Life Sentence (19 page)

As in the couple of years previous, I went to summer
camp with Vera. Away from others, our slight difference in age
seemed to matter less, and we could play more and enjoy ourselves
without the roles or expectations of others. We’d build dams in
little streams or race little boats we had made out of sticks. We
would make cornhusk dolls and put them through all the tribulations
of their tiny lives—keeping house, raising children, plowing
fields, fighting zombies. And for us, there were berries to gather
and can, meat to hang and smoke, ditches to dig and maintain to
water the crops, weeds to pull, manure to spread. Every day was the
most invigorating mix of leisure and work, with nothing dutiful or
lazy, burdensome or distracting about either.

We worked a farm with a woman named Fran Clark.
Unlike any other adult I knew then, she always had us call her by
her first name, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable or naughty doing
so. Around her a first name seemed more appropriate, even though
that didn’t mean she was friendlier or more compassionate than
other adults. If anything, she seemed slightly awkward and gruff
around kids and had never had any of her own; she was just more
forthright and direct as a way of dealing with the awkwardness, and
calling her by her first name was part of that.

She was slightly younger than my mom and was one of
the tallest women I knew. Her hair was blond and she kept it very
short. Though her hair and bright blue eyes made her quite pretty,
she was definitely less feminine than either my mom or Ms. Wright.
Fran was athletic and muscular like Ms. Wright, but her body type
was completely different: long and evenly muscled all over. As I
often felt that summer, I was constantly in awe of how comfortable
Fran was with her own body, especially when we’d swim in the pond
near the farm; she showed no hesitation or embarrassment at being
naked, while I tried to get in the water as quickly as possible,
just to be covered up.

Fran would take us hunting and she was as good with
a rifle or bow as anyone I’ve ever seen. The weeks with her and
Vera were always exhilarating and calming at the same time, the
three of us removed from society in our version of summer vacation,
and yet so busily supplying our city’s physical needs. Every night
I’d fall asleep completely exhausted and fulfilled, content that
everything was right and balanced and whole.

Like all of the farmhouses in the countryside beyond
the live zone, the one we shared with Fran was a small, one-room
house on stilts. It was the only kind of structure that made sense
in an area where the dead might still be roaming around. If they
found the house, you could easily kill them—if it unfortunately
came to that—or you could fire off a flare and wait for help.

The actual room we lived in only contained our beds
and a few other simple pieces of furniture. We did all our cooking
and cleaning outside, near the building, before we climbed up into
the house at night. The whole structure was only used during the
summer, so it didn’t need a fireplace or other source of heat. The
generator and toilet were in separate little sheds, the former
right under the house, the latter farther away, obviously.

All in all, it was a lot like living in a tree
house, and there was even a tradition where the kids and adults
gathered most nights to read stories like
Swiss Family Robinson,
Robinson Crusoe,
or
Tarzan
. Reading ancient books that
described people surviving or even thriving in rustic, primitive
living arrangements made our own situation seem less like an oddity
or burden of our harsh existence, but more like a treat—a fun,
carefree adventure. (Of course, by that summer I’d already read
Lord of the Flies
on my own, so some of the romanticized
notions of “the wild” had taken on other, more sinister
implications for me.) Hard work aside, when they were ten or
twelve, all kids thought the summer camp farmhouses were the
greatest places to live and sleep.

Our particular farm was growing all kinds of
vegetables, so it needed a lot of water. The large pond right by
the house was a perfect supply, and had only required some minor
construction to irrigate the plants. It also spilled over in a
little waterfall into a stream below, making a constant roar that
was soothing and—along with the drone of the summertime insects—a
delight to fall asleep to. I was eager and relieved to be in such a
peaceful place, after so much death and so many things fraught with
meaning and sadness.

One day after working hard in the fields, we cooled
off in the pond, ate lunch, and climbed up into the house. We’d
often go inside during the hottest part of the day, and either take
a nap or play board games or read. This day we were all tired
enough to sleep a little bit. We got dressed in our lightest,
coolest cotton clothes, and we all lay down for a rest.

