Their Names Were Many
Peter Martuneac
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Peter W. Martuneac. All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedicated to my wonderful wife and her continued support of my work, and to our two little ones. I promise to write a book you can read before you reach adulthood one of these days.
Cover art by Cody Phan
Chapter One
Abby ran her fingers along the sharpened edge of the tomahawk, its steel blade matching the color of her eyes. Simple, yet beautifully made with a solid oaken shaft that had elegant carvings up and down the length of it. The blade ran through this shaft and protruded out the other side, though this second edge was blunt like a hammer. A handwritten note had accompanied the tomahawk, which Abby now read:
Merry Christmas, Abby. I hope this gets to you on time. I know a tomahawk seems kinda weird, but I hope you can find a use for it. I’d been thinking about you when the guys and I made it, how you’re a fighter but took a nonviolence vow, hence the blunted side. I don’t know, figured you might appreciate this. I hope you’ve been well, Abby. –Hiamovi
The gift had not arrived in time, as Christmas had passed nearly two weeks ago. The military’s mailing system was not the most reliable even in the best of times, and Hiamovi had mailed this from all the way up in Alaska. He’d been there for most of the preceding year with the 1st Marine Division, taking that state back from a foreign power that had seized it during The Crisis.
Abby sighed as she set the gift back in the box in which it had arrived. A tomahawk was indeed a strange gift, but given Hiamovi’s Cheyenne ancestry it made sense. Plus, he clearly put a lot of thought into it. Still, it was highly unexpected given the coldness of their current relations. He’d written her a letter once before from Alaska, a curt note that said little more than ‘I’m here and I’m alive’, and she’d responded with an equally short message expressing sincere relief. Apart from that, they had not spoken for months.
No anger or ill-will caused this silence though. This was merely the product of two young adults who once fiercely loved each other but now found love difficult. It’d been just over three years since the overthrow of President Cyrus Arthur by the ReFounding Fathers, a joyous memory for most. But to Abby that event would serve always as a remembrance of the lowest point in her life. After working undercover within the Department of American Security, or DAS, for nearly two years, most of that time spent posing as the girlfriend of the President’s son, Abby had become a person she couldn’t recognize: a liar, a drunkard and heavy smoker, a woman who killed without compunction and even cheated on Hiamovi.
That last bit still stung Abby and embarrassed her. It was the reason why she turned down his offer to start over back when things were just starting to return to normal. She had loved Hiamovi, still loved him, but cheating on him was unforgivable. How could she ever tell him how much she loves him without that coming to mind? How could she promise to be faithful when she’d broken that promise once already? She tried to move on from Hiamovi by going on the occasional date, even ending up with a boyfriend once or twice, but those relationships never lasted long. Abby didn’t want a boyfriend; she wanted Hiamovi.
Abby got up from her bed and padded across the carpeted floor of her bedroom. Reaching the window, she pushed it open to allow the warm desert air into her small, bungalow-style house. Nevada was not an ideal place to live, Abby thought, but it was better than staying up in Utah. Too many bad memories there. She’d like to go back and see the city again one day, but she didn’t feel ready yet.
Returning to her bed, Abby grabbed some paper and a pen from the nightstand and began to scrawl out a letter to Hiamovi, thanking him for the gift and wishing him the best. She did her best to make it cheerier than the last letter, but she didn’t want to overdo the friendliness. No sense in getting anyone’s hopes up, she mused. By now she’d surely burned every bridge between the two of them.
“Just as well,” she said aloud. “You deserve better than me.”
Abby caught herself beginning to write out that last thought and quickly scratched it out. Finishing the letter with a flowery signature, she set it on the nightstand to be mailed later and headed into the bathroom. She’d just returned home from work and needed a shower.
Taking off her long-sleeved work shirt, Abby inspected the condition of the tattoos that covered her right arm. After the war, as things returned to a type of normalcy, one of the first things Abby did was to get her military tattoo covered up with a full sleeve tattoo. If she looked hard enough, she could still make out the outline of the original design, but no one else would notice such faint lines.
Abby shrugged, finding her tattoo situation ironic. The old Abby was still there beneath the fresh exterior too, and if she looked hard enough she could find her, still lurking behind shadows and cigarette smoke. She was beaten back, but not gone, and Abby wondered if she’d have to carry her around forever, like her old tattoo.
Before stepping into the shower and pulling the curtain closed behind her, Abby caught a quick glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Speak of the Devil, there was that old Abby, staring back with smoldering eyes and a wicked smile touching her lips. But Abby shook this off as she washed up. Today was just another one of the bad days.
Abby dressed again after showering, into an outfit that made up about ninety percent of her wardrobe: short shorts and a tank top. Anything more than that out in the desert felt oppressive, even in January, and living in such an environment had tanned her pale skin. It was a harsh place to call home, but Abby loved the beauty of the desert. She walked out to her living room then where she noticed the stack of envelopes on her coffee table.
