Generation Z

by Peter Meredith

  “Good morning,” she said, as he came into the main room. “I’ll have breakfast ready in a few.”

  “How are your knees? I don’t want you going out of your way just for me.”

  She was dressed in a red velour warmup suit of what appeared to be soft velvet. Lifting one of the pant legs, she said, “There’s barely a bruise. I’m fine. Now sit like a proper guest.”

  He wasn’t going to sit, and he didn’t ask if he could help because he knew what she would say. He brushed his teeth and then went about filling the tub for her. She made a fuss, which he ignored. In a very literal sense, Mike had been raised in a world where if you didn’t work, you didn’t eat.

  There wasn’t quite a line to use the pump, it was more of a congregation of shivering children and teens who stood around Aaron Altman, listening as he told the story of how he saved Jenn from certain death. In his version he didn’t scream like a girl as the zombies chased him. The children were so engrossed in the story they didn’t see Mike.

  “That’s exactly what happened,” he said. “Only I could have sworn there were eight zombies after you, not six.” Since story-telling was the dominant form of entertainment on the island it was a long-standing practice among the fisherman to spice up their anecdotes. If one of Mike’s friends told him that a hundred-pound shark nearly took off his leg in a single bite, Mike knew it was more than likely a fifty-pound tuna that brushed up against him

  “Oh, yeah,” Aaron agreed. “You were probably right. It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to count them all. So how is Jenn? Is she laid up? Does she need anything?”

  Aaron was playing the role of white knight to the hilt. This was a double-edged sword. “Actually, yes. Her poor knees have her hobbling about like a poor cripple. If you could help with her water that would be great.”

  Roping Aaron in was one thing, but Mike was pleasantly surprised when eight of the children and teens brought buckets of water up to Jenn’s apartment until her bathtub was filled. They didn’t seem to mind that she wasn’t on the couch with a cast on her leg. What mattered to them was that the story was vouched for and they asked for a repeat of it before they left.

  “Zombies on the high seas is an interesting story,” she said to Mike over their breakfast of pears and homemade grape jelly.

  “The bay isn’t exactly the high seas.” He spoke quietly, his mood dampened having to hear, once again, how Ken and Remy had died. In his mind, Remy was already dead. At the first sign of fever, Gerry would have had his friends come by to say their goodbyes. A bottle of Napa’s finest would be sent through the bars along with a rope. Mike was sure that Remy had died alone, his face purple, the tears standing out on his cheeks like sad little diamonds.

  “It’s as close to the high seas as I ever want to come,” Jenn said. “I can’t imagine anything more frightening than the ocean.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not that scary. It’s just big and empty.”

  “You’ve been out on the ocean? Why? The bay has all the fish anyone could ever eat.”

  “It was just like what happened to the Puffer. The wind died at just the wrong time and the tide sucked us out. There was nothing we could do but wait until either the wind came back or the tide changed. It was a little freaky, but do you want to hear something weird? Both Remy and Ken were on that boat.”

  Jenn looked ready to say something comforting; he stopped her with a pat on the hand. “It’s alright,” he told her. “Well, really it’s not. It’ll never be alright, but you get, what’s the word? Inured?”

  Her pert nose wrinkled. “Inured? I’d say toughened to it.”

  “I think that’s what the word means.” Her brows came down in anger and quickly he brought the conversation back to the boat. “So, there we were stranded at sea. I don’t want it to appear like I’m some tough guy, but I wasn’t afraid at all. I knew that the same forces that sent us out would bring us back. And it did eleven hours later. We came ashore all the way down by Santa Cruz.”

  “And that’s why I’ll never care for boats. I should get ready. I’m sure the Coven will want to see you pretty soon about the trade business.”

  It turned out she was wrong. The Coven wasn’t in a hurry to see him. The two spent all morning waiting to be called. After a lunch of salted cod, Stu showed up asking about Jenn’s knees and acting strangely. He nosed about her apartment, sticking his head into the back bedrooms.

