Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (26 page)

Before she knew it, they were turning onto Daphne's street.

The knot that had taken root in her belly the moment the pulse hit had been steadily growing, but now it intensified. She knew it wouldn't pass until she saw CJ and Daphne with her own eyes.

Christopher's hand found hers, the strength of his grip telling her everything she needed to know.

He was as terrified as she was.

A few doors before Daphne's house, John Tuckerman was clomping up the wide concrete steps of a brick house, carrying a cardboard box. He'd given Gemma a great deal of grief when she taught him the year before.

Her curiosity peaked when Mary, one of Daphne's friends, opened the front door, a warm smile appearing on her face when she saw him.

They both turned to look at the pickup as it passed, and Gemma waved to Mary.

Mary didn't return her wave. Instead her face fell as she said something to John Tuckerman. John put the box down on the stoop, struggling to keep up with the sprightly old woman as he followed her down the steps.

The pickup pulled in behind Daphne's forest-green Ford.

There was no sign of life at Daphne's house. The curtains were firmly drawn against the heat of the day.

Gemma was hardly aware that she was tapping impatiently at the side of the pickup as Tom – the man who owned it – came around to open the back tray.

Her heart was going too fast – why wasn't Daphne coming out to greet them? Why wasn't CJ running out to throw himself into her arms?

And why was Mary hurrying toward them – a terrible look of sorrow on her face?

30

“Dead?” Gemma repeated, staring at Mary with disbelief.

Christopher's heart stopped. What the hell had happened here?

Mary's eyes filled with tears. “I'm so sorry dear. I know you love –
loved
– Daphne like a mother.”

“What about the boy? CJ?” Christopher snapped at the woman.

Mary turned to Christopher, her watery blue eyes narrowing as she studied his face. Recognition lit her eyes. “Why – he's with your mother. Your sister's there too.”

“My mother?” Christopher said. “Why would he be with my mother?”

“You
are
Christopher Daley, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Christopher agreed, the fear in his heart finally releasing. CJ – his son – was alive.

A bemused smile stole over his face. His
son
.
His
son.

“How?” The blood drained from Gemma's face.

Christopher reached for her. How could he have been so thoughtless? His own heart was singing with joy while Gemma's was breaking.

Gemma pushed him away, repeating her question.

“Daphne took him there – before she collapsed,” Mary said.

“No – how did she die?” Gemma bit out.

“Was a terrible business,” Mary sighed. “I knew Daphne was having trouble getting around. She just hasn't been the same since...” Mary's eyes filled with tears again, and a shudder racked her plump body. “A child should never die before their mother. It's just not right. I feel just awful – I – I should have checked on her. But with everything going on...” she trailed off, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Christopher could sense Gemma working herself up into a state.

“Mary, is it?” he asked, cutting the woman off as she started to ramble again.

“Yes.”

“Please. Just get to the point.”

“Doc Harwood said it was dehydration,” Mary said stiffly. “I didn't know,” her eyes overflowed. “She was giving everything she had to young CJ. I guess she took him to your mother's when she ran out. She was such a proud woman – never mentioned a word of it when I visited the other day. Not that I had anything to give her myself, mind. Not then.” She turned to John Tuckerman, who was scraping at the pavement with his shoe. “Now – they've got the kids doing patrols, making sure all us old folk are all right.”

“I should get CJ's things.” Gemma started moving toward the house, a dazed look on her face.

“We'll be right back,” Christopher told Tom.

The house was dim and the stench of rot was strong as Christopher followed Gemma down the narrow, wallpapered hallway. He stopped in the lounge-room doorway, the powerful magnetic pull of the photographs lining the walls calling him.

Photographs that told the life story of his son. CJ as a baby; CJ with Caroline; with Gemma; with an older woman; as a toddler taking his first wobbly steps; blowing out the candles on a cake; sitting on Santa's lap; kicking a bright red ball, his freckled face crinkled with concentration.

Though his need was strong and his fingers itched to touch them and devour every moment he'd missed, Gemma's need was stronger.

Vowing to return at a more appropriate time, Christopher followed Gemma, the smell growing stronger as they reached a small yellow kitchen.

