What We Left Behind (5 page)

“They did,” dad replies. “Only, parasites like
T. gondii
infect a quarter of the US population, so they were easily overlooked. Everyone was looking for a virus. Protozoa like
T. gondii
were so common they weren’t considered. No one stopped to think that the toxins they produce could have evolved and changed.”

Ferguson marches over to dad, yelling, “You want us to trust science? Science is what caused this bloody mess in the first place. Science couldn’t save us then. Science can’t save us now.”

“Science is all we’ve got,” dad says. And I can see what he’s doing, but I don’t think he realizes the hopelessness of his situation. Ferguson doesn’t care. Ferguson doesn’t want to know what zombies really are. All he wants to do is swing an ice pick at Zee, or a baseball bat. Eradication, that’s all Ferguson cares about, not cures or prevention.

Ferguson spits, “We don’t need scientists. We need farmers and carpenters.”

“We need science now more than ever,” dad replies.

“And you expect us to believe you about these bugs,” one of the farmers calls out from the crowd.

“No, I don’t,” dad answers. “I don’t expect anyone to believe me. Who among us would have believed in zombies before the outbreak? What you and I believe is irrelevant. Zombies are here regardless. But like everything else we see around us, the trees, the birds, the sun and moon, they
must
adhere to the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology.”

“They’re dead,” Ferguson yells. “They’re the living dead!”

Ferguson is standing no more than five feet from my dad, screaming at him. Flecks of spittle sit on his beard. “Can’t you get that through your thick head? For someone that loves science you sure are dumb.”

Again, laughter erupts from the crowd.

Dad isn’t fazed.

“If they were dead, they would decay. They don’t. Don’t you get that?

“As soon as you see zombies as animals, the veil is lifted. There’s nothing supernatural about them.

“To move, they require energy, just like everything else. And that energy has to come from somewhere. In the early days, it comes from consuming others, but once they start to synthesize their own energy from the sun, the need for meat drops away. It’s still there in their raw instinctive drive, but it’s no longer critical for survival. They won’t starve to death.”

“Bullshit!” Ferguson cries. “This is insane. Marge, I cannot believe you are listening to this madman.”

Dad’s trying not to get flustered. I can see the stress on his face. He’s tripping over his words, but he’s forcing himself on, fighting for the minds of the commune. “We’ve been surrounded by zombies for years. They don’t die of natural causes, but lock one in a cellar, leave it there for a month, and it’ll die. Not because we’ve damaged its brain stem, not because it hasn’t eaten, but because it has been starved of sunlight.”

Marge says, “And you know this? You’ve seen this?”

“No, but it’s a theory I’d like to test.”

“Are you hearing this madness?” Ferguson says, addressing the audience with one arm outstretched. “Keeping zombie heads in jars and rotting skin on a rack isn’t enough for Abraham. He wants to keep a zombie as a pet!”

Dad says, “Only with appropriate—”

“This has to stop,” Ferguson says. “Your experiments are endangering everyone in the commune.”

Ferguson steps up to my dad, but dad refuses to be intimidated. He won’t step back. They’re both too stubborn and prideful. As much as I love my dad, I think he should pick his battles with a little more wisdom. Ferguson won’t back down. He won’t want to lose face before the marauders, let alone the broader community. He has an image to uphold.

Ferguson is a bully. He yells at my dad.

“You have no right to experiment on zombies in the compound!”

“We have to learn,” dad protests.

“What if someone is infected? We could lose everything!”

“What if we learn how to defeat these creatures?” dad yells back. “We could win the war!”

Ferguson is almost half a foot taller than my dad. He’s taller than most of the men in the commune and he uses his height effectively, intimidating others. He points at the center of dad’s chest, pushing his index finger firmly into my dad’s sternum.

“This isn’t your call,” he says, forcing dad to step back as he pushes with his finger.

Dad reacts. His face is visibly reddened. He pushes his finger into Ferguson’s chest, trying to push the big man back as he says, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Ferguson snaps.

He smacks my dad in the center of his chest with both of his outstretched palms. For someone enraged and lost in the moment, it’s a cold, calculated, deliberate ploy. Technically, Ferguson hasn’t thrown the first punch. If dad throws a punch in response, Ferguson can blame him for starting the fight.