“Oh yeah,” she said. She’d set that there and forgotten it when she went to open the perplexing package. Abby snatched the pile up and walked into the kitchen to heat up some dinner.
“Junk, junk, junk,” she said, tossing the first, second, and third envelopes directly into the trash. It seemed like, as much as death and taxes, junk mail was still a certainty in life.
The last envelope caught Abby’s eye however, and she studied it for a moment. This one was personal, with hers and a return address scrawled across the front of it in blue ink. In the top left corner, barely legible, was a name: Heammawihio.
A foreboding dread filled Abby, and she dropped the envelope onto the kitchen counter. What could Heammawihio want? As far as she knew, he was still the President and probably had a lot of important things on his plate, so what was he doing writing a letter to his grandson’s ex-girlfriend?
Abby turned her back on the envelope and went to the fridge, finding some leftovers from the previous day to heat up. “Tomorrow,” she said as she stepped over to the microwave, casting one more glance at the envelope. She was tired, and she just wanted to relax for the rest of the night.
After eating, Abby left her plate in the living room and turned in to her bedroom. She moved the box with the tomahawk into her closet and closed it. She’d figure out what she was going to do with it later. Truth be told, she was incredibly touched by the gift, strange though it was. It meant Hiamovi was obviously thinking of her, and not just thinking of her but remembering that she’d to
ld him about her newfound moral code. That was good, right? But she didn’t dare get too excited. If she let that fire flare up too hot, putting it out again might be painful.
Settling herself into bed, Abby grabbed the new book she’d bought the other day, a novel called The Turning Point by Julia Ash, and spent the next couple of hours reading. Night finally settled in, casting darkness across the arid desert. Abby grabbed her bookmark from her nightstand but paused to look at it for a moment, as usual.
Two pictures taped together, back to back. The first one was a photograph of her and Zach, the only father she ever knew. Taken so many years ago, it was the only photograph of Zach that Abby possessed, and could very well have been the only one anywhere in the world. She and Zach were happy then, but that happiness did not last long. Their home was attacked, their friends either killed or taken prisoner, and in an attempt to save the survivors Zach was bit by a zombie while saving Abby from that very fate. She killed him at his request before he could turn.
Four years ago, this picture and the accompanying memories would have left a scowl on Abby’s face, but this was the new Abby. She’d buried the bitterness and the self-loathing she once felt, and made herself mostly at peace with what had happened. Mostly. She smiled and touched Zach’s face. “Goodnight, Dad.”
Turning the picture over, Abby now looked into the eyes of yet another father who died by her hand: David. He was the man she’d killed while undercover in the DAS. As she and two other agents prepared to arrest him for shoplifting, he reached suddenly into his sock, pulling out a small, dark object. One of the agents got spooked and called out ‘gun’, a trigger word for the highly-trained Abby. She and the other agent gunned him down before they realized the small, dark object had been nothing more than a chocolate bar.
Yes, she kept this picture even though it pained her. That was the judgment David’s widow laid on her when Abby offered the woman the chance to kill her. Abby kept her life, but she was not allowed to forget the one she stole. And now that she was back on the straight and narrow, Abby resolved to live the rest of her life by that judgment. So she had fixed that picture to one of her own. A picture that brought happiness and one that brought sorrow. A reminder of the high ideal to which Abby could aspire if she stayed the course, and a warning of the dark depths to which she could fall if she strayed. Yin and Yang. Balance.
Abby placed the pictures in her book, snapped it closed, and set it on the nightstand. She turned on the fan above her but turned off the light, bathing herself in a calm darkness as she lay atop her bed and drifted into a deep slumber.
Chapter Two
Three days passed before Abby found the will to open the letter from Heammawihio. She had come out of her bedroom late at night for a midnight snack when the light from the open fridge fell squarely on the crumpled envelope. Abby sighed and pushed the fridge door closed with her foot as she snatched up the letter. She flicked on the light, tore open the envelope, and found a single, heavy sheet of fine paper inside. Standing in stark contrast to the sloppiness of the envelope, this letter looked like it came straight from the President’s desk. Abby’s tired eyes glazed over as she began to read the first paragraph, which read a lot like small talk:
I hope this letter finds you well, dear Abby. I got your address from Hiamovi, I hope that’s okay. I did not know you had moved all the way to Nevada! Stay away from the bright lights of Vegas ;) Oh and a belated ‘happy 22nd birthday’ to you.
Anyway, I am writing to you because I need your help. We are finally ready to take back our country, and I am preparing a massive military push east. However, we have no satellites. The few remaining from before The Crisis were lost during the war, and we haven’t had the resources to put more up in the atmosphere.
That’s where you come in. I’m sending reconnaissance teams ahead of the main forces to try to get the lay of the land out in the Wild. It will be extremely dangerous for those who are going, for they will have no idea where to go or what to watch out for. You, however, have been out there.
