Fermata: The Winter: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (The Fermata Series: Four Post-Apocalyptic Novellas Book 1)

by Harper, Juliette

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the The Fermata Series

  Copyright

  FERMATA: THE WINTER

  A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series

  Juliette Harper

  Chapter One

  Prelude

  A leather flap tied in place with a single strap protected the journal's pages. It kept the riot of notes and photos wedged inside from spilling out. The stray bits of paper were creased to a worn softness, the edges of the pictures curling and cracked.

  Cramped, conservative handwriting crawled over the pages of the book. The author had meant for the volume to last. A lone symbol adorned the flyleaf. It looked like the eye of a bird. In musical notation, it was called a fermata — the grand pause.

  Under the drawing, there were ten words. "The end of a phrase, where a breath is taken."

  The Winter of 2015: The Cabin

  A bitter wind rattled the bare branches outside the window. Lucy stared at the winter landscape. The snow was deep enough that even if the dead came out of the woods, they'd be slogging through it up to their knees, but that knowledge didn't put her mind at ease.

  There were no bars on the window, no barricade at the door. Lucy felt raw and exposed, her senses run out around her like quivering antenna. How did he live like this? Did he count on the isolation and the cold to keep him safe? If he did, he was wrong.

  The dead would come. It was only a matter of time.

  In the few days they'd been at the cabin, there had been almost no conversation. She refused to leave Vick's side, trying to get her to come to full consciousness. In those brief, half-awake times when Vick did drift upwards, she'd open her eyes, sip a little water or take a spoonful of soup, but then sink back down again.

  When Vick was asleep, Lucy stood watch at the window, peering through the frosted pane for any sign of movement, one ear trained to the labored rasping of Vick's breath. It was better today. Wasn't it?

  But if the dead came, how would she get Vick to safety and take care of the others as well? No matter where she was, Lucy was always looking for the way out, planning the escape, assessing the contingencies.

  Complacency in this new world meant death, which she didn't dread, but then there was the resurrection. That was the thought she couldn't bear. All her life the priests talked about the resurrection, about heaven. They got their directions wrong. Nowadays, people arose and went straight to hell.

  Long ago she and Vick pledged to put the other truly down if it came to that. These past few days, Lucy looked at the drawn and pale face of the only true friend she'd ever known and wondered if she could put a bullet between those eyes.

  Of course she would do it. She wouldn't let Vick become one of those things, but then there would be the living with it. For however long living went on. She tried to imagine doing this now without Vick. Surviving without the sound of the other woman's calm voice. The inventive resiliency of her mind.

  Lucy shook her head to stop the runaway train of her thoughts. Even after five years, the thought of turning into one of those stumbling, ravenous horrors made her stomach heave. Five years.

  As Lucy stared out the frosted pane she wondered at how incredibly ordinary her life was back then, how perfectly normal. Now "normal" meant being prepared to bolt in an instant. It meant being prepared to fight for your life.

  It meant putting a bullet between the eyes of those things, even if what was looking back at you was the rotted remains of someone's grandmother, a once kindly priest, or just a little kid like Beth.

  It might mean putting a bullet in Vick. Lucy fought back the lump in her throat. If it came to that, what she would be shooting wouldn't be Vick. She knew that. They were all monsters. They'd all rip you to pieces if you hesitated even an instant.

  But for Lucy, the only part of the new "normal" that felt safe was the woman lying there in the bed. Vick, the most unlikely leader anyone could imagine, and the only person who had the power now to make Lucy feel safe.

  Back in that other world, they would never have been friends for the simple reason that their lives would never have brought them together. Then they had moved in completely different worlds; just a few dozen blocks apart, but those blocks might as well have been distant galaxies the two women were so different.

  But not now. Now they could look at each other and have complete conversations without ever speaking, anticipate one another's moves. Keep each other alive. Not just breathing. Alive. Inside.

  Vick was so strong and so steady that Lucy had completely forgotten the woman wasn't invincible. Even now her brain rebelled at the sight of Vick lying there so still, so broken and fragile.

  Apparently Vick had rebelled at the idea of her own mortality as well. On that day, while the deafening crack of the shot still echoed in the trees, she'd touched her chest, brought her hand away crimson with blood, and looked at Lucy in utter astonishment. Then she crumpled into Lucy's arms.

  They'd enjoyed a warm, quiet summer. But then the dead came in numbers too great to fight. The little group of survivors ran, abandoning the house they'd taken the previous spring.

  It was raining the day they'd fled across an overgrown field. Slipping in the mud as they scrambled up a hillside, Vick cursed herself, "Goddamn it," she'd panted, looking over her shoulder at the mob behind them, “we shouldn't have stayed put so long. What the hell was I thinking?"

  And she was right. Winter caught them two weeks later before they'd found another sanctuary. The first cold front of the season rolled down hard out of the north leaving them huddled around a tiny fire they hid from sight behind a makeshift wall of rocks.

  Lucy and Vick's eyes met over the weak flames and they exchanged the same, silent thought. "We have to find shelter or we're dead."