On the wall was a stylized black and white photograph of CJ when he was a baby, featuring only his face and naked chest, one fist clenched tight against his chubby cheek. He looked so peaceful, his eyes closed in sleep. It was the sort of photo proud parents pulled out of their wallets, and sent to family and friends. But never before had a photograph held such meaning to him.

Beside it was a color photograph of Caroline's profile as she held an older CJ up in the air before she got sick. Her golden hair trailed down her back as she smiled up at the boy, her face filled with love. CJ beamed down at his mother, his eyes sparkling, and it was only now that Christopher had a chance to reflect on what his son had been through. Not only had he lost his mother, he'd lost his grandmother, and Gemma – his only other constant – hadn't been there for him.

The force of this realization hit him powerfully, and his heart ached for a son he'd never met, held. Touched.

Gemma was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her hand clutched to her chest. Her eyes glistened.

The sink was piled with dishes, and the open cupboards were bare. There was a trail of spilled food on the floor. Cereal and flour and what might have been orange juice in its previous life.

A lump formed in Christopher's throat when he saw the tiny footsteps peppered through the mess.

On the counter was an empty plastic milk container, and by the back door was a green garbage bag that was overflowing.

Gemma straightened her back and turned, her face a picture of grief as she looked straight through him.

Christopher followed her down the hallway to a bedroom teeming with the life of a four-year-old, his hand hovering uselessly behind Gemma's back as her narrow shoulders hitched.

This was where his son had slept.

Christopher took in the bright red and blue bedspread designed to look like a race car. On the yellow bedside table was a photograph, the glass smeared with tiny fingerprints. It was a picture of Caroline, her face filled with sunshine and happiness. There was no sign of the cancer that ravaged her body, and this pleased Christopher.

He was surprised by the fierce urge he felt to protect the boy, even in something as small as the photograph that he remembered his mother by.

Gemma pulled the photograph to her chest, the sob that was rising in her threatening to tear her apart.

Christopher was by her side in an instant, pulling her gently to him.

Gemma resisted, her body stiffening awkwardly as he tightened his grip. He wrapped his arms around her, his head resting on hers.

Gemma crumpled against him, her warm tears soaking through his shirt as her thin shoulders trembled.

Then suddenly she pulled away, unable to meet his eye as she opened the blue chest of drawers at the end of the bed.

Christopher stood there helplessly. He had no idea what to do.

“I'll need a bag.” Gemma pointed at the wardrobe.

Feeling like an intruder in his son's bedroom, Christopher opened the door. On the top shelf was a large blue duffel bag.

Ten minutes later they were in the back of the pickup headed for the Daley homestead.

Gemma stared up at the sky, silent tears trailing down her cheeks.

Christopher wanted to reach out to her, to say something, but his own mind was in turmoil. He was about to meet his son.

As the pickup lumbered along the tree-lined drive leading to the house, Gemma wiped away her tears and put on an admirable mask of bravery for CJ's benefit.

The front door was already swinging open, and by the time they pulled up in front of the house Christopher's family was on the front lawn.

Christopher swallowed back the lump of emotion in his throat as his mother rushed toward him, one hand pressed to her chest as her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

A small, dark-haired boy hurtled past her, shouting, "Aunty Gem-Gem. Aunty Gem-Gem,” and Christopher's heart seized.

He couldn't take his eyes off CJ as he threw himself against Gemma, wrapping his arms tightly around her legs.

“Hey there little man.” Gemma stroked the boy's hair, her eyes shifting toward Christopher.

The rest of his family had stopped in their tracks, suddenly uncertain as they watched Christopher's face.

“Uncle Chris.” Jake tugged at his mother's hand, trying to get to his uncle, but Katy held him back, her eyes soft with understanding. Mackenzie, who always took a few minutes to warm up, was standing slightly behind her mother, peeking shyly out at him with huge blue eyes.

“Jake, my man,” Christopher said, the pull of his son hard to resist as he walked toward his nephew.

Jake put up his hand, high-fiving him. "Hey, Uncle Chris.”

Katy's eyes were loaded with meaning as she glanced at CJ. Then she was pulling Christopher into her arms, openly crying. “We were so worried about you.”

