Dredging Up Memories (19 page)

A blue sign with white lettering sat on wooden posts. It read:

GOD’S ACRE

HEALING SPRINGS

ACCORDING TO TRADITION, THE INDIANS REVERENCED THE WATER FOR ITS HEALING PROPERTIES AS A GIFT FROM THE GREAT SPIRIT. THEY LED THE BRITISH WOUNDED TO THEIR SECRET WATERS DURING THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, AND THE WOUNDED WERE HEALED. THIS HISTORICAL PROPERTY HAS BEEN DEEDED TO GOD FOR PUBLIC USE.  PLEASE REVERE GOD BY KEEPING IT CLEAN.

The closer we got to it, the more the Healing Springs looked like nothing more than a swamp area. The plant life had grown wild along the edges of the trees. There was high grass in spots. The water looked like it wound its way as far to the west and east as it could go.

I parked near the picnic table. Imeko stood from the van, Alaya in his arms and still clutching Humphrey tight. There was blood on the bear’s pajamas.

Alaya didn’t look well. She was sweating, and the whites of her eyes were a deep pink verging on red. Her mouth hung open. A moment later, she threw up blood over Imeko’s shoulder.

“Help me,” Imeko said when he reached the stone table. I held her head as he laid her down. Her skin was hot. Her body jerked, and I thought she was going to go into convulsions. I was more than concerned—I had never seen the infection take hold that quickly. It had been less than twenty minutes since she was bitten, and her body was already giving up.

“She’s not going to make it.”

Imeko paid me no attention. Instead, he went to one of the squared in spigots, turned the handle.

The clearest water I have ever seen came out of that spigot. No rust. No sediment. Just water.

Imeko slipped the book bag off his shoulders, unzipped it, and rummaged around. He pulled small things from the bag —mostly kid’s toys—and set them on the ground. Then he found what he was looking for: a child’s plastic cup. He filled it, stood, though it looked difficult for him to do so, and went to Alaya.

“Lift her head.”

I did as he said, lifting not only her head but also her upper body. I sat down on the table and held her against me to keep her from falling over. It reminded me of Bobby, of the time he was sick with pneumonia. Jeanette and I took turns cradling him at night. It was eleven days of trying to sleep sitting up in a kid’s bed. It was three months of constant worry. Every time he coughed, we stopped what we were doing to check on him. “Are you okay, Bobby?” “Are you sure, Bobby?” “Do you need your inhaler, Bobby?” “Don’t overdo it, Bobby.”

I’m sure that got old.

It made me wonder, is Bobby okay? If he is, is he safe? Where is he? Is he still among the few living? Or is he one of
them
?

A hint of panic rose in my chest, and my breath caught in my throat. I had to fight the urge to drop Alaya to the table and run, to get back in the van and high tail it out of there. Bobby had to be out there somewhere. He had to still be alive.

It was the slight burning sensation in my left hand and right side of my body that brought me back and settled me down. Alaya’s fever had grown worse. Sweat spilled from her body, and she was unresponsive.

Imeko worked quickly, first splashing water onto the wound—a space of only about three inches in diameter. He hurried to the spigot, filled the cup, and came back to the table.

“Alaya, you must drink.”

Her head moved but not much. We were losing her.

“Here,” I said and took the cup. I tilted Alaya’s head back then tipped the cup to her lips, letting a little of the water spill into her mouth. She licked her lips, and her eyes came open a little.

“Drink, Alaya,” I said.

Her small hands went to the cup. They were weak, and she could barely hold them up. But she drank it all.

“More, please.”

Imeko retrieved another cupful. She drank all of it as well, and then she settled into a deep sleep.

Then we waited.

It was a little over six hours before the others arrived at the Healing Springs, but they
did
arrive. It was dark, and at first, I thought they were some of the dead. I raised one of my guns and took aim.

“No,” Imeko said. “They are alive.”

I lowered the gun, thankful to not have to shoot anymore that day.

Alaya’s mother took over holding her. My back and legs popped when I stood. It was sweet relief.

The hours went by slowly. A couple of the Native Americans slept while the others stood watch around Imeko, Alaya, and her mother.

