by Urban, Tony
Over the years, they added some livestock which they came across while scouting the surrounding areas. It started with a brown and white spotted cow that was mostly skin stretched over bone. She was far past her milking days, but Wim was eager to take her in. Eventually, a couple chickens were added and once a rooster came along, their flock expanded so quick they could barely keep up with the eggs.
Two goats, a blue pig, and a half-wild stallion Ramey had taken to calling Gypsy rounded out their poor excuse for a farm. Wim built a coop for the chickens and a stable for the rest and even though he wasn't much of a carpenter, it sufficed, and life seemed almost normal again.
Except for the anvil.
The shovel glanced off a particularly large rock and orange sparks flew. Wim muttered a swear under his breath as the reverberations of the blow tingled all the way up his arms and into his shoulders. He crouched down in the hole and pushed away some of the dense, wet dirt with his hands. It was a big rock and was going to take some work. He set the shovel aside and grabbed the pickaxe.
While alone on his family farm, after his Mama's death, Wim had never thought much about love, at least not the romantic kind. He was happy there, alone and mostly cut off from human contact and he'd never been apt to daydream about meeting a woman, let alone getting married.
If Ramey hadn't stumbled onto his farm in the early days of the apocalypse, he reckoned he'd still be living there, alone. In some ways, especially now while he stood in a damp hole over halfway past his waist, he wished that were still the situation. That Ramey would have taken a different route south and bypassed him entirely. Then he wouldn't have met her and fallen in love. Then he wouldn't have lost friends like Emory and Bundy. Then he wouldn't have seen the evil men - men like Ramey's father - were capable of. An ignorant life might have been preferable to all of that. And most of all, he wouldn't have had to do so much killing.
Yet, as he worked to free the stone which had revealed itself to be more than two feet across and almost ten inches thick, he knew he would trade all that pain for the good time with Ramey six days a week and twice on Sunday. And there were so many good times that, while he struggled to fall asleep at night, he wondered what he'd done to be deserving of such happiness.
In Ramey he'd found a woman he not only loved, but with whom he felt so comfortable that it seemed like he was a pair of old, broken-in gloves and she was the set of hands on which the fit was perfect. Where every crinkle and wrinkle and worn-down part was the mirror match for the delicate fingers inside. She wasn't only his wife, she was his best friend and it was near impossible to imagine his life without her.
He remembered, a few months after his Pa died, a morning when Mama sat at the kitchen table. She'd been drinking her coffee when tears began to trickle down her cheeks, splashing onto her saucer. He hadn't said anything. A woman's tears had always caused him considerable duress and confusion, but he reached across the table and laid his hand on top of hers.
She looked at him and worked up a wan smile and said, "Wim, I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and I didn't know who I was. It's like half of me has up and disappeared."
Wim was a teenager and didn't understand that much at the time, but now it made sense. He supposed that's the way life worked. You only understood large parts of it in hindsight. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't truly appreciate what you had until it floated out of your life like dandelion seeds in the wind.
Wim had worked the rock free of the dirt. He grabbed it in his blistered and dirt-stained hands, hoisted it up, and tossed it aside with a tired oof. Then he returned to digging.
Chapter 2
The hole was almost as tall as Wim. It wasn't perfectly level at the bottom, but he supposed that didn't matter. It would serve its purpose just as well either way.
As he stood in the grave, he thought he might be better served staying there permanently and his hand instinctively dropped to the butt of the revolver he kept holstered at his waist. He couldn't imagine a life after this. A life without Ramey. But he knew the animals needed tended to. He'd already been responsible for too much death and he wouldn't leave them without any provisions.
He hadn't given much thought to getting out of the grave and a full day of digging had left his arms feeling like overcooked noodles. He struggled, clawing at the ground above and digging his feet into the dirt walls for a full five minutes before managing to extricate himself. Once he was out, he flopped down onto the earth, which was covered with a soft blanket of golden yellow pine needles, and caught his breath.
It was nearing dark. He'd long ago given up wearing a watch but knew it must be closing in on eight p.m. He realized he'd been at this task the entire day and guilt washed over him for daring to leave Ramey alone for so long when they already had such little time remaining.
It was five days earlier that she got sick. It started with sneezing and a nose that dripped like a faucet. But before that day was up, the sickness filled her lungs and the coughing started. She'd gone downhill rapidly after that.
She'd been bedridden for the last two days. Even sitting up left her weak and exhausted. She tried to talk occasionally, but it wasn’t long before delirium had overtaken her and all she did was moan. One-time, her feverish eyes locked on him and her mouth opened, and he thought he heard her say, 'Please, do it,' but he told himself that was nothing but his imagination. At least, he tried to tell himself that. That was the last time he saw her conscious. In some ways, that was easier. Maybe it made him chicken, but he didn't want to hear that kind of talking.
It all seemed unfair. Wim knew that very idea, that this was unfair, made little sense in a world where barely one in a million people had survived the plague and many, maybe even most of the initial survivors, died in the weeks and months after. They'd been given almost four more years than most, but that wasn't nearly enough.
