All Our Tomorrows

by Peter Cawdron

  Dad says, “Hazel, you have to trust me on this. It’s always the youth that push for change. When you’re young, you see the future as something that can be controlled. With all your excitement and exuberance, there’s nothing you can’t do. But when you get a bit older, the world looks different. You realize you’ve only got one shot at change, and you realize time is your greatest enemy. You come to learn that you will never get a single day to live over again, so you have to be frugal. You have to weigh the cost of change. You have to pick and choose what you do.”

  I’m frustrated. I feel like I should be doing something. I should be out there with David and Jane. I should be looking for Steve. I’m moody. Sullen. Dad must sense my anxiety as his voice softens.

  “When I was your age, grandpa would get drunk most weekends. He’d start drinking after lunch and by late afternoon he’d be hammered. The sun would set on a sweltering hot summer night and he’d be back in the Sudan, fighting rebels again. He’d scare the hell out of our neighbors, yelling, Hot Dog! Red Rooster!”

  “Hot dog?” I ask, distracted by Dad’s recollection. “Rooster?”

  “It was one of dozens of call/response passwords they used in the Sudan. A group of four soldiers would go out on patrol, scouting for rebels. When they returned, the sentry would call out Hot Dog and he’d have to reply Red Rooster or whatever the code was for that particular day. Give the wrong response and the guards would start shooting.”

  Seems like a fairy tale to me. I can’t imagine why people would want to fight each other. I guess there’s always been wars with or without zombies. It would be nice to think everyone could just get along, but I guess that’s naive.

  “The cops knew your granddad by name. Eventually, he took things too far. Someone was fighting down the block and he decided to break things up with his shotgun. He didn’t kill anyone, but that might have been because he was too drunk to shoot straight. The courts forced him into rehab. I didn’t see him for months after that. When he finally came home he had a small plaque with a prayer etched on it. I still remember that prayer.”

  I could listen to my dad recall stories like these all day. They’re a welcome refuge from the nightmare of reality. A distraction like this is just what I need to get some perspective. I listen intently as he recites words from the depth of his heart.

  “Lord. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

  “The courage to change the things I can,

  “And the wisdom to know the difference.”

  All I can say in reply is, “Huh.”

  “You are courageous, Haze. There’s no doubt about that. But there are things in life you cannot change, things you have to accept. That doesn’t mean you have to like them, but raging against a thunderstorm won’t make it go away.”

  I love my dad.

  I understand what he’s trying to do. And I get it, but I have to hope for more. There has to be an end to this dark night. I need to see the sun rise over a world in which Zee is nothing more than a bad dream fading with the dawn.

  Dad rubs his hand through my hair as we walk up to Marge. She gets to her feet to greet me, which feels out of place. A warm smile and an outstretched hand speak of tender concern, but before we speak, she spies something over my shoulder and a scowl descends across her face. We shake hands as I turn to see what she’s looking at.

  A lone rider gallops in through the gates. Instead of easing once he’s inside the compound, he continues to charge across the field, scattering work crews, and it’s only then I realize he’s struggling to control his horse.

  It’s James.

  James struggles with the reins, pulling the panicked horse to a reluctant halt. Someone grabs the bridle, steadying the horse as James slouches in the saddle. Rather than dismounting, James slides to one side, falling awkwardly to the ground as a couple of marauders run over. They grab the young man, helping him to his feet, but James pushes them away, staggering on toward us. His clothing is torn. Blood drips from his arms.

  Ferguson stands with his firearm drawn, holding it outstretched, aimed at the poor boy’s forehead as he stumbles on through the long grass toward us.

  “It’s a trap,” James cries. “There’s thousands—tens of thousands of them in the next valley.”

  He’s yelling at Marge, making eye contact with her and her only. It’s as though the rest of us don’t exist.

  Ferguson cocks his pistol, pulling back on the hammer. The sound of the metal ratchet clicking slowly within the gun is painfully ominous.

  “We didn’t stand a chance,” James says, kicking awkwardly at the grass as he walks. Dark veins bulge on his neck. His arms twitch.