“You think you can take me?” Ferguson taunts, advancing forward as dad staggers back.

“Henry!” Marge cries, but Ferguson won’t listen. Even if he could rein in his anger, he wouldn’t. His pride has been offended. He’s pissed. Dad starts to speak, but Ferguson thumps him again, hitting him with brute force and knocking him back into the card table.

My dad loses his footing. He falls against the flimsy table, knocking the zombie skin over.

The table collapses.

The jar falls to the rocky ground.

The glass shatters.

Dad is still falling. He reaches out with his hands behind him, trying to break his fall as his legs give way beneath him.

Shards of glass cut into his palm and the crowd falls silent. Even Ferguson is quiet.

It seems to take dad a second to realize what has happened. He’s confused by the water.

The zombie head rolls across the ground, its jaw biting at the air.

My dad raises his hand and looks at the blood streaked across his palm. Even from where I am, I can hear him whimper, “No.”

“Noooooo!” I scream, breaking the silence and amplifying his cry.

“Henry!” Marge cries, pushing Ferguson to one side. “What the hell have you done?”

I’m on my feet, pushing through the crowd on the bleachers, squeezing between people, stepping over shoulders, stepping on thighs, racing to get down to my dad.

Jane and Steve are right behind me; they’re calling my name, calling me back, but I can’t stop. I have to get to dad.

Already, a couple of the marauders are on hand. One of them has a first aid kit; the other has a canteen and is pouring water on dad’s hand.

I’ve made it to the oval.

I run.

Steve runs as well, but only so he can catch up to me. He grabs me, pulling me to one side.

“Let me go,” I yell, fighting with him.

“Haze,” Jane says, catching up to us as I try to wrench my arm free of Steve’s grasp. “Wait. Not yet.”

“You’ve got to let me go,” I sob.

I can see my dad still sitting on the rocky ground in a puddle of water. Ferguson has stepped back into the shadows. Marge is pointing at the main house, yelling something, but my mind is so distressed I can’t make out her words. People are running in response to her commands. There are two soldiers tending to my dad. He looks pale. He’s holding his bloody hand out as another canteen full of water is emptied over the wound, trying to wash out any debris.

“You’ve got to let them do their job,” Steve says, releasing my arm. He’s right. I hate him for being right.

I rush over, not running, but walking fast for the last twenty yards. Steve and Jane stay by my side. David comes over to join us.

“Get her out of here,” Marge commands.

“Dad,” I say, wanting to do something to help but knowing there’s nothing to be done.

Steve takes my arm gently, pulling me away, but I stand my ground. I’m not going to leave my dad.

“Please, Hazel,” Steve says, and it’s only then I realize he knows something I don’t. He’s not looking at me; he’s looking past me at someone running across the open paddock. I can see the terror in his eyes. He doesn’t want me to look.

I look to Jane.

“Don’t,” she whispers, beckoning me to come with her. But I have to see what’s about to happen. I cannot turn and walk away from my father.

I see a marauder running back from one of the huts. He’s carrying an axe. Another soldier stirs the fire with a poker, kicking up embers. Sparks drift up into the dark sky.

“No,” I say, as one of the marauders positions the wooden cart beside my dad.

Dad’s shaking.

They stretch his arm along the wooden deck of the cart. One of the marauders holds my father’s hand as though they were locked in an arm wrestle; another anchors his elbow against the wood. Dad turns his head away. He looks at me. Our eyes meet and my heart breaks.

“One blow,” Marge says to the soldier holding the axe. “Hold nothing back. I want a good clean blow. Give it everything you’ve got.”

The soldier nods. He holds the axe low in front of him, resting the sharpened blade by dad’s wrist. The soldier’s lips tighten with grim determination. His muscles flex. He moves in a single swift motion, swinging the axe up over his shoulder, high above his head and then down, thundering down with all his might.

I can’t watch.

My eyes close tight as the sickening sound of bones cracking resounds through the night.

Dad screams.

My legs give way and I crumple. Steve’s got me. He’s holding me. My head is buried in his shoulder. I’m crying, screaming.

