by Beth Hersant
“Which is why Louella shot Mared,” Fletch nodded.
“Yes,” Peg said. “I know that just the thought of it feels wrong and wholly alien to who we are. But that business with Mared … it’s a prime example of what we’re dealing with here. The infection was killing everything that made Mared … well, Mared. We have no way to halt that process once it’s begun. And with Mared gone, the virus could hide behind her face and use her body to spread the disease. When mom pulled the trigger, she was killing the virus, not the woman. And it cost her. I hadn’t seen her look like that since dad died. And that is why I’m introducing two things. The first is simply a word. Up until now, we haven’t given a name to the infected. That’s odd, really, because every work of zombie fiction does it. Walkers, stenches, ghouls, living dead, Zeke, dark seekers, dead heads, and skulls as well as ‘puppies and kittens.’”
“Puppies and kittens?” Niamh asked.
“That one’s from Z Nation. Anyway, the name is important. It is a reminder that when you pull the trigger, you’re not shooting Effie or Clarence or Bob. You are shooting…”
“A puppy?” Fletch asked.
“I thought we’d use Dr. Caldwell’s term and call them ‘husks.’ It is apt given the circumstances.”
They thought it over and there was a murmur of assent.
“The second thing that I wanted to introduce was this.” She pulled out a thick leather bound journal and handed it to Fletch.
“What’s this?” he asked, flipping it open.
“It’s our story and you’re going to write it. Everything we do, every contribution we make, will be recorded in that book including those moments when we have to fight. As we saw with mom, it is a sacrifice to pull the trigger. You lose some equilibrium, some peace of mind. But you will be honored and remembered for that sacrifice. And we will love and support you. On that note: I’m making counseling and therapy sessions available for whoever needs them.”
Niamh spoke up. “It’s a nice idea,” she nodded at the book, “but who’s going to read it?”
“Future generations,” Fletch murmured.
Peg nodded. “Yeah. You know how we used to sit in school and try to imagine what it was like for George Washington and Paul Revere? Well, someday people will look back on us and wonder the same thing. That,” Peg pointed to the journal, “will be the story of Camp North Star’s founding mothers and fathers.”
Less than fifteen miles to the north, another group was banding together. Abigail’s growing horde was now 163 strong and they had discovered a group of survivors holed up in the old elementary school. Crucible Elementary had closed in 1992 and was in a state of advanced decay. The ceiling had fallen down in several places and internal doors hung crookedly from their hinges. The place, even before Abby arrived, looked like something out of a horror movie. That, actually, was intentional. Since its closure, the building had been used by local organizations to raise money as a Halloween Haunted House. Therefore, the twenty-three survivors who’d taken refuge there were surrounded by fake cobwebs and disturbing graffiti. There were “bloody” handprints on the walls and slogans that read “Devil” and “Mad Surgeon,” a hastily scrawled ad: “Body Parts for Sale” and the rather cryptic “Stubbie Never Came Back.” Who Stubbie was was anybody’s guess.
The set dressing was not the problem. The problem lay in the dozen or so points of easy ingress. The external doors were wooden with glass windows and the huddled survivors, during a hushed conversation the night before, debated what to do about them. They could try to barricade them, but it was a big job to do in the dark with no tools. And the noise of it might attract attention. Therefore they opted for silence. They would retreat to a classroom on the second floor, block the door and hide. If they were lucky the horde would pass them by.
However they did not factor Abigail into their calculations. She had no particular instinct about the school. She had just gone systematically from house to house, building to building all through the night. By morning, she had reached Rices Landing and the derelict school. Before the search commenced, she left a group of infected outside to field anyone who tried to flee. And then the horde moved in. Upstairs the survivors pressed themselves against the walls, hugged their knees and listened to the shuffling footsteps below. There was the crunch of glass breaking underfoot and the clatter of a kicked chair. Two of the infected clashed briefly and they could hear the screeches as a body was slammed through a door, shattering the wood. At this Dina Winslow started to sob — too loud — and she pressed her hands against her mouth to stifle the sound. Robert Grimes hastened over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Looking her in the eye, he kept mouthing “It’s OK. We’re going to be OK.” And everyone else held their breath.
The moans and heavy footsteps were louder now. They were on the second floor, milling through the rooms, getting closer. Then finally it happened. Something collided lightly with their door. It did not swing open as the others had done and so the figure on the other side hit it again more forcefully. Still it would not budge and with a screech of rage the thing out there threw itself against the wood. The door shook on its hinges as men ran and threw all of their weight against it in a desperate attempt to keep it closed. But you cannot bar a door once it has ceased to exist. A constant onslaught of the infected literally bashed the door to pieces and then they were in the room and there was nowhere left to run. The screams of the twenty-three echoed through the empty halls and more bloody handprints were pressed into the walls.
If life were a movie, a savvy director would not shoot that scene of carnage. What we imagine is always so much worse and so he would merely let you listen to those screams and then fade to black.
