Life Sentence (22 page)

After some discussion, it was generally agreed that
we weren’t under an invasion from some other, large, organized
group of humans, and if we could seal the fence back up and clear
the area of any zombies that had gotten through, we’d be safe
again. My dad, along with Vera’s dad and some other people, would
keep watch over the breach tonight and make sure no one else got
through. When the construction equipment arrived in the morning,
they would start the repairs. My mom pulled me away to take me back
to the city, along with Vera and her mom.

I knew I’d have to ask my mom while my dad was still
around, because I knew what their answers would be. “Can’t I stay
with Dad? I’m not hurt. I don’t want to go home.”

They looked at each other. You realize when you get
older that divide-and-conquer is how you got most everything you
asked your parents for when you were younger, though at the time it
was just a natural, reflexive way to approach any request. “No,” my
mom began, “you can’t be out there at night, not with the fence
torn open. No.”

Negotiation and compromise was another important
element in adolescent maneuvers. “No, I didn’t mean going out there
at night. I’ll stay here tonight, with Fran. Then we’ll go out to
the fence when they go out with the construction equipment in the
morning.”

“Why in the world do you want to do that? You can’t
help with the construction. You should just come home.”

Logic and practicality were the final, deciding
elements you brought in for these kinds of conversations, even if
they were, in fact, the furthest things from your reasons. “They’ll
need someone to keep watch with a rifle, right, Dad?”

He looked between me and my mom. He knew what I was
doing, I was sure even then. But he knew I wanted to be with Fran.
Vera was young enough that she’d want to be with her mom as soon as
a crisis was over. I was just old enough to want to be with the
other people who’d survived the crisis. And as I said, he always
pushed me to do more dangerous things, to take responsibility,
rather than just be kept safe; and there was something in me that
always responded to this.

“Well,” he began tentatively, watching for my mom’s
reaction. I knew he’d give in to her if she were really adamant
about it, but with the conclusion that we were not under a general
siege, I suspected she might not be completely dead set against my
staying out here. Danger was all around anyway, as Mr. Enders and
Ms. Dresden’s baby had shown. “She’s as good with a rifle as anyone
I know,” Dad said. “We could use her and Fran looking out for
anything sneaking up on us. If you think you’ll be up to it
tomorrow morning, Fran.”

“Sure,” Fran replied. “I just need some sleep
tonight. I’ll keep an eye on her. We’ll just sit there with our
binoculars tomorrow.”

I looked back to my mom. She finally agreed. She
hugged me. “You poor, little thing,” she whispered, “always trying
to be so big and responsible. You come back and just stay with me
after this and not do anything with guns and dead people for a
while.”

I hugged her back. “I will, Mom,” I whispered. “I
want that too.”

I slept in the farmhouse with Fran and the other
people that night. I was on the floor. Fran was on the bed closest
to me, since her injuries were worse and would cause her more pain.
Before we fell asleep, she leaned over and rubbed my head.

“Thanks for sticking up for me, Fran,” I said
quietly. “I wanted to stay out here with you and Dad.”

She smiled a little. Like Ms. Wright, it wasn’t a
frequent expression with her. “I know, Zoey. But your mom is right
too. You took your vows and everyone knows what you can do. I saw
you in the cabin, so I definitely know. But you don’t always have
to be hard and strong and in control. You can be a kid
sometimes.”

“I know. I want to be. But later. Not right
now.”

The next morning I was awakened by the sound of big,
diesel engines.

The other people in the cabin were already making
breakfast outside. I joined them as the trucks pulled up, hauling
the construction equipment and supplies.

Ms. Dresden got down from the cab of the one truck.
Unlike Fran or Ms. Wright, she smiled more frequently, even after
all she’d been through. Her smile was pretty, too, like the rest of
her. Her eyes sparkled and she seemed radiant that day. “Oh, I’m
glad to see you,” she said as she hugged me. “I was so mean to you,
and then to have this happen. I just wanted to see you as soon as I
could.”

