With Spring Comes the Fall (37 page)

Posted by Josh Guess at 
10:59 AM

Darlene is doing better. She's short one kidney, but Evans thinks that she will pull through. I hope so, she is an awesome person and a fearless survivor, and she means the world to Little David.
Today's post isn't about me. It's about Patrick.
He has decided to keep an eye on Lt. Price for us. By keep an eye on him, I mean Pat is taking him in to his house (which he shares with two other people) and having the guy live with him. My Alaskan chum is going to take Will Price around with him wherever he goes. He figures that the only way we can really get to know the guy is to watch as he interacts and gets to know us. No one can keep up their defenses every minute of every day, and if there is some kind of ill intent in him toward us, Pat will see it.
Pat has kind of taken it upon himself to be everywhere, to check up on all the little things that the rest of us might overlook. He's a genius for small details. Let me give you an example of what I mean:
This morning, he walked the entire perimeter of the wall, spot checking welds and fasteners, making sure that no major damage has a chance to turn into an opening. At the same time he carried around a huge jug of water, giving out drinks to the folks doing patrol. On his way back he made it a point to stop and say hello to a few of our more isolated people, folks that spend a lot of time out at the farms and those who just tend to be loners. Pat has this amazing ability to make people smile, to get them to do what is right by being a great guy. It's pretty impressive.
It's also very time consuming, because beside all of that, he has two full time occupations. Which leaves him little to no time for romance. Considering the horrible divorce he went through and his general nerdiness, meeting and getting to know women is not easy for him. It's a shame, because he is probably the best guy I know who isn't related to me.
I am hoping to get him to go on what passes for a date in the near future, and that plan has now been frustrated by the fact that he intends to babysit our wayward soldier.
It's like he's so great that his own good intentions hamstring him before he starts.
If I have to beat him over the head and make him go out with someone (at least what passes for a date in a fortress surrounded by zombies...) and by god, he WILL be happy. He's my best friend, and I am sick and tired of watching him take on so much of the stress we all deal with by himself, with no one to go home to.
I guess the one bit of solace he can take is that his ex-wife was eaten by zombies early on. I shouldn't smile when I write that, but I just can't help it.

Posted by Josh Guess at 
10:31 AM

Evans says that Darlene is now past the most dangerous part of her injury. He believes that with enough rest and care, she will live. She lost a kidney and has some nerve damage on her left side, but she greets everyone with a sunny grin. She's got a tenacity of spirit that I can only envy.
While we were gone, most of the folks here did one hell of a job streamlining the defenses. There were lots of small attacks by zombies, and one moderate sized assault by some smarties. Rather than simply defend and wait to be attacked again, our brave and brilliant citizens learned from each attack. Ideas have been passed around about making some modifications to the walls over time to make them better for defending against groups. Ideas that make it much more efficient for us to cut down the undead when they swarm us.
Lt. Price has put in his two cents on this issue. He's a true military thinker, it seems, and spent a lot of his free time before the collapse learning about military history, methods of combat and warfare through history, all of that nerdy stuff that fantasy readers lap up. He took a good hard look at some of the ideas and made reasonable and logical cases for or against most of them, and improving on a few. Of course, we still aren't treating him as a citizen just yet, so he doesn't have more than an educated guess about our capabilities and resources, but I can safely say that most of what he thinks we should do, we can do.
As I get to know the guy a little better every day, I trust him a little more. Not that I would want to hand him the keys to the armory or anything, but he genuinely seems to be putting in an effort to help however he can. I am still thrown off by the fact that he hasn't said word one about going back to his unit in Richmond, and that bugs the shit out of me. I mean, I could get behind the idea that he might hate those guys and the truly shitty conditions they must live in, but that doesn't seem to be the case. He speaks about them rarely but with real warmth and respect when he does. He tells us funny stories about the troops that he lived with there. He sounds like a guy who was doing very well, was as happy as he could be in these circumstances.
And clearly, he's just not the deserter type. He loves the uniform, the idea of being a soldier. He isn't the type not to check in with his superiors if there were any chance he could, yet he hasn't said anything about going there since that first day after he woke up here. He's showed no further interest in leaving the compound, and that doesn't jibe with the sort of person he appears to be. Honorable, duty-bound.
It might just be that he is very aware of his situation. No chance that we will be changing our minds anytime soon and taking him on a trip to Richmond, and unable to make a go of it on his own because of his injuries. Maybe he is just embracing his current circumstances and enjoying how things are for him at this time. He might choose to bring it up with us again down the road, when he feels we have more mutual trust. He might decide, once his bones have mended, to leave on his own two feet and try to get home. I guess only time will tell the truth of it.
Still, it nags at me. I like the guy, and am starting to respect him. But there are still little things about him that throw me off.

