by Beth Hersant
Peter Eckert was a twelve-year-old boy who came into the library sometimes — usually in a panic with a class deadline looming the next day and very little work done. And on more than one occasion, he’d asked her for help.
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
“Well, we had come here looking for supplies.”
“Everything here is ours,” Curtis Ziegler said, with his .22 still pointed at Levi.
“Ok,” Patience said. “We’re not here to steal what’s yours. But do you think you could lower those guns for a minute so we can talk?”
“No,” Peter said. “Now get out.”
Peg had been scanning the faces and there was not one adult among them. And so she simply said, “No” and sat down on the floor in front of him.
“What do you mean ‘No’? I have a gun in your face. Get the hell out of here.”
“Not until you stop for a minute and talk to me.” She leant back against a salad dressing display, crossed her feet at the ankles and folded her hands in her lap.
“Look, if you’re hungry we can give you some food…”
“I’m not hungry,” Peg shook her head. “I just wanna talk to you.”
Peter sighed. “Fine.”
They were seated back in the staff room — all of them together, although the kids still kept hold of their weapons. It was quite a motley assortment: a 12 gauge shotgun, a little .410 bird gun, a .22 hornet, a Red Ryder BB gun, a slingshot, a Louisville slugger, and a broom handle with a carving knife duct-taped to the end. Peg looked past the gun barrels into the faces of the children. She knew them all. There was Peter, of course, and next to him stood Steven Wannemaker. He’d earned the nickname Pigpen around town, because that boy could not stay clean. It used to drive his mother crazy, especially on Sundays. Steven had an angelic voice — not yet changed — and hence he was a fixture in the church choir. Zoe had battled valiantly to keep her boy clean before he stood up to sing. But Zoe wasn’t around anymore to polish his cheeks with her handkerchief and a little spit. Peg’s fingers twitched — she wanted to tidy him up herself.
Then there was Thomas Gerber, a small, bookish little boy with delicate features and big glasses. He used to come into the library every Sunday and spend hours choosing what he’d read next. Niles Kaufmann stood by the door; he was the class clown who left whoopee cushions on the stuffed leather chairs in the Adult Fiction Section. Curtis Ziegler held the spear, but try as he might he could not look intimidating. Curt was perhaps the most beautiful child Peg had ever seen. With curly, blond locks, big blue eyes and long eyelashes, he looked like a Botticelli angel. But appearances were deceiving. Curt was the biggest hellion in the school — always in trouble, always in detention and always grounded. His crimes ranged from tacks on the teacher’s chair to bubble gum in girls’ pigtails to spray painting the word “Fart” on the Carnegie monument. The Bausman twins were present too, although Peg wasn’t sure which one was George and which was Ezra. They looked pale and tired. And finally there was Isabella Rhyne — a tiny waif of a girl. One of the boys had obviously tried to plait her hair for her and the two fraying braids stuck out at wonky angles from the sides of her head. Altogether their faces wore one of two expressions. Their eyes were either dull and hollow and wore the disinterested look of prolonged shock or they were over-bright, too intense and angry. They were, however, all pale, their mouths drawn in permanent downward arcs and they each looked unutterably weary.
“So why won’t you come with us back to the farm?” Patience was asking.
“Because this compound you keep talking about – it won’t last,” Peter said.
“And you know that how?” Patience was starting to lose, well, her patience. They were supposed to be out here on a scavenging expedition, not wasting their time having a ludicrous argument with a bunch of kids. She could not fathom why they were so hesitant to come to the farm.
Peter shrugged. “Why would it? Midwood was protected and that didn’t last.”
“But we could protect you,” Patience insisted.
“That’s what our parents said,” Tom’s voice was quiet.
“Yeah,” Curtis nodded. “We’ve done pretty well on our own. Why should we go with you?”