  The accident happened the next day as they'd trudged through rapidly accumulating snow. A sound in the woods made Vick turn quickly and draw her gun. She stumbled on a tree root. The shot shattered the frozen air and blood stained the snow.

  Lucy caught Vick and eased her to the ground, ripping off her scarf and pressing it against the red flow. Before the others could react, she'd whispered desperately against her friend's ear. "Don't you do this to me, Vick. Do not do this to me."

  Moments later, he came out of the woods, drawn by the sound. In that instant Lucy knew it was all over. She'd played enough poker in her life to know when the cards turned. She tightened her arms protectively around Vick and silently thanked the Holy Mother that Vick was unconscious.

  How one person survives is not how another survives. Vick regarded the end of the world as one big cosmic competition and Vick did not like to lose. It was just as well she wasn't going to see whatever came next.

  But it hadn’t worked out that way. He was big, broad shouldered and strong, but when he pulled the scarf away from his face and took off the dark sunglasses, Lucy saw twinkling blue eyes and a silver beard.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, obviously reading the apprehension in her expression. “Will you come with me? I have a cabin and food. Your friend needs help.”

  Lucy remembered her own bitter thought at his words. “I might as well be warm when I die.” B
ut in the moment, she said nothing, only nodded, and then watched as the man picked Vick up gently and turned to walk away.

  They’d followed, because what else was there for them to do? Beth, now a child of 8 or 9. Hettie, younger than she looked, saner than she sounded. And Lucy, realizing that if Vick died, they’d turn to her to make the decisions.

  At the cabin, he laid Vick on the bed and hurriedly stripped out of his coat. Opening a cabinet, he took out an old-fashioned doctor's bag and removed several instruments. He handed them to Lucy.

  "Stoke the fire in the kitchen stove and boil these. The pots are in the cabinet. The water barrel is in the back corner."

  Lucy did as she was told. As she filled the largest boiler she could find, the sound of cloth ripping startled her. Water sloshed onto the stove in a steaming hiss. Behind her, Hettie was tearing what looked like frayed work shirts into long strips.

  "He said make bandages," the woman said simply, her eyes round behind her glasses.

  "Where's Beth?"

  "By the fire," Hettie answered. "She knows to stay out of the way."

  "What did you do with our packs?"

  "They're by the door in case we have to run," Hettie answered, still ripping.

  Lucy started to say, "We can't run," but just then the man come out of the bedroom. He was rolling up his shirt sleeves.

  "The bullet missed her heart, but I think it nicked a lung. The shot was almost a through and through. I can feel it under the skin on her back. Getting it out will be an easy matter. Then we wait."

  That had been almost a week ago and they were still waiting. Lucy knew every sound the wind made as it filtered through the crevices in the walls. She recognized the squeaking of the floorboard in the kitchen and the guttering of the fire in the grate.

  The creaking of the bedroom door no longer made her turn. She knew their host by his footfall, and the smell of warm food told her he’d brought yet another bowl of soup.

  “Shall we try again to get her to eat a little?” he asked softly.

  When Lucy turned to meet his gaze, he smiled from behind his tiny eyeglasses. In spite of her growing anxiety, Lucy smiled back through eyes brimming with tears. “She hasn’t eaten in two days,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”

  Without warning, the figure in the bed whispered back, “Don’t be.”

  Lucy’s head snapped around. “Vick?”

  The woman’s eyes were open only a slit, but she was fully awake. “Where are we?” she asked.

  The man set the bowl down and drew closer. “You are in my home near the border with Canada. You’ve given us quite a scare, young lady.”

  “Hettie? Beth?”

  Lucy took her hand and thought she'd sob in relief when Vick's fingers curled around her own. “They’re fine. They’re in the next room.”

  The tired eyes opened a little more and worked to focus. “You?”

  “I’m okay, Vick,” Lucy said, but her voice broke. “Don't you go dying on me, okay?”

  “Don’t plan to,” she said. She squeezed Lucy’s hand and the ghost of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. For the first time in days, Lucy breathed.

  Worn out with the exertion, Vick's eyes were starting to close again. She struggled to speak again, and Lucy bent close to catch her words. "The dead?" Vick asked.

  Lucy put her mouth against the woman's ear. "Not for a week," she answered softly.

  "Keep watch," Vick said weakly. "Run if they come. Leave me. Promise?"

  Hot tears welled in Lucy's eyes, but she said, "I promise." She pressed a soft kiss against Vick's temple and said, "Sleep now. I've got this."

  Vick sighed and slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Two

  Later that night, Hettie insisted on sitting with Vick, shooing Lucy out into the main room. Beth slept on a cot near the fire. When Lucy tucked the blanket closer around the child, she stirred. Lucy laid a gentle hand on her arm and waited for her to quiet. Then she moved to the hearth, appreciating the comfort and company of the flames.

  The kitchen floorboard sounded and the man came out holding two cups of coffee. Lucy accepted one gratefully and closed her eyes as she sipped the strong, hot brew.

