by A. R. Shaw
Even though Graham had been raised by a Marine Corps father, he staunchly believed in gun control. He blamed easy access to guns for the various school shooting tragedies and railed against the ongoing wars fought abroad. These views had been furthered in the liberal-minded schools and universities he’d attended and subsequently taught in.
Having grown up in the Northwest, Graham embraced its culture and ideals, unlike his mother and father, who had kept their worldly views to themselves. They had never taken sides publicly nor tried to push their own views on their children. They had wanted Graham to become his own man in their troubled world.
Though Graham’s dad had insisted that he learn to hunt at a very early age, Graham had never owned a gun of his own. His father often tried to convince him to have a pistol with him for protection, especially since he was married and lived in what his dad thought a dangerous neighborhood. Graham had always refused, and had even tried to convince his father that those were the old ways of thinking and that every situation could be reasoned out peacefully.
His father, of course, doubted this based on his own experience. While he worried about his son’s attitude, through the years the older man’s subtle teachings provided Graham with the skills he needed to survive. He wanted the boy to be prepared regardless of personal ideals or political affiliation. They spent a lot of time in the wilderness. Even at their family cabin, where all manner of survival skills were keenly disguised as camping or hunting lore, he tricked his son into learning.
They would sometimes arrive at the old cabin that had been retrofitted over the years with running water and electricity to find both unavailable. Graham’s father would then show him how to set up solar panels for power and how to sterilize the nearby lake water. He also taught him how to hunt and cook outdoors over a wood fire. Graham now realized how clever the man had been in those early days to teach him so well.
Before it all came apart, Graham and Nelly had been happy and enjoyed healthy lives; they had just celebrated their second year of marriage. She was a planner and a list maker and, not surprisingly, had their futures all mapped out.
Graham usually arrived home first and got dinner ready for them. On one particular day, Nelly had been down with a cold, so he’d planned to make her favorite knockoff of a soup they both enjoyed from a local Italian restaurant, the one with sausage and kale. He was startled that evening when he found her home from work early, balled up and crying on their bed. She was not one for weeping fits, so he knew something terrible must have happened to her as he bent down to comfort her. She resisted, and sat up to face him. “I’m pregnant!” she blurted out through tears.
“You’re what?” he asked, stunned.
“I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby, and it’s way too early. It’s not part of the plan. Now I won’t be able to get my masters degree.”
He pulled her toward him, even though she struggled and kissed her swollen red lips. “You’re so silly, Nelly. We’re going to have a baby! It’ll all work out. I love you!”
But nothing did work out. Soon the pandemic came, and it took Nelly and their unborn child.
Now that he was all alone, Graham wondered how many in the neighborhood were still alive and how many would, as his father had warned, have “evil intent.”
The pelting rain had dwindled to a light mist. Graham retrieved his slicker and shovel from the garage, and his rifle from beside the door. A rifle: it felt as natural to him now as carrying his keys. Anytime he ventured outside he had it slung over his shoulder; indoors it was always within arm’s reach. “At all times,” his father had insisted.
Graham knew it was time. His throat tightened as he tried to suppress more tears. Out among the rhododendrons he leaned the rifle within reach against the garden shed. The wind picked up as he stood and listened. He and his father had made a practice of this early on; the act of listening had become one of the rituals of survival. The silence should be filled with familiar sounds, and the total absence of them could mean trouble. There were very few familiar sounds now.
No distant train could be heard, no planes overhead. No lawnmowers, or cars’ squealing belts, or the ever-present roar of Interstate 90 passing through town. Neighborhood chatter and children at play were now only past memories, but they were the sounds that Graham missed.
What he did hear was often met with the natural instinct of fight or flight: the howling of a dog (or was it a wolf?); the noise of dogs fighting over prey, as fear-inducing as any distant gunshot; the occasional scream, though in recent days these had become less frequent. This was what Graham chose to distract himself with while bending over the soaked loam next to the mounded grave of his mother; the ruminations of a world gone silent.
As sweat dripped from his nose he heaved each shovelful with vengeance, using the activity to release some of his anger. He continued to toss shovel after shovel of dirt, ignoring the pain in his back and shoulders.
Then he could not help it. Graham broke down again as an image of tossing a ball with his father in that very spot crossed his mind. He dropped the shovel and put his hands on the back of his neck. He fell to his knees in the damp grass. “No, this cannot be happening,” he cried, lifting his face toward the sky.
At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Graham spotted a form in gray next to the barberry bush. It was so slight that he nearly missed it altogether. In one fluid motion he quickly retrieved his rifle, cursing himself for not noticing something sooner.
Graham leveled the rifle and aimed, grief fueling his anger. “Get back! I will shoot you!” The shape slipped back around the corner, but he knew it hid there. He could sense its presence, but had no idea of who or what it could be.
“There is nothing for you here, so please leave,” he added more calmly.
Then a muffled coughing signaled someone around the corner. Graham knew it was not his imagination; he took several wide side steps to view the hidden space, then adjusted his aim to get a visual of the one who dared intrude upon his private grieving.