Chapter Twelve
The Lost Boys
“Teenager: (noun) Someone who is ready for the zombie apocalypse, but not for tomorrow’s math test.”
Internet Funny
“There is a saying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies.”
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Winter gave way to spring and the vegetables in Louella’s garden were coming on full and green. She’d planted mint and nasturtiums around the broccoli to keep the pests away and bedded cabbage alongside cucumbers and beans because they were compatible neighbors. Her garden would provide them with ample food for summer and plenty to blanch, freeze and preserve for the colder months. In the meantime she picked dandelion greens when the plants were young and tender and served them up in salads with hot bacon dressing and thick slices of bread. The wheat, alfalfa and corn went in in April and there was a general feeling of hope and growth on the farm.
Everything, however, was not completely idyllic. One of the obvious targets on their list was Sage Foods, the big grocery store and pharmacy out on the highway. It was an ideal first raid — far enough from town that they hoped to pick it clean without encountering too much trouble. But the thought of sending her people out, away from the safety of the farm, unnerved Lou. When Patience picked her team and Louella did not make the cut, she insisted on going anyway.
“But…” Patience faltered. It was her domain. Technically, she had ultimate authority over how their missions would run. However, she had to respect the chain of command and the chief had spoken.
Watching this unfold, Fletcher spoke up. “The leadership of the tribe has to remain consistent in order to be effective.”
“What?” Louella asked.
“You told me that just a few days ago. I was keeping that journal for us and I asked you what your views on leadership were. You said that it’s a lot like parenting: you have to be consistent.”
“Yeah.”
“So how exactly do you provide consistent leadership if you go out and get yourself killed?”
“I’m not going to get myself killed.”
“I tried that argument once,” Owen said quietly. “It did not work.”
“Fletch, a good leader doesn’t order people to risk their lives while she sits at home on her ass. If you all go out there, I should ante up as well!”
It was a decent argument, but Fletch was unmoved. “We all have jobs to do — you designed it that way. Your job is to lead and you have that job because you’re good at it. But you are not suited to go on missions. You are not fast or agile or the strongest pair of arms or the best shot. You have asthma and arthritis. You’re exhausted and you suffer from constant headaches. And if you go out there, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
Louella opened her mouth to speak, but Fletcher barreled on. “Patience is in charge of this operation and she’s picked her team. You shouldn’t second-guess that. It undermines her authority. And how, exactly, would it work having two leaders on one mission?”
“But…”
“Why did you decide not to send Bailey along?” Fletch changed direction so fast it caught her off guard.
“What does Sam’s dog have to do with this?”
“Levi asked whether taking the dog was a good idea and you said no. Why?”
“You know why.”
“Tell me again.”
“It made no sense,” Louella sighed. She could see where this was going and she was not happy. “The dog isn’t trained to deal with the infected and hence, he’d be unpredictable. He might bark at the wrong moment and give our position away or attack and bite one of the husks. In which case, he’d get infected too and we’d have to put him down.”
“You said that it would be the waste of a resource. The dog had one fight and one fight only in him. And so to send him on missions was effectively to throw him away. But here at the farm, he could be our early warning system if anything came near the compound. And he would last for years. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”
“Sure I do,” Louella snapped. “So far you’ve compared me to a dog and made me feel like an errant child while at the same time telling me how old and decrepit I am. Is there anything you wanna add before I shove my boot up your ass?”
“Only that I’m asking for a group vote. Who thinks the chief should stay here?”
Louella didn’t have to count hands to know she’d lost. It was the first time they’d overruled her and it hit her like a slap across the face. She rose from the table.
“Mom,” Peg spoke up, “you’re so worried about being fair and honorable that it’s clouded your judgment. You…”
“I get it.” And with that Louella turned on her heel and walked out the back door.
She stood in the barn taking deep calming breaths and wiping away angry tears. Fletch was such an asshole — treating her like a child that needs to be sheltered and cosseted. What the hell was she supposed to do? Sit on the couch eating bonbons while her people were out risking their lives? She couldn’t do that. And in her mental rant she was just about to start whining that it wasn’t fair when she caught herself. How infantile. Damn it. She slumped down on the milking stool. North Star needed a leader who was sensible and clear-headed and she had just stormed off like a petulant child. And worse, she’d undermined Patience. It was up to Pat to chose her team and lead the mission. And Louella had basically implied that she had no confidence in her Head of Security. But that wasn’t the point. She didn’t doubt Patience; she just had no faith in life. That was the wild card she couldn’t trust. Because life was an absolute bitch. It let you carry on thinking everything was ok, and then one night you’re babysitting for your son so he can take his wife out to dinner for their anniversary. And then Patience is at the door with tears in her eyes. And she’s telling you that Eben swerved to miss a deer and hit a tree and they have to identify your boy by his dental records because the impact ruptured the gas tank and there was a fire. That was life. Life was your husband going into hospital for kidney stones and then Doc Rhoads tells you that James had a heart attack in the night and they did everything they could but… That was life. Life had somehow conspired to bring the infection into Midwood despite all their work to keep it out. And life wasn’t done with them yet. And so yes, she wanted to go along so that she could protect them all. And she isn’t Wonder Woman and she can’t fight or run with the rest of them but, damn it, she was responsible for these people. So what was she supposed to do?
