All Our Tomorrows (7 page)

“You will not win,” I say without any emotion as I respond feebly to another crash of thunder.

Fatigue gives way to mindless repetition. I am Zee. There’s a dull sway, a rhythm to my motion. Again and again my shovel falls, chopping away at the clay.

As the depth of the grave approaches my shoulders, James stares at me with dead eyes. As much as I’d like to turn his head to one side, I can’t. I cannot deny what has happened to him. I barely knew him. To me, he was a jock, a cocky kid, someone who could do no wrong when I could do no right. James was always right. If David was the quarterback we never had, James was the running back. He would blitz past everyone else and leap through the air to catch the winning pass for a touchdown. I should have been nicer to James, I think as yet another shovel of clay and dirt and muddy water turns upside down on the pile beside the hole.

Regrets eat away at my heart. The look in James’ eyes is one of sadness and resignation. Even in death, there are expressions of life.

His mouth is slightly open, almost as though he’s about to say something or as though he’s surprised by what’s happened. There was only ever going to be one outcome once Ferguson drew his gun.

I’ll be damned if I’ll stop now.

Somewhere behind the gloomy clouds, the sun sets and the land is plunged into darkness. The rain is merciless, pounding me and giving me no rest or respite.

Ferguson hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the distant porch along with a dozen other men sheltering from the storm. They’re eating dinner. Lamps within the house cast a soft glow on the windows. It’s warm and dry in there. There’s nothing that says I can’t stop. There’s no one telling me I must go on. No one but me. Pride. With each shovel full of mud and clay and dirt, I whisper.

“For James.”

“For David.”

“For Jane.”

And as much as it pains me to say it, “For Steve.”

I’m not sure what time it is when I’m finally shoveling dirt out over my head, but I’m deep enough. I can stop, and yet that notion seems foreign. Now, I can give James the respect he deserves, the respect we all deserve in death.

“Rest in peace,” I say to those lifeless eyes watching me.

I place the shovel across the top of the grave and use the wooden handle to climb out of the deep hole. Lightning breaks overhead, but the fury of the storm has passed.

Dark silhouettes surround the grave, standing motionless in the bitter night.

My heart skips a beat.

Zee?

Dad steps forward through the rain and reaches out a hand to help me up. I’m covered in mud and dripping wet. Marge is there, as is Ferguson. No one says anything, which is creepy.

Two of the older men gently roll James onto a wooden plank. They loop rope over each end of the wood and raise his body slightly above the sodden grass. Slowly, they lower his body into the grave. Someone has fashioned a wooden cross with the name “James” carved crudely into the crosspiece. Last names have long been rendered obsolete from all but the oldest of adults. No one cares anymore. Us teens don’t. There’s no more nuclear families. Just us and them—Zee.

“Would you like to say something?” Marge asks.

I look around at friends, elders, and strangers.

My voice breaks, but I have to speak, and not just on behalf of James. I need to speak from the heart for myself.

“Weep not for the dead,” I say, raising my voice above the howling wind. “Weep for the living.

“The dead ask not for our pity, only to be honored, to be remembered. For them, the battle is over. For them, there is no fear, no pain, no anguish, no heartache anymore. There is no love or hate in the grave. But we, the living, we must go on. We, the living, have to honor those that have fallen. We have no choice. We must fight. We must defeat this terror. We must win this war or all these deaths will have been in vain.”

Tears stream down my cheeks, not that anyone would know in the rain.

“We—I have lost too many good friends. James. David. Jane. We have to go on. We need to do this for them.”

I can’t add Steve to the list. I know I should. I know it’s stupid to cling to hope, but I want him to be alive out there somewhere. I tell myself he might have escaped, even though deep down I know he didn’t.

Marge steps forward and picks up the shovel. She digs into the loose dirt and shovels a single load into the dark, open grave, saying, “For my son, Alex.”

Ferguson takes the shovel as she steps back into the shadows. He says, “For my dear sweet Susie,” as mud slips from the shovel into the hole.

Dad steps up. I go to help him when he says, “No. I can do this.”