Peg nodded, “I get it. This is working for you and, if it’s not broken, why fix it? Let me guess how it happened. When Midwood fell and all the adults ran for cars that just ended up stuck on Main Street, you took to your heels. You’re young and fast. You know every back alley, every shortcut through Midwood, every hiding place. You never realized that all those games of hide-and-seek were preparing you to run for your lives. Am I close?”
Peter gave her a curt nod. There was a hell of a lot more to it than that: his father held off three of the infected while Peter took his brother’s hand and ran. The screams echoed behind them as his dad was murdered and little Billy cried so hard that Peter had to clamp a hand over the boy’s mouth as they hid.
“Ok,” Peg nodded. “You’ve got skills we don’t have. You can run and hide in ways that make us look old and clumsy. But let me ask you this: if you come with us, will you lose those skills? No. If it all falls apart and you need to run again, you still can. But you’ll be in a better position to do it. You’ll be well-fed and stronger.”
“Well-fed? We live in a supermarket.”
“Yeah, but sooner or later, the food here will be gone. Then what? We live on a farm with a vegetable garden and three crops in the ground — two for people and one for the animals.”
“Animals?” Isabella piped up.
Peg smiled at her. “Pigs, cows, chickens, and a dog who wants you to scratch his belly all day long.”
Peter replied: “That’s nice, but…”
“It means we have fresh meat and milk and eggs. We have hot showers. We have people training as doctors…”
“Midwood had all of that!” Peter yelled. “It didn’t make any difference! It didn’t save my family!”
“You know you’re sitting ducks here, right?” Patience said quietly.
“How?” Curtis asked.
“This supermarket is an obvious target.”
“From looters?” Curt looked skeptical. “We got the drop on you all right.”
This time Levi spoke up. “The only reason we didn’t start shooting was because you’re kids.”
“And what exactly were you hoping to accomplish with a BB gun and a baseball bat?” Sam had a Beretta in one hand and a Timber Classic Marlin in the other.
The kids were wavering and so Peg kept pushing. “With us, you’ll have access to better weapons and training on how to use them. And you’ll be able to sleep at night knowing that someone else is on guard.”
Peter, however, was still unconvinced. “And when it all goes to hell? Then what?”
“Every man, woman and child has a bug-out bag full of survival gear. This summer we are going to set up caches — hiding places with spare supplies in case of emergency. And, after the harvest is in, we’re going to set up a place where we can go and be safe if we lose the farm. Peter, if you have to, you can still run.”
“Pete,” Tom said, “I think we should go.”
“But this is working for us!”
“I’m twelve years old, Pete. She’s seven!” He pointed to Isabella.
Peter closed his eyes. He remembered the time before. Riding his bike over to Wannemaker’s house to play video games or heading down to the swimming hole on a hot August day. The biggest concerns he had were a failing grade in English and how to shake off his little brother so he could go have some fun. Billy had followed him like a shadow and he’d hated the lack of space and freedom. He’d told himself that when he grew up, he’d finally be able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. But it hadn’t turned out that way. He grew up fast after the fall of Midwood and his new found maturity did not set him free. It h
eaped responsibility on his shoulders and pressure and fear and guilt. And so, yes, he would give anything to go back to being twelve. And here they were, offering it to him on a plate and he was afraid.
Patience waited for an anxious moment while the boy deliberated. She knew that, if he said no, she was going to give the order to take the kids in anyway — kicking and screaming if necessary.
“All right,” Peter said and there was a collective sigh of relief.
As they loaded up the contents of the pharmacy, the little band was spotted. Shuffling along in his Carter’s Snowsuit, Billy Eckert quickened his pace. But the trucks were full and pulling away and he could not reach them. He shrieked in frustration. Peter knew that sound and turned to stare out the back window of the Chevy. The boy, clad in his navy snow gear with its bright red zipper, stared hungrily back; and Peter groaned. He should have shot Billy when he had the chance. He knew that. But he couldn’t — he just couldn’t. It wasn’t Billy anymore and he knew that too. But that raging, snapping creature still wore Billy’s face and so Pete had run. And, as always, Billy followed. He may be lost, but he was still his brother’s shadow.
