by catt dahman
Kimball lay in the bottom, drifting in and out as the pain pills confused his mind. Jet fed Kim pills and reset the leg. Sometimes Kim cried for Beth and his children, and sometimes he talked to Beth as if she were there. He asked Jet about Katie, Georgie, Benny, Neal, Willow, and Hannah. Of course, Beth, and Jet told him each time they were gone. Kim would cry and wail and then sniffle as he fell back asleep, avoiding the pain of his fractured leg and his losses.
And when he awoke, he would again ask Jet about the family, and the story was repeated with the same results. Kim kept reliving the shock and horror of hearing it for the first time. Jet stayed close to his father and stared out to sea unless he had to patiently tell Kim about the family dying, again and again and again.
And, again.
Jet kept trying to list all his sins after DeVon told him that only the good die young.
“God something about hedgehogs and we’re knights doomed to hell.” DeVon couldn’t get it all right in her head as she tried to explain to Jet and Misty.
DeVon held Teeg’s hand so tighly that her nails made crescent-shaped marks on his skin, but he didn’t care. He sat and cried silently, sometimes listing everyone who was gone, and sometimes asking Len why this had happened.
When he asked, DeVon gripped his hand tighter and repeated that only the good died young. She was like Kim, a broken record that repeated the same things.
They found a soaking wet kitten from the island that was crying as he held on to a floating board. DeVon grabbed him and rocked him like a baby until his grey and white fur dried and he fell asleep in her arms. She let her tears fall on him as he purred her to sleep.
In Misty’s arms lay her only surviving child, Jayne, who sucked her thumb and quietly nursed when Misty let her. Misty’s eyes were always on the water, looking for her other children or her husband, Mark, her hero; he always saved her, and she looked for him because this time, she wanted to save him.
She had lost her gun, or she would have gladly killed Jayne and herself to escape this hell. They floated.
The storm of the century passed, destroying coastline and spawning tornadoes that devastated more areas. Had there been a weatherman with radar and technology, he would have said it was the most destructive Category Five hurricane to ever hit the United States.
He would say that it hit Port Arthur dead on and that Galveston and Corpus Christi were destroyed. Houston, bombed and ruined already, was cleansed. In Louisiana, everything from Lake Charles to New Orleans was wiped off the US map, along with all the many Zs who had massed there in the hundreds of thousands. Gulfport, Biloxi, and Mobile were also cleaned by the floodwaters that rose fifty-four feet.
He would say when it hit, it settled down fast and that it took out three or four hundred thousand people; however, almost all of those were zeds anyway.
The cleansing had been deep and thorough.
When the clouds broke, no one mysteriously came and saved the people in the raft, and they didn’t find anyone else alive, so they drifted; they had survived, and these were their terms.
They had not died young.
Len chuckled and thought George would have had some deep philosophical message gleaned from those who did survive, and George would tell Len that he missed the chance to go out on some exciting terms and have it be done and over with.
The sea seemed endless as they drifted.
Len unloaded his pistol to count the bullets. He named them: Misty, Jayne, DeVon, poor ole Kim, Big Bill, Teeg, the kitten, Jet, and then himself.
He needed nine bullets; he had four.
Who would ask and be granted these four bullets?
He didn’t know.
(Fort Worth: 2013)
13
Terms Mystique
Had George actually been there, he would have been sad but accepting of the fact that it had never been about their own terms, not really, but always about nature and how it seeks a balance.
On shore, a small group of zombies shambled away to hunt for food, dead eyes always rolling, bitten arms always reaching, basic instincts always driving them. They numbered nine.
In the little boat, there was weeping, as helpless people curled up against their own pain and stared out at the sea with blank, hopeless faces.
It was the balance. They numbered nine.
-Fort Worth 2012
Note from author:
We made it from book one to book nine. Amazing.
One of my favorite horror writers had often said that writing must be fair. To me, this means that the characters act and react in ways readers can understand and that writers don’t rely on deux ex machina to get main characters out of bad situations they have been written into. A few times, I may have allowed certain events to occur that helped some characters, but as random events conspire to get us into problems, they also can help get us out of them. 99.9 % of the time, my characters were left to either get out of their predicaments or die. Luckily, they were able to often figure out ways to by-pass my constraints and find ways to keep going. There were times when I spent days working on ways they could get away from zombies because I had written them into corners (literally in some cases) because I refused to use deux ex machina and didn’t want to rewrite or cheat.
Admittedly, the series takes place in a small universe where characters are connected, but had I not done that, then we would not have travelled through nine books and had the mysteries and surprises we found. I found it cozy and more personal; I don’t like to read books that are so sweepingly grand in universe that they lose that close feeling.
I know it was a bumpy ride at the end as almost everyone died. I had no cue at all who would make it until they did. I was hoping a few more would make it, but the situations didn’t allow them to survive. It’s a strange group that did make it. Well….that could make it. Len has four bullets. What do they do? You decide. Write me an ending and send it to me if you want, but my work here is finished and I’m through with this road trip. We have arrived.
Thanks, My readers, for sharing the trip with me.
Also by Catt Dahman
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