She froze at the word “God,” unable to formulate her reply. She felt the warmth of her Savior all around her, and she truly and absolutely believed He was sitting on the bench with her. If this was God's work, then she had the revelation she'd been seeking her whole life.
“Or...” He paused for a few seconds.
“Such a curious word. Or.” He stood from the bench and turned to look down at her. “Or this is all just in your head. A clever construction from the mind of a very clever woman as a way to process all the horrible things you've witnessed since Angie fell down those stairs two weeks ago.”
“What? No.” She shook her head emphatically to make her point. “I had visions. I saw memories from Victoria and Liam. From Phil's wife. I couldn't have made that up. That's impossible!”
She saw him smiling down at her. The light from the stars above was distracting. “My dear Marty. You're right of course, it is impossible. Or maybe you overheard Victoria on one of your nights together. You spend a lot of time awake when others are sleeping. What if you heard her dreaming and talking in her sleep about her terrible encounter with her fiancé in that dark forest? Who's to say Liam didn't leave his very favorite book lying out one day, and who's to say you didn't leaf through and read a few pages? Perhaps you read about a little green coupe on a bridge? He carries one of his copies with him everywhere these days.”
“No. This had to be divine. You said you were an angel.”
“I said I was like an angel. I never claimed to be a biblical angel.”
“But Phil. I spoke to his wife. Gave him a message.”
“Ah yes. A true miracle.” He paused with drama once more.
“Or...” A smile to her.
“Is it possible you ran into someone at one of your weekly quilting groups up at the church? A certain grandmother who may have recently lost a granddaughter and a great-granddaughter? Maybe private words were shared? A photograph of the family was passed around. When you heard his men call his name, you remembered that innocent secret under high stress, and that helped you bond with Phil on that bridge in your darkest hour.”
“Absolutely not! I would remember that.”
“Would you? Is your memory that good? Have you forgotten nothing your whole life?”
Marty looked down at her hands. Often when she came here, or when she left here, her skin would appear rejuvenated and refreshed. She believed she was getting healthier somehow; that Al was making her younger. Now, she saw the same hands and arms she had back in her flat before the sirens.
“So none of this was real? I'm just an old worn out woman making up crazy scenes in my mind to help me cope?”
“No, not at all. Give yourself some credit. You played out those scenes in your head as a way to cope, yes. But you did cope. In fact, you used your imagination to strengthen yourself. You renewed your faith in God, you bolstered your faith in your great-grandson when he needed it most. Your beautiful mind created this place so you could contribute in a world where so many of your peers were tossed like trash. You came here so you could fight. Isn't that exactly what I—I mean, the real Aloysius—would have wanted?”
Her gaze fell to the ground just in front of the bench, content to accept what he was saying, but hating it nonetheless. She resigned herself to the notion she wasn't special. Al wasn't here. She had no miracle gifts to fight and survive in the zombie plague.
A bright light flared above her. She looked up. An illuminating pulse was directly behind Al, falling from the stars above. Then his world began to dim, and Marty felt herself returning to hers. Everything disappeared except Al. He wore a happy smile.
“Or...”
3
“Who do you think was driving that boat?”
Liam sat with Victoria in the shade of the remaining jumble of wreckage while Grandma indulged in a nap. They thought she died by the way she slumped over, but she'd only exhausted herself. She'd been swimming, running, jumping, and falling today. She earned a rest.
“I have no idea, but they sure arrived at the perfect time to take care of Duchesne for us.”
“Do you think it was providence? The hand of God?”
Victoria gazed out over the water while she thought of an answer. “If it was God, He had to have set everything in motion hours or days ahead of time. That barge had to have come from somewhere upstream. Someone had to fire it up. They would have had to gather up the proper amount of barges so it could break through. Someone had to fuel it. Someone had to drive it down the river—through all the other junk floating by. And they had to arrive at the exact second Duchesne was getting ready to shoot us.”
