by Morris, Jacy
Spring had always been the worst season for him. Rain was no friend of the homeless man. Wet socks had been his biggest enemy besides hunger and the police for as long as he could remember. But he longed for rain now. He longed for the showers to come, though they would be cold. Anything would be better than the unrelenting snow of the mountains.
He finished chopping a branch heavy with needles off of a tree. He laid it on a tarp, amongst the other branches he had gathered. He had enough. Any more wood and he wouldn't be able to drag the tarp behind him. He threw the axe on top of the pile and felt for the reassuring presence of his hammer hanging from his belt. He wouldn't risk breaking the axe on one of the dead.
Mort squatted down and picked up the corners of the tarp, moving backward, the wood sliding over the crisp surface of the snow. It hadn't snowed in a couple of days now, and he was thankful for that. The drifts were deep underneath some of the taller trees, and more than once, he had sunk up to his belly in the snow. But with the harder surface on top, it was easier to slide the wood through the forest. He pulled with his back to where he was going, so he could keep an eye on the pile of logs and the axe. He didn't want to accidentally lose the axe.
With each sliding step, he looked over his shoulder, hoping that the dead wouldn't be there. They were fewer now. He didn't know why, but there were fewer of them in the woods these days. Perhaps the snow had locked them in, perhaps they simply didn't cover as much ground in the deep snowpack. Either way, he was thankful.
But when he was really swinging it, the axe brought them. The sound of metal sinking into wood traveled through the empty forest, and it occasionally brought one of the dead to him, a simple reminder that they were still there. They were still hungry.
His legs burned as he pulled the wood back to the camp. He was looking forward to going back. He missed the camaraderie of the others. He knew now that he never wanted to be alone. He wouldn't be alone. Not if he were given a choice. He'd rather choose death.
A noise came to Mort's ears. He was familiar with the noise. It was the sound of a dead thing moving clumsily through the snow, raspy, destructive. Mort only had one nice thing to say about the snow; it kept the dead from sneaking up on him. And that was a good thing. He stood his ground, pulling his hammer from his belt.
He heard the dead thing before he saw it. He waited, and it came, locked in on his position like a guided missile. He let the hammer hang from his hand, saving his energy and steadying his breathing.
The creature that came at him had been a male with a square jaw and sandy blonde hair that flopped on his head. He had been muscular when alive, and Mort knew that those arms still contained the strength, if not the speed, of the living man. A dead man didn't worry about hurting itself or overextending its muscular reserves. A living man might grab a person's arm and squeeze with seventy-percent of their force, reserving the rest for extreme emergencies. A dead man squeezed an arm with a hundred percent of their force, not burdened by thoughts of what came next or what might happen to the arm it was squeezing. A dead thing, like the one slogging through the snow like a sluggish sled dog, might grab an arm and break it with one squeeze. It might twist and pull that broken arm until the flesh tore and the tendons and ligaments snapped. He wondered if that is what happened to the man before him. It reached out its stump, frozen and black, and Mort danced to the side.
He pushed the man in the back, and it fell face-forward into the snow. He crushed the back of the dead thing's skull with his hammer, one quick hit on the back of the man's head where the neck met the skull. It was the weakest spot, the one that gave nine times out of ten to a hammer blow.
When he was sure it was dead, he searched through the man's pockets. Anything could be useful now, a book of matches, a lighter. Supplies were becoming scarce around the compound. They were already rationing their food. Tammy kept talking to him about ice fishing, but the idea of crawling out onto the ice over the black river and cutting a hole did not appeal to him. But, if they ran out of food, and the snow clung to the land longer than they expected, he might have to.
