What We Left Behind (6 page)

“They’ve been looking, but Ferguson won’t make it a priority. The drug stores were ransacked long ago. The only chance lies in veterinary clinics, and the only one I know of is downtown.”

He points at a map stretched out on his desk, resting his finger on an intersection near a river.

Dad keeps stocking his rucksack with one hand as he says, “They won’t go downtown.”

“You can’t go downtown,” I say. “And you can’t do anything tonight. Just rest, Dad. You’ve got to let your body heal.”

“Oh, Haze,” he says, walking over to me and running his hand affectionately through my hair. “Time is the one thing I no longer have.”

My blood runs cold. Instantly, I’m awake and I notice what I’d missed until now. Sweat runs down the side of his face, but the office is cold. His lips are pale. His eyes are bloodshot. With all he’s been through, I assumed these were the signs of shock, but they’re not. He’s turning.

“No,” I whisper.

“I have a day,” he says, collapsing on the couch beside me. “Maybe more, maybe less.”

His breathing is labored. His motions are slow.

“Oh, dad.”

He tries to get up, but he’s too weak. He struggles forward and then slumps back against the worn cushions, exhausted.

“Please, rest,” I say, getting up and laying him down on the couch.

He mumbles, “No time. No time. There’s just no time.”

He’s fighting, but sleep overwhelms his frail body. I’m crying again.

For a few minutes, I kneel there beside the couch stroking his hair, wishing there was something I could do for him.

I know what needs to be done. I pull my revolver out and check the bullets loaded in the cylinder, counting them out of habit. The brass casings are dull, tarnished by time.

I’m scared.

If there was any other way, I’d gladly take it, but my dad has no hope. For him, there is only now. Tomorrow holds darkness.

Mom turned after catching her hand on a barbwire fence. We’d been clearing carcasses from the back forty acres. She should have been wearing leather gloves, but in the heat of the day, she removed them. Such mistakes should not cost someone their life.

As much as he hated to, dad let me see mom after she turned. It was the only way I’d accept that she was no longer there, that the shell of her body was inhabited by a demon. I still remember the sound of that one, lonely shot. The bullet seemed to tear through my own soul. Perhaps Jane is right. Perhaps “zombie” is too soft a term. They’re monsters.

I can’t cope with the thought of seeing dad like that. Seeing my father baying for my own blood would be more than I could bear. I can’t give up on him. I have to go down there and find that medicine. And I have to be quick.

I find a box of shells in a desk drawer. I put the box in the rucksack along with the map, and hoist it over my shoulders, leaving a note on the desk.

Dad,

Hold on.

Don
’
t let go.

I will make it back.

Love,

Hazel.

Quietly, I creep out into the darkened living room. I need food, water, and weapons. The moon has risen over the distant hills, casting an eerie glow through the house.

“Haze,” a voice says softly from the shadows.

Steve gets up from one of the couches lining the room. Jane’s there too. She nudges David, waking him from a deep slumber.

“What are you guys doing?” I whisper.

“Waiting for you,” Steve replies.

“You should be asleep.”

I walk into the kitchen and find some canteens in one of the cupboards, filling three of them with water from the rain tank.

“What are you doing?” David asks, walking into the kitchen behind Steve and Jane.

“Shhh,” I reply, wanting him to keep his voice down.

Steve rests his hand on my arm. “Haze, what’s happening?”

I choke up as I speak. “It’s my dad. He’s infected. He’s got a day, maybe two at the most. I’ve got to help.”

“How is going out there going to help?” David asks, having already figured out what I’m doing from the dried jerky and grain bars I’m stowing in my pack.

“There’s a cure.”

I don’t know this. Really, it’s a lie. Even dad doesn’t know for sure, and I feel bad about lying, but I have to lie. I cannot sit by and watch my father die. I have to believe there’s a cure.

“You’re sure about this?” Jane asks. “A cure?”

“If my dad’s right, then we can kill the parasites that make people turn.”

“So you don’t know this for sure,” David says, calling my bluff. “You’re guessing.”

“It’s not a guess,” I insist. “My dad’s been studying these creatures for years, slowly eliminating the possibilities.”