He slips the handle under his armpit, grabbing the shovel near the blade and digs into the dirt. He turns the shovel and mud, rocks and dirt tumble into the grave, saying, “For Jacinta.”

My mom.

One by one, almost three hundred people file past me, each paying respect to a fallen loved one. Men, women, children—all soaked to the bone with rain, all determined to do what’s right regardless. I feel weak, but I stand at the foot of the grave as it slowly fills with dirt.

I recognize James’ mother and father. I’m not sure if they’re his biological parents or his commune parents, but it doesn’t really matter. Parents love their kids regardless of their origin. They both say his name even though I’m sure there are dozens of other names they could recite. They hug me as they shuffle past.

Finally, I’m left alone standing beside the grave. There’s a little dirt still piled to one side so I shovel it tenderly in place. Someone’s fixed the cross at the head of the grave. The rain has eased. I pause for one last look as the rain falls gently, forming puddles in the mud. Crouching, I pat the wet soil, saying, “I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry. But you won’t be forgotten.”

Chapter 04: Hunted
   

A cup of hot soup, a warm towel and a change of clothes are surprisingly refreshing. The house is packed. People lie asleep on the table, on the floor, anywhere they can find some extra space. Olivia bandages my hand, but the blisters don’t bother me. I’ve had blisters before. They’ll heal.

I fall asleep in a lounge chair that seems to have been conveniently left empty for me. I’m not sure what time it is when I wake, but it’s still dark.

I can’t stay.

If Zee realizes I’m still here, he’ll storm the compound again. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find Steve. Listening to these thoughts bouncing around inside my skull, I realize how silly I am. Find Steve. Yeah, it’s all that simple. I’ll just waltz out of here and find him. Stupid. And yet, I feel compelled, driven to search for Steve. Why? If I’m honest with myself, he was probably dead by the time he reached the fence. Is this irrational drive love? Can love spring so soon? So deep? I think it can. It’s stupid, but then love never makes sense. Besides, I know he’d do the same for me. He’d keep searching until he found me, even if all that remained were bloody rags.

Quietly, I get up and creep into the kitchen. It’s still dark. A soft glow above the distant hills announces the coming dawn.

A worn pack hangs on a hook by the old cast iron stove. I begin working my way through the cupboards looking for supplies to take with me: a couple of canteens, a knife, a compression bandage, and a hammer for self-defense at close quarters. In my mind, the slightest clink of items in my pack sounds like thunder, and I’m sure someone is going to wake. I wrap items in scraps of cloth to keep the noise down, knowing these rags will double as extra bandages out beyond the fence.

A light flares in the darkened pantry behind me.

I flinch.

A burning match highlights a face in the shadows. A few puffs and a cigar glows with a soft orange ember.

A quiet, but gruff voice says, “Well, you took your
goddamn
time.”

I almost drop the bag in fright.

Ferguson rocks back in a chair. Wood squeaks rhythmically with his motion. He draws in deep on his cigar. The embers flare, highlighting the shelves on either side of him.

“Just what the hell were you thinking?” he asks, and my legs shake. “Did you seriously think you could sneak out of here again without anyone noticing? What? Were you just going to creep through a double posting of guards, each with a nervous trigger finger ready to shoot at shadows?”

“I—ah.”

I don’t know what to say. My plan was to plead with one of the guards, to ask them to turn a blind eye. Not the most coherent of plans, but I’m desperate to find Steve.

“My boys would have put a hot lead slug inside that pretty little head of yours before you made it fifty feet from the fence.”

Busted.

I want to beg for the chance to leave the commune, but my words would be wasted on Ferguson. And I won’t lie to him. All I can do is appeal to his priorities.

“I can’t stay,” I say, keeping my voice low. “They’ll be back for me. I have to leave or they’ll kill everyone just to get to me.”

Ferguson doesn’t respond. He draws in long and deep on his cigar. A pungent, fruity plume of smoke drifts through the air.

“You’re not wrong there,” he finally says. “Your dad is determined we should protect you.

“Marge is indifferent. She’s no fool. She can see the danger, but she never was one for decisive action.