  Marge raises her hand, signaling for Ferguson not to fire. For his part, Ferguson stands as still and erect as a statue. His outstretched arm threatens death in an instant.

  James glances at Ferguson, but he doesn’t seem to see the gun. He mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”

  My heart sinks.

  David and Jane are dead.

  If Ferguson feels any emotion at the loss of his adopted son, he doesn’t show it. I’m expecting at least a flicker, a twitch of heartache to show on his face but he doesn’t even blink. His face is set like stone.

  James lumbers on, struggling to walk. Spasms ripple through the young man as the transformation seizes his body.

  “You’ve got to run. Flee while there’s still time.”

  He falls to his knees in the grass and stares down at his trembling hands. Blood drips from his fingers. Slowly, his eyes look up, pleading with Marge. There’s an unspoken cry for compassion, for mercy. Intelligence shines from behind dark pupils. I can see the anguish in his soul. He can’t understand why this has happened to him, but there is no reason. He’s done nothing wrong. Time and chance have condemned his courage when cowardice would have seen him live.

  Marge speaks softly, saying, “You’ve done well, James. Your service will be remembered.”

  “Thank you,” he replies with tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Marge lowers her hand and Ferguson fires. The shot is sudden—a thunderclap of violence. Deep red blood explodes from the back of the boy’s head. I jump. I want to scream at Marge, and yet I don’t. But why? Is it because it’s too late to make a difference? Am I also resigned to the bitter, brutal choices that have to be made? Am I afraid of her authority? Perhaps it’s all of these in one form or another.

  I feel sick.

  Such heroism demands more than summary execution. Is there nothing we could have done for him? What about my father? Marge held on when he was past hope.

  We could get more tablets. We could ride back into town and retrieve more boxes. But I know this is the desperation of a young mind. I hate to admit it, but Dad’s right. As much as it takes courage to change, it takes even more to accept this cruel, harsh, inhuman world.

  I hate Marge.

  I hate Ferguson.

  Bile rises in the back of my throat.

  I hate myself.

  I hate Zee.

  I hate all Zee has made of us.

  Seeing James lying on the brilliant green grass as dark red blood runs out from the back of his head, I can’t help but cry. There should be hope. Life should not be so harsh. Death should not be so final, so abrupt.

  Marge walks off through the lush grass. Ferguson points at James, telling a couple of the men to put his body with the rest.

  Anger boils within me.

  I cannot be silent.

  “Noooooo!” I yell, clenching my fists and directing my voice at Marge.

  She stops walking but doesn’t turn back to face me.

  “You lied,” I cry. “His body is still warm and you’ve already forgotten about him.”

  Slowly, she turns to face me. Her face is flushed with anger. Ferguson stands by her side and finally I see the truth. I’ve always seen Marge as this kind, tender woman thrust into a role she hates, desperately trying to hold us all together, but now I see past the f
acade. She has ice in her veins, not blood. Even Ferguson pales next to her. He’s nothing more than an attack dog. Marge holds the leash.

  Marge strides up to me with her finger pointing at my face, yelling, “And just what the hell would you have done, you silly little girl? You think you can do better? Everyone thinks they can do better than me, but the truth is no one else has the courage to do whatever it takes to keep us alive. I do. I make the hard calls no one else wants to face.

  “You think that was easy? You think I won’t lie awake tonight picturing that poor boy’s face in those final few seconds? You have no idea!"

  “Bury him,” I say, refusing to be intimidated.

  “What?”

  “Bury him with dignity. Don’t just throw him on a pile of zombies. He deserves better than that.”

  “We all deserve better,” she says coldly. “But what we deserve has no place here.”

  “I’ll do it,” I say.

  “You?” Marge says, trying to suppress a laugh, but I’m not laughing. Life demands respect. Somewhat appropriately, a light drizzle begins to fall as dark clouds blot out the sun. A cool breeze blows in from the north.

  Marge says, “If you want to give him a proper burial, you go right ahead. I don’t have time for this.”