Louella stopped short. If anyone at the farm had asked her that question, what would she have said to them? What am I supposed to do? The answer was obvious: your job. She was not a soldier. She was not built for it. She was a thinker, a planner, an organizer, a mother … a leader. How ironic that such an exulted position should make her feel so impotent, and ashamed.
For his part, Fletcher was absolutely miserable. He hated seeing her hurt and yet he wanted to utterly crush that impulse to be a hero. And he admitted to himself that he hadn’t done it because he was worried about Pat’s authority. No, his motives were infinitely more selfish and impossible to deny. He needed to keep Louella safe.
Louella had been his friend for the last fifty-six years. She’d been his comfort during all the years he’d looked after his manically depressed mother who’d wanted him to be nurse, companion, father and provider all in one and all at the age of fifteen. And when his friends and teachers asked ‘How are you?’, he smiled and always said ‘Fine.’ After all, so much of life is deceit — polite lies of omission, the brave face we put on things, all those excuses we make. But to Lou he could say anything. He could say that he was scared and the rent was overdue and his mother refused to talk about it because she just couldn’t deal. And now he’d have to quit the school paper and take on extra hours at the Dairy Queen. He could tell her that his situation felt like a huge ravenous dog that devoured everything — his youth, his sanity, his future. And he was tired, so exhausted that once he’d leant his head on her shoulder and wept. He could tell her that he hated his mom for her weakness and self-absorption. He wondered, given her lack of empathy for her son, if she was just a psychopath in flowery pajamas and a pink housecoat. And Louella listened to all of this without judgment. She was the only person with whom he could just be himself — no filters, no censoring, just his unadulterated self. The times he spent with her — those were his moments of truth and they kept him sane. And here they were, two golden oldies at the end of the world, and all he needed to keep going was for that woman to be ok. Without her, he’d probably eat a bullet.
Louella spent the rest of that wretched evening (after she’d apologized to Patience, of course) checking and rechecking the plan and chewing her fingernails down to the quick. Patience had gone on two recon missions to scope out the area. There was no sign of anyone. On her second trip, she discharged her weapon to see if anything came running. Nothing. From her scouting expeditions, she was able to show the team photos and she drew them a map of the area. They all knew the lay of the land. They all knew their specific jobs. They had drilled again and again on how to approach the target, secure the area and post guards so the scavengers could collect and load up the gear.
Josie had cobbled together the toughest fabrics she could find to provide them with protective clothing. They had boots and gloves and hoods. They’d wear goggles and dust masks to shield their faces from any infected material that might spatter back at them if they had to fight. Louella had kitted them out with weapons, bottled water, MREs, flashlights, walkie talkies, first aid supplies and highway flares. And still Lou could not shake the horrendous feeling that she had forgotten something vital. Therefore, when she wasn’t poring over plans and rechecking kit lists, she was praying to God to deliver them home safe. And then there was nothing for it. She had to let them go.
Peg was on the team for this mission, and in retrospect she should have known that something was amiss the moment she stepped into the store. There was a discordant note there — something wrong. No, that’s not quite right. Something that should have been wrong was not. At the time this was only a vague no
tion picked up by her subconscious. But it needled her as she swept the aisles looking for any husks that might be hiding there. It wasn’t until she hit the produce aisle that she realized what the problem was: the air was clear — it did not smell of rotting food.
She grabbed her walkie talkie. “Pat, someone’s here. They…” She never finished that sentence, because at that moment she heard the unmistakable double click of a shotgun being cocked behind her.
Every member of the team soon realized that they were in someone’s crosshairs. They had trained for this contingency and knew exactly what their options were. It was a choice between immediate action and forbearance. Yeah, if you didn’t hesitate, you could run for it. It is very difficult to hit a moving target. And unless the enemy understands and has practiced “forward allowance” — basically aiming in front of you as you run — then the odds of hitting the bullseye are pretty low. They decrease even further if you start shooting; if your assailant is ducking for cover, he can’t take aim. But this constitutes immediate escalation and you might get nailed anyway. The alternative? Put your hands up and try to talk it out. Yes, you’re being held at gunpoint, but that might simply be a defensive act. Open the lines of communication and you may find some allies — maybe even future members of Camp North Star. On the other hand, if you put your hands up, you could be surrendering to God knows who. They had all seen the post-apocalyptic movies and TV shows where survivors ended up as sex slaves or food for cannibals. And there was the rub. The chances of sexual slavery or ending up in the stew pot were probably minute, but human fear doesn’t give one damn about the odds. Hence they were ready — as one — to shoot first and ask questions later. That is until they saw who they were dealing with. They were children — every single gun was in the hands of a Midwood child.
“Hello Peter,” Peg said quietly as she turned and raised her hands. “It’s me, Mrs. Gebhard, from the library.”