None of them talked to me. Instead, they gave me leery stares, as if they were suspicious of me. Maybe they were.

The sun came up, banishing the night’s darkness. Everyone looked weary. Alaya still lay across her mother’s lap on the picnic table. I wanted to relieve her, to at least give her a moment to stretch and walk around. When I offered, she shook her head and snapped out a quick, “No.”

Sometime in the night, the wound had been bandaged with a torn shirt. After the sun came up, Imeko took it off. The bite mark had been an angry red the day before, and I expected it to be gray, verging on black then. Instead, the skin around the wound was light pink, and the wound itself looked as if it were healing. What should have been dead tissue was still living, still holding true to its color…

…and healing.

“How’s her fever?” Imeko asked.

“She has none,” Alaya’s mother responded.

In the daylight, I took the time to walk around. The names of hundreds of people had been written or carved on boards and parts of trees where the bark had shed. There was a sign nailed to a piece of wood quoting Revelations. But what struck me most was the small figurine of the crucifixion attached to one of the trees with a U-nail. The figure’s head was bowed down in death. Chills ran the length of my body and…

Imeko came up behind me.

“I want to say thank you again, Mr. Walker,” he said. “My granddaughter will live now. If not for your arrival, I fear we all would have died yesterday.”

I heard his words but really only caught what he said about Alaya. I had seen little response from her. Though her wound was better and her fever gone, I couldn’t believe she would live.

“Why do you think she will live?” I asked.

“The water will heal her.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it will.”

“What makes this water so special?”

He didn’t answer for a long while. I feared—and I still believe—I had offended him. When he finally answered, his tone was polite if not measured.

“My ancestors lived on this land many years in the past. They were here when the soldiers came. They were told to bury the soldiers when they died. There were two others, neither of them injured in any way. They stayed here as my ancestors bathed the wounded in the water. They watched men who should have died live.

“This land—this water—was touched by God. It has healing powers that no other spring has. No medicine can do what the Springs can.”

“Why didn’t you put Alaya in the water? Just bypass the need for a cup.”

“The infection. I didn’t want it in the water.”

“But if the water is touched by…”

“Man has contaminated this world enough already. We are being punished for our transgressions, Mr. Walker. This is God’s Acre. This is a holy land. We will not sully it with the dead.”

“The dead? You don’t believe this…this healing springs can save your granddaughter?”

“I believe what will be done, will be done, and if God so wills it to be, then it shall be. I only provided her the chance.”

I was starting to think I had run into another bunch of overly religious quacks. Unlike Pastor White and his flock, this man’s belief was sincere and passionate. He believed the will of God, and he hoped that will involved his granddaughter’s survival.

I can’t say I shared the same belief. I had lost enough to question my own beliefs. I had seen enough of the new world and what the dead could do. I had witnessed answers to questions and had those answers confirmed.

“Fair enough,” I replied.

I thought of leaving, of getting Humphrey and taking off the first chance I got. Then I would swear off all survivors and find somewhere to be, somewhere to live out my last days. Maybe I would find my way back to Lake Murray and…and…and I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I would do. What I was certain of was I was tired of roaming, of running from the dead, and searching for them as well.

Then it happened.

Alaya woke.

She opened her eyes and sat up in her mother’s lap. She didn’t look sick. She didn’t look like she was dying or even close to it.

Her mother cried. So did the other adults.

Imeko went to her, took the bandage off of Alaya’s arm. He touched her face and checked her eyes. He pushed on her stomach.

“It’s a miracle,” he said and lifted his hands to the sky. “Thank you, thank you.”

Tears spilled from his eyes, and he hugged Alaya tight.

I walked over, the world passing far too slow for me to be moving. I saw her, saw the life in her face and movements, saw the wound on her arm. It wasn’t an infected hole, and the flesh wasn’t gray or black or green. The wound itself was pink. The flesh around it was the same as the rest of her skin. The whites of her eyes were no longer red but white.

She was smiling.

And she held Humphrey close. Humphrey seemed to be smiling as well. Her glass eyes appeared to sparkle, as if there were tears in them. If I didn’t know better, her short arms were hugging Alaya.

