by Marlin Grail
Will smirks at that response, but not from condescension. “I understand.” He says, and aims his pistol at the man's head.
“Wait, Will,” Gary abruptly says, “he needs to have me do it.”
Will, looking up at Gary, gives eyes of confusion, but not of disapproval to that response. “Sure then.” He says, and walks to where the undead are feasting.
The man, huffing of anger and physical weakness, is let free by Gary's foot. He doesn't get up, or try to attack any of us. He simply lays there, staring up at the dimmed skylight. “I can't stress this enough when I say if your group could have had civility, then they wouldn't have been eradicated.” Gary says, returning his voice to a sympathetic, but confident tone. “We won't forget you.”
He reaches for one of his pistols, and, while doing so, the man starts laughing. “You're not above this as you think you are!” he yells out loud, multiple times.
Gary prepares his aim, with trembling able to be seen as he holds the weighted gun. “May you and your brother rest in peace.” He says, speaking his words at a quick pace, before the loudness of his weapon sets off. The man is no longer alive, with the rest of his group also gone. Will returns, having stabbed and killed the undead. We have all reunited. “A thank you wouldn't be enough, Will, to truly appreciate the great save you pulled off.” Gary says, holding a worn-out hand to shake with Will's.
“I was too hard on you. I thought all of the pizazz you seem to have as a survivor was just pompous with no real life in it. I now know I was wrong.” Will responds, having a smirk to his mouth the whole time. “Just then, that man you ended had nothing left to lose, therefore, he really became dead. I see you had everything to lose, which proves you are still alive. You can see right through people, and know who's alive or not. You're not dead inside, and I see that now.”
Both of them interconnect their hands together, reviving their friction they had—even long before these last few days. Will now seems to realize Gary has seen much, and has done much—still working to embrace the benevolence for those he cares about through his hardened frame.
We've all dealt with death and loss, but this day will stay rooted as a reminder that we truly aren't above this world, but we also aren't alone in it.
Without warning, I latch myself onto Gary's back. “We made it!” I exclaim.
Gary turns himself around to see me, with us cradling each other from relief. “We are making it.” He tells me, soft, but stable in the sound of his throat.
I let my tired body somewhat fall into his arms, exhausted, but happy to indulge in letting him hold me. “Lissie, why don't you head inside. I have to pay my respects to these men.” Gary recommends, proving he has no vile punishments he plagues upon the fallen.
Many in our place wouldn’t do any of that.
Unable to change his mind, I slowly slip my tremulous hands down to my sides, and look at everyone with my reddened eyes.
I've never showed them my crying, or at least the sign that I could.
Janice, Ashton, and I make our way to the shelter, with me swerving left and right from incoherent walking. Fortunately, Ashton is helping to catch me if it appears I lose my balance. Though I stumble every now and then, I keep my head fixed onto the sight of our shelter's doors, choosing not to look right—even as we have already passed the perished men.
They chased us down for all of this time, but was it with personal vendettas of their own, or just blind loyalty to that man?
Gary and Will remain in a quiet conversation, for I only here mumbling of their frayed voices, but it isn't negative-sounding towards one another.
They're rekindling a truce, and hopefully for a better partnership from here on out.
I spread my hands onto the left door, taking a deep breath from relief, and closing my eyes with imagination to how soothing my bed will be. Ashton slides the right one open, and I spring into the place with what mobility I have. He drops the bags next to his bunk, and converges his way back to Gary and Will, who are both heading inside to the shelter—likely to acquire the shovels he and Gary brought yesterday.
With my crossed arms, I fall onto my bed, supine. “I've never seen you upset like this, Lissie.” Janice tells me, while she looks outside, noticing the deep, astronomical, dusk above the tree line.
“This wasn't because I thought I was dead. I thought… he was dead.” I answer, lightening up my grief-stricken throat back to my more natural-sounding voice. “Gary… I don't know how, but ever since I first saw him, I could see he was different, and I was used to the same men back then, but somehow… I just now know it makes me sick to think I feel my life was over before it actually was 'over'.”
“Then, Lissie, why don't you tell him that? You know this won't be the last time we see some form of tragedy—hopefully not as close to us as it was today. Why not accept the happiness you can get?”
Her question makes me exhale noticeably, and with purpose, for I pause the conversation while Gary and Will each grab the shovels.
Mainly, I just don't want Gary to hear me.
They both hurry their way back to the spot they will dig holes at. When they leave the radius, we continue talking. “Lissie, look at me.” Janice calmly commands, which I don't take as rude.
I go ahead and ask her, “Wouldn't that just bring more suffering? If I accept that, then wouldn't it add much danger on its own—not even regarding the troubles of what we go through?”
No hesitant answer comes from her mouth. “Every dark tale has a glimmer of hope, and someone has to offer that hope. If he brings hope to you, then embrace it the way you want.”
Chapter XXVI
(Gary)
“You sure you want to bury them? Especially him?” Will asks me.