  Ferguson looks me up and down as though he’s sizing me up for a fight, but he says, “You’ll find a shovel in the barn.”

  And with that, he and Marge walk on.

  Dad walks up to me with a bloody rag wrapped around his wrist.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I can do this. I need to.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but there are tears in his eyes.

  “Go with them,” I say, and he pats my shoulder softly as he walks on, following Ferguson. Marge has already gone inside one of the other homes.

  Ferguson sits on a porch swing watching me as he talks with one of the women about arranging a communal lunch for the workers.

  The two men standing by James look lost. They tower over his crumpled body.

  “Go,” I say.

  With heads hung low, they leave to join another work detail.

  I’m determined to honor James with a decent burial. There’s a fire in my heart. I’ve lost Steve, David and Jane in a single day. As much as I’d like to think Steve’s still out there somewhere, Marge is right. I’m a silly little girl clinging to a dream. Reality lies in front of me with blood dripping from a bullet hole in his forehead.

  I grab a shovel from the barn.

  I’ll bury James where he fell.

  Thunder rumbles in the clouds.

  Rain falls, washing the blood away. Clods of grass give way beneath my shovel as my boot drives the blade on. The dirt is heavy, much heavier than I thought, and I strain to lift the soil and heave it to one side.

  The last of the work crews return as the storm breaks in all its anger. Thunder shouts from the heavens, lightning tears at the sky, but I will not be deterred. After clearing an outline roughly six feet long, I steel myself to dig down at least five to six feet. Over the next few hours, a mound of dirt builds slowly beside me.

  A bitter cold wind drives across the open ground.

  Rain lashes at my face.

  The storm pounds me in its fury.

  “You won’t win,” I yell above the crash of thunder. “I won’t let you.”

  As if in response, lightning shatters the sky, tearing through the clouds. Thunder breaks in a defiant boom overhead.

  “No,” I cry, raising my head to the dark sky. “You have no right!”

  Again, lightning cuts through the clouds as thunder rattles my bones in anger. The very heavens are set against me.

  “You cannot win,” I yell in defiance. There is no wisdom or acceptance, no courage either, just stubborn pride. “I won’t let you win.”

  Mud slides into the hole and I struggle to keep one wall from collapsing. With my shovel, I hack at the wall, digging into the dirt and widening the hole.

  Minutes drag on like hours. The water laden dirt is heavy. Slowly, I edge down, hacking at the dirt until I’m standing waist deep in a shallow grave.

  Blisters break out on my palms, but nothing can stop me from digging. My back hurts. Each ache and spasm of pain is one more reason to go on. I’m cold and soaking wet. Strands of hair cling to the side of my face.

  “You can’t win,” I mumble to myself. “I won’t let you. I won’t.”

  Beneath the soft, crumbling surface soil lies a layer of clay and it takes all my weight to force my shovel deeper. So much effort for so little progress. I’m slowing. I’m sore. I’m tired. Pathetic. Although I want to go on, physically I feel as though I can’t. The work is too much for my frail body. I don’t want to stop, but I’m exhausted. I’m making so little headway against the rain slowly filling the hole with mud. The clay is thick and gummy. My shovel strikes yet another rock, sending a shudder back through my hands. My feet hurt, but I can’t give up. I have to do this.

  “You will not win,” I say without any emotion as I respond feebly to another crash of thunder.

  Fatigue gives way to mindless repetition. I am Zee. There’s a dull sway, a rhythm to my motion. Again and again my shovel falls, chopping away at the clay.

  As the depth of the grave approaches my shoulders, James stares at me with dead eyes. As much as I’d like to turn his head to one side, I can’t. I cannot deny what has happened to him. I barely knew him. To me, he was a jock, a cocky kid, someone who could do no wrong when I could do no right. James was always right. If David was the quarterback we never had, James was the running back. He would blitz past everyone else and leap through the air to catch the winning pass for a touchdown. I should have been nicer to James, I think as yet another shovel of clay and dirt and muddy water turns upside down on the pile beside the hole.