Liam followed her train of thought. “And He would have had to work in the other direction too. He would have had to put you and me together at the perfect time. He would have had to keep us walking around, hiding and fighting zombies in the county, and bring us back to the city at precisely the time needed to get us in front of that boat. There were an infinite number of variables along the way. I have a renewed belief in the divine, but that's impossible.”
Grandma surprised them. She was awake. “Not impossible. Just improbable. It was all improbable.”
They helped her sit up while she continued. “This disaster has awakened something in me. Al is in my head; he speaks to me. He's shown me incredible things. He's shown me my own memories I had forgotten. I see memories of those closest to me.” She paused, thinking. “Painful memories.” She regrouped with more energy, “But if there's one thing I've come to appreciate through these weeks of—challenge—is that you two have been truly heroic. No matter if it was God, random chance, or some spaghetti monster floating in the sky, you two were responsible for getting me safely to this point. I honestly believe no one could have done it better.”
A little book was in Grandma's hands. The travel Bible Liam had given to Victoria. She had given it to Grandma in turn. Now she handed it back to her. "I'm sorry dear, I couldn't keep it dry." They all laughed at the understatement of the year. "But it did bring me the comfort I needed during my stay."
Victoria took it and bent over to hug her. "I'm just so glad to get you out of that horrible place."
Liam watched. Grandma was a filthy mess. She was covered in mud and green slime from being in the water and out on the wreckage. But Liam only saw her bright eyes as his chest swelled with pride at taking care of her for so long. He and Victoria got her out. They were a great team.
“Well Grandma, we do have one more journey to make. And wouldn't you know it, we're back in St. Louis.” He laughed, and he put on a brave face talking to Victoria, but he felt so tired and worn out he didn't think he had it in him to face more challenges like he'd just endured. Not only were they totally alone in the city filled with zombies, they were out of food, out of water, and most critically, they had no weapons. They were sitting in a little bowl of safety near the collapsed bridge, but once they went up the ramp and into the city—it would be hand-to-hand for thirty miles. Even the boats were swept away when the bridge pier tumbled in as the dam broke apart.
They rose to their feet and gathered themselves together for the climb up the ramp of the fallen bridge. It was the same path he and Victoria had taken hours earlier. Maybe one of them could slide into the hotel and find some weapons. Going down to the waterfront by the Arch to get Moses would be suicide with all the zombies walking down there. He tried to think like a survivor. He was a survivor.
They crossed the threshold of rock and rebar at the bottom and began walking up the slope of the collapsed highway. Grandma was between them. She looked up and called for a halt. “Look up there.”
A lone zombie stood at the top of the incline. He was on the flat surface of the raised highway. His clothes could have come from Liam's closet: blue jeans, a black t-shirt with a college logo, a red baseball cap. A few others drifted up from behind the first. In moments, there were a dozen.
Liam had been shielding himself from the truth. Something he'd ignored as best he could eve
ry minute of every day since he'd left with Grandma out her front door. He was never going to be able to avoid the zombies forever. He'd finally reached the moment he knew was coming. It eventually caught everyone.
I can't save her.
“Children, put me down,” she whispered.
As one, they all got on their knees, willing the infected not to look down, but knowing it was inevitable.
“I'm so sorry, Grandma,” was all that Victoria could get out while she teared up.
Liam gave her a quick hug. “Is this right? I don't want to leave you.”
“Liam. Go. I love you. Go!” she shouted, forcing his hand.
The cries of the zombies above rose as they acquired their prey.
“It can't happen like this.” But Liam had stepped away from her, resolved to run. Knowing this painful moment had finally caught up to him. The tiny form of his Grandma remained on her knees, though she hunched forward to hold herself up with her hands. Her knees were too frail to support her body.
Victoria grabbed his hand as he heard a familiar sound.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
He looked up the ramp to see several zombies get sliced in half.
Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzz.