“Out of my way.” Christopher's mother pushed her way in.

Christopher held his mother close, the smell of her so familiar as the boy with his eyes watched them curiously.

“He's the spitting image of you,” his mother breathed softly into his ear, making his heart tighten as she pulled away, squeezing his hand.

*
 
*
 
*

Gemma placed her hands on CJ's shoulders, gently turning him to face Christopher. “There's someone special I want you to meet.”

She had no idea how much CJ knew, or if Daphne told him why she was taking him to the impressive Daley homestead.

Christopher and CJ silently sized each other up, and Gemma noticed the way they both stood with their hands on their hips, heads cocked slightly to the left, with their brows furrowing in exactly the same way.

“Is it true?” CJ asked, trying to sound like he didn't care, but Gemma knew just how much he did care by the tone of his voice.

Christopher looked helplessly at Gemma.

Gemma arched her eyebrows – this was Christopher's time now – he had to figure this out for himself.

Christopher nodded at the boy. He shifted, as though to lower himself to his knees. Then he extended his hand instead. “It's nice to meet you, CJ.”

CJ stared warily at Christopher's hand as he backed toward Gemma. His little face screwed up as he continued to study his father. There was a hint of defiance and anger in his posture.

“Give him time, love,” Christopher's mother said softly. “He's been through a lot.”

“Can we go home now, Aunty Gem-Gem?” CJ asked, sliding his hand into hers. “To the
farm
?”

Gemma had no idea what to say – what to do here. The farm had always been CJ's second home, and she wanted nothing more than to scoop the boy up in her arms and whisk him away. He was the last of her family now, the last piece connecting her to Caroline and Daphne.

“You got anything you need to take?” Christopher asked CJ, resting his hand lightly on the boy's shoulder.

“My backpack.” CJ stared up at Christopher.

“Well go on then – there's gardens to water and chickens to feed,” Christopher told him.

CJ took off for the house at a run, then suddenly turned. “What about you?” he asked Christopher uncertainly.

“Your aunt here is going to need all the help she can get.” Christopher shrugged nonchalantly. “She did get shot you know.”

“She did?” CJ turned wide eyes on Gemma.

“Holy shit,” Jake said. “Can I see?”

“Jake Murphy Daniels,” Katy said automatically, her eyes as wide as the boys as she stared at Gemma.

“What? I never met someone who got shot before,” Jake said.

“There's nothing to see.” Gemma lifted her shirt slightly to show the bandage covering her side, chuckling when she saw the disappointment in Jake's eyes.

“Go on then, get your backpack,” Christopher told CJ, his eyes sparkling as he jerked his head at Gemma before continuing. “Aunty Gem-Gem here needs to go home and get some rest.”

Gemma was torn between wanting to thump Christopher and wanting to hug him.

“You
will
be sleeping on the couch,” she muttered under her breath, though by the amused look on his mother's face, Gemma suspected the woman knew exactly what she'd said. She'd been sizing Gemma up since the moment they arrived.

The two of them had their own history, and Gemma started to look away – as a teenager, the woman had intimidated the hell out of her – but then she sucked in her breath, and forced herself to meet the woman's penetrating stare.

Margaret Daley had softened over the years, and instead of the contempt she'd always seen as a teenager, Gemma saw only relief and resignation mingling with what appeared to be respect, and that completely blew her away.

Margaret stepped toward Gemma with a warm smile, then suddenly she was drawing Gemma into her arms. “Thank you for bringing my boy home.”

Christopher chuckled as Gemma's jaw dropped open on his mother's shoulder, and Gemma glared at him as Margaret pulled away.

“Can I come to the farm too?” Jake tugged at Christopher's shirt. “I can help feed the chickens and stuff.”

“Maybe next time, squirt. Your mother needs you here with her right now.” Christopher ruffled his nephews streaky blonde locks.

“I'm not a squirt,” Jake scowled, blue eyes flashing.

“I know,” Christopher said seriously. “Soon you'll be as tall as me.”

“You better believe it,” Jake said. “I'm going to be as tall as my dad was. Isn't that right mom?”

“Sure is, squirt,” Katy agreed, eliciting another scowl from the boy.