father thought about him.
The sun was coming up now. The dawning of a new day had made it clearer on what had to be done. Giving up was never in his nature. The bigger the mountain is that you climb, the bigger you feel when standing on top of its peak. The man learnt that from his grandfather.
Dying slowly never really was an option. Dying at all was never really an option. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking or perhaps it is the malnutrition. The light head and the heavy arms would say it’s a contribution of both. Time to man up! Just one more nail, one more plank of wood! You keep putting up one more piece of wood until you have finished. Doesn't matter how many points there are in a game you just have to win the next one!
Over the next summer they painted Fort Bear, the summer holidays after that they built furniture to put in Fort Bear, but none of those summers ever compared to the first summer the grandfather and grandson had spent together. Fort Bear was always the boy’s favorite place to be. He felt like he could connect with his mother in some strange way. Like she was helping him play with his army men and stopping the bad guys from getting the good guys. He wished his Dad would come play in Fort Bear, but he was afraid it would be too hard for his father to face, so he never asked.
He stands toward the back of the Fort. He crouches down to fit in while standing up and looks left, he can see his loving grandfather, he looks right and he can see his loving mother. He looks forward into the outside world and he can only see… hope?
Deep breaths in, his head is spinning. Ignoring it is his only option. He has already left it too long. If he leaves it any longer he won’t even be able to jump out of the tree. Nothing to it, but to do it! He takes in more deep breaths.
One. He is at the back of the tree house starting to motion like a sprinter about to sprint.
Two... More deep breaths, the adrenaline kicks in and now he feels like a boxer on fight night.
THREE... HE TAKES THE THREE QUICK STEPS TO THE EDGE OF THE TREE HOUSE..... AAAAND.... FUCK! … he jumps.
Time slows.
He sees the warm smiling face of his strong, caring grandfather.
He sees the glowing smile of his loving mother. She dances with him in the kitchen like they used to before she got sick. He is perched on her feet, his small arms around her back looking up to her and he can hear her laughing. Oh how he still misses that laugh
…
Snap!..
The sound happens first... the pain happens overwhelmingly second. OVER-fucking-WHELMINGLY!
Blinded from the pain he is still acutely aware that his right leg is broken.
He tries to scramble away scraping his wounded body along the ground like one of his old melted toy soldiers. It's only a matter of time before the monsters get a hold of him and sink their teeth in. Every second he has out of their jaws is one of his last seconds of his life.
He scrambles, not even really seeing the monsters that hunt him. The only thing he sees is pain. His vision begins tunneling away. His consciousness is a train leaving the station and the only thing at the end of the tunnel is a fading light.
CRACK! CRACK!.. He feels a warm splatter across his body. Was he bitten? He can’t feel any new pain. Perhaps the human body can only tolerate a maximum level of pain and he has already reached that threshold.
With his head lolling in the dirt, mere breaths before he passes out, he looks up and sees a man. A familiar man with a big bloody piece of wood.
"Daddy?"
Robert Dunne
Robert Dunne is one half of the Brothers Dunne and co-creator of Tales of the Nothing Man and other short stories. Residing in Perth, Western Australia, he would describe himself as a fun loving, easy going family man who just writes for fun and to get the voices out of his head. His Mother would describe him as... the adopted twin. With more voices in his head you can expect more books to be coming out.
Nights in White Satin
By Scott Hale
Herbert North lowered himself into the swamp and slowly waded forward. Boney trees twisted out of the roiling murk, their flesh, the leaves that now blanketed the black waters. Mosquitos washed over him in blood-swollen waves, taking what they could, when they could, because he was in no position to swat them away. He’d brought the torch, but then left it behind, as the dead things ahead had their own light, and he didn’t want them to see him coming.
Joy
Joy knew her husband was going to kill her; it was only a matter of time. She leaned over the dinner table, poured the stew into the two bowls there. She blew out the candle nearest where her husband would sit, so he wouldn’t have to see the slop she’d so boldly served him. Murdering the man would be easy—it always was for Joy—but she had hoped he would be different. And now it seemed that same hope would be the very thing that sent her back to the grave she’d spent so long climbing out of.
One grunt, two groans, and ten heavy footsteps later: Joy’s husband came through the front door and stood there until she emerged from the kitchen. She put on a smile, and then glided down the hallway, her white satin dress moving gently with her motions, giving to her a fleeting grace she didn’t otherwise possess. Her husband waited indifferently on the threshold, as mud sloughed off his boots onto the hardwood floor.