In the meantime, he contented himself with looking through the man's pockets. He pulled a wallet out, a well-worn piece of rich, brown leather. He found the man's driver's license, his debit cards, and credit cards, a business card for an accounting firm, a couple of pictures of people that didn't matter anymore. He looked at them for longer than he should have anyway. It was always nice to see a picture of the beforetimes, even if the man's reality hadn't been his. He particularly held onto the sunshine in the picture, imagining it warming his body the way it did the people in the picture, a little girl with raggedy blonde hair and missing teeth, a woman with dark piercing eyes, and the man himself. He held a surfboard with one arm, and his other wrapped around his wife. He placed the cards and pictures back inside. He checked the cash compartment, just for fun. Forty-seven bucks. A fortune to Mort once. He closed the wallet and stuffed it in the man's back pocket. It wasn't his, and though the man was dead and had no need of it, it still felt wrong to take it from him, unless it was something that could help him survive. A superstitious part of him also thought that it might be bad luck, and he liked to keep his luck good. It had kept him going for some time.
He flipped the man over. He wore a torn polo shirt stained with blood. His nipple, so blue it made Mort shiver, poked through a rent in the fabric. He checked in the front pocket of the man's jeans. He found a small butterscotch wrapped in gold plastic and nothing else. He twirled the butterscotch in his hands, looking at it. It looked like the sun to him. The color of the wrapper was beautiful. It had been so long since he had seen anything as colorful.
The entire world felt washed out. The dead came at him in clothes that were faded and weatherworn. The world around him was white, black, gray, and brown. Even the green pine needles seemed more gray than green. But the butterscotch, it was bright. It was food for his eyes. He stared at it for a moment longer, then the wind whipped like the lash of an overseer, reminding him to get home. He stuffed the butterscotch into his pocket and continued his way back to the compound, pulling the tarp full of wood behind him.
The tarp would make three loads. In between each load, he would snack on something that the women at the compound prepared for him. It was never enough to make him feel full. He missed the feeling of being full. His stomach grumbled in agreement. But it was always enough to keep him going. They were stingy with the bear meat. It seemed that when he had first brought it back to the compound that it was enough to feed them for months, but the supply had disappeared over the last few weeks.
Time passed strange now, amongst the snow and the trees with no leaves. As he pondered the peculiarities of time, the compound came into sight. The snow around the compound had drifted against the trailer walls, making them seem less tall. He thought that a particularly good athlete could run up those snowdrifts and jump right on top of the trailers. He prayed silently that the dead would never learn to run. That would be the end of the compound and everyone inside.
He tugged and pulled the tarp across the broken ground in front of the gate. He heard the rattle of the chain, and then he saw Tammy's smiling face. He liked Tammy. She was nice. Theresa and Liz, despite the pact, were still cold to him. He didn't know if it had anything to do with him being black, but he knew that could be an issue for them. They had them backwoods accents, and they didn't speak like Joan and Katie. His experience with people that talked like that had always been a fifty-fifty proposition. But Tammy, she had no fear of him. He was thankful for that. He didn't like the idea of people thinking poorly of him. Never had. Even when he was homeless, if someone gave him a negative glance or a look that said, "You disgust me," he would feel self-conscious and find a way to leave that person's presence. Those were most of the looks he had received back then.
"Got more wood, I see," Tammy said.
She always said it, but Mort liked it. It felt good—like a ritual—like the way his father had always made
them say grace before a meal. He hadn't known what the words meant back then, but he liked the familiarity of them, the predictability. That was about the only predictable thing he had ever had in his life when he was a kid.
"Yep. This oughta keep us warm for a while," he said. It was what he always said. They smiled at each other, and Mort thought he caught something in her eye. He smiled and shook his head. I must be losing it. What does a woman like that want with a bum like me?
Tammy bent down to help him drag the tarp, and he said, "I got it. You all need to rest. Growing babies is hard work. That's what Joan says."
"I know," Tammy said, "but I get to just feelin' so useless all the time."
"I bet, in another month, you're going to wish you was feeling useless. When that baby comes, you ain't gonna have time to feel that way." He didn't know if the words were true, but the way the women talked about what it would be like to raise the kids, he thought that maybe it was. He knew as much about raising kids as he did about trigonometry. He had heard it was a thing that other people did, but he had never done it himself.