Dad screams again and I hear the sizzle of hot metal sealing the wound. The smell of burnt meat scorches my nostrils. My heart pounds in my throat. Steve’s arms are firm. His muscles are rigid and stiff, but his hands are gentle. He pats my back.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

I’m sobbing. I open my eyes, but I can’t see through the tears.

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.

Jane is standing between me and dad, blocking my view. I lean to one side, wanting to see him, but all I get is a glimpse of a soldier holding a fire poker. The tip glows soft red. Steam drifts into the night.

“It’s okay, Haze,” she says, making eye contact with me. “He’s going to be fine. They’re fixing him. They’re—They’re bandaging his wound. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s going to make it. He’s going to be okay.”

I nod. I understand what she’s trying to do. She’s preparing me, helping me to steel myself for what has happened so brutally and quickly. My hair tie has fallen out. It’s such a stupid thing to think about at a time like this, but I can’t help myself. I feel naked without it. I run my hand up through my hair, sweeping it behind my ears.

My nose is running. I sniff, trying to compose myself. I’m not helping dad like this. He needs me to be strong, not a wreck.

“Be strong,” is spoken in a whisper, but I’m so distraught I don’t know if I said that or if it was Steve.

I wipe my nose and step back from Steve. He releases his grip. Like Jane, he’s crestfallen. He squeezes my arms tenderly, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are cast down at the ground, unable to meet mine.

Marge comes over. She is soft-spoken. Her eyes are kind. Even when faced with horrible decisions, she has a gentleness that seems out of place in the apocalypse.

“He’s going to need you,” she says.

I try to reply, but no words come from my trembling lips.

I still can’t see my dad. There are so many people crowded around him. I push through them.

Dad’s leaning against the wheel of the cart. Blood oozes through the bandage wrapped around the stump at the end of his right arm. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. Crouching down, I rest my hand gently on his thigh. His eyes have a glazed, distant look. Tears stream down his cheeks. At first, he doesn’t recognize me. There are so many people moving around us but he’s not looking at any of them. He’s staring through the forest of legs. I can feel his body shaking.

“It’s okay, dad. Everything’s going to be okay.”

My voice registers, and he turns. Our eyes meet. His lips quiver.

“It’s okay,” I repeat. Gently rubbing my hand on his one, good hand.

Dad looks at the bloody bandages. His eyes are wide with terror.

Marge bends down beside him, helping him lean forward as she wraps a heavy woolen blanket over his shoulders.

“He’s in shock,” she says, positioning her hands beneath his arms and helping him to his feet. “We need to get your dad back to the homestead and keep him warm.”

I hold the blanket to keep it from slipping off his shoulders as we shuffle back to camp.

Dad cradles his wounded arm, grimacing with each step.

Blood drips on the grass.

A candle provides the only light in the office. The flickering flame haunts the room. Zombie body parts have been bottled and stacked on shelves on the far wall. Fingers claw softly at the glass. Eyes move with the shadows. Teeth grind in silence.

I want to smash the jars, but to destroy them wouldn’t solve anything.

Dad is restless. He’s looking through his desk drawers for something. His right arm rests in a sling.

“Please, dad,” I say. “You need to rest. You should sleep.”

“Oh, Hazel,” dad replies. “If I could, I would. I can’t.”

“Dad. You have to.”

He lifts an empty rucksack and dumps it on the desk. Using one hand, he opens it and puts a knife and a coil of rope in the sack.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice is soft and supportive, not accusative.

“I can’t stay, Hazel.”

“You want to go out there?” I ask, sinking into the couch by his desk. I’m exhausted. I’m so tired it’s hard to think straight. It must be well after midnight. Physically, emotionally, and mentally, I’m spent.

“If I’m right,” he says, “there’s a cure down there in the city.”

“A cure?”

“Yes, the answer lies in what we left behind. If I’m right, and the plague is caused by a parasitic infection, then the solution could be as simple as a general, broad-spectrum worm tablet. We don’t need to kill zombies, just to disrupt their lifecycle.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, resting my chin on my hand as I lean on the armrest of the couch. “Get the marauders to search for what you need.”