The years in the cabin were the happiest since Wim's childhood. Maybe his entire life even. They'd had their evenings on the swing. Their cold winter nights in front of the fireplace. As he'd predicted, it wasn't always an easy life, but it was always a good one. Every day was a good one with Ramey at his side. He'd grown to love her more than he thought possible.
Ramey was self-conscious about the scar on her face which she'd sustained when the Ark was collapsing, but Wim thought it gave her face character and showed some of the toughness a stranger might not otherwise have known she possessed just by looking at her. He loved the way her chocolate colored hair felt when it spilled into his face when they were in bed, and how she would cuddle with the chickens when she thought he wasn't looking and, maybe above all, her strength. He couldn't imagine many people could have dealt with that anvil hanging over their head with so much courage and acceptance.
When he left that morning, the fever had taken hold and her clothes were so wet it was like she'd just gone for a dip in the lake fully dressed. And when Wim held her in his arms before going off to dig her grave, he felt like he was holding onto someone who was burning from the inside out. In a way, he supposed, that's what was happening.
When he left, she'd been so sound asleep that he thought she might have slipped into a coma. He wasn't sure how to check whether that was the case, so he tried giving her a gentle shake. She responded with a pained groan but didn't come awake. He thought letting her sleep would be the kindest decision.
The grave he'd dug, Ramey's grave, was a hundred yards from the cabin, down the road a piece and in a little clearing where wild black-eyed Susan's grew in the summer. He thought it would be a pretty spot for her, but it was also far enough away that she wouldn't know what he was up to if she did make it out of bed and look out the window. As he returned to the cabin, he worried he'd been gone too long. That the sickness might have ended her and all that remained behind was her body, now reanimated and hungry. Without thought, he doubled his pace.
The pig greeted him as he rounded the corner and the cabin was revealed. It waddled up to him and pres
sed its wet nose against his leg. He gave its head a hurried scratch and felt bad when he pushed passed without any further acknowledgement, but there'd be more time to be kind to the pig. There might not be more time for Ramey.
Wim climbed the four stairs to the cabin porch in two galloping steps, then pushed the front door open. Everything inside appeared normal enough. No broken lanterns or tipped over end tables. Nothing that would indicate a zombie had been staggering around. His breath spilled out on something between a relieved and tired sigh.
"Ramey?" His voice trembled as he stared at the closed bedroom door. "I'm back. Sorry I was out so long."
No response came, and Wim supposed that news could go either way. He moved to the door, took the cold knob in his hand and gave it a quarter turn. He stopped to listen, heard nothing, then spun it the rest of the way.
There was no sense dragging it out further, so Wim pushed the door open.
The bed, their bed, was empty. No Ramey, just sopping wet, disheveled sheets and a pillow discarded onto the floor.
He opened his mouth to say something, maybe call her name again, but no words came. The sight so surprised him that he was speechless.
He turned away from the empty room, back to the cabin and tried to find something that could tip him off to what was going on.
It took him a full minute before he saw the note paper setting on the coffee table. The table that sat across from the fireplace where the two of them had spent so many nights in each other's arms. He crossed the room, sat on the couch and took the paper in his hands. It was filled top to bottom with Ramey's looping handwriting.
Wim, I know I'm a total shit for doing this. For leaving you again with only a letter in my wake. But it's the way it has to be. We both know I'm dying and that it'll happen soon. I tried to talk about it, but you won’t, and I understand but I know what you're doing in the meadow today. I knew when I saw you take the shovel. I probably shouldn't have been spying on you like I was but when you get quiet my mind works too hard and curiosity gets the best of me.
I wish I never had to leave you. I wish we could have grown old and fat and gray together. Nothing would have made me happier. But thanks to my asshole father that isn't possible. I'm a dead woman walking. I'm sorry I asked you to kill me. I know the toll the killing has taken on you and the very least I can do is save you from doling out one more death.
So, forgive me for leaving without a goodbye. For leaving you alone again. I really do believe it's for the best. I don't want to die but even more than that, I don't want you to see what I'll become. I took one of your pistols. I think it was the one you always complained about having to clean so hopefully you won't miss it. I'm going as far as I can walk and then I'm saying Sayonara. I can't beat my father's disease, but I can stop it from turning me into some kind of awful husk. Don't come looking for me. I don't need buried. Let nature reclaim me. Dust to dust and all that.
I want you to know that I loved you more than I could ever put down on paper. You're the best man I've ever known, and you have more strength and compassion than a hundred others. Yet I know your heart is half broke from the things you've had to do the last few years. I wanted to be able to fix that, but in the end, I just piled on. I hope you won't hold it against me.
Don't get too caught up in mourning me. This is part of life. Stay here and take care of our animals. Give Miss Piggy the Second my portion of food tonight and give Gypsy some sugar and tell her it's from me.
You've been my hero and my savior. My rock and my soft place to fall. I love you, love you, love you.
It ended with an uneven heart and the letter 'R'.