A slight female form stood against the house, hooded, bent over in a futile attempt to restrain a persistent cough. When the cough lessened, she lifted her head to gaze at Graham. Her eyes pleaded with him as she raised her hand up in a gesture to show she meant no harm.
The frail woman limped forward, stopped, and raised her hands again. Graham could tell she was weak with the disease, and after she took a couple more steps he could clearly see she would not last more than an hour or so. Her face showed all the signs he’d seen before, and the fact that she was able to stand was a miracle alone. Her whole body rattled with the endless coughing. Graham walked within fifteen feet of her and lowered the business end of his rifle. He met the woman’s pleading gaze with his own, knowing her dying breath might come at any minute.
She must be one of the few still alive with the virus. But not for long.
“I am Hyun-Ok,” she said, barely audible; it was the voice of a woman weakened and scarred. She gestured vaguely behind her. “This is my son Bang.”
Graham took several steps back and held up his hand, knowing right away what she wanted from him. He shook his head. “No, I can’t take on someone else.”
She shuffled forward a few steps and pleaded again. “I have watched you, you’re a good man. Please, you’re the only one. He is immune, like you.”
Before she could say any more, she stumbled on the rocky driveway, falling to her knees and coughing again. Bang ran to her side.
Surprised at seeing such a small child, Graham slung his rifle over his shoulder and took several steps closer to her. He’d never taken any notice of the danger the virus might cause him. Hell, he’d even tried to catch it once Nelly had passed away.
Graham lifted the dying woman’s small frame into his arms while the boy watched his every move. The child trailed him closely as he moved toward the house.
He had few choices here. He could not watch this woman die right in his driveway, especia
lly with her child there; he doubted his father would have allowed this either. He opened the sliding glass door with one free hand while the lady continued to cough in his arms. He could not see the boy, but knew he was close behind. He laid her down on the living room sofa and heard the boy slide the door closed. Graham pulled his mother’s red floral quilt down from the back of the sofa and laid it over the tiny woman.
He watched as the little boy ran to his mother’s side. She reached for him, and once she regained control she reached for Graham’s hand as well. She looked at him with desperate eyes.
“Please, Graham, you must take him, there is no other,” she said.
He wondered how she knew his name. “Let me get you some water,” he said, trying to stall the conversation. It dawned on him how cruel her plight must feel, knowing she would leave a young child alone and helpless in this new world.
“No, there is so little time now,” she mumbled. “Please don't bother.”
Graham no longer felt so sorry for himself; he knew the boy’s predicament was much worse than his own, but still he felt unprepared to take him on as a responsibility.
Hyun-Ok grabbed his hand to keep him close.
Before she uttered another word, she joined her son’s small hand with Graham’s. “You need him as much as he needs you. Please, take him,” she continued, crying.
Graham found himself nodding as he became more aware of her desperation. At any second she would perish right there on the couch in front of her son. He could not take any more heartbreak.
He gave in.
“I’ll take him. I’ll take care of him.”
To bring her peace, he lifted the child onto the couch next to his mother. As Bang cried, Graham’s voice cracked. “It’s okay. I promise to take good care of him.”
He wanted to give her this gift. He’d had no control over the loss of his loved ones, but he could at least give this stranger peace. He wanted to show her some humanity in her dying moments. He missed the kindness of the living.
Hyun-Ok looked up at him, and Graham saw that the same peacefulness that had come over his father just before dawn was now coming to her. Her face softened and she managed a weak smile, moving her eyes from Graham to her son. She blinked away tears and her smile faded. Then her mouth fell open. The spark of life was gone just like that. She had completed the transfer on borrowed time.
Graham stared at her for a few moments in silence. He heard a low, muffled cry starting deep in the boy, who remained curled up next to his mother. Graham could understand his sorrow; the boy, too, had seen too much death—and so early in his life. He stroked Bang’s head as the boy clung to his mother’s side, sobbing.
Graham gently closed Hyun-Ok’s eyes and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, but Bang pulled away from him and clung to his mother.
Graham stepped back. He shook his head, cursing himself for the promise he’d just made. He walked away, leaving the little boy there. He now had another grave to dig before sundown.
3 The Dark before Dawn
Graham dug the dead woman’s grave next to his beloved Nelly’s; he wanted to think that the two would have gotten along in the living world. They both loved children, and he didn’t think he wanted this brave little lady to be alone. This just seemed like the right thing to do.
Exhausted, he trudged back inside, stomping the dirt off his boots at the door. The boy still lay at his mother’s side. Graham knew this wasn’t a good sign. What if I can’t get him away from his mother’s dead body?
He walked over to the boy and shook him awake. Eyes just like his mother’s, but now rimmed in red, looked up at him.
Hey, kid, what’s your name again?” Graham asked. The boy hesitated.
“Look, my name’s Graham. What’s yours?”
“Bang.”
Graham wasn’t sure he heard it right. “What?”
“Bang!” the boy said and rolled over, weeping.
“Come on, Bang, I need your help,” Graham said.
The boy closed his eyes and buried his face in his mother’s side.
“Hey, come on. We have work to do,” Graham insisted, pulling him away from his mother and off the couch. Bang began to kick and scream, landing a lucky strike against Graham’s shin.