  After making a rumbly sound that could’ve been one of disappointment, he said, “I like your paintings, Jenn. They real?”

  “Of course they’re real,” she answered indignantly. “Why wouldn’t they be real? I mean, how do you have fake pictures? They’re either there or they’re not.”

  He blinked at her icy tone. “I meant if they were prints or…” Her brows came down at the word. Clearly, she didn’t know what a print was. Mike wasn’t sure either. He guessed they were pictures that had been mass produced from an original.

  Mass production wasn’t a concept Jenn or the younger generation truly understood. She crossed her arms and glared. “They’re pictures and they’re nice ones. Why don’t you leave it at that?” Stu glared right back.

  “He already said he liked them,” Mike said, getting between them. “I do, too. All those flowers make everything cheery.” He quickly changed the subject. “So, when do I start weighing and measuring? Not that it’s even needed. I trust you, Stu.”

  “There’s no hurry. Tomorrow will do. In the meantime, maybe you could take Jenn out to do some fishing. We could use all the surplus fish we can catch.”

  Mike and Jenn shared a look. She shrugged, and he said, “Sure, I guess I could do that. Who else is coming?”

  “Hmm? Who else? I think just the two of you. Everyone else is busy. Speaking of which, I have to get going.”

  “I don’t know what his deal is,” she said the second her front door closed. She pulled back her curtains and watched him head up the dirt path.

  “He’s probably under a lot of stress. I know Gerry is crazy at this time of year. So much depends on the traders, what they carry and what we can get for our stuff.”

  “Well, it works out for me because I get to go fishing with an expert. Let me go get my coat and crossbow.” It was cool and grey out, but the snow Jenn had predicted was nowhere in sight. Thankfully, the fog had dissipated and with it went the dread of being surprised by hidden zombies. Jenn led, moving with the stealth of a cat, from one sheltered observation point to another. On their way down to the harbor they crawled under bushes, slipped through abandoned houses, and twice tiptoed across the roofs of buildings. Both times they had to dodge around gaping holes that would have sent them plunging down into dark depths.

  It was better to dodge holes than zombies in Mike’s opinion.

  They made it down to the harbor, where Jenn showed him the Hill People’s secret stash of fishing gear. He held back judgment. In the nine years since the schism, they had become hunters and gatherers, and had lost a good deal of their skill in fishing.

  Jenn was an awful fisherman. As patient and quiet as she was on land, she was jittery, nervous, and talkative when they got in the Puffer. “The signs,” she explained when he asked what was wrong, “they’re not good.” She kept standing with one hand on the mast, looking, not for signs but for zombies in the water.

  Gently he pulled her down. “We’re all alone, so try to relax. Remember, this is supposed to be fun. Now, let’s talk about your bait.” They spent the afternoon catching fish and chatting quietly. During the evening they smoked the fish to preserve them.

  The next morning, Jenn had chores to do and, as Mike still wasn’t called on, he went with her to set traps in the Marin Headlands, and then sat with her on a four-hour guard duty shift. In the late afternoon he went with her to get some firewood.

  Collecting branches and stray kindling was usually a simple affair, but getting actual cord wood could be dangerous. It was why almost no one went out alone to get wood. Usua
lly two people kept watch as two others sawed down a tree—no one ever “chopped” down a tree, it was just too loud.

  When Mike asked why they were alone, a shadow crossed Jenn’s face. “I’m bad luck,” was all she would say. Because she normally went out alone she could only take down young trees, in this case a Maple that had a great head of red and gold leaves on it. When it came down, the crash was muted by all those leaves, still they froze, listening.

  With Mike’s help, they de-limbed it so that only the trunk remained and this they cut into sections and loaded onto a cart. It took three hours to fill the cart and haul it back to the complex. Stu was waiting for them at the gate. “You two make a good team,” he said, right off the bat.

  It was another odd statement. “We make a sweaty team,” Mike said, feeling uncomfortable. “Do you want me to check your trade goods now?”

