Life Sentence (10 page)

I placed my weapon on the table. Mom and I sat down,
still looking over at the wet pile of clothes and flesh. “How’d it
get here?” Mom asked quietly.

I shrugged. That was not part of my training. I
noticed my hands shook now.

“Maybe it was pinned under water until it could tear
its own arm off and get loose,” Mom said. “Maybe it washed
downstream with the spring floods. I guess there’s no telling.” She
looked at the 9mm on the table, then at me. “When did you get the
gun?”

“Dad gave it to me. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m only a little mad you didn’t tell me. I knew
you’d need a gun of your own soon. You and your dad will pardon me
if I wanted to put it off as long as possible.”

I got up, thinking of everything I’d been trained,
remembering my duties. “You think we can burn it in the parking lot
without starting a brush fire?”

She shivered as she gathered our stuff. “I guess we
have to.”

“Honor the dead. It’s our duty.”

We dragged it over to the parking lot, so it could
dry in the sun while we made a pile of grass and sticks. We placed
the body on top, and I ignited the pyre with a knife and a piece of
flint. We unfortunately could not stay upwind the whole time it
burned, as we had to keep moving around to stomp out the little
fires where sparks had blown off the conflagration. It was a smoky,
nasty affair and it took much longer than either of us would have
liked.

When it was done and we left, I wondered whether we
were supposed to honor the dead man by coming here more often to
gather strawberries, or if, instead, we were to honor him by
avoiding this place for anything as frivolous as gathering bright,
little berries right by his burnt bones. Desecration and
sanctification seemed so close in life. As I watched my mom’s back,
I also wasn’t sure what she would say; she had somewhat surprised
me with how calm she had been during the whole attack, how composed
and resigned to what we had to do. And though I had some preference
for the kind of honoring that would include berry-gathering, I
couldn’t tell if that was only because I liked strawberries. I
would have to ask Milton about it, as I was unable to decide which
was right. Perhaps both were. Perhaps neither.

In the days that followed, Lucy and I explored other
storage units. I found so many books I had to prioritize them,
deciding which I would like to read first, and which things—like
books of tax laws or computer programming—could just be left out
for the others to rummage through, since they seemed to like that.
We hadn’t found anything yet that Lucy liked as much as I liked
books, though I felt sure that soon we would.

She wasn’t as visual a person as the rest of us.
Shiny, bright, or colorful things didn’t seem to interest her. This
would explain why she’d picked an outfit of completely mismatched,
dark colors. I liked this about her because it made her different
from the others, but it also seemed sad, since her one good eye was
so much clearer and prettier than those of the rest of us, yet it
didn’t seem to function as well for her. I couldn’t remember the
word for that at first, but then I found it in one of my new books.
It was
ironic
. But not funny in the humorous way, I don’t
think, just sad.

Lucy seemed serious and not given to humor in
general. And she really seemed to be searching for something in the
boxes, intent on finding something we hadn’t uncovered. Every
afternoon, after looking all morning, I’d settle on the sofa to
read, but she would keep looking. I didn’t mind; I knew she’d be
careful with everything, not like the others, and she’d put
everything back where it had been. Sometimes she’d bring me a book,
and I thought that was nice of her. Then later in the evening, as
it got dark, she would join me and we would just sit. She would sit
closer to me now, leaning against me, and I liked that. Like pain
or tears or speech, I understood what sexuality was, but I knew it
was not a part of me now. Nonetheless, I liked Lucy to be near me,
and I wished I knew what she was looking for, so that I could help
her find it.

Then one afternoon, as I sat reading, Lucy sat down
next to me with a small black case. In it there was a violin and
bow. She tuned the instrument, though my hearing was either not
trained, or sensitive, or perhaps undamaged enough to distinguish
the difference or improvement. Then she held the violin between her
chin and shoulder and started to play.

Again, I’m no expert—I’m not even sure whether or
not I like violin music—but from Lucy it sounded divine. In a way
it was the perfect complement to her stunning, feminine beauty,
that she could make such captivating and enchanting music. And best
of all, I could see how happy it made her to play like this.

