“I will, mom,” Randy said. Tears rolled down his face, and Milly squeezed his hand tight. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Harmony with the infinite,” Milly said, and her eyes fluttered closed, for good.
Chapter Forty
Year 2088, Respite
The Perpetual Flame was low and needed wood. Birds stirred, and the insects had gone to sleep. The peaceful quiet of the predawn hour was Randy’s favorite time of day. Randy and Hazel were on fire guard duty, and they’d been arguing, but he wouldn’t be deterred. They’d get by their bullshit or they wouldn’t, but tonight it would be over, one way or another.
“How much longer until we can go home?” Hazel said.
Randy could estimate the time without seeing the sun or moon. He had no idea how. Instinct, they called it in Foundation. “Two hours,” he said.
“Can I tell you something I’ve told no one?” Hazel said.
Randy nodded.
“I may have slightly overstated how much I hate you,” she said. He laughed. “Do you want another reason I want to leave Respite? Yes I want to see the gone world and the new, but I know you’ll never leave here and I want to get away from you.”
Randy’s heart sank and his entire body deflated.
“I want to get away from you because I’m done fighting back the feelings I have for you,” she said.
Randy’s head snapped up.
“If we’re apart, I’ll never have to figure any of this out,” Hazel said.
“Sometimes I wish the fellowship never left, and that things were like they were and we didn’t know about the new world order. Like things never changed,” Randy said.
“They did change. And we do know,” she said.
“And that will pull us apart.”
“Or bring us together,” she said.
“I’ll get you some water and prepare some tea,” Randy said. She smiled at him and his temperature rose. After all these years she still controlled him like a marionette. Nothing had changed since they were five.
Randy strolled across the Womb, got tea leaves and filled a cup and the boiling pot with water. He gave the cup to Hazel, put the water over the dying fire, and wandered off into the Foundation. He’d hidden Peter’s axe there, and it was time for it to be given to its rightful owner.
Hazel stood when he emerged with the axe, and she ran to him and yanked it from his grasp in her excitement. “Is this what I think it is?” Hazel asked.
“It is,” he said. “My mother carried it all the way from the armory so you could have it.”
“Why didn’t she give it to me as soon as she got back?”
“Because it was the only thing she had of your father’s, the only thing she could touch and remember him,” Randy said. “She loved him, though she admitted it to herself too late. I’ve been holding onto it and waiting for the right moment.”
“Shit don’t mean shit,” Hazel said. She was crying, and they both laughed.
“Turns out everything means shit,” Randy said. “Remember the guidestone? The planning it took, the commitment. The founders of Argartha believed. I’m not sure I can. What if we get there and I’m rejected?”
“Are you joking? I’d get rejected before you,” she said.
“And what do you base that on?”
Hazel said nothing.
“The first centurions of Argartha built the guidestones in secret decades before the fall, planning for a new world gathering. They knew,” Randy said. “They saw the fall but were powerless to stop it. ‘So we may remember the world that is gone, understand our purpose, and the world that may be again.’”
“Our purpose. I hope they don’t test us on that. I’d fail,” she said.
“We’re fire guards,” Randy said. For the first time he fully realized how pitiful that sounded.
“The fire is a way of providing purpose and keeping you focused until a time when the world is ready for you again,” Hazel said.
“Are we ready for the world?”
“I am,” Hazel said.
Randy sighed.
“Let go, Randy.”
“I can’t. But I’ll say this,” Randy said. Hazel had won and Randy didn’t care as long as he was with her. “I’ll gladly pay the price to go to the old world if it means we can be together.”
“Who will take care of Axe?” Hazel said.
“He’ll come with us. Even with me added to the list there are still twelve open slots on the boat,” Randy said.
“You’ve thought about this?” she said.
“Since you said you were leaving the island twenty-five years ago.”
Randy leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers and they kissed. Not like the playful pecks of their youth, but a deep, sexual tongue cyclone that left them panting. Randy pulled back and kissed Hazel on the forehead and went to get their tea. The fire was dying out, but the mound of embers and wood coals still gave off tremendous heat. He stared into the glow of the cinders, his life’s purpose fading before his eyes. He turned to Hazel, and she nodded.
Randy stirred the ashes of the Perpetual Flame and pushed the remaining wood to the side. Sparks flowed into the natural chimney, and thick smoke burned his eyes. The giant mound of ash and embers glowed, and a thin yellow flame floated above the coals. Randy stirred it more as Hazel watched, saying nothing. The flame persisted, and Randy gave up when the sound of footsteps and leaves rustling echoed across the Womb.
Frodo emerged from the forest with a stack of firewood. The boy kept his head down, but Randy saw his eyes flick toward the Perpetual Flame, which was almost out. The boy headed for the fire.
Randy put out his arm. “I’ve got this. Stack the wood. Then go tell whoever’s on duty next that Hazel and I are pulling a double shift. They can sleep in. Got it?”
Frodo wagged his head.
“Mess up the message and you’ll be doing laps around the island, savvy?” Randy said.
“Aye, fire guard,” Frodo said.