  “Yeah, maybe Jenn could help you.”

  “Sorry, but Jenn is busy,” Jenn said, pointing at the cart of wood. “I still have to cut up the larger pieces. And I have to get dinner ready. I hope fish is okay with you, Mike.”

  After a hard day, Mike was starving, but before he could answer, Stu clapped him on the back. “Actually, the Coven wants to have Mike over for dinner tonight. It’s sort of official business, but I will make sure to send him back as soon as he’s done.”

  For a moment, Jenn looked disappointed. She covered the look with a quick smile. “Sure. If it’s official business, what can you do, right? I’ll make us some dessert so don’t stuff yourself.”

  Stu laughed and said, “He’s seventeen, Jenn, he’s never been full in his life.” Before Mike knew it, Stu had turned him around and was marching him away. The laughter and the strange smile were gone in a blink as he asked, “Do you trust me when it comes to the weighing and measuring? Do you trust that I won’t screw you guys over?”

  Up until that moment Mike trusted Stu completely, but there was something so strange about him that Mike was slow to answer, “Yeah, why?”

  “The Coven will tell you at dinner. First, let’s get you bathed. You don’t want to see them smelling like sweaty sawdust and mud.”

  Mike wasn’t one to put on airs, but Gerry had made it a point to tell him that he was representing Alcatraz and its people. “Consider yourself an ambassador.” Mike had assured Gerry that he would. When he went to his room to pack, he’d gone right to his battered Webster's dictionary to look up the word. He had been in the second grade when the zombies came and his formal education had basically ended at that point.

  “I need to run over to Jenn’s for a change of clothes.”

  Stu shook his head. “I have your bag at my place. The pants are fine, but your shirts are a touch too wrinkled. You can borrow one of mine.”

  They went to Stu’s apartment where Mike found a full tub waiting for him. Next to it was a glass of wine. He took one look at it and asked, “What’s going on here?”

  “This is how we treat guests. Trust me, Gerry knows exactly what’s going on and he’s fine with it. Now, chop-chop, the Coven doesn’t like being kept waiting.” He shut the door on Mike.

  At first, he looked at the tub with suspicion, but then he asked aloud, “Why am I fighting this?” He settled into the water which was agreeably warm and took up the glass. The first sip made his face blanch. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but by the time the glass was half gone, he was actually enjoying the wine.

  It put him in a fine, mellow mood and he washed and dressed, feeling content. Wearing a stark white button-up shirt over clean blue jeans, he and Stu went to what had once been the “clubhouse” of the complex. Now, it was a combination storehouse, seat of government and dance hall.

  The seven women who made up the Coven were there waiting for Mike. They ranged from thirty-two-year-old Lois Blanchard to forty-four-year-old Donna Polston. Although he hadn’t seen most of them since the schism, he recognized their faces.

  Some stared down their noses at the young men while others welcomed them. Lois was one of the latter. “Come in, come in. Look at these two strapping young men.” Stu and Mike exchanged glances. Neither was all that strapping as far as Mike understood the word. They were both whipcord thin with muscles like rope. “If I wasn’t taken,” Lois went on. “Oh my.”

  “But you are,” Miss Shay said in a sing-song voice. “And you know the rules.” She turned her sharp face from Lois and attempted to smile in Mike’s direction. Her lips were so pursed it sort of looked as though she were sucking on a lemon. “There are always rules and there are good reasons for the rules. Am I right?”

  Before Mike could answer, he was turned around and found himself in front of a woman whose hair was so blonde it looked white. She held him by the shoulders and looked him up and down. “Hello there, Mike. I don’t know if you remember me, my name is Miss Polston, but I suppose under these circumstances you can call me Donna. I was a friend of your mother’s. My, she was always such a dear.”

  Mike was caught off guard for a moment with the reference to his mother. As always, thinking about her brought up a flood of feelings; he had to push them aside. “Circumstances? I wasn’t aware there were any circumstances.”