I looked past Lucy to where the others were
shuffling around. They continued moving restlessly about,
occasionally stopping near us, seeming to listen for a moment, the
way they would occasionally grab something from a box, examine it
for a second, then wander off. I understood how lucky Lucy and I
were to have at least some of our senses intact. It also helped me
understand why we didn’t have the same preferences. Lucy’s sight
and her ability to process or understand visual images must have
been diminished, along with some of her ability to move her whole
body, while her hearing and her love of music were still acute and
her dexterity with her hands was exceptional. And I had trouble
focusing, I wasn’t very dexterous, and my hearing was not
especially attuned, but I had retained the ability to read.

And the other people? I still wasn’t sure what they
were capable of. I suddenly felt scared and sad that each of them
might have some little part of themselves that still worked
perfectly, but they couldn’t express or share it with others
because of all the clumsiness and inertia of their bodies, the same
reason poor Lucy had struggled for so long before she’d found her
violin.

As for Milton and Will, they were a complete mystery
to me, what their abilities or deficiencies were, beyond their
ability to speak, which all of us here seem to lack. Maybe they had
fewer deficiencies overall, and that’s why they were in charge. Or
was it just because they could hurt us, the way Milton had implied
when he’d seen me looking with fear at Will? But he’d also said we
were locked in here to keep us from hurting other people. Overall,
the situation confused me, but at the same time I felt much better
than before, now that Lucy was happy.

Lucy and I would still spend our mornings together,
searching through the treasures in the storage units, though she
didn’t have the same urgency and frustration as before. Mostly she
would find more books for me, and sometimes she’d find other things
she liked, especially if they made some sound, like music boxes or
other musical instruments, though everything that needed
electricity or batteries was useless. We found an old bicycle, and
although neither of us was coordinated enough to ride it, it had a
bell on it that made the most welcoming tinkle, so Lucy wheeled it
over to our area so she could ring it now and then. Then we would
spend the afternoon together on the sofa, though now we both had
something we liked, and that made it so much nicer.

One afternoon as we sat there, I could hear the
others getting more agitated and making noise. I put my books away,
because I suspected it was Will and Milton. I gently touched Lucy’s
hand, to indicate to her that she should put down her violin too.
Then I noticed she was sniffing the air, baring her teeth, and
growling. I knew then it must have been Will by himself, or someone
like him, someone the others perceived as both a threat and
food.

I stood up and held my hand in front of Lucy as I
shook my head. I had wondered whether she still tried to eat, and I
had no way to tell her that she shouldn’t, but I was worried for
her—worried either that the others might hurt her as they fought to
get at Will, or that Will would hurt her. I wanted her to stay here
with me. She remained seated, but she kept sniffing and
growling.

I stood and moved farther out from our cubicle so I
could see the main gate, but I kept my hand on Lucy’s shoulder. The
gate was closed, but the other people were congregating around it
and making noise.

Then Will came running along the fence and—quicker
than I thought possible—he climbed it, threw a tarp over the barbed
wire at the top, and pulled himself over to our side. He looked at
me, then ran back towards the others, who were slowly turning away
from the main gate to catch up with him. A second gate separated
the area around the office from the storage units, and Will pulled
this closed and wrapped a chain around it and locked it. Lucy and I
were trapped in here with him, and he was safe from the other
people, who were now locked in the area between the two gates. I
didn’t like this at all, and I helped Lucy stand in case she had to
get away or hide. I didn’t know what to expect.

Will approached us. I kept Lucy behind me and
extended my arm to keep her from attacking Will. On her feet she
moved more slowly and awkwardly than I, so I could keep her back,
but it was an effort, and I was trying also to watch Will.

He approached slowly with his hands out in front,
his palms towards us. I noticed his clothing more than I had
before, now that he was closer. He was dressed all over in a heavy
material, denim or canvas. It was patchwork, like it had been
worked on and repaired many times. He also wore a glove on his left
hand, and this, along with his left arm, had bits of metal sewn on
to the thick fabric. It was obviously a kind of armor he’d made to
keep people from biting him.