Wim read it all the way through four times. He knew she must have been gone for hours and cursed himself for leaving her alone in the first place. He thought about leaving. About trying to find her, but in the end, he followed her wishes. He figured he owed her that.
He took to staring out the window where he could see nothing but the stars poking through the black emptiness of the night. He remembered, years earlier, having a discussion with Emory about the stars and the correlation between them and the dwindling state of humanity. It seemed like everyone and everything he let himself care about died or left him. And he felt cursed for being the one who survived it all.
Chapter 3
A little over six months had passed since Ramey left him to die alone and Wim had managed to go on. In many ways, it was like life on the farm after Mama died, only the hole in his heart was bigger now. He didn't talk much to the animals anymore but did his best to care for them through what was a particularly harsh winter on the mountain. He lost a few chickens to a fox or maybe a bobcat and the old cow didn't make it through the season, but the rest trudged on. Just like him.
He'd given the cabin several deep cleanings, but her smell remained behind. That was the worst of it. Her clothes, her trinkets, those could be tucked away in closets. The photos of them together were hidden in drawers. But he couldn't erase her scent no matter how hard he tried and every time he breathed in her aroma, the synapses in his head fired too quick and he thought she was still there, or that she'd come back to him. And then the rest of his brain caught up and he realized it was nothing but the leftovers of what had once been a happy life.
One late June morning the sunlight and blue sky worked together to turn the surface of the water trough into a mirror and Wim was shocked when he caught his reflection. He hadn't bothered to cut his hair or shave since Ramey left, but even through all that fur he could tell he'd lost a considerable amount of weight. His eyes looked like dull marbles in their sockets and his face had taken on deep etchings, especially around his eyes. He looked like a tired, old bum and he supposed that wasn't too far off from the truth.
It had been a few months since he’d made a trip to town to restock and he was running low on everything. As much as he didn't care about himself, he knew there wasn't enough feed for the livestock to make it through another week and he needed to remedy that, so he pulled the wagon out of the barn and rolled it to Gypsy.
She shimmied side to side as he hitched it up. "Come on, now. Behave yourself."
The horse settled a bit, but its nostrils flared as it huffed. She was a contemptible beast.
The trip to West Jefferson took almost two hours by horse and wagon and would take twice that long going back, loaded down and mostly uphill. Before, when he made these trips with Ramey, they were events to be enjoyed. Long, dusty versions of Sunday rides. Miniature adventures. Now, he found the journey downright miserable.
The mountain road seemed even bumpier and ragged than before and a few times he thought a wheel might break on the wagon, but it survived, and riding became smoother once he got to paved roads.
He'd cleared the town of zombies when they first arrived years earlier, disposing of a hundred or so. Over the years, he found and killed a few dozen more that trickled in in dribs and drabs. He supposed they were probably residents who lived in the houses and farms outside of town and which had managed to find their way back to the place they once frequented through some vestiges of memory that remained inside their rotting heads. There were never more than a few on any given trip and, as far as he could recall, it had been a year or more since there'd been any at all.
That's why he was surprised when he saw movement through the plate glass window of the grocery store. He pulled the reigns and Gypsy gave an annoyed nicker before slowing to a stop.
He tied her off to a Stop sign, double knotting the rope. "You stay now." As if she had a choice in the matter.
Wim grabbed his rifle from the wagon and moved toward the store without bothering to exhibit much stealth. The door was open but, although he was certain he'd closed it the last time he was there, that didn't concern him much. It was a rickety door, after all.
The bright midday light lit up the store as well as the overhead fluorescents once had, if not better, and Wim had no trouble spotting the mostly bald head that bobbed up and down as the body it belonged
to moved through the canned good aisle. To Wim, it looked a little like a brown egg rising up and dipping down. Up and down. If it was a zombie, it was an active one.
He flicked off the rifle's safety and stepped to the end of the aisle. When he arrived, he saw the figure from behind and quickly realized the up and down motion was occurring because it was removing cans from the shelves and depositing them into an olive-green duffle bag that looked about big enough to hold a body.
Wim thought about announcing his presence but decided that waiting and watching was more interesting. For the next four minutes the man with the bald head emptied the shelves of every can of soup and then all the vegetables with the exception of green beans. Upon completion, he made an attempt to pick up the bag. An attempt that ended in failure and a pained grunt.
"That's a good way to give yourself a hernia," Wim said.
The man spun around so fast that his foot got caught in the strap of the bag and his arms flailed as he tried unsuccessfully to get his balance before he fell on top of his bounty with a pained urgh.
"Aw, darn it now." Wim hadn't meant to make the old fellow fall. He set his rifle against the shelf and moved toward him as the man tried to climb back to his feet. "Let me help you out there." He was a few feet away when the man looked up.
His face was the color and texture of old leather and one eye was clouded over by a cataract. He sneered as he saw Wim, revealing a set of teeth that was at thirty percent capacity tops. He wore clothing that reminded Wim of a WWII Army uniform and which was too large, sagging off his thin frame.