Posted by Josh Guess at 
11:30 AM

Today I was struck by a thought, and it made me realize the importance of stories. In this world where society has crumbled and the dead walk, sometimes they are all we have.
I was looking through my large collection of books, trying to find something to read, when I came across a book I had completely forgotten about. It is 'The Gathering Storm' by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson. The importance of this novel is probably lost on those of you who aren't fans of epic fantasy, but I will explain.
This book was to be the last in the Wheel of Time series. The original author (Jordan) passed away in 2007 before he could finish the massive conclusion. Many of us as fans were heartbroken and worried that the story, so long a part of our nightly escapes into another world, would remain unfinished. But our fears were allayed--Jordan wanted more than almost anything to have his opus completed, because he knew what it meant to all of us, and of course, what it meant to him. Brandon Sanderson was chosen to complete the final book, which would eventually be split into three. Guided by a partially written text and thousands of pages of notes, Mr. Sanderson eventually put out the volume that would be the first in a series of three final novels.
I read it. I loved it.
And slightly more than half a year later, zombies destroyed society.
I hadn't thought about the Wheel of Time since the world started wearing apart at the seams, but as I stared at what would end up being the final book in the unfinished series, a sadness gripped me so deeply that I had trouble even looking away from the cover.
It wasn't just that one book, you understand. It was as if that one tome was every unfinished story, every jagged sentence broken off by the end of all we know. All of the cliffhangers and plots never resolved burst into my brain...
All those brilliant writers, whose talent with words made me laugh and cry, my heart slam against my chest and the pit of my stomach go cold--gone.
I would love to believe that Brandon Sanderson is out there somewhere, picking out the last two books on an old typewriter, determined to finish the epic. I hope that Patrick Rothfuss is filling page after page with longhand by candlelight, perfecting and ending the beautiful novels that sing the song of Kvothe.
But here and now, I realize the importance of our own stories. Not just those that tell our lives, but those we tell each other, truth and fiction alike, that say things we can't articulate any other way. Those tales create one narrative that simultaneously touches each person differently, yet draws all who read or hear it along for the same journey.
We read and share stories because they are the best and most enduring way to explain the best and worst parts of us. Sometimes there is no difference between fiction and non-fiction for highlighting those aspects of our nature that give us hope and fuel our determination.
Stories are entertainment, and education, inspiration and fear. They are mirrors of us and distortions all in one, but above all they are unique to who and what we are as human beings. Stories are creations of man, the only animal that lies, and thereby telling the deepest truths.

Posted by Josh Guess at 
9:17 AM

The last few days have been quiet ones. No big attacks, no new and mysterious strangers bothering us. Just digging up a lot of potatoes, much planning and hoping that our wills can match our ambition. There are so many of us now, and in two parts of town, that we are doing more than we ever thought possible. But with those large efforts comes the risk of failure. Many of the people that live downtown in our fallback zone are farming there, and the rest are either working here or out at the farms we are trying to cultivate out in the country. 

Patrick seems to actually be having fun pushing Lt. Price around with him everywhere. Pat loves seeing the pleasant surprise on his face every time the younger guy sees something far beyond what he expected from a group of survivors with no real expertise in most things. I remember his shock when he realized the clinic had electricity all the time, and not from a generator. He still likes to make eyes at my wife, but that's ok. If seeing Jess will make him open up to us, it's a small price to pay. 