“I missed you,” Joy said, leaning forward and kissing her husband on the lips. He tasted of sweat, and of another woman. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
Her husband nodded and, much to Joy’s surprise, he smiled and said, “As did I.”
Staying true to her name, Joy let out a squeak, and grinning like the schoolgirl she’d never been, she wheeled her husband around the house, until they were in the kitchen and he in his seat.
“Catch any bad men today?” Joy asked, bringing some water to the table before sitting down.
&nb
sp; Her husband stirred the slop in the bowl with his spoon, as though trying to dredge up what may lay at the bottom. “There’s bad women, too,” he said darkly.
“In Marrow?” Joy thought of the town and those who inhabited it—the women, especially. They were hard creatures, empty creatures; shells of something that had once been great and beautiful, but now were nothing more than hollow vessels to be filled and put to labor. “What’s the worst you’ve ever caught?”
Joy’s husband took a drink of water and asked, “Man or woman?”
“Don’t matter,” Joy said in the southern accent she’d been honing the last few months.
“We had ourselves a murderer a few years back,” her husband said, finally taking a sip of his soup. He sighed as though he’d been expecting poison and seemed satisfied. “He would take men up to his shack in the Black Hills.” A passing carriage outside gave him pause. “He would take men up to his shack in the Black Hills and eat them.”
Joy put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed in a breathy whisper.
“Doesn’t that frighten you?” Her husband asked. He looked at her suspiciously. “Doesn’t that disgust you?”
“Of course it does. It’s awful.” Joy tried to make herself look pale, but she was already as white as one could be. “I’m sorry. I know it’s macabre, but at the same time, it fascinates me. It must fascinate you, too.”
Her husband dropped the spoon into the bowl. “I’m sheriff because these things repulse me, sicken me. I do not find them fascinating, Joy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said meekly. She looked into her lap, ashamed.
“Are you happy?” Even without the candle lit before him, she could see that her husband’s face had darkened.
“Of course,” she lied, though she had never truly known happiness, so it was difficult to say for sure. “Aren’t you? Boone, aren’t you happy?”
Boone fell back in his chair and exhaled loudly, as though he’d been holding his breath ever since their wedding night three months ago. “Where’d you come from?”
Joy wanted nothing more than to find someone she could share that answer with, but Boone was not that person. She had misjudged him, and herself. “Here and there,” she began, as she always began. “You know me, love. I’ve never laid roots anywhere until now.”
“Marrow isn’t some place you just stumble into.”
“Well, I did. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Why does it matter? If it bothered you so much, love, why didn’t you ask sooner?”
“Why didn’t I ask?” Boone went forward, elbows to the table, fists to his temples. “Joy, I’m lucky I didn’t starve to death when you came to town. You’re all I could think about. You’re all I wanted. I couldn’t sleep, because time was wasted when it was not spent with you. Do you know how many noses I had to break to keep the bad ones back?”
“That explains a lot,” Joy said as she tried to understand how her husband had figured her out so quickly.
“Why did you choose me? No woman has ever paid me much attention, and you’re the most beautiful woman Marrow has ever seen.” He slammed his palms on the table, causing the candle to fall over.
Joy quickly picked it up before it set fire to anything. “Boone,” she pleaded.
“I thought I was full of myself. Crazy, even, to think someone like you would want me. But you did. You did want me, and you did all of this for me. When you came through those gates, you set your eyes on me and went to work on me. Why?” He dug his fingernails into the wood. “Answer me, Joy.”
“I just knew you were the one.” Joy tilted her head and considered another course of action. “What do you know, Boone?”
A humid breeze blew through the house, carrying with it the smells of all the things that had died in the swamp today. A warm glow crept across the windowsill as the gas light’s outside were brought to life.
“I’ve seen you speaking to the dark. I’ve followed you at night, when you thought I was asleep, to the woods. You took my blood, and then with a wave of your hand, the wound was gone. And …” Boone searched for his words, “there’s something wrong with you … down … down there.”
Joy smiled; for all his ruggedness, her husband was still shy when it came to sex. Perhaps that’s why he’d waited so long to finally bring up pregnancy.
“Why are you smiling?” Boone barked.
“I’m sorry,” she said, becoming serious. “I’m just so happy we’re talking. You’ve been so distant these last few weeks.”