“And me? If I had my way, I’d tie you to the back of a cart and run you straight through the heart of the city. I’d take a dozen men with me, and we’d use you as bait to draw out the undead. You’re a magnet. I’d use you to my advantage. Sweep along the interstate and out into the countryside to the north. If we could clear downtown, we’d have access to far more supplies.”

My heart sinks.

“But things change,” Ferguson continues. “You and your
damn
speech.”

I’m not sure about his background before the apocalypse, but Ferguson uses damn quite freely. Although, as far as swear words go, damn is pretty lame. Not that I’d tell him that. Ferguson makes damn sound defiant.

He gets to his feet and walks into the kitchen, clenching his cigar between his teeth as he talks. His cowboy boots resound fearlessly on the wooden floor. Ferguson doesn’t give a damn who he wakes.

“You’re crazy going back out there. Stark raving mad. I’ll help you, but you have to do something for me.”

My eyes go wide in surprise. Ferguson wants my help? I cannot think of anything I have to offer him.

“Help me find David.”

I rest the bag on the table.

“Sure,” I reply, curious as to why but not game to ask.

Ferguson must sense my curiosity. With a growl, he says, “I’m gonna bury my boy.”

And suddenly I’m seeing a whole new side to this grizzled old man. Beneath his tough exterior, he’s as soft as a marshmallow. He’s willing to risk his life to bury his dead son—his adopted son. He too must see that all we are in life demands more in death. We’re not refuse, some crumpled up piece of trash to be tossed carelessly into the garbage when our body no longer works. Life means more than that. Life transcends physics. We may be made from complex chemistry, but we end up as far more than a bunch of molecules and cells and electricity or whatever. DNA might shape our bodies, but we shape our own lives.

Life demands respect even once its gone. Life needs to be remembered.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod in response.

“You packing?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply, patting the gun tucked into the small of my back.

“Good.”

Ferguson never was much of one for conversation. He strides to the door making enough noise to wake the entire house.

“You coming?” he asks, standing in the doorway.

“Yes.”

I grab an iron poker from the cold kitchen fireplace, wrap a cloth around its heavy, weighted end and shove it into my pack. I’m more concerned about soot getting everything dirty than noise. When I look up, Ferguson is already walking across the grass without me.

The old man walks off at a blistering pace. I can’t walk and keep up. I have to half walk, half run, alternating as I try to keep pace with him.

The night air is cold. A soft mist sits low in the grass.

The clouds have cleared. Moonlight casts long shadows through the forest. A warm glow sits on the horizon. The sun is slowly waking the countryside.

In the distance, a horse neighs. Hooves kick at the ground, impatient as we approach. Zee snarls in the darkness, but it’s not until we walk up to the horses hidden in the shadow of a old oak tree that I understand why. A live zombie has been strapped across the hindquarters of each of the horses. Zee’s arms and legs are bound and a muzzle has been fixed over his face. He squirms and fights against the strapping as we approach. The horses respond, kicking at the gravel.

“Easy,” one of the marauders says, holding the two bridles and calming the terrified horses.

Ferguson mounts his stallion with a single, smooth, seasoned motion. The marauder senses I’m not quite as experienced and moves around the side of my mare. Still holding the reins loosely in his fingers, he grabs the horn of the saddle with one hand and holds one of the stirrups with the other, helping me climb up.

“This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” Ferguson asks, stubbing out his cigar on the saddle horn.

“No,” I reply, lying.

I’ve only ridden a horse on a handful of occasions, and never with much success. I’m fine as long as the horse is content to plod along, but if it starts to trot I find myself bouncing awkwardly. Most of my friends find riding quite natural and seem to glide above their horses. As for me, breaking into a gallop is terrifying. It’s all I can do to hold on for dear life, but pride won’t let me admit as much to Ferguson.

Zee sniffs at the air behind me.

“Yes,” I say softly, looking back at the pitiful creature. “It’s me.”

The gates open and Ferguson rides his horse forward, trotting out onto the dirt track before pulling his horse to a halt. His stallion seems primed for a race, snorting, and stamping at the ground, restless to ride on. One of the marauders walks up beside Ferguson, talking with him as I ease my mare forward. She’s reluctant to leave the compound.