Evans says that he might be able to start standing soon. The break in his leg was painful, but not terrible, not a complex break. I am torn on this--him being healthy is good because it means he can throw in his weight in more significant ways (like giving some of that intense military training to our people), but increased mobility also means he becomes a bigger threat should his intentions prove sinister. 

I'll be honest, we are pretty hopeful that Will Price really wants to be here, to be one of us. Because he does know a great deal about combat, warfare, tactics, and many other tremendously useful areas we are somewhat lacking in. Or, at least always looking to learn more about... 

My brother and I are planning a big project, something that will be an enormous boon to our communities if we can get it done. We are hoping that Roger and Patrick will be up to the task, as it will require a lot of metalworking and welding. We are keeping what the idea is under wraps until a few last supplies can be located, though we are almost certain that we will find them.

Before I go, a small note: It is possible bordering on likely that I will be taking some Sundays off from writing. There is a lot going on around here, and living relatively primitively means that doing the most mundane things takes longer. So a lot less free time, and I am making it a point that every sunday Jess and I will do something together. That will likely mean I will be too busy with her to write here. If so, and if that bothers you, then I apologize. But my wife is far better than this blog or taking my mind away from the walking dead beating at our walls. 

Posted by Josh Guess at 
10:28 AM

Today is my two hundredth post on Living With the Dead, and it got me thinking about milestones.
It was only months ago that we measured the bends and forks in the road of our lives in many ways. For some of us, it was finally buying that first new car. Getting your first home. Maybe it was paying off that last bit of credit card debt. Almost all of us used birthdays as markers for the progress of our lives. Pick a big event anywhere in your past, and I am sure you will see what I am talking about. Our achievements were many and varied, but we loved them.
But I think back on those moments of victory, and I find that at least for me, they didn't define me.
So much of what I once equated to success simply existed as an outgrowth of the necessities of modern life. Paying my bills on time every time never said much about me. Yeah, it said I was responsible, but that is what all people should be. Nothing about it made me special.
So when I got on here today, lacking anything else to do at the moment (no zombie attacks and no work that needs urgent attention) I saw that this was to be post number 200, and it got me thinking.
Milestones. Achievements.
I ate some potatoes and (ugh) summer squash last night that Jess and I grew ourselves. I got a new belt buckle to replace a broken one, made for me by Roger, a man whose life I saved. I slept in my own house, armored and altered to survive the ceaseless waves of the undead in the early days of the downfall.
When I look around me, I see small victories everywhere. For all of us. Men, women and children who have passed through the crucible of violence and chaos the world has become. That we live here behind a wall built with our own hands, in homes that manage to contain the true warmth of humans living in peace with one another, is a testament to how fully we have been able to shed the baggage that weighed us down in the world that used to be.
We have done a lot, but I want to leave you with an image that all at once moved me, scared me, and made me proud.
I was walking over to the clinic about an hour ago, and I saw a bunch of kids playing. Black, white, and latino among them, every one of them totally oblivious to the differences others might perceive between them. They were mock swordfighting, a game we encourage since long blades are one of the best ways to defend yourself against zombies. One of the boys got a little too intense with one of the girls, and managed to whip her across the face with a thin length of birch.
The girl, about nine, didn't cry. The boy stopped in horror when he realized what he had done, and just stood there. Then the girl punched him in the face hard enough to knock him over.
Then she helped him up, and told him to be more careful.
If I have to be proud of anything, it has to be that. That little girl maintained her calm in the face of unexpected pain, assessed the situation, and judged that her attacker needed a lesson, short and sweet. Helping him up showed that she wasn't going to hold a grudge, and that she took action herself showed remarkable independence.
Can you see why I feel pride?
While some of us might be unhappy at the need for our young to learn violence as a solution, circumstances for the foreseeable future require it. I don't like it much myself, but my heart was singing to see the reasonable reactions, self control and self reliance in the child. She figured out a solution without waiting for an adult, and showed by example that actions have consequences at least equal to themselves.
That was a milestone for me. Maybe the most important one.
Today I saw proof that those who come after us, the ones who will lead and run this place or the ones they leave here to build, might be better at it and more capable people than us.
I couldn't be more satisfied right now. That's a feeling I will never forget.