Someone passed me a plate of fried eggs, and I
shared them with Ms. Dresden. They were hot, with runny yolks, and
we both giggled a little as it ran down our chins and we tried to
wipe it up. It felt good to laugh with her. As Fran had said,
sometimes suffering made you feel closer to other people.

“Come on, ride in the truck with me,” Ms. Dresden
said as we finished eating. We walked over to a big flatbed truck.
On the bed of the truck was a backhoe that had been fitted with a
post hole digger. Ms. Dresden climbed into the cab next to the
driver and pulled me up next to her.

We drove to the fence and I saw the damage Will had
described. It was senseless and excessive and useless. Maybe they
were trying to let in more zombies so we’d be less able to defend
ourselves. Or who knew? I remembered the etymology of the word
“vandalism” and that’s what it reminded me of—barbarians destroying
something civilized and peaceful, not even for tactical reasons,
but just because of what it represented.

Ms. Dresden drove the backhoe off the flatbed. Other
people moved about, unrolling fencing, mixing cement. Fran walked
over from one of the other trucks and handed me an M16. No scope,
but for picking off things at a distance the M16 with iron sights
was a perfect choice. It felt good to hold it—solid, reliable,
powerful. Fran had the same kind of weapon. My dad came up to us a
minute later. He smiled and squeezed my shoulder. “You okay,
kiddo?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m fine.”

One big panel truck used to bring supplies was
parked on a slight hill away from the others. My dad pointed to it.
“I figure that’s a good spot for you two.”

“Sure is,” Fran agreed. “Where’s Will?”

“He was here when we got here last night, but then
he went off to scout around farther out. You know how he is.
There’s no telling him to do anything, other than what he thinks he
should do. And I don’t worry much about him, the way he handles
himself.

“Anyway, I got to check on the supplies,” my dad
concluded. “The hole’s a lot bigger than we thought. Give a holler
if you see anything.”

Fran and I walked up the hill to the truck. With the
driver’s door open, she pulled herself onto the roof of the cab. I
handed the rifles to her, then she helped me up. We had to stretch
to pull the door closed, but once we did, there was no easy way for
someone to climb up after us, which was always the first thing you
looked for in a spot you wanted to occupy all day out here. We
climbed to the top of the cargo part of the truck, eleven feet or
so from the ground. Fran spread a blanket, so we wouldn’t get
burned as the sun heated the metal roof. We sat cross-legged,
facing opposite ways, leaning against each other’s back. It was a
funny position, but it felt nice—sturdy, restful, and intimate. Our
rifles lay across our laps and Fran handed me binoculars as she got
out a pair for herself. We scanned all around as the people began
their work beneath us. Beyond the workers, out in the fields and
hills for hundreds of yards around, we saw the occasional rabbit,
deer, or bird, but no humans, either living or dead.

“You sleep good?” Fran said to make small talk.

“Yes, really peaceful,” I replied. “You?”

“Great. I remember I used to have trouble sleeping,
years ago. But not since we’ve been living in our little group. I
always sleep so well now. Straight through the night, and I either
have no dreams, or nice ones about my parents or friends I knew
when I was little. I bet people would think we’d have nightmares
now, living the way we do. Isn’t that funny?”

“Sleep is the cousin of death.” I remembered reading
that somewhere.

Her back moved a little against mine, like she was
sitting up straighter and partly turning toward me. “What?”

“Sleep is the cousin of death. They’re related,
similar. They’re almost the same. So maybe we got so used to death
being around all the time that sleep comes to us more naturally,
more easily.” I really had never thought of it before, but it just
kind of came together that way in my head.

Her back shook a little bit from a chuckle, and her
muscles rippled and slid against me as she turned back the other
way. “Zoey, you say the damndest things sometimes. You really
do.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I like it.”

“Thanks, Fran. Thanks for not thinking I’m weird.” I
wasn’t sure where this came from, either, but it also just occurred
to me.

She reached over her own shoulder to squeeze mine.
“I’d never think that, Zoey. You should know that.”

“Yeah. I guess I do. I’m glad you’re my friend.”

“I’m glad too.”