All through that day, the trucks hauled supplies from Sage Foods back to the farm. But Peg did not join in these runs. She had so much to do at home. The kids were offered hot showers and clean clothes (although most of these had to be rolled up at the sleeves and cuffs). They were given the first hot meal they’d had in months. And as she watched them eat, her mind raced with ideas. They would need toys and Louella had an excellent collection in the attic. But where would they put them? They were already tripping over each other without having Lego scattered all over the floor and plastic tea sets underfoot. But maybe they shouldn’t bring the toys down at all. If they cleared everything out of the attic except kid stuff, then they could turn the loft into a sort of clubhouse for the children. They could use that space for lots of different purposes. It could be a boys’ dormitory, a kids’ play den, and a schoolroom. They’d have to move the Christmas decorations and other stuff out to the storage shed; and they’d need to put lamps and a couple of portable heaters up there, but it could work. They could fix the room up real nice and that would help the children settle in. And that idea about the school — that was something she’d been thinking about more and more lately. Sam and Emma’s educations were incomplete and Mae’s had barely begun. And now with so many new children at the farm, school had to be a top priority. Knowledge was power in this new world and the kids needed to know how to access it. She grabbed a notepad and, like her mother, started making lists.
In the old Crucible school, in the room where the massacre had taken place, they slept. Abigail was in the middle of the huddle, warm and protected as the others snored and fidgeted around her. And then a noise, soft at first but growing in volume, roused her. Multiple footsteps. A warning growl from Abby woke the others and the horde was soon up, crouching on all fours, ready to spring. Six came to the door and when Abigail approached, they cowered and hunched submissively. And Abigail sniffed them and recognized their scents. It was not just the familiar mix of sweat and vomit and blood that you smell on a rabies patient; she knew them. She had no recollection of the names Stephanie, Tobey, CariAnn or Bethany. And the irony of the fact that they wanted to be in her group now was not something that her mind was capable of appreciating. They were young and strong and their injuries did not hinder their ability to keep up with the horde. And so they were in. The virus was so much more egalitarian than the old society had been. It was the great leveler: rich and poor, black and white, popular kid and outcast — all were one in the New Rabies. And all were united by the one supreme goal — to spread the virus, to bite. The horde moved on — south, toward the town of Carmichaels.
The people of Camp North Star made one trip after another to Sage Foods, never realizing they were being watched.
Roger Silsbee, a man in his thirties who still looked like the boy next door, lowered his binoculars. “They seem pretty well organized,” he said.
“Yep,” Bishop said. “They look healthy, well-equipped. I’d say they must have a pretty good setup somewhere.”
“Follow them,” a voice behind them said. “I want to know where their base is.”
There were four men camped out at the Mohawk — a cheap motel on the highway just down the strip from Sage Foods. In the time before, Silsbee had spent his days on his knees, measuring people’s feet for minimum wage at Country Cobbler Shoes. He’d smile and flirt with the town’s ladies and hence picked up a lot more in commission than Mal Prentice, the other salesman. Louella had bought a pair of Sporto boots from him last fall, but the transaction had left her feeling flat. The boots were great and he’d been nice enough, but the man himself rubbed her the wrong way. He was charming and flirty and complimentary and she couldn’t bring herself to warm to so much blatant bullshit. She hated it when people tried to play her — it was insulting. So no, she wasn’t a fan.
The second member of the Mohawk group was Blake Turner. He was a huge man, locally known as “The Mountain.” Yet he had the intellectual capacity of an eight-year-old child. He had lived out on Cemetery Road with his mother, Gladys; and when Midwood fell, he’d carried her through the chaos, eventually ending up at the Tombstone bar. The Tombstone was a dive situated across the street from Midwood Cemetery (hence the name), and as he ducked inside and slammed the door behind him, there was Roger Silsbee pointing a gun at his face and telling him to “get the fuck out.”