“I just started this, but ever since the last time Ashton and I did it, a lingering hint of light has helped alleviate the stress that comes with knowing their demises were under my hand. This illuminates the darkness tremendously, even with something as grim as burying your adversaries.” I respond, darting my eyes to many different directions as I put together my explanation. “His death is on me, and I will conclude his story.”
Will, showing a piece of himself baffled by this practice, still nods to my answer. I hand the second shovel to him, giving a chance to put away his dead. He then shakes his head. “I don't need to do this, but I don't mind helping to carry them over to their graves.”
Will definitely had something, or someone, that guided him to a healthier means of conversation, as already his disagreement is much more respectful. I can tell, from the strands of hair sticking out of his beard, curled and dried up from blood—likely stained around his whole hidden mouth, that it confirms he really was out in nature. It seems nature brought something out in him during that time too.”
Ashton and I stab the tips into the ground. I work to hide the twinges all around my body, but, regardless, is this pain the most I am willing to sacrifice of myself for what I had to do—for the sake of my group's wellness.
Will stands there, observant, while our shovel's steps get pressed in, breaking down the dirt through picking up large clumps of it. He appears self-assured with not assisting in this digging, yet he seems eager to have something to act out with his own hands. “Will, are you sure you don't want to help?” I say.
Changing my dynamic with him should start with willing to try and have him involved more than before. It might improve our bond.
I can tell he ponders the question, gently rubbing his fingers against each other, as he stares at the dirt pile we have made.
Does he still lack trust in me?”
“Daylight isn't around that much longer, Will. Don't worry, I didn't sabotage this shovel to break on you.” I say, attempting to lighten up the mood, before the mood tries to tumble down between us now—like it used to. A moment of silence protrudes, but after such silence, Will reaches out to the shovel, and we switch places. “I'll go and take all of the weapons these men had back to the shelter.�
� I tell him and Ashton, while already walking to the bodies.
They lay near the spongy sod of the forest—all frozen in time to their last moments. The undead, though their skin's pigment is obvious, and inhuman, makes no difference from the fact every one of them are now in the same level of existence. They don't blend in by physical detail, but more through the metaphysical threshold there is, or I like to believe there is—for when the dangerous can no longer touch the living.
This doesn't mean we're not capable of being dangerous to the living ourselves. The man who said I wasn't above this… maybe he and his brother are now all above this mess—these messes left for us to clean. It's the least we can do.
I lean over to each of the men, and close all of their peeled-opened eyes. “Did C. tell you to do these things?” Will asks in between his breathing.
Ashton then rests his hands flat on top of his shovel's handle. “Yesterday, a man named Trey, along with his group, came to assist another patch of people with C. who were battling some aggressors at the time.” They didn't survive the aggressors initial attack. We took care of the threat, before he and his group could reach the area in time. He shared, with Gary and I, this idea of burying your dead, of course when it's appropriate.”
Will swings his head to look at Ashton and I, with a confounded smile on his face. “The people we've found.” He says, suggesting that while on his own he encountered others.
I go ahead and nod to his response, and refocus on taking the guns from the hands, 2 being rifles, and 3 being handguns. I take more than one trip to the shelter to carry these weapons. Each time I enter our place, I can see Lissie already in her bed with her eyes closed.
I'm sorry that today brought much sorrow, Lissie.”
Janice is assorting our supplies to be more organized. I then decide to halt my movement from heading back outside, and I muster up the need to ask her my concerns—boiled up from seeing Lissie's physically and emotionally worn-out appearance. “Janice? In your honest opinion, is doing these kind of humane acts putting us in more danger?”
She deflates the bag's emptiness with her hands, now resting them on top of it. “There's that piece of advice, Gary, with knowing that every action has a consequence.”
“I know. I also know the actions I've made, to keep the group sympathetic of others, has given those others that don't think the same way opportunities to inflict damage.”
She breaths with solemn in her exhale, which proves to me my claims are true, but immediately looks back up at me. “These are your choices, Gary, and they have to be just for you; that being said, I'm okay with you burying those men outside.”
I lean by the dressers, fiddling with a knob, somewhat disappointed with myself.
I know if I want less of these incidents happening, then I have to be okay...
Just then, I recall the one philosophy that has been blocked away from my memory today. “I have to be okay with letting others' chaos be their own.”
Though this statement has been played, and replayed, in my mind, the message does not lose its impact, no matter how many times I recite it.
I stare out to see 2 holes are already dug. I realign my body to fully be standing again—having trouble doing it though.
These bruises have become very sore.
“Gary, before you go out again, let me say,” Janice speaks, placing a hand on her chest, “I know you still want to make it apparent you are not going to be like Harold was, and trust me when I say Lissie knows that too. I've known you for some time. You, me, and Ashton survived with no real leader in place, so I can imagine the transition, from being a leader to yourself, to being a leader to others, is harsh. I still believe you've done nothing wrong, but, like Harold did his deeds for himself, is there some weird parallel going on too with the deeds you've chosen today?”
Without having to think deeply about my next response, I step my way over to her, and offer a sincere hand on her arm. “I understand what you mean, Janice. I took chances today, and they back-lashed, but you were a chance Ashton and I took, and you've brought much happiness to us. Chances on people only back-lashes when the desired end result was more for yourself than for the actual person.”