We sat up there and kept watching, talking on and
off about unimportant things. It couldn’t be as carefree as things
had been before, but it was still peaceful and calm, as the thump
and rumble of the workers steadily edged up and past us, and we
watched over them like friendly gargoyles perched there with our
glass eyes, our weapons of black steel, and our softly spoken
questions, jokes, and secrets.

When the flames had died down enough that Will
wasn’t afraid of it spreading, he led us away from the pyre and
took us toward the dead men’s truck. It had been such a strange and
overwhelming day, first at the college with all its revelations,
and then with the terrible violence wrought by those men against
Will’s friends, and the deadly response of Will and Lucy. I
remembered the very kind and intelligent-looking girl, and I looked
over at Lucy, wondering again how such beautiful and graceful
creatures were always surrounded with pain and ugliness. It never
seemed right.

As we walked over to the truck, Will looked to Lucy.
“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to get you into all this. But I’m glad
you were there to help with Zoey—that’s the name of the girl you
met. But, well, I don’t want to be mean or ungrateful, but I have
to ask: are you still having that feeling where you need to eat
people? I mean, that was a little hard for someone like me to watch
and not get nervous.”

Lucy looked embarrassed and shook her head. I knew
what Will meant, but I also knew that he and the other men had been
the ones who had started the killing, not poor Lucy. She just had
been a little overwhelmed and had lost control.

“All right. You know I trust you. And I need your
help.”

Will inspected the contents of the men’s dump truck.
The back was full of miscellaneous practical things—tools, chains,
ropes, rolls of tape, tarpaulins, extra cans of fuel. Near the back
of the truck bed, Will gathered the ropes and chains and some of
the rolls of thick, grey tape. “I’m not exactly sure how this is
going to work,” he said to us, “but we should have some plan before
we get there. The truck will act like a zombie magnet. Things that
make mechanical sounds always do. I’ll lead them away from the hole
in the fence and we’ll try to restrain them. Depending on how many
there are, I might need you to help. Are you up to it? I won’t hurt
them if I can help it. You know that.”

We agreed immediately.

By the time we got near the huge gap in the fence,
several of the people who can’t talk had walked through and were
now wandering into the fields. As Will had predicted, the people
heard the truck and tottered towards us. Will drove through the gap
in the fence and stopped the truck next to the base of a huge,
metal tower, the kind that holds the wires that used to carry
electricity.

Will climbed out of the truck as we got down from
the back. “All right. Let’s move,” Will said. “If more show up and
we get in trouble, I can always climb up the electrical tower, but
for now you guys go to the back of the truck.”

Lucy and I shuffled toward the rear of the vehicle
as Will climbed up into the bed of the dump truck. He made his way
over the various things there till he was near the back, where we
were. The other people were approaching, moaning with increasing
volume and what seemed like excitement. Will handed some of the
ropes and chains down to us, then tossed more of them, along with
the rolls of tape, farther away from the truck.

“They’ll head for me. It’ll be hard for them to
climb up, so you should be able to yank them off pretty easily. I
don’t think they’ll understand you as a threat or know how to
respond to someone who’s the same as they are, pulling on them.
Drag them away from the truck and either tie them up, or at least
tie them to the base of the tower. Work together. I only count six
of them, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

The first man had approached us and began clawing
the side of the truck. He didn’t seem as emaciated as most of us.
His jeans were a faded blue and his shirt was reduced to tatters.
His shoes were completely gone. He seemed almost unaware of me and
Lucy, even as Lucy slipped a chain around his waist. She passed it
over his shoulder and back down, then she and I pulled on it.
Rather than turn and attack us or try to untangle himself, he kept
trying to pull towards the truck; he couldn’t get much traction in
the grass, so it was fairly easy for us to move him. We got him to
the base of the electrical tower and secured the chain to it with a
padlock that was hanging on the chain.

A man, a woman, and a child were now grabbing and
groping at the side of the truck. The child would be the easiest to
deal with, but the woman seemed more dexterous and she had already
climbed partway up the side, standing on the left rear tire. I tied
a thick rope around her ankle and pulled her foot out from under
her. Will was struggling with her as well, and finally her other
foot slipped and she fell to the ground. I held her down and Lucy
tied her up.