I knew then…

“You see,” Imeko said to me, his face radiant with joy, “the water is blessed.”

I nodded. It was all I could do. What if I had known about this before Pop had been bitten? Or before Davey Blaylock or Lee had been bitten? Maybe they would still be alive. Maybe…

Maybes are for people who live their lives as dreams rather than reality, and my life was no dream. It was all nightmares.

I stayed with them another night, each one of us keeping watch. The following morning, Alaya was better still. She showed no signs of regression. She was as healthy as a little girl could be.

“You need to move on, Mr. Walker,” Imeko said to me that morning. “You have helped us, helped Alaya, but you must move on. There is nothing here for you.”

“What about you? What about your people? What are you going to do?”

He nodded toward the entrance to the Healing Springs, to God’s Acre. “We will take one of the houses as our own. We will survive.”

“Sounds like you have a plan.”

A nod. His eyes held the steely gaze of a man who had made up his mind. I wasn’t wanted there. I didn’t belong with them.

“Can I take a jug of that water with me?”

“It is not mine to give but yours to take if you so choose.”

I chose.

I drank the last of the water I had in a gallon jug. Then I filled it with the water God had touched. It was my shot at redemption if I ever got bit. I took a clump of clay from close to the water and marked the jug with a brown HS.

It neared noon and the time to leave. I went to Alaya and held my hand out to her. “I need to go now. Can I have the bear back?”

She looked from me to Humphrey and back to me. With her lip poked out, she pulled Humphrey away from her chest and lifted the stuffed bear up. I took Humphrey in both hands. Her white bunny pajamas were stained red and were rough where Alaya’s blood had dried. If I would have looked beneath the clothes, I’m sure Humphrey’s fur would have been crusted red as well.

“Are you ready to go, Humphrey?”

No,
she whispered.

“What?”

I don’t want to go.

“But we have to. Imeko said we have to leave.”

Then leave.

“Humphrey…”

I’m not leaving.

“What are you…what are you saying, Humphrey?”

I want to stay with her. She needs me.

“But…”

I need her.

I could say nothing. For a few minutes, I didn’t move. If there had ever been life in that little bear, it was at that moment. There was a fierceness in her eyes, much like Imeko’s had been. I squatted to eye level with young Alaya, six years old and almost seven and who will see another day as a living person thanks to what I always thought had been a myth. I placed Humphrey in her hands.

“You take good care of her, okay?” I was talking more to Humphrey than Alaya, but it was the girl who answered.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

I turned and went to the van. I didn’t look back to see if Humphrey was watching me leave. Part of me was afraid she wouldn’t be.

Twelve Weeks, Three Days, and a Few Hours After It All Started…

Rain. It was appropriate.

There were no real clouds in the sky when I left Healing Springs. But an hour away, my life changed yet again. Clouds appeared off in the distance. Fat, nasty, gray clouds with black ones lurking behind them.

I pulled off the road at a gas station that I’m certain had little gas to give. I still had plenty of full tanks in the back of the van, but it wasn’t gas I was after. I needed a map.

A rumble of thunder came from overhead. In the far away clouds, I could see the strobe effect of lightning. Then came thunder again.

The glass door of the gas station had been busted out. I stepped through, pistol ready. I surveyed the gray-tinted store. Near the counter was what I needed. I walked over, reached for the South Carolina Roadside Map. I took it and didn’t bother looking around the store after that.

Still, I saw the dead man in the aisle. He was probably the store clerk. From the looks of him, he had been dinner to several of the dead.

“I’m sorry,” I said and put the bullet through the center of his head.

Outside, there were a couple more rotters making their way toward me. Even as members of the dead race, they had seen better days. I could have probably let them rot away, but there were souls trapped inside. I knew this sure as the day was long. I should have saved the bullets, but the bat was cruel, and they had suffered enough. Besides, I had no desires to exert any more effort than I had to at that time. Two shots, one to each head, and they were finally at rest.

In the van, I looked at the map.

“We’re on 321, Humphrey,” I said. “If we take it out, we can pick up Number 1 here, and that will take us back toward Batesburg and—”

And Humphrey wasn’t there. I looked at the empty seat where she had sat for so long with me, where she had been my constant companion. I wiped my mouth. My breaths were deep. I fought back the tears that threatened to fall. 