“Don’t call me that anymore. My name is Randy.”
The boy finished stacking the wood and disappeared back into the forest.
The trees around the Womb whispered and sighed, and the sound of running water brought a peace Randy doubted could be duplicated. He’d have to find peace somewhere. Change was inevitable, even if Hazel left while he stayed on Respite. People would come and go, traditions would be lost as necessities changed, and the definition of needs blurred further into wants.
“I wish my mother and the expedition had never gone, and that Respite was still alone in the world. Somehow that world was more secure,” Randy said.
“I hear you. Sometimes I wish I was stuck in time like the reborns,” Hazel said.
“I’m not sure about that. Time will tell. Reborns don’t know what their future holds, just like us. Being a highborn certainly has its disadvantages,” Randy said. The citizens of Respite had voted not to allow reborns on Respite, and it was unclear how the leaders of Argartha felt about that, though Randy had a good guess.
“But if I was frozen in time, I’d pick the year we took our fire guard tests. What about you?”
“The first time we kissed,” Randy said.
“You’re bezoomny,” Hazel said. “I broke your nose.”
“Let’s not make the same mistake our parents did. Wait until it’s too late,” Randy said.
“Where does that leave us?” Hazel said.
“That’s always been up to you.”
“Not anymore.”
“OK. Will you pair with me?” Randy said.
Hazel didn’t answer.
“Otherwise we’ll be forced to say goodbye.”
“You’ll come with me on the ship to Argartha?” Hazel said.
“Yes.”
“No conditions?”
“Only that you love me. If you can’t do that, then let me go.”
“Who’s cold now?” she said.
“I’m done trying to stop things from ha
ppening. I’m going to make things happen. You and I are going to protect Respite.”
“I have two conditions,” she said.
It was Randy’s turn to say nothing.
“No lies. Under any circumstances. No matter how bad it is, or who’s involved, I want the truth. Un-sanitized and un-edited.”
“I understand. You’re willing to do the same?”
She nodded.
“I have another condition, now that you’ve jogged my memory,” Randy said. “The past is the past. All perceived slights are forgiven. All accused parties are deceased, and with them goes their story. We write a new chapter.”
“That was my second condition,” Hazel said.
“That makes things easy. How unlike us.”
“I want to make love to you. You up for it?”
“Are you sure?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You didn’t answer my question?” Randy said.
“Yes, I’ll pair with you,” she said.
Randy pulled her to him and they embraced for a long time. The sun rose, and morning came to Respite.
Hazel turned the ashes of the Perpetual Flame with a bamboo pole, and the last of the fire sputtered out, leaving only glowing pieces of wood coal where flames had flourished for almost half a century. Randy took off his fire guard ring and tossed it into the cinders, and Hazel did the same.
“They’ll be embers to get it going later if they need it,” Randy said.
Hazel went around the Womb and snuffed out each torch as the glow of morning washed over everything. When she was done, she took Randy’s hand, and they headed for the beach where they’d make a fire, and let the ocean and sea breeze serenade them.
“I love you,” Hazel said.
Randy smiled, and in the back of his mind he heard Milly say, “Well done, son. Now don’t muck it up.”
So he didn’t.
The End
Read on for a free sample of On Quiet Earth: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel
Chapter One
Fallen Silent
Go to sleep, you little baby.
She begins. My wife to my son. That same old song. In a voice slight from silence all day. I imagine her backlit in the doorway, the light in the hall haloing her silhouette, leaning softly against the frame as she sings to my son, his little face turned up from the blankets of his crib. I am so used to the lyrics I can’t help but sing the refrain. Go to sleep, you little baby.
I remember the warmth of the morning, of waking before the alarm woke us both. The sun, as it sat on my night table, made a strange shape, at once oblong, at once square, that rippled with the wind through the lace of her curtains. Her expression was the same as a thousand mornings before. Her voice, as she swore at the hour, was ever the same.
But she didn’t swear today. She coughed. She didn’t say a word. I shake my head, shake my memory loose. She was quiet. I raise my eyes from the still of my chair in the centre of the room. My wife has fallen silent.
I thought she would have continued to sing.
There is panic in my son’s cry. Brief though it was, it rose awful and sharp in surprise. The sound is primal, and I experience a moment of clarity. My hands tighten into fists, my stomach lurches. My knees quiver in anticipation. It is the first time my son tells me what to do.
I was sick with worry when he was born. I stared at his little limbs, worried at my lack of connection to what they called my son. Even the few weeks he’s been home, the few times I’ve been alone with him, I’ve held him and looked at him and called him son, but never felt convinced. Perhaps, I think, as I scramble to my feet, he just needed to speak first.
I pause, a few feet from the doorway, overwhelmed by disquiet. I step forward, then pause again, shake my head. There’s something wrong with me, I’m over-compensating. My wife is in there with my son. He only cried once. I step back, embarrassed and ashamed in my own hallway. But my heart pounds, sent breathlessly beating at the sound of my son. I step towards the room. Stop myself again. My heart thunderous as I say it aloud:
My wife is in there with my son. He only cried the once.