  “I can put some whiskey in that,” he offered kindly.

  Lucy shook her head. “I’d be out like a light.”

  “You should rest,” he said, sitting down beside her.

  “Not yet,” she whispered, looking through the open door into the bedroom.

  “I haven’t wanted to pry,” he said, putting his cup down and taking out a pipe. “But I think it’s time you told me.”

  He lit the tobacco with a thin sliver of kindling, the flame illuminating his lined features. Lucy had no idea how old he was, but she liked his face and trusted him intuitively. He'd spoken the truth. He wasn’t going to hurt them.

  “I honestly don’t know where to start,” she said. “So much has happened since July 4.”

  “July 4?” he asked, puffing to bring his tobacco to full life.

  “July 4, 2010.”

  “My dear, I’ve lived alone in this cabin for more than two decades.”

  Realization dawned on Lucy. He wasn't being cavalier. He didn't know. "That's why you haven't built any defenses," she said. "Why this place is so open and why you don't stand guard at night. You really don’t know what’s happened to the world, do you?”

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. "Defenses? Against what?"

  "Them."

  “I left the world to its own devices many years ago,” he said. “I have no use for people. Unless you're talking about the Russians, I have no idea what 'them' you mean.”

  It was Lucy's turn to be confused. "The Russians?"

  "The Cold War," he said. "Is that what's happened? Have they finally done it? Did one side or another drop the atomic bomb?"

  "Dear God," she said, chuckling in spite of herself, "nuclear war would have been a hell of a lot easier than what we did get." When she saw his puzzled look, she said, "The Cold War ended."

  “Who won?” he asked.

  She frowned, "I don't think anyone did. I think it just kind of ended."

  "And that sort of foolishness," he said, puffing on his pipe, "is why I had my fill of the world."

  “And yet you took us in.”

  He smiled, “I’m a recluse, not a heartless old troll living in the forest.”

  “Lucy,” she said. “My name is Lucy.” The wind whistled in the chimney and she shivered against the sound.

  “Abbott.”

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Mr. Abbott.”

  “No mister, just Abbott,” he said, patting her knee. “Now, dear Lucy, we have nothing but time on a night like this. So tell me what has happened to the world that makes you laugh at the prospect of nuclear holocaust.”

  July 2010: Boston, Massachusetts, Lucy

  I don’t know the right word to use for what they became — the ones who caught the fever and died. Or at least we thought they died. If they did, they came back, which sounds ridiculous, but I’ve seen it happen. There’s a part of me, that even now doesn’t believe it. Bruce on the other hand, jumped right on the resurrection band wagon and put his usual idiot spin on things.

  Right now, today? I wouldn’t give Bruce the time of day. When this all started, we were playing house in Southie and talking about getting married. Then everything fell apart and Bruce decided he was on a mission from God. You see, Bruce thought they could be “reformed.” I wasn’t seeing that as an option. Since they killed Bruce, I’m thinking I was right.

  First, we heard that whole neighborhoods and communities were sick. The news reports broadcast vague stories about a "flu-like" illness, complete with long shots of the CDC building and notices about quarantines. They obviously weren't showing us everything. I began to get seriously creeped out when the anchors looked too scared to read the teleprompters.

  For me, personally, it started with Mrs. Gonzales, the old woman
who lived upstairs. She came down with the “flu-like” illness and Bruce took food to her every day. He was actually a soft-hearted, nice guy. When he came back to our place with tears in his eyes, I knew what happened before he said, “Lucy, she’s passed.”

  I called the police because she had no family. The cops said they were busy, which in retrospect may be the great-granddaddy of all understatements. The dispatcher said we should cover the body and secure the apartment. They’d be there when they could. I didn’t like the sound of that. It was July and an unusually warm summer. But we went upstairs and did as we were told.

  While I was looking for a blanket to cover the body, Bruce dug through the piled up mail hoping to find the name of someone we could contact. When he let out a piercing scream, I whirled around to find dead Mrs. Gonzales on her feet. She put Bruce up against the wall, snapping at his throat like an elderly pitbull.

  I grabbed the first thing I saw, a vase, and cracked her over the head. All I managed to do was get her attention. She backed me into the kitchen and straight up against a better weapon — a cast iron skillet sitting on the stove.

  In the movies, smashing someone's head in looks easy. It’s not. The force almost broke my arms, but she was still coming, so I drew back and hit her again. On the second blow, her skull made a soft, squishing sound. She went down, a pool of dark blood pouring out of the wound.

  Mrs. Gonzales was my first. I have no idea how many there have been since. For the record, she’s the only one I ever took out with a skillet.

  Bruce and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. We went back downstairs and locked the door to our apartment. Hell, we shoved my grandma’s china cabinet in front of it just to be sure. For the next three days, we cowered in that living room glued to the TV. All the reports conflicted. We kept trying to piece together the “official” statements, but nothing made sense. It was all just spin to hold down the panic. From the sounds coming from the street, it wasn’t working.