  “Let’s not worry about that right now,” Donna said, taking him by the arm. “We’ve prepared quite a spread. It’s our custom to eat first and talk business later.”

  He wanted answers right then but with Lois on one side and Donna on the other, he was bustled to the head of a table that was lavishly spread with pheasant in an orange sauce, roasted potatoes and a loaf of bread. The bread was a prized treat, and each was given a thin slice that was savored.

  Wine was also served and by the time the dinner was over, Mike had sipped away two glasses. He wore a dreamy smile on his face as the women talked about both his mother and father in words of glowing praise. Only Stu kept silent. He had eaten quietly without saying much to anyone, and for the most part was completely ignored. Only when he asked for seconds of pheasant did he receive any attention—a cold glare from Miss Shay. This he pretended not to see as he heaped more of the roasted bird onto his plate.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “I think it’s time we discussed those circumstances that were brought up earlier.”

  “What circumstances?” Mike asked, suddenly on edge.

  Lois patted his hand and said with a beaming smile, “The circumstances of your marriage to Jenn Lockhart, of course.”

  Chapter 9

  Jenn Lockhart

  Mike was gone for hours and Jenn grew sleepy waiting for him. It didn’t help that she was sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket. To stay awake she walked out onto her balcony. The signs pointed to snow and yet the night was clear and crisp with an unseasonably sharp feel of ice on the air.

  With her breath blooming little clouds, she stood looking up at the stars trying to find the meaning behind them.

  Some people said that the stars were really suns like their own sun. Supposedly, they were so far away that their light took millions of years to get to the earth and was cold by the time it got there. That sort of information didn’t mean much to Jenn. She knew there was real meaning behind the stars. The difficult part was divining that meaning.

  She gazed up at the stars. There were billions in the night sky and yet, she could name only one: the North Star. To her it was the most important star because it was the only one that could show her the way home. Her father had taught her that about a week before he had been squished like a grape. It was one of the few memories of him that she had managed to hold onto.

  As she was staring up looking for the North Star, something caught her attention and made her jump. There in the heavens was a blinking light, zipping quickly across the sky. It was there for all of five seconds and then it was gone.

  An average person from before would have questioned whether they were looking at a plane or satellite or even a space station. Jenn had heard of these things, but she didn’t think for a moment that the light was from any of
these leftovers from before the apocalypse. That technology was dead; everyone knew that.

  The question in her mind was what the speeding light meant.

  “A journey,” she said to herself.

  “To where?”

  Jenn jumped again and looked down. Mike was standing next to her garden with his hands stuffed in his pockets staring up at her. Even in the dark she saw that his face was twisted, much like Stu’s had been for the greater part of the last few days.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe back to Alcatraz?” His normally full lips drew into a thin line. “Okay, not back to Alcatraz. Then somewhere else, who knows.”

  “Can I come up?” he asked.

  Now it was her turn to purse her lips. It was a strange question which only cemented the idea that Stu and the Coven had let him in on some sort of secret. “Of course. I said you could stay with me for as long as you were visiting.”

  He came up the stairs and she met him at the door. The strangeness surrounding him was worse up close. He kept licking his lips as if he wanted to say something and then when he couldn’t bring himself to, he’d grow agitated.

  After a few tense minutes, she said, “I have a cobbler. It’s apple and cherry…unless you’re too full from dinner.” She had used the last of her flour to make it and the crust was dangerously thin. He eagerly said yes to the dessert, but whether he really wanted it or just wanted a break from the silence between them, she couldn’t tell.

  When he had scraped his plate with his fork and poked up the last crumbs with a saliva-dampened thumb, he let loose with a bear-like yawn. “That was great. I should be getting to bed.” He opened his mouth, let it hang there and then shut it again. As an afterthought, he said, “Good night.”

  Jenn didn’t go to bed right away. She wrapped herself in a blanket and went back outside, searching again for the lights. A journey was coming. That prospect excited her, however the reason for it did not. Something bad was also coming.