Arms exploded. Heads were severed. Large holes appeared in the torsos of others. When nipped in the leg, they tipped over. Some tried to turn around to the new threat. Most never had the chance.
A final sweep eliminated the remaining infected. Body pieces were pushed by the powerful impacts of the chain gun; some went flying over their heads. Others rolled down the incline. A leg tumbled the fifty feet down the yellow dashed line on the pavement; it skidded sloppily to a stop just in front of Grandma. Liam spent a long minute soaking in the impossibility of it all.
Not impossible. Just improbable.
Grandma remained pragmatic, “I guess we should go up and thank our saviors. Whoever they are, they can't be worse than Duchesne and his people. We don't have much chance on our own with nothing but wet clothes on our backs.”
Her words made sense. They had no weapons. No tools. No nothing. But he could think of people who would give Duchesne a run for his money on the evil scale. Gang bangers. Looters. Camo-clad predators. All those working to snuff civilization. They all made impressions on him these past weeks, though if one were to only compare death tolls, Duchesne won that contest hands-down. He directed people like Hayes to do great evil. No one person in history had caused as many deaths by their actions as him.
But, a leg just slid up to her.
“Grandma, does anything phase you? You didn't blink at the sight of that bloody leg.”
From her knees, she turned around with a big smile. “Neither did you.”
That was all they could say about another in a long line of miracles they'd experienced today.
Together they walked up the angled section of roadway. Liam had his hand behind Grandma's back, as did Victoria. He could feel his girlfriend as their arms rubbed together behind the frail little old lady between them. Their fates were now intertwined, symbolically as well as literally.
Liam laughed as they walked. He thought about being back in the city. Back where they started. “What have we accomplished so far? We're now heading back into the collapsed city we spent two weeks escaping. A hotel with thirty floors of mutant zombies is emptying nearby. We have the bosses of Duchesne to worry about. And who knows whether Hayes was telling the truth. Grandma may have been infected, but she appears OK. What does that mean? We have more problems now than we did back in the simple days of just running from zombies.”
“Life is messy, Liam. It doesn't fit into neat compartments like those books you read. When you get to be my age you'll realize that. You just do the best you can when it splatters all over you. God never gives you more than you can handle. In your case, this all helped you find this pretty girl here. You found each other. I'd say that balances things out. Love is a precious resource.”
He looked at Victoria and smiled. She gave a big smile back to him. Her necklace hung outside her stained, cropped, and soaked t-shirt. The cross was wet, but crisp and clean. It gave him comfort as it did when he first met her.
Grandma continued as they neared the top, “This bridge reminds me of a question for you, Liam. Your grandpa showed me a memory and he said it was from your favorite book. In it, I was standing on another bridge looking out over the water to the Golden Gate Bridge. I forget what he called it. There was a little green coupe sitting alone on the huge span, but it had been destroyed by nesting birds and other animals. Do you know what I'm talking about?”
“Of course. That's from one of my favorite books of all time—Earth Abides. The story ends when a plague survivor grows so old he gets a little senile, and during a big fire that burned the abandoned city of San Francisco, the younger generations in his tribe—his descendants—carry him across that bridge and by that car. He'd seen it many years earlier when it, and the bridge, were new. When he saw it again in his old age, it helped him come to the realization that though man and the works of man are destined to fall into the ocean, the Earth itself would survive. Thus the title, Earth abides.”
“Thank you. That sounds like a wonderful story. Maybe I'd like to read it.”
Though he wasn't yet an old man with a tribe of survivors to his credit like his hero in that book, he realized they'd done better than most during the present, real-life crisis now consuming his world. He'd heard about old people giving up and letting death take them because they were afraid of the unknown ahead of them. He'd seen parents abandon children. He'd seen the undead walk, and countless deaths by their teeth. It was more horrific than any book. Where so many had fallen, his group survived. If Grandma had been infected, and something in her had cured it, she could hold the key to the whole thing. It would help them retake the world from the darkness enveloping it. Not many people on Earth could claim to be doing so much. There were still many challenges ahead of them—including whatever was over the next rise.