The felt touch is quick, but was meaningful. Now, I move myself out of the shelter, and return to the burial site—with a fresh perspective. “It took you a while. Maybe you should call it a day, Gary.” Ashton says while heavily catching his breath.
Both of them have dug 2 more adequate holes in the last couple of minutes. Will then stretches out, as he comments in, “We know nighttime is drawing near, and we want to get into the shelter as quick as possible.”
“Why don't you then both call it a day? You've done really great. I can dig the last, and place them all in their graves. If it gets too dark, then I'll finish up tomorrow.” I say, making sure my demeanor is that of certainty—not for myself, but for them.
I know they both would like to be doing something else. That's how it should be. This practice is more for me.
“Alright. Sounds good.” Ashton says, with positivity in his tone.
Will nods in acceptance, and they both put down the shovels.
The holes wouldn't be up to burial code, for they might be between 2-3 feet, if even that, but that is not the purpose for these graves.
Presentation is not the key here. What matters is they are out of sight, and therefore out of mind.
One by one, I take the 4 men closest to each other, spatting off gnats here and there that pester me when I move their bodies. Kneeling straight downward is the least aching movement for me in order to grab the men by their legs. In an instant, I have to force myself to hold in a chuckle regarding a thought of something.
It wouldn't be appropriate to have a burst of humor at a time like this.
I don't let the snicker flow out, but I still recall what it is. It is about a time in my past, when one of my bandmates told me something along the lines, “Spray me with insecticide if you find me dead in a field. That way, I make more trouble, with all of the bugs you'd have to bury alongside with me.”
I hope you're still out there Gabe, somewhere.
Thinking about him makes me start to hum a melody to a song of mine—also as a means to help me pass the time with this 'clean-up duty'. It was one of the last songs I wrote, and still remains impressive to me. By the end, most of my music was becoming the major-sounding kind-of-rock, but this song was more somber, and back to the roots of my original work. It was distant from the radio-friendly music the band was going towards, and I suppose it still stands out to me because of it.
I would begin singing along with the airless melody, but I haven't really sung in a while, and it could attract unwanted attention.
After blankness in my head, I reconsider the fact I am making noise with dragging the bodies, so I figure any sound below that volume is safe to project, as long as nothing is close enough to hear it. I grab the fourth man, and begin winding up my voice. I pull together the slow-triplet beat of the song in my head, and begin singing,
[“There's no way to be alive,
If you're afraid of what's outside.
And though you'll try to hide away,
It'll come back one day.”]
Thinking about Gabe seems to affiliate with that song, or at least that Chorus piece. He was reckless, bold, and haunted by his lack of belief he would be able to let go of his past pains. Many of the musicians I knew all had unique qualities, but 1 thing they had in common was the struggle to let the past stay in the past.
I know I've been guilty of that myself.
I sing these lyrics at least twice, before this body has to be dropped into their hole.
I can squeeze in the last dig for the last hole—even with sunlight barely left.
Not a minute passes with me scooping up the ground though before I hear a snarling undead falling from the ledge of the forested hill our group came from originally. I look over my shoulder, actively watching it raise itself o
ff of the ground.
During the daytime, that undead, flatten on the ground, would've been stuck there. Why does the dark give them a boost?
Their face is hidden by the hoodie-jacket that person put on, when it was more than just the body of that person. Oddly however, this undead seems to still see through the wool covering their eyes, as I see them walk directly towards the shelter's wall in front of them.
It can sense the others are closest in proximity compared to me.
“Okay, it's time to go inside. I'll finish tomorrow.” I say to myself, simply letting the body of the man who sought revenge be placed on the dirt pile that has been made.
With my sword inside, and shooting off one of my guns being deemed too risky, I decide to speed-walk myself over to the undead, carrying both shovels in my hands.
It's too dark to automatically see if their haze-incubating period has begun.
Their open mouth pops, with its lower jaw shifted in a strange way. They lunge towards me, but I simply press the shovel into their chest, keeping it at bay. I extend the other shovel to slip in the gap of the hoodie, between the top of its head, and push it off. Will hurries his way out, hearing the commotion that has become louder due to the undead's growling and gargling sounds. Without saying anything, he assists. “It's not incubating.” I say, expecting that to be enough information for him.
One swift smack by me to their head, and down they go. Will pulls out a knife, thrusts it downward into their skull, and muted they become. That cooperative kill needs no thanks, but I provide Will a compliment for his return. “The darkness never counts on you showing up, and that keeps an edge. Our supervisor has no idea that you are apart of the group.”
“They'll be surprised, then.” He responds, recoiling his knife back to his pocket.
He walks back to the inside, and I follow too, placing the shovels back to their corner. Finally, after this long day, I step into the shelter, and we all permanently stay inside for the night. Our flashlights are angled to give us the most essential visibility we need to see our bags, and our bunks, and everything in between. I let myself fall and slide onto the ground—free of weapons, and free of stress.