Sometime later, I awoke to a roaring, tearing sound.
I wasn’t fully awake, and looked around to see the whole room
tipping, completely dreamlike and unbelievable. Our beds slid
across the floor and crashed into the far wall, and that sensation,
along with Vera’s shriek and a curse from Fran, jarred me
completely awake.

I stood up among the remains of my bed. Standing was
difficult, the floor was tilted so steeply, and I was stepping on
wreckage with my bare feet.

“Girls,” Fran said, making her way through the
broken furniture, “find the guns. Find the flare, too.” She picked
up an aluminum bat out of the rubble. “There must be a lot of them,
if they could pull out one of stilts. No moaning, though. That’s
weird.”

I felt icy cold at the prospect of that many zombies
outside, but Fran’s voice was so even and calm it took away a
little of the panic and made me search carefully and
methodically.

I climbed down to the floor and rummaged among the
pieces of a little table, which had stored a loaded handgun.

Vera shrieked again, and from the window came an
animal roar. A hairy, unkempt man was climbing into the house. He
held a huge knife and was dressed in a hodgepodge of skins and
various bits of fabric. He definitely wasn’t dead, he moved too
fast and fluidly.

He made for Fran, but the tilted floor was just as
awkward for him, and she’d already seen him. As graceful and sudden
as Ms. Wright had been, she struck him in the head with the bat.
There was an arc of blood and a rasping groan as he spun and
fell.

I saw the handle of a gun among the wreckage and
grabbed it. The gun’s cold, solid weight sent confidence surging
through me. It was Fran’s magnum, so I’d only have six shots, and
it was hard as hell for me to fire it at all, since it was so big
and heavy and the recoil would nearly knock me over.

I was trying to stand as two more men dressed in
skins came through the window. At the same moment, another man
crashed through the door. They had Fran from two sides now.

She stepped back and swung the bat at the man who
had come through the door. He blocked it and groaned as the metal
slammed into his forearm, and the other two men threw themselves at
Fran, knocking her down. It’d be risky to shoot with them on top of
her, but I tried to take aim.

I raised the magnum as two more of them came through
the window and started towards me. It was good to see the hideous,
animal lust in their eyes turn for the briefest moment into fear as
they looked down the magnum’s barrel. You never got either of those
looks from the dead—just blind incomprehension, like a fish—and it
always made killing them seem wrong, unfair, culpable. Tightening
my fingers on the pistol’s grip that day, I didn’t feel any of
that, but instead a sudden rush. Later I wasn’t sure which feeling
was worse, but I knew both were necessary.

The magnum exploded and jerked way up above my head.
I was deafened and my ears started ringing. Both the ceiling and
the man nearest the window were splattered with brains as the
bullet tore out the back of the other man’s skull. Fully awake and
armed and well trained, I felt no fear or confusion. I was
clearheaded enough to wonder, briefly, why Fran had loaded the
bedside gun with hollow points.

I brought the gun down as quickly as I could, but
the brain-splattered man swatted it to the side. I twisted and
screamed and tried again to bring it back up, but he had grabbed my
hand. Training or no, there was no way I would win, wrestling with
him for the gun.

He smashed his left fist into my face. I was stunned
and could barely see. He’d hit me so hard it bent me down almost
double. I dropped the gun and it fell among the debris.

He still had a hold of my left hand. I raised my
right to block as he punched down again. The blow hurt my arm like
hell, but at least I’d deflected it. Another punch like the first
and I doubted I’d be able to see or stand at all.

It was hard to keep my balance, but I kicked him
with my right foot, as hard as I could, right in the groin. He
loosened his grip on my left hand and I wrenched it away.

With a shriek, Vera jumped on the man’s back. She
wasn’t well trained, but it was an unexpected attack and it kept
him distracted and off balance. I rummaged around on the floor for
the magnum. It must have slid or been kicked away, because I
couldn’t find it. I saw that a piece of wood had splintered off
from a table leg or a slat from the bed. It was about a foot and a
half long and very pointy. I grabbed it.