…

I missed her terribly.

…

…

I wanted to whip the van around and go back for her, take her from that little girl. What good would that have done? She didn’t want to leave her. I can’t blame her—Alaya would probably play with her, would probably love her the way any child would love their stuffed animal.

What had I done to show that I loved Humphrey?

…

Nothing.

…

I had abandoned her once. She had been scared in some of the places we went, by some of the things we saw, probably even by me. I had changed. I was no longer the crumbling man who found her in an abandoned house. I’m not really sure what I was, but I wasn’t the same.

And I was alone again.

I followed 321 and then hit Number 1 just as the map showed. Eventually, I was back on Old Batesburg Road. Not too far down the road would be the turn for the armory. From there, I would proceed to 378.

But first…

Fat Boy’s truck appeared down the road. By then, it was raining, and I had finished off the bottle of Jack Daniels I had pulled from that truck. I pulled up beside the vehicle and got out. Scrawny lay dead in the middle of the road. The woman’s grave was on the opposite side, the dirt like puddled mud now.

Not too far away, maybe a hundred yards or so from where I left him, was Fat Boy. He had managed to somewhat crawl away, mostly on his belly. His intestines trailed behind him.

“Hey there, Fat Boy,” I said. “Remember me?”

He stopped, craned his neck toward me, and let out a growl.

“How you feeling in there? I reckon it sucks, doesn’t it?”

Another groan, and then he turned back to his crawling away. He remembered me. He remembered what I did to him.

“It’s the end of the line, Fat Boy. Say hey to Scrawny when you get where you’re going.”

I pulled out my knife and shoved it into the base of his neck and drove it upward. He collapsed. I didn’t bury him or Scrawny.

I got back in the van and followed the road past the armory and further on down until I reached 378.

A left would have taken me to Newberry and Prosperity and Clinton. But straight took me to Lake Murray. I kept thinking about that boat and drifting my days away. I could do some fishing, catch my own food, clean it, and cook it. Surely, the lake would be teeming with fish by then. I doubted anyone had been fishing there for a while.

I crossed over 378 and followed the road until it forked to the left. I stayed straight and passed a church on the right. The windows had been broken out. I thought of Pastor White and his congregation. I wondered if anyone went there seeking refuge but instead found an overzealous, end-of-the-world, come-follow-me-to-your-death type. Or if they found salvation on their knees with hands and voices lifted high. I hoped, if there had been any seeking shelter from the dead, they found what they wanted and made their peace. I hoped they survived. Though more and more, it seemed like very few lived, and those that did had lost their minds.

I turned left on a street that seemed to lead further toward the lake. I passed a dirt road on the right, stopped and backed up, then turned onto it. I could see the water from the entrance, maybe a hundred yards away. Probably less.

The dirt road circled around in a U until it came out on the road I had been on to start with. There were a handful of houses, a couple of trailers, and several boats that sat near piers. Circling back, I stopped at the first place to the right. It was a trailer and kind of ramshackled at that. A brick house sat in what looked like the trailer’s yard. Behind them both was a fence where it looked like animals had been kept. Off to the left was another trailer. This one looked sturdier, but it was lower to the ground. I pulled onto the easement to the right and to the side of the first trailer. There was a tractor beneath a wooden canopy and another smaller building beside it. I found out later it was a tool shed.

It wasn’t the perfect place, and there was plenty of work that needed to be done to make it safe. The stairs leading to the back door were high off the ground, and the ones in the front could easily be removed, making it harder for the dead to get inside. I would have to board up a set of glass patio doors, but for the time being, it would do for shelter.

“Come on,” I said, reaching for Humphrey. Again, I had forgotten she was gone. My hand hung in the air for several seconds before pulling it away.

Before heading to the trailer, I downed the last of a bottle of water. Some of it spilled down the side of my mouth. The whiskey had been gone for about an hour, and the water would have to do. I can’t really say if I was a little drunk. If not, I missed a good chance to be. My ears hummed, and the world felt a little off kilter.