My wife stands next to the crib, her back to me. She holds her hands to her face as though embarrassed. She isn’t singing, but I hear the familiar sound of her hum. I rest my arm on the door frame, my head on my arm, and I watch her for a moment.
‘You stopped singing.’
She doesn’t react. The noise fades. She turns her head but doesn’t raise her eyes.
‘You stopped singing.’
She stiffens and I feel guilt at my tone. The impatience I hear. I’m halfway to an apology when she drops her arms and drops something heavy into the crib.
‘Hey, careful,’ I say and step into the room. That accusing tone again.
The closer I get the more I smell the dank of turned earth, but when I open my mouth to ask after it, I can’t stop the scream which comes.
I scream again. My son in his crib, my son. I see the blood. I smell the blood. I scream again.
My son is dead. My body, the world, drops away. My son is dead, a ragged doll twisted over himself, bleeding from where she bit him. I grab his crib to steady myself but the shake of my arms unsettles his corpse. One of his eyes is still open.
I look at my wife. I scream.
‘What did you do?’
The sound leaves my throat. I shake her shoulders, shake her again when she won’t say, shake her as she shakes. I try to ask again but I scream when I look at my son in his crib. I try to lift him but he’s wet, slippery, and I can’t shake the feeling of desecration.
‘What,’ I say, and am finally able to look at my wife, see the way she stands. She doesn’t respond to my shaking, won’t even look at me. I want her to, just to see her eyes for even a moment, but I can’t in the dark and she doesn’t look and the frustration wells within me and I am surprised by the urge to slap her. I feel sick at the thought and draw breath and try to find her eyes.
‘Why?’
She turns and a little of the light from the hall falls across her face. She has bitten herself as well, chewed her lips away from her teeth. Her eyes still haven’t focused. Perhaps they can’t now, drowned in a muddled white. Her jaw stops, settles, the hum disappears. She reaches out her hand and places it against the curve of my face. Her hand is wet and warm and fast and strong.
My voice becomes a bark as her fingers tighten around my throat. I grab her wrist and tug but she resists and tightens her grip. She is so strong. I can’t shake my surprise at her strength, can’t push past the idea that maybe she was always this strong, that maybe she only held back on my account.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t think of what to do. I don’t want to hit her. I don’t want to hit her, but she leans in suddenly as though she’d bite me too. I collapse my body quickly, twist and fall out of her grasp. I feel foolish at the move, how I scramble away, and just try to get to my feet as fast as possible.
I swear she speaks as she turns to track my movement towards the door. She moves unhurriedly, stiffly, and staggers a little at the larger demands of a step. The arm she used to grip my throat sticks out, rigid, as though she’s forgotten its purpose.
‘Is it a seizure?’ I say, starting at my own voice. I peer at her as though I could see disease. No, I whisper, as she gets close enough. She lunges, off-settles me, and I dance backwards into the dark of the room.
Again, the sound of my voice, over-extended, stretched beyond recognition.
I know I should keep my eyes on her, but my son’s body still lies in the crib. I want to pick him up, tell him I heard his voice. I was just too late. I reach for him but my wife draws too close, lunges and grabs me and I don’t realize I’m cornered until I can’t dance away.
She falls on me, wraps her arms around my torso and pulls me to the floor. Her teeth scrape at my stomach. With both my hands on her shoulders it is all I can do to keep her away. I yell her name, but doubt it matters. I beg her to stop
. When her head is accidentally knocked against the dresser in our scuffle, and the unbearable strength in her arms weakens, I pretend for a little longer than I should that the idea doesn’t immediately cross my mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though I see what she has done. I scream a little, shout as I punch her in the head. The sound distracts me from my hands. My voice in my throat. Her grip loosens. I concede to the indifference of instinct.
My spine tingles at each impact. My skull rattles beneath my skin. My eyes are closed. I can’t watch. Though my son lies dead nearby. Bursts of strength surge through my arms. But she doesn’t relent. So I can’t. I can’t. Every time I swear I can’t. My love. My heart.
She bites me and claws at me and pushes down on me, pushes her bared jaws towards my stomach, my chest, my throat. As though she would chew straight through me. I try to push against her but I can’t; I can’t hold her back any longer. Her teeth gnash at my shirt. I shove her head against the thick dresser leg, quickly, quickly again. Her grip loosens each time but not enough to get free and I put more force into the next and I am sure I scream on the last at least. I scream again. I say her name. Again and again.
I free myself.
She charges before I can pick up my son. Bangs against the other side of the door as I slam it shut. She doesn’t bother banging again, but after a moment the doorknob moves a little in my clenched hand and I clench tighter and I press my shoulder against the door. She doesn’t fight for long. Doesn’t bother. Just turns the knob once or twice. After a while I can hear her making that sound again and I swear and swear at myself for not having the courage to go back in. With a shudder I suffer the brief wish that she still fought. If only for a still clear purpose.
My hand snaps away from the doorknob with unsettling violence. I can’t think. I am abandoned of reason. I even, if only for a brief moment, place my hand again on the doorknob.
Keepers of the Flame Page 27