The man had pulled Vera off his back and had flung
her away. As he turned to me, I shoved the wooden spike as hard as
I could, upward, beneath his ribs on his right side. He grabbed my
hand and let out a shriek. I’d heard pigs slaughtered before; this
sound was a lot like that. I could feel his grip loosen on my wrist
and he staggered back and collapsed. The wood had probably slid all
the way through his liver; he’d bleed out after a couple minutes of
intense pain. Of course, he’d get back up then, but we had more
urgent problems.

I looked to Vera, and she was getting up and looked
okay. I was turning back to see what had happened to Fran when
there was another explosion, audible over the ringing in my ears.
Someone else had a gun out. Fran was on her stomach on the floor,
still struggling, and two of the men had her pinned, punching and
elbowing her intermittently as she fought them. The third intruder
was standing, and he was the shooter. His gun looked like a 9mm
semi-automatic pistol. “All right, cue ball,” he said evenly,
lowering the barrel till it was pointed at my head. “That’s about
enough out of you.”

Staring at him and panting, I felt sorry I’d failed
Vera and Fran and I hoped they could forgive me. Vera came up next
to me and put her hand on my shoulder. It was good to have her
there, but I really hoped he’d just shoot me, so I wouldn’t have to
see her suffer. I had a somewhat fuller concept than I thought she
did, of what they would do to us.

I raised my left hand. I was up to my knees in
wreckage, and I knelt down slightly, leaning to my right and
feeling around as inconspicuously as possible, hoping the bed would
hide what I was doing. I still hoped for the magnum or perhaps one
of the other guns in the room, though I doubted I could move fast
enough even if I found one.

The shooter stepped towards me. “Other hand up,
missy,” he said with that same dry, measured tone. “You crazy
bitches have way too many guns and shit lying around here.”

I had the very cold and unpleasant realization that
his tone probably wouldn’t change much during our brief, violent
relationship—whether he was threatening me, mocking me, raping me,
or beating me to death. I put both hands on top of my head.

“Good. Better.” He told his cohorts to take Fran
outside and tie her to the bumper of the truck, and they dragged
her, still kicking, out the door.

The shooter stood staring at us, panting, until one
of the other men returned. “All right. You—the nappy-headed little
one. Go with him or I’ll blow your friend’s head off. Now.”

Vera looked to me and I nodded slightly. She climbed
over the wrecked furniture and the other man dragged her out the
door.

“Good. Now we can have some fun.”

The shooter finally looked over to check on the man
I had stabbed. He had collapsed on the pieces of one bed, clutching
at his wound. Blood had soaked through his clothes from his chest
to his knees, and it had stained the bedclothes all around him,
still creeping outward from his body. He had been wheezing, slowly
and wetly, with decreasing frequency as Fran and Vera were taken
outside.

“Bart? How you doing over there?”

“Not so good, Rhodes. Kid’s a crazy little
bitch.”

“She sure is, Bart.” The shooter aimed his gun at
the other man, though he was still watching me from the corner of
his eye.

Bart, the dying man, didn’t look scared like when I
had trained the magnum on him, just resigned, as if this was boring
and predictable, which I suppose it was to him. “Can’t even wait
for me to turn?”

Rhodes smiled. It was cold, reptilian, though also
grotesquely flawed from years of neglect, more like the grin you
saw on dead animals as their flesh pulled back over their rotted,
broken teeth. It didn’t express emotion, but tension, like a spring
or a bow. Like his voice, I felt sure it would serve as his
all-purpose expression for all manner of cruelty and abuse. “Nah,
I’m not that patient. But hey—at least I’m using a bullet. I
thought that’d be nicer—quicker and cleaner than a shovel or axe. I
know you’d do the same for me, buddy.”

The other man blinked once, slowly. “Yeah. You’re a
real saint.” He looked at me. “This is all your fault, you crazy
bitch. I hope this psycho here turns you out worse than you can
stand for laying me up here to die.”

I stared back at him, evenly and placidly. I didn’t
feel hatred or anger; I didn’t feel sympathy, either. He was the
first living man I’d ever killed. It’s always surprised me, in all
the years since, that I didn’t feel much beyond the tiniest, almost
tickling sensation of disgust and the slightest, almost
imperceptible chill of pity. “People used to believe that things
turned out better for you if you thought something a little nice
right at the end.” It was the only response I could think of, and I
thought it was apt.