  Regrets eat away at my heart. The look in James’ eyes is one of sadness and resignation. Even in death, there are expressions of life.

  His mouth is slightly open, almost as though he’s about to say something or as though he’s surprised by what’s happened. There was only ever going to be one outcome once Ferguson drew his gun.

  I’ll be damned if I’ll stop now.

  Somewhere behind the gloomy clouds, the sun sets and the land is plunged into darkness. The rain is merciless, pounding me and giving me no rest or respite.

  Ferguson hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the distant porch along with a dozen other men sheltering from the storm. They’re eating dinner. Lamps within the house cast a soft glow on the windows. It’s warm and dry in there. There’s nothing that says I can’t stop. There’s no one telling me I must go on. No one but me. Pride. With each shovel full of mud and clay and dirt, I whisper.

  “For James.”

  “For David.”

  “For Jane.”

  And as much as it pains me to say it, “For Steve.”

  I’m not sure what time it is when I’m finally shoveling dirt out over my head, but I’m deep enough. I can stop, and yet that notion seems foreign. Now, I can give James the respect he deserves, the respect we all deserve in death.

  “Rest in peace,” I say to those lifeless eyes watching me.

  I place the shovel across the top of the grave and use the wooden handle to climb out of the deep hole. Lightning breaks overhead, but the fury of the storm has passed.

  Dark silhouettes surround the grave, standing motionless in the bitter night.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Zee?

  Dad steps forward through the rain and reaches out a hand to help me up. I’m covered in mud and dripping wet. Marge is there, as is Ferguson. No one says anything, which is creepy.

  Two of the older men gently roll James onto a wooden plank. They loop rope over each end of the wood and raise his body slightly above the sodden grass. Slowly, they lower his body into the grave. Someone has fashioned a wooden cross with the name “James” carved crudely into the crosspiece. Last names have long been rendered obsol
ete from all but the oldest of adults. No one cares anymore. Us teens don’t. There’s no more nuclear families. Just us and them—Zee.

  “Would you like to say something?” Marge asks.

  I look around at friends, elders, and strangers.

  My voice breaks, but I have to speak, and not just on behalf of James. I need to speak from the heart for myself.

  “Weep not for the dead,” I say, raising my voice above the howling wind. “Weep for the living.

  “The dead ask not for our pity, only to be honored, to be remembered. For them, the battle is over. For them, there is no fear, no pain, no anguish, no heartache anymore. There is no love or hate in the grave. But we, the living, we must go on. We, the living, have to honor those that have fallen. We have no choice. We must fight. We must defeat this terror. We must win this war or all these deaths will have been in vain.”

  Tears stream down my cheeks, not that anyone would know in the rain.

  “We—I have lost too many good friends. James. David. Jane. We have to go on. We need to do this for them.”

  I can’t add Steve to the list. I know I should. I know it’s stupid to cling to hope, but I want him to be alive out there somewhere. I tell myself he might have escaped, even though deep down I know he didn’t.

  Marge steps forward and picks up the shovel. She digs into the loose dirt and shovels a single load into the dark, open grave, saying, “For my son, Alex.”

  Ferguson takes the shovel as she steps back into the shadows. He says, “For my dear sweet Susie,” as mud slips from the shovel into the hole.

  Dad steps up. I go to help him when he says, “No. I can do this.”

  He slips the handle under his armpit, grabbing the shovel near the blade and digs into the dirt. He turns the shovel and mud, rocks and dirt tumble into the grave, saying, “For Jacinta.”

  My mom.

  One by one, almost three hundred people file past me, each paying respect to a fallen loved one. Men, women, children—all soaked to the bone with rain, all determined to do what’s right regardless. I feel weak, but I stand at the foot of the grave as it slowly fills with dirt.

  I recognize James’ mother and father. I’m not sure if they’re his biological parents or his commune parents, but it doesn’t really matter. Parents love their kids regardless of their origin. They both say his name even though I’m sure there are dozens of other names they could recite. They hug me as they shuffle past.