I peered in through the patio doors. The place was dark, but the sun shone through enough to see a dining room table, a couch, coffee table, and a door off to the right with what looked like the entrance to a kitchen to the left. I saw no bodies of any kind. The patio door, like so many others after people abandoned their homes, was unlocked. It slid open with ease.

The place was cooler than I expected. And clean. No one had ransacked it searching for supplies. I went around the dinner table and stood in the living room. A useless big screen television sat across from me along with a recliner, a rocker, and a piano. A small hallway led to the back door. Across the hall was another room. There were pictures of children and adults, a family portrait full of smiling people.

The door to the right led to a bedroom and a bathroom. I left that room, crossed the living room, and stepped into what amounted to a small hall that really wasn’t a hall at all but more like a two-foot-wide divider between the two rooms. There was a table in the room in front of me and several full bookcases, a computer desk, and another piano. They must have liked pianos. Across the room and to the left was another bathroom and bedroom.

The bathroom was white tiled with a forest green toilet and bathtub. The sink was the same green, but there were no toiletries on the counter that surrounded it. Instead, there was a five-gallon jug, like one that belonged at a water cooler. The water in the jug was clear, probably cleaner than any water from a faucet but not as clean as the water from Healing Springs. A hose ran from a fitted cap to another jug, this one more like a pot with a lid. The pot sat on a homemade oil burner. On the floor next to the counter were items I didn’t expect to see in a bathroom. Cornmeal, sugar, malt, and yeast, all of them opened at one time but now held shut with clothespins.

A homemade still. I couldn’t help but smile. If I hadn’t been already well lit, I probably would have tried the shine. But, at that time, I didn’t.

The house was empty. No living. No dead.

I left the bathroom and walked back out into what I could only think of as a den. On the wall was a picture of a woman in her wedding gown. Her hair and eyes were brown, and she had a great smile, a genuine smile. Her face was radiant. She was a pretty woman.

“You made someone very happy, didn’t you?”

Thankfully, the picture didn’t answer.

Evening would be coming soon, and the sun would lay itself to sleep. I had work to do, but I was tired. So tired. My head was heavy and swimming. My body told me to lie down and rest before I passed out. The world was out of focus. It had been a long time since I drank anything besides beer. The whiskey had gotten to me.

Standing in that room, staring at the picture of the beautiful woman on the wall, I imagined life in that house. Did she live there? What was her name? Did she have kids?

The sounds of children, a boy and a girl, came from behind me. I spun on my heel, pistol drawn, surprised by their voices. Giggles filled the room, and footsteps ran away from me.

I crossed the room in four long strides, searched the next room, then the kitchen and the back bedroom.

Nothing.

But I heard it.

What's wrong, Walker?

“Did you hear that?”

Hear what?

“The children. They were laughing. They ran off. I heard them. I heard their footsteps.”

There are no children. There is only you.

I turned, searched the room. Humphrey’s voice was so loud, so real, so much older than I had recalled. But there was no Humphrey.

The laughter came again. I circled the kitchen and went to the front door. I found no one.

“Who’s there?” 

Footsteps followed, the heavy thumps of kids who still hadn’t learned to run soft.

No running through the house.

I turned, gun out in front of me, finger on the trigger. The voice had a melody to it, a sing-song tone. It was beautiful. But there was no one there. My head spun, and I wavered a little on my feet.

The back bedroom was still empty except for a dresser and two beds—probably where the children slept. There were no toys, no clothes in the dresser and only a handful in the closet—none of them belonging to children. There was no one in the closet or in the bathroom. I pulled the shower curtain back to see a green tub and several full jugs, much like the one on the counter.

Laughter again, this time more than the happy giggles of children. There were adults, both young and old, and they were in the living room. And I ran back in there and…

Nothing.

The laughter filled my ears. Bits and pieces of conversations filtered in. I turned, my pistol out at arm’s length, looking for ghosts that weren’t there. A whisper on my neck and I whirled, pulled the trigger. A hole appeared in the piano, but there wasn’t a person lying dead on the floor.

I shoved the gun into my waistband, slid the pack from my shoulders.

I remember doing that.

Then everything went hazy and gray around the edges. White dots filled my vision, and it was tough to breathe.

Then I was falling…falling…