He dragged the tarp to the woodpile, under the shelter of an overhanging portion of the ranger station roof. Logs upon logs. He wondered how many more logs he would have to collect before they could get out of this place. Joan had shared their plan of escaping to the ocean with the others. Tammy and Liz had both liked the plan, but Theresa had fought a bit, saying that the beach could be just as bad as it was at the ranger station, perhaps even worse.
They didn't have much in the way of argument for Theresa's complaints, and in the end, it came down to personal preference. Theresa, seeing that everyone else wanted to make it to the ocean, eventually relented and said that she would go with them when the time came. Now they just needed time to speed up and the weather to change so they could get the hell out of the forest.
When the wood was stacked, he grabbed a couple of logs and headed over to the fire. He threw them on the flames and then sat on an upended plastic bucket, waiting for his hands to get warm. Joan and Katie sat next to the fire staring into its coals, and Tammy moved around preparing the dinner. There was no sign of Theresa, Liz, or Dez. Dez spent most of her time in the ranger cabin, carving her hate into the walls. Theresa and Liz were a bit of a surprise. Katie said they were in love. Mort didn't quite understand how that worked. He tried to imagine the particulars of it, but he just didn't get it.
"How was it out there?" Joan asked.
"It was good. I only had to kill one of the dead. It was quiet."
"Could you have ever imagined saying, 'I only had to kill one of the dead,' and it being a good thing?"
"Nope," Mort said. "But it's a strange world these days."
"Lemme see your hands," Joan said.
She always did that. She had spent a good part of an hour explaining the dangers of frostbite when he had come back from gathering wood the first time. It almost sounded worse than being bitten by the dead. After her speech, every time he had gone out, he had made sure to keep his gloves on, even if it did make every other action feel awkward. There was something he hated about not being able to touch the world.
Joan did an inspection of his hands as the sky darkened. She turned his hands back and forth, making sure that everything was going to be ok.
"You kept your gloves on?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Good," she patted him on the hands, and Tammy started frying up slices of SPAM over the fire.
Mort's mouth watered as the meat product sizzled in the pan.
"Oh, shit," Tammy said.
It looked like Tammy had pissed herself. She stood next to the fire, her hands in mid-air like she didn't know what to do.
"Oh, shit," she said again.
"What is it?" Mort asked.
"Her water broke," Katie said.
The saliva that had gathered in Mort's mouth at the prospect of freshly fried SPAM seemed to evaporate. "Now?" he asked.
"Now."
A flake of snow fell from the sky, followed by another. Mort watched as Katie and Joan led Tammy inside the ranger station.
"Get some water on the boil," Joan said. "We have to sterilize some towels."
Mort could do this. He pulled a slice of SPAM off the fire, popping it into his mouth. It exploded with the rich flavor of salt and whatever else was in the processed meat. Then he started scooping snow into their largest pot. He set it on the fire to boil, wondering what he should do next.
****
Theresa opened the door to find Mort standing there. Sweat plastered her long hair to her forehead. Behind her, Liz was sliding into her jeans. They were loose and baggy now. Liz had been losing weight, they all had.
"What is it?" she asked impatiently.
"Tammy's having her baby," Mort said, his eyes as big and round as cue balls.
"Shit," Theresa said.
"What? I thought you'd be happy," Mort said.
"She's like a month early."
"What's that mean?"
"Means there could be problems," she said.
Mort nodded his head, and his eyes went even bigger.
Theresa yelled over to Liz in the back of the trailer. "Tammy's having her baby," she called back to her. "I'm gonna help Mort. Come along when you're ready."
Liz gave her a thumbs-up, and Theresa grabbed her jacket and stepped out into the cold.
"What'd Joan tell you to do?"
"I got some water on the fire, waiting for it to boil… and…"
"And what?"
Mort looked embarrassed. "And that's all she told me to do."
Theresa shook her head. Men were all the same. They wouldn't know to wipe their own ass unless a woman told them to. "Go into the unused trailers and grab all of the sheets off the beds. We're going to need to boil them. