The Loss (Zombie Ocean Book 4) (24 page)

But that's my job now, as a parent. I'm a custodian of the old world, passing along as much of it as I can, as accurately as possible. I've had my biases all along though. I ran the settlement. I wrote our history. Even though I tried to be fair, our story can't truly be fair when I write it all by myself.

Lin's looking at me, so I smile. "Buddy, I think she is. You can ask her about it."

"But you're a hero," he says sleepily.

I grin despite myself. "I know, right? You're right. You should tell your mom that."

I'll get in trouble for that, but I don't care. Brainwashing kids is more of a misdemeanor.

"OK," he mumbles. I start back to sleep but now Talia's interested and she's not going to let me off so easily. 

"Dad, why is Masako mad at you?"

She's properly awake, not like Lin. I sigh and smile at her, extending my arms. She wriggles out of the crook of Lara's belly, worms over her legs and snuggles in next to me.

"That's a long story, surgarpop," I say, halfway drifting back to sleep myself. "Long and boring."

"Dad," she says in her frank, stop-patronizing-me tone. "I'm not a baby, like Lin. You can tell me."

I smile. "There's only one year between you."

"I'm much taller."

Her logic is impeccable. This is what I've taught her, I guess. So I tell her the story as best as I know it, with the rough edges filed off and the juicier bits of gossip removed; Masako and Cerulean, then Masako and Julio, then Cerulean and Anna. She drifts back to sleep as I drone on, until by the end she's snoring against my chest, but I finish up anyway.

"You're hard on yourself," Lara says, rolling over. Seems like everyone here is awake, pretending to be asleep. Her deep green eyes rest on my face, like a painter appraising her subject. "Masako being angry has nothing to do with you."

"Stop eavesdropping on my conversations," I say.

"Stop having them five inches away from me then."

I shuffle down, so we're face to face. In a pile of kids, with Vie and Talia sandwiched between us, I give my wife a tender kiss.

"Better?" I ask, as I'm nodding off in the warmth and lullaby vibration of the RV.

"Better," she agrees.

* * *

In the evening, two days after we fled New LA, the convoy stops again. I'm exhausted in the best way possible, drained from the endless demands of the kids. For twenty-four hours we've played, and slept, and read stories and had tantrums and played some more. I haven't done anything like that for months. Years, maybe.

We're in Illinois now, just across the border from Missouri and outside St. Louis. Through the back window the world has turned white and cold. Snow covers the fields and forests and mountains. Dead brown Japanese strangleweed fills out the highway verges, spiking through the thick drifts of white snow like coils of rusted razor wire. The road is icy and cracked ahead.

One of the RV's has broken down, dropping us down to eight. The camshaft broke apparently, and we can't make those kinds of repairs on the road. Instead people rapidly strip it for parts and supplies, portioning its members out to other vehicles. I listen to Ravi out there, Feargal too, suggesting we use the downtime to put on snow chains and refuel. Jake would be out there with them, if we still had Jake.

"I'll go help," says Lara and heads out. "We were due a break anyway." I let her go, happy to stay slumped on my beanbag while the kids decorate me with bangles. I'm a real life Buckin' Bronco, about ready to flip. The kids are watching with delicious, giggling anticipation as Vie delicately tries to hang a rubber band on my nose for the third time.

I'm about to pop and tickle him half to death when the door clanks again and someone comes in.

"Amo, we need to talk."

I look up, sending the rubber band pinging off my nose and the kids lurching backwards, to see Witzgenstein standing in the RV's doorway.

Ah, Witzgenstein.

She's wearing a frown, looking down at me. Witzgenstein doesn't have kids, maybe out of choice but also because she's not married. She's slim, good-looking and about the same age as me. Her hair is tied back in sweet, Princess Leia-ish farm girl buns. She's got a pointed chin, pretty blue eyes and is dressed like a model, in skinny designer jeans, figure-hugging white blouse and jacket that once would've cost thousands.

She doesn't wear a gun. I expect in those clothes she couldn't even run; but then running's not her thing. She's a bureaucrat with as much talent as ambition, and she doesn't like me and never has.

"Is this what you're doing?" she asks. There's no sneer attached, because she's not petty. She's a smart woman who sees the world through a different lens, and she's honestly surprised to find me knee-deep in kids, still wearing blusher from the paint-Amo-as-a-princess game we just played earlier. Probably she expected me to be hunkered in a corner of the RV, frantically making calls and counting votes, hungry to maintain my grip on power.

But then she knows I'm not crazy, either. We've worked together a hundred times, and for all the dislike, I believe there's at least respect.

I shoo the kids away and shake off the rubber bands hanging off my ears and fingers. "This is what I'm doing, Witzgenstein. Good to see you."

"You look a mess." 

I groan to my feet. The dizziness is mostly gone, though all the little cuts and scrapes have turned into scabs and rich purple bruises.

"I blew up an RV. It happens."

She nods, dismissing this as she would dismiss a story of me defeating a Yeti or learning to fly. It's not on her radar, not part of the way she sees the world. For her leadership is about getting away from all that, as if somehow this kind of trouble only manifests because I'm not managing things correctly.

"We should talk."

I look at her. She's basically a nice lady. I'd like her if she wasn't so blind to the way I see the world. For me it's about the big picture. For her it's about serving the community, in spite of reality.

"There's a vote due," I say, "any time, by my count. Shouldn't we talk after that?"

Witzgenstein looks around at the children, now watching her suspiciously. She looks at Janine who's asleep in the booth and comes to a decision.

"You're going to win," she says. "It's obvious, especially after the exploding RV. That's what I want to talk about."

"Is that recent polling data?" I push back, a little annoyed by her 'exploding RV' line, like it was a campaign gimmick. "Have you been robo-calling?"

My attempt to tease her rolls right off her back. "For one minute, please Amo?" It's probably why she doesn't like me.

"We're talking," I say. "So talk. The votes aren't counted."

She takes her chance. "You did the right thing, putting it to a vote. That's the consensus, but it's not enough, especially now you're set to win. It doesn't satisfy me, or Masako or any of the others who aren't happy. We're a minority but we should be represented."

I nod. I've expected something like this. It's been percolating away in the back of my mind all day. "Division of powers," I say.

Her frown deepens, probably annoyed that I've reached the conclusion without her help. "Yes. There's no clear protocol for how to do that, though. I have no right to call a motion or a second vote. I could, but then I'm setting myself up. My point is, it's not an open floor."

She looks at me. I look at her. Is she asking to be appointed to something? Vice-mayor, perhaps. She'd be good. Even prime minister, with me as president, like in Russia; we could have a figurehead and big-picture thinker working in tandem with someone who ran the practicalities of the country.

But she doesn't want ideas from me. The whole point of this is for me to back off on control.

"You were the county clerk, what do you suggest?"

This appeal to her expertise eases the frown. "A Senate. Or, to stay within the mayoral system, a Council. I'd suggest five people, selected by election. The precise powers would have to be negotiated; that could take time, but generally speaking it will allow for checks and balances, a better form of representation, and yes, division of powers. Also, term-limits."

I rub my chin. Curiously enough there's a bruise there too. "I've been mayor for ten years already. I should be beyond all term limits."

She does a good job of not showing her discomfort with this. The fact that I'm due to win the election must really grate on her, and making a tortuously argued deal for me to cede power in exchange for a few more years must be even worse. "It would be a formal system now, so the clock resets," she says, wriggling on her own hook. "I can imagine four-year terms, two terms total, meaning eight more years maximum."

We regard each other. It's a good deal; something for me, something for her, and everybody gets what they want. A council is a good idea. It would share responsibility, expertise, and put checks on me in case I go crazy, or the next mayor does. It prevents dictatorships. Also, if all goes to plan and we get a fresh flood of survivors joining us, it'll start to be ridiculous to have only one man ruling over them all.

"Let's add five council positions to the voting roster," I say. "We can discuss and vote on powers at an open meeting later. Better to get this done."

"I agree."

A moment passes. "I'm sure you'll be on the council," I say.

"I expect so."

I extend my hand. She shakes it, then backs out.

Well well well. Still the Last Mayor of America. Or the First.

* * *

Lara comes in quickly after, grinning; a little too quickly and with a little too much grin.

"You set that up," I say.

She shrugs nonchalantly.

"You were up on the radio while I was asleep, cutting deals."

"And if I was? She'll be on the council, probably Masako too after her outburst I expect, Feargal, me and another. It would've been Cerulean, but…" She trails off.

"Yeah," I say.

Outside comes the sound of jangling metal. It takes a second, then I realize it's the sound of snow chains going onto the tires. We're heading north into deeper cold, and the snow's only going to get worse. Someone sets to work on our RV, fastening and jangling nearby.

"We should go to the front now," Lara says.

"Not yet. Let them call the vote. Going up ahead of that seems presumptive."

"Then the back? We need to get ready. We'll be nearing Pittsburgh within the next twenty-four hours."

"The back is good for now. There'll be another change-over."

We kiss the kids. They're getting tired of us anyway, or at least of me, ready to go to town on Uncle Brandeis and Auntie Martha. We head out.

It's my first time out in a few days, and the air outside is bracing, the kind of air that makes your teeth ache and your jaw throb, full of the sharp knives of winter. Around us are white rolling fields coated with snow that remind me of Iowa, except in Iowa the fields are all flat, and they're green and yellow with corn. Scattered telegraph poles line the highway, those that haven't already fallen to the elements, and a few remaining cables hang between them, bowed low with ice. The sky is a high pale blue, like a slice of deep-ocean ice. Our breath makes clouds of steam.

"California makes you forget winter even exists," I say reverentially.

"Not me," Lara says. "I've been up front with the window open while you were back there hibernating."

I chuckle. "Hibernating wouldn't have been so exhausting."

"You look better for it. Healthier than since Cerulean disappeared."

"Yeah." There's that reminder, slapping like a wave on a far-off beach. Slap, slap. I'll be dealing with all this death for years to come. "Let's go."

We crunch down the convoy along virgin powder snow. Here I see tiny paw prints, perhaps a fox. People bundled in winter jackets, packed two thousand miles away in California and now unfurled against the cold, hurry to finish fitting their chains, refueling their gas tanks and scraping ice off their back windows.

We pass Cynthia coming to replace us.

"I figured," she says dismissively, like we're lightweights who couldn't handle the kids' car.

"Once more into the breach…" I reply, and deploy my wink again. She gives me an evil look that could chop down trees.

The RV at the back is waiting, with a fresh coating of snow on the roof. Inside I check in with the passengers; Alia, Reynard, Sulman and two of Julio's survivors unconscious in the booths. It's good to see them all, though seeing Sulman reminds me of Anna and sends a twinge running up my spine.

"Are you good to drive?" Lara asks, as we stamp off snow and shake warmth back into our fingers. "I've had enough."

"I'll do it."

I take the wheel. I switch on the radio. A few minutes later, Ravi gives the signal to get underway from the front. Less than twenty minutes all in for the pit stop. It's impressive, neat, high-level survivor stuff.

We roll out, the snow chains gripping the powder with a satisfying crunch. The pace drops to fifty, which is a concern, but Lara assures me they've discussed this with the survivors, who are sure the snow is slowing the demons some too.

On the radio open channel Witzgenstein announces the five new Council positions, seconded by Masako. She makes a call for candidates and suggests a voting deadline by nightfall. Discussion follows.

I focus on the road while their voices warble on, like white noise. It's good to be driving. Lara sits in the passenger seat watching me.

"It suits you," she says, "this."

I can't argue. And now, if it really goes through, it'll be official.

"I'm ready to kill some demons," I say.

* * *

We vote after dark falls. The convoy slows to forty and we rumble on through the night like a lonely freight train, hauling its solitary load across the country. Voices come in hushed tones over the radio, respectful of the office, of the darkness, of the cold. I look out to either side and see only my own reflection glinting back.

There are no lights out there anywhere. America is a wilderness, now. Cairns are a dream of something better, but in truth really we're it, we are all that's left, and we're in the midst of instituting a mini democracy.