Creatures, now I sound like my father. And yet, being challenged by David is helping to solidify my thinking.

“So you think they really are alive?” Jane asks. “You think dead science can help destroy Zee?”

I say, “What else do we have? Everyone trusts someone—something. So what are we going to trust? Tea leaves? Astrology? Are we going to find answers in superstitions?”

“We trust our own experience,” David offers. “We’ve all seen them. They’re not alive. They’re the undead.”

“Are they?” I ask. “How sure are you of that? Do you really trust your own experiences? Do you trust your own eyes? Tell me, what happens each day? Does the sun rise? Does the sun set? Or does Earth turn?”

David is quiet as I continue.

“We have no reason to believe the ground beneath us actually turns, spinning around like a kid’s toy, and yet it does. Science tells us not to trust our own eyes.”

Now I really sound like my dad.

“You can’t go out there,” David says, accepting my point but rebutting my plan. “You won’t last five minutes beyond the barricades, not at night. Besides, I doubt you’d even get that far. The guards on the fence would mistake you for a zombie and cap you before you made it through no-man’s-land.”

“I have to,” I insist, even though I know he’s right. “I’ve got to try.”

“I understand,” Steve says, taking hold of my hand. “There has to be hope.”

Steve surprises me. Just when I think I’ve got him figured out, he throws me for a loop. I guess he’s been here before me. At some point, he fought for his family, watching helplessly as they turned. His fingers are warm. They’re a reminder of what we’re fighting for—life.

I say, “Without hope, what is life but torment?”

“Haze,” Jane says softly, taking the rucksack off my shoulder. “You can’t go. Not now. Not in the darkness. David’s right.”

“I—”

“Wait till dawn,” Steve says.

“We’ll go together,” David says.

“We will?” Jane asks, looking briefly at David before adding, “Yes. We will.”

“But your father,” I begin, even though I know Ferguson isn’t David’s real father.

“My father is a dick!” David says. Given David’s loyalty to the marauders and how closely he works with his stepfather, I didn’t expect him to be so forthright. I figured he’d rationalize what happened in some way and try to make light of the accident, but it’s a pleasant surprise to hear him be so blunt.

I say, “My father needs—”

David cuts me off, saying, “If you want to help your father, you have to listen to me. Traveling through the forest at night is suicide. You’d never see Zee coming.”

They lead me back into the lounge. Steve gestures to the couch and I slump into the sunken cushions. The worn springs sigh as they give way beneath me.

“Listen,” Jane says. “We have to consider the possibility your dad won’t make it. I’m sorry, but we have to.”

Sitting on the couch, I feel my life draining from my body. Like my father, I want to get up and stay active, but I’m too tired. I try to hide my shaking hands, holding them in my lap.

David says, “There’s a storeroom beneath the old boiler room. Only a few of us know about it. McKenzie keeps his distillery equipment down there. We could hide your dad there. He’d be safe from Ferguson. And if he—”

David stops himself at that point. We all know.

Jane says, “David and I will take your dad there. We’ll talk to McKenzie. We’ll get him to keep your dad safe until we return.”

“But if they find him—”

Jane rests her hand on my forearm, saying, “They won’t be looking for him. They’ll think he’s gone with us.”

I nod, resigned to fatigue.

Steve sits down and slips his arm over my shoulder. I guess he wants to comfort me, but I’m frustrated. I shrug away from him. I don’t want to be touched. I want life to be reset, and not just to yesterday. I want life to go back to how it was before the outbreak.

I’m angry, but there’s no justification for my anger, no focus, and so I don’t know what I’m angry about or who I’m angry with. In the end, I’m disappointed in myself.

Jane and David creep into my dad’s office. I try to get up. I feel as though I have to help them, but my legs are like lead weights.

“Just relax,” Steve says, but I don’t want to relax.

“You don’t have to do everything,” Steve adds softly. “You can’t fix everything.”

He’s right, but I don’t want to admit that.

I try not to cry. I’m stupidly tired, but going to sleep feels like giving up.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “Don’t you see? We waited for you. We care. We can help.”