Boone scooted the chair backward, scuffing the floor. He stood up, muscles tensed, and pointed at her. “You’re in league with Satan!”
Joy rolled her eyes. She was done feigning innocence, ignorance. “If we’re going to be honest with one another now, then why don’t you start by telling me who you’ve been fucking lately?”
Boon flinched. He fumbled with his belt as his eyes darted back and forth across the room. His silence confirmed his guilt, and just like the guilty, he changed the subject entirely. “What have you been doing to the babies? Every time your belly swells, you leave, and I find bloody cloths out back.”
“I just want to give you the right one, love,” Joy said. She smiled a sad smile, the kind that promised her husband she would try harder. “Come to me. It’ll be perfect this time, I know it.”
Boone didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all. He left the room, and Joy knew why: He was going to get his knife, because he was going to kill her. How did it always end this way? She sighed and sat back in her chair. Stopping him would be easy enough; with one chant, he’d have just as much consistency as the soup he hardly touched. But what would be the point?
After all these countless years, one simple truth remained: She was much better at being dead than she was at being alive. So when she saw him come back into the kitchen, filled with hate and holy delusions, she let him do what he had to do.
Herbert
Herbert North tore his eyes from the wilderness outside the carriage window and said, “Seth, I have a question for you.”
Seth Barker shook his head. “No,” he said, running his sweaty handkerchief over his equally sweaty face. “No more questions. Silence, Herbert, please, until we reach Marrow.”
“What’s wrong?” Herbert slid across the seat—slid, because the cushions were soaked in sweat—and nudged his friend. “It’s a little chilly in here. Let me close one of these windows.”
“Don’t …” Seth’s voice took an oddly aristocratic tone, as though he were still channeling the spirit of the Duchess of Blaire. “Ask your question, Herbert.”
“Do you find yourself getting a massive erection when you have to piss?”
As if the southern heat had finally melted his brain, Seth went cross-eyed and started to twitch. “Herbert, don’t be immature. We are adults—professionals—acting in a professional capacity, in this …” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “… In this fucking …” And then he lost his composure. “In this fucking, hot ass, god damn, mother fucking backwoods hellhole.” A spasm of rage took over his body as he tore off his shirt and sat there with his arms crossed, skin glinting in the weak light.
“Do I even need to say it?” Herbert asked, enjoying his friend’s temper tantrum. “So do you?”
Seth pursed his lips and sighed. Closing his eyes, he said, “Yes, of course.”
Herbert cocked an eyebrow and shook his head in judgment. “That’s disgusting, man.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Seth took his drenched shirt and whipped it across Herbert’s eyes.
“I’m blind! I’m blind!” Herbert laughed as he ripped the shirt out of Seth’s hand and flung it across the coach. “But seriously, why do you think that is?”
“You’re exhausting.” Seth leaned forward, his back unsticking from the seat, and rummaged through the bag at his feet. “It’s because you keep grabbing yourself. You’re over there holding on for dear life. You look like a damn fiend.”
“That make
s sense,” Herbert said, sounding enlightened, as he watched his friend put on another shirt. “I wouldn’t bother. You’re just going to ruin that one, too.”
“Marrow is hardly the definition of liberalism.”
Herbert nodded. “So you’re saying they may not take too kindly to a half-naked man and his aroused sidekick?”
Seth’s eyes began to water, and he let out a laugh even the horses could hear, which had been Herbert’s intent all along. “Yeah, I’m thinking they may have some qualms with that scenario.”
“We don’t usually investigate missing persons,” Herbert said. He went forward and knocked on the divider to let the driver know to halt. “We need some fresh air. It’s stifling in here.”
Before the carriage had fully stopped, Herbert and Seth were already climbing out of it. Like pilgrims who had finally reached their mecca, they fell to their knees and breathed in their surroundings. The woods where they’d halted were thick, dense; space was so scarce that the trees had taken to growing out of one another. Countless vines hung from the branches, swinging like nooses from distracted necks. Endless swathes of Spanish moss blanketed the canopy, like some ancient, underestimated creature slowly creeping across the continent. The wind that blew here was heavy and smelled old, as though the air itself had been recycled for hundreds of years. And if someone wanted to speak, they had to yell, because the insects were loud, and they were relentless—a court of monsters in constant debate on how to overthrow those they so clearly outnumbered.
All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse Page 32