“Hang on a minute.” This was said by a man Blake didn’t know. He was tall and had a buzz cut. His thick eyebrows and the thin line of beard that underscored his chin stood in sharp contrast to his pale skin. A cigarette dangled from his mouth and Blake didn’t like that: he knew that smoking’s bad for you and the smell made his throat tickle.
“So you’re The Mountain,” the man was saying. He looked at Silsbee. “That’s right, isn’t it? He’s the big retard?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the matter with her?” The stranger nodded toward Gladys.
“Mama’s hurt.” Blake laid her down gently on the pool table.
The old woman had had her throat ripped out and now Roger could see that what he thought was a red blouse had originally been a pale yellow.
“Dude, she’s dead,” he said.
“No! No, she’s not!” Blake began to cry and looked to the stranger. “She’s not dead! Why is he saying that?”
“Shhh,” the stranger wrapped his arms around this weeping boy who was the size of a WWE wrestler. “A lot of people have died today. Your mom too.”
“No…”
“What’s your name?”
“B-Blake.”
“Blake look,” the stranger wriggled free of Blake’s grasping hands. He walked over to the pool table and lifted the cadaver’s arm. He released it; it thudded heavily back onto the green felt and sent the 8-ball drifting toward the corner pocket.
Dropping to his knees, Blake began to wail and the man sat on the floor next to him, cradling him and rocking him.
“It’s going to be OK.” His voice was low and soothing. “You’re going to be ok.”
“I can’t … I just can’t,” Blake sobbed. “Not without my mom.”
“It’s OK. I’ll look after you.”
“But … but who are you?”
“My name is Leon.”
A fourth man came to the Tombstone that first day. Wilford M. Bishop was your quintessential pillar of the community. On Sundays, he ushered and took collection for the morning service at the Lutheran Church. He was a member of the local rotary club, sat on the town council and volunteered every year to collect items for Christmas boxes so that struggling families could receive food and gifts for the holidays. He earned his living as a teacher at the high school, tenth grade Civics and Economics, and he’d been at the blackboard when the first scream ripped thr
ough that quiet winter’s morning. At first, he stood with his class at the window, staring dumbfounded at the carnage just outside. But then he remembered the lockdown drills they’d practiced. The drills were intended to respond to an “active shooter” incident, but they were applicable now. He pulled the blinds down, locked the door, and turned off the lights. He yanked a poster off the wall (it had a drawing of a mobile phone with a big red X over it under the caption, “Just pretend it’s 1995”). He stuck the poster up over the door’s window, hiding the students from view and deepening the shadows in the room.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I want everybody back against the far wall.”
“Is it New Rabies?” Terence Brandt, a pimply kid with a B- average, asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” Wilford said. “Listen, our best bet is to hunker down, keep quiet and let them pass us by. So please, everyone just sit down and I don’t want to hear a peep out of any of you.”
It wasn’t long before the infected gained entry into the school. They could hear them running through the hall, hurling themselves at the doors to other classrooms. They heard a nearby door give and then a cacophony of shrieks from the students inside.
Mr. Bishop’s own students were crying now and he was frantically trying to shut them up. One girl, Lisa Medford, was too loud. Her high pitched little girl sobs and frequent exclamations of “Oh my God!” would give them all away.
“Lisa,” he hissed, “be quiet.”
From the classroom next door, the last scream cut off abruptly and was followed by an ominous hush. Lisa sat with her hands clamped over her mouth and tears streaming down her face as the handle on their door slowly twisted. It was in need of a little WD40, so it actually creaked in an eerie, horror movie sort of way. When the door would not open, the handle began to twitch more violently. And then the first thud fell on the door’s glass window. Lisa cried out and the sound spurred the thing on as it pummeled the glass with its fists.