All around him, the works of man were broken and defiled. This bridge had already tumbled into the water, though it was brought down by man, not nature. The Arch was scorched. The city was a husk. The river was coughing up hulls full of bodies. The worst of man was being purged.
It was true, the Earth would abide. But so would mankind. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure his own book didn't end with humans ceding all the advances of modern civilization to the zombies and to oblivion. If he was lucky enough to survive the day and live a long life, he was going to fight the zombies until his dying breath. He would also fight the Duchesne's of the world—all those men and women sitting in their comfy bunkers. They were waiting to restart society in their own perverted image. They would find him instead.
Grandma said, “If everyone waits for the perfect heroes to come along, the world dies waiting.” Liam knew they were imperfect heroes extraordinaire, but he was willing to fight for the world. He would read every book on the apocalypse he could find. He would study military tactics. He would lead tribes of people from the Old World. The old would mentor the young. Anything it takes to rebuild. The pieces were all there for anyone willing to do the work.
He had faith they could pull it off.
Liam remembered his own memory. Something from that Old World he'd been dying to do since he first thought of it.
“Hold up guys. Victoria, will you hold Grandma? Grandma, can I have my phone back?”
“Of course dear.” She pulled the phone out of her pants pocket. A small miracle it hadn't been lost.
Liam excitedly took a few steps back down the incline. When he turned around, he had his camera ready to go. “I've been wanting to take your pictures for days now.” He gave them a big smile and then tried to slide his phone open. He stared at it for a long moment.
“Is it working, Liam? It did get very wet in Grandma's pocket.” She laughed, letting him know it was OK.
“Yeah, I can't tell if it's broken or jus
t needs to be recharged.”
“Isn't that the way of the world?”
Grandma's response soothed him. He wore a real smile as he rejoined them. “I'll get your picture yet. Just you wait.”
As they crested the collapsed highway, he could see the familiar outline of an MRAP parked fifty yards down the littered highway.
“Thank you, God, for helping us win one.”
###
Acknowledgments
The Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse series has been a labor of love in so many ways. When I sat down at my keyboard and started the first book, I had no idea if I could even get through the first chapter, much less the whole book. Writing a novel was a difficult endeavor only “professional” authors could master. Or so I thought.
In the summer of 2014, on the day of the funeral for my 104-year-old grandmother, my sister mentioned she was writing a book. We discussed a few points about her challenges, when she planned to publish, and other details that at the time seemed innocuous. However, I was inspired by that conversation to spin up a short story based on an elderly woman living in a house with her nurse. I called it “104” because of the age of the protagonist. The story was a celebration of the spirit of my grandma and it helped me find something positive in that dark day.
But I wasn't done yet. I was so inspired I just kept writing. “104” became chapter one of book one. I dubbed it “CIV,” which coincidentally was the Roman numeral for 104. It was the first of many coincidences I found while writing the stories, and the nature of coincidence fascinated me throughout the series. I didn't notice until well into book 2 that Aloysius used his nickname “Al” while inside Marty's head. His role with computers seems appropriate for a computer program, or AI if you prefer. Did that realization guide my writing down different pathways? You see, even an author doesn't always know where his creation will take him...
This series of books did take me into the publishing world, and for that I'm thankful my sister nudged me in the right direction. I'm also grateful for my grandmother and all the things she did to encourage generations of our family to seek the light. Maybe she is in a room somewhere with a rickety 8088 computer, making things happen in this corner of the multiverse? How many coincidences had to happen for me to be sitting there on that exact day, having a discussion about writing books with the exact person I needed, and then finding inspiration to write three books with a central character based loosely on her? Was it providence? Luck? Or was it always going to happen?
Since The Sirens Box Set | Books 1-7 Page 87