I turn and bury my head on his shoulder and cry. I hate myself. I feel like a whiny, selfish child. All I can think about as I drift off to sleep is how I don’t deserve friends like these.

Jane wakes me, rocking me gently by the shoulder. I push off the cushion on the couch only to realize I’m pushing against clothing, and beneath that, muscle and bone. Steve groans. I’ve been lying beside him, half on top of him, squishing him against the back of the couch like a crumpled throw rug.

For a moment, the world seems normal. There’s no horror, no zombies, nothing wrong with my dad, and then reality washes over me like a flood.

“Come on,” Jane whispers, not giving me time to wallow in self-pity.

It’s still dark outside. There’s a faint glow on the horizon, but it’s not yet dawn. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days instead of a few hours. I’m surprisingly refreshed.

Steve follows us into the kitchen. A candle casts a dim light on four backpacks—they’re much more robust than the rucksack I’d been preparing the night before. David works feverishly, but without making any noise. It’s impressive to see him handling machetes and baseball bats, strapping them to the side of the packs with just the briefest sound of Velcro catching.

“We let you sleep as long as we could,” Jane says. I’m still a little overwhelmed. The events of last night are as hazy and cloudy as my dreams.

David props open the door with a wooden wedge, again without so much as a sound. He picks up two of the packs, handling them as though they weigh nothing, and carries them outside. In seconds, he’s back again, grabbing the last two packs. Steve’s still yawning while I’m trying to figure out if I’m lost in a dream.

We walk out into the cool of the morning and I start to say something, but David holds his finger to his lips, gesturing for quiet. He points at the first-floor windows, and I understand. We each take a pack and creep away to the oval.

I’m breathing hard by the time we reach the bleachers. It’s been a hundred yards, which is nothing compared to what we have to cover today. We rest on the concrete steps and Steve asks the question I’ve been silently wondering about as we hiked over to the oval.

“How do we get out of the commune?”

“Oh, getting out is easy,” David replies. “This isn’t a prison. No one’s trying to keep us in. The guards won’t be looking for someone leaving.”

I rummage around in my backpack.

“What is all this stuff?” I ask, pulling out a set of knuckle dusters and a length of steel chain. It’s no wonder my pack is so heavy.

“Redundancy,” David replies. “Once we get out there, we’re on our own. We’ve got to carry everything we need.”

Jane adds, “And we need at least two of everything in case we lose equipment along the way.”

I’m busy emptying the contents of my backpack.

“I won’t make it half a mile with all this stuff,” I say, knowing David means well. “I’m no marauder. I can’t carry all of this stuff.”

David’s silent, but he’s watching as I separate the contents of my pack into two piles. It’s pretty obvious which pile I’m taking with me, as that’s the one with water and food.

“At least take the arm pieces,” Jane says.

I count ten greaves, but I’m guessing everyone is carrying the same number. You only ever need four at a time—two for your legs, two for your arms. I’m thinking David’s given us two complete sets each as they’re designed to break away in a zombie attack. And the remaining two are for good measure.

I look at one of the greaves. It’s just over a foot long and designed to wrap around my forearm or my lower leg as a shin pad. The strapping is flimsy because if Zee bites, the greave is supposed to come away. I’ve never seen them used, but I’ve heard they’re intended to confuse and disorient zombies. I was told Zee will think he’s torn off my arm and be too busy chowing down on the supple leather to notice as I flee with all my appendages intact. Such a delightful thought, but such is life in the apocalypse.

I put four greaves back in my pack and strap one on each arm. I’m not going to bother with my legs. If things get so bad that I’ve got Zee all over me, snapping at my legs as well as my arms, I doubt extra greaves will make any difference.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to acknowledge the work David and Jane have put into preparing the packs while dumping almost half the contents. David doesn’t look impressed, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Steve lightens his pack as well. I put my hand on his arm and say, “Listen. I appreciate everything you guys have done for me, but this isn’t your fight. It’s my dad, my fight.”

“No, no, no,” Steve says, shaking his head.

“Just get me outside the gates, and I’ll go on alone.”

“Honey,” Jane says, sorting through her pack but not taking anything out. “That’s not happening.”

David says, “No offense, but you’ll never make it out there by yourself.”