“Easy there,” he said quietly, though his voice was
still hard, commanding, not like Milton’s soothing tones. “I just
want to talk some more, and Milton keeps taking me away like you
need privacy or something.” I was happy to see that Milton
understood what I was feeling and had been considerate. “I just
want to find out what you know. You obviously understand what I’m
saying. Can you speak?”

I shook my head.

“All right. But we’re communicating okay so far. Is
this your girlfriend?”

I looked back at Lucy. I didn’t want to embarrass
her, as obviously I had never referred to her as that before. But
she took her eye off Will and stared straight at me, and I knew she
wouldn’t mind. I nodded.

Will shook his head. “Wow. That really takes some
getting used to. You don’t…?” He shook his head more vigorously.
“No, never mind that. I can see where Milton was right about some
things being private. Okay. You don’t seem to want to eat people,
is that right?”

I nodded again.

“It doesn’t look like she or any of the others have
the same tastes.”

I shook my head.

“All right. Milton’s always talking about how you
all are still part of our community, and we should respect you. And
most of the time, I see all of you just bumping into each other and
trying to eat people, and I think he’s lost it, and we should just
shoot you all in the head.” Lucy got very agitated at this. I
really didn’t know how much speech she understood, but something
insulting and threatening seemed to have gotten through at that
point.

With an inhuman snarl that rose to a shriek, she
shoved past me and lunged at Will. She was far too slow and clumsy
to catch him by surprise or overpower him, and I was sure she’d be
dead in seconds. Will stepped into her lunge and brought his
gauntleted left hand up; her mouth clamped down on it. He was big
enough and strong enough that from that position he could hold her
at bay and keep her arms from reaching him. Given how muscular he
was, and how obviously used to fighting, I suspected he could snap
her neck from that position too.

I stepped towards him, and even though I was faster
than Lucy, I hadn’t even taken a full step when the barrel of an
unbelievably huge revolver was in my face. I didn’t know much about
guns, but I was pretty sure that when the hammer was pulled back—as
it already was when Will raised it to my face—then it was really
bad to be where I was, in front of this end of the barrel.

Besides its size—which was beyond belief, so much
that I couldn’t believe Will could hold it rock-steady at arm’s
length like he was—it was also an exceptionally shiny revolver,
which starkly contrasted with the infinite blackness inside the
barrel. For the first time that I could remember, I realized what
death was, and that I did not want to die. But I also knew I had to
defend Lucy.

Will shook his head very slightly. “No,” he said,
staring me right in the eye. “I’ll paint that wall with your brains
before you twitch, Mr. Smart Zombie. And then I’ll do the same to
your girlfriend. So why don’t you explain to her—however you
explain things—that it’d be a good idea for her to let go of me.
All right?” He clenched and unclenched his teeth from the pain her
bite was obviously causing him.

I kept my eye on the gun and took a step back. I
didn’t understand the thing he had called me, but I understood what
needed to happen. I placed my hand on Lucy’s shoulder and held her
gently as I gave her the low wheeze that we used to express
something indistinctly positive or affirmative; we hardly had the
exact vocabulary for what Will wanted me to communicate, nor for
what I really wanted to say, which was that I loved her and didn’t
want her to be hurt. She was unbelievably taut, vibrating from the
anger and exertion of clamping down on Will’s hand. I squeezed her
shoulder more, but still gently, and I kept up the low sound until
finally I felt her relax slightly. Will’s hand slipped from her
mouth, and she and I stepped away from him.

Will took a step back as well. “Okay. Now the gun
stays out when we talk. I was trying to say something nice, lady
zombie. I said that I think of shooting you all because you act
like animals, or worse. Having a whole pen full of you is too much
like having a pen full of rabid, starved wolves. I don’t like it.
But you two seem to be different.” Will tilted his head to indicate
me with his chin. “He doesn’t eat people, and you both seem to
understand it when I talk. And you seem to like each other. He
almost got his head blown off just now, trying to defend you. There
are plenty of real people who wouldn’t do that for a girlfriend, or
anyone else, and there are plenty of real people who’ll hurt and
kill for less than food.”