One of the reconnaissance teams has been slated to follow very closely the path you took from Chicago to get out west, and it was my hope that you would go with this team. Of course, that is only my hope, and your refusal would be understood. You’ve already done more for this country than anyone has a right to ask of you.
You may call me at the number below. That is my personal cell phone number. Do respond as soon as you can, Abby. I’d like to hear from you again. This city isn’t the same without you.
Yours in comradeship,
Heammawihio
“Great,” Abby whispered as she tossed the letter to the countertop. Now she’d never get back to sleep.
***
Abby sighed as the man sitting next to her began to snore loudly. First he talked her ear off when she was trying to read her book, then he took his shoes off to ‘let his feet breathe’, though at the expense of the breath of everyone around him. And now, snoring. Perfect. This bus trip was simply perfect.
The morning after Abby read the letter from Heammawihio, she once again ignored it. She didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, she’d be going back out into the Wild. Abby knew all too well what would await them out there. The zombies, the gangs, the psychopaths. All manner of evil could befall her out there, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to expose herself to that again.
On the other hand, life had grown quite dull living out in the desert, working the first shift at a steel mill. She didn’t hate the job, but not a day went by without daydreaming of something new, something bigger than this. Taking this mission would inject some excitement back into her life, maybe put her on a whole new path with some meaning to it, something she’d lacked ever since leaving Utah for the desert.
Abby’s train of thought was again interrupted by a noise that sounded like a semi-truck downshifting right next to her. She fixed the snoring man to her left with a glare before pulling the book she’d tried to read earlier out of her backpack, hoping to get lost in a fictional world where nobody snored on buses.
The big, grey bus eventually pulled to a stop in the middle of the capital city late in the afternoon, only a few blocks away from where the old DAS barracks had once stood. Abby had noticed several such landmarks as the bus inched its way through the urban sprawl, and each time she was bombarded with old memories, many of which were unwelcome. But she faced these memories like the grown woman she was, refusing to allow her past to define her present or future.
Abby slung her backpack over one shoulder and disembarked from the bus, stepping out into the hustle and bustle of the city. Hundreds of muddled conversations all flowed into one another, resulting in a cacophony of indiscernible phrases. Cars, scooters, mail trucks, and flatbeds roared up the one-way street, horns blaring as they tried to beat the light at the end of the block. The smell of seasoned meat sizzling on a grill wafted over from the steakhouse down the block, forcing Abby to swallow the small pool of saliva that had just formed in her mouth. A steak would sure hit the spot right about now.
But she put her back to the setting sun and began to walk towards the White House, the “new-new” one that had been built following the fall of Cyrus Arthur’s regime. It was far less ostentatious and could almost be called ordinary, just how Heammawihio wanted it. A simple red brick building, three stories high with several windows and a shingled roof was now the seat of American power. Several people, including politicians and contractors, had wanted to build the biggest, most impressive capital building yet seen in America, but with the country still in chaos Heammawihio refused such a project. The most luxury he allowed to be added to the building was a beautiful garden covering most of the property, and only because any passerby could enjoy it as much as him.
Abby held her head up high as she walked, exuding the self-confidence that she’d worked for the last three years now to retain. It was not the haughty hubris of the DAS agent she’d once been, confident in her absolute power and authority
over all those around her, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. This was the confidence of a young woman who’d been around the block a few times, learned a thing or two about life and death, and understood the true meaning of ‘strength’.
Reaching the front gate of the White House around dinner time, Abby produced her Nevada driver’s license upon request from the Marines standing guard, and they ushered her quickly inside to meet with the President. They did not bother searching her or her bag as they’d been given strict orders to allow her in without delay. After all, the hero of the ReFounding Fathers deserved better treatment than that.
The Marines turned Abby left down a corridor and stopped at the last door on the right. It was cracked open and no noise came from inside but one of the Marines knocked anyway.
“Enter,” said Heammawihio, his deep, commanding voice unmistakable to Abby.
She pushed the door open and strode into what turned out to be a sparsely furnished office. A couple bookshelves and paintings lined the plain plaster walls, and the wooden floor was bare save for a large, circular, many-colored rug in the center of the room, upon which rested four leather chairs and a low, dark coffee table. At the far end of the room sat Heammawihio at a small desk, bent over a stack of papers. He looked up and adjusted his reading glasses as Abby entered.
“Abby,” he said, a warm, radiant smile eating up half his face as he rose from his chair.
“Heammawihio,” Abby replied as a smile of her own crept over her face.
The two walked towards each other before meeting in the center of the room and sharing a hug.
“How long has it been?” Heammawihio asked.
“A couple years. At Bob’s funeral, remember?” Abby said.
Heammawihio nodded his head somberly. Bob had died suddenly from a heart attack, and his presence, especially that smile of his, was sorely missed. Bob had been a stalwart friend to both of them during the war, and Abby insisted to this very day that he had saved her life.
His Name Was Zach | Book 3 | Their Names Were Many Page 1