“God dammit, kid!” He held Bang firmly by one arm, and pulled him, kicking and screaming, into his father’s bedroom.
“Look!” Graham said, pointing to his dead father and yelling over the crying. Bang quieted and looked up at Graham, terrified. His eyes and nose were running, and he tried to stop his sniffling.
“We have to bury him, and then we’ll bury your mother,” Graham said in a stern voice. “But I need your help.”
Graham let go of the boy’s arm, and Bang took hold of the dead man’s sheet. Graham took a deep breath.
“All right, Dad, here we go.” Graham worked his arms under his father’s lifeless body, which had already begun to stiffen. It was easier to lift than he had thought it would be, and he cradled his father against his chest.
“You follow me,” he told the boy. He didn’t expect him to be happy, or even quiet; he just wanted to give him a part in the task to keep him busy. Bang followed him through the house and out the door. Once outside, Graham stopped for a moment and buried his head in his father’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dad,” he said, wishing he knew of a more dignified way of transporting him.
The late afternoon sky was gray, and more rain was on the way. Graham laid his father at the edge of the grave, then jumped down into the hole and looked up at Bang. Somehow the boy had quieted, maybe because he had something to do, or maybe because he was stunned with so many dead people around. Whatever the reason, Graham was grateful.
“Okay, you help me get him in here,” Graham said, struggling to hold back his own emotions. “Try to give him a little push.”
Graham dragged his deceased father over toward him. The boy helped push as much as he could, which was barely at all. The body started to sink to the bottom too quickly in what ended up in more of a controlled fall. Graham couldn’t help but cry. He settled his father neatly within the grave and started to climb up. As he climbed out, the first thing Graham noticed was that the kid had disappeared. He looked all around the yard but saw no sign of him.
“Shit!” Graham said, followed by, “Hey, Bang!”
Graham ran to the back door of the house, thinking that perhaps Bang had gone back to his dead mother’s side. But looking through the glass door he couldn’t see the boy. Then he heard a yell and a dog barking from the front of the property.
Graham grabbed his rifle and ran to the front of the house to see Bang running down the street with a pit bull at his heels. He yelled and ran toward the dog, startling it enough that it turned in his direction. Graham aimed and fired, killing the attack dog instantly.
Knowing they had caused a commotion enough to attract other predators, Graham didn’t delay; with one arm he grabbed Bang, who was crying and kicking, and ran home, closing the gate behind them. He then sat Bang down in the grass and knelt next to him.
“Okay, okay, be quiet! It’s done now. The dog is dead,” Graham said. He felt guilty for forcing the kid to behave, but he needed him to quiet down. Graham went to the front gate to look for more dogs; so far there weren’t any.
“You need to be quiet or the other mean dogs will find us,” he said, rubbing Bang’s head. The boy tried to stifle his crying. “Are you okay? Did he bite you?”
Bang shook his head. Graham took a rag out of his pants pocket and wiped the tears and snot away. The little boy’s chest heaved with his effort to hold back his sobs.
“I know this is tough, but you can’t run away from me. Your mom wanted you to stay with me so I could take care of you. I promised her. Please don’t do that again. Now, come on, let’s finish our job.” Graham got up and headed back to the graves, taking his rifle with him all the while keeping an eye on the street for more dogs. If
he were lucky, the dead, rather than he or Bang, would attract predators.
“We need to be quiet out here, okay?” he said to Bang. The boy followed slowly behind him at a slight distance.
Graham knelt at the edge of his father’s grave, as if in a moment of prayer or meditation, then stood up and grabbed his shovel. When Bang walked over, Graham handed him a smaller shovel.
“Here, you can use this one,” but the boy just started shaking his head and crying again. “Fine,” Graham muttered in frustration. “Just sit down there, then.”
He reluctantly picked up a shovelful of dirt and slowly swung it over the hole. He started at his father’s feet and carefully dropped in the soil. He grabbed another shovelful, and another, but when it came time to cover his father’s face he was reluctant. He didn’t cry, but still he shook with grief.
The next thing he knew, the boy shouted out as a dog snarled close behind them. Graham looked up and saw two more. He reached for Bang and pulled him away just as the dog bit into the kid’s jacket. He flung the boy behind him, toward the edge of the grave. Bang scrambled away from the edge, bawling. Graham swung the shovel at the attack dog and smacked it in the head. He then grabbed his rifle, putting a bullet into the skull of the stunned dog.
“Get out of here!” he yelled at the other two.
With its teeth bared, head down, another dog came at him. The third tried to edge around him toward the boy. Graham shot the closest dog squarely in the forehead, so close that he felt the misty splatter of blood on his face.
The last dog tried to take advantage by lunging at Graham, but it was too little too late. Using the gun barrel as a club, he knocked the dog to the side. He had just enough time to squeeze off a shot, wounding the dog in the hip. He cocked the rifle one last time and fired.
Nothing happened. He was out of ammunition, right when an enraged and wounded beast was coming after him. He tossed the rifle down and grabbed the shovel again, slipping in the mud and falling on his side. The injured dog locked its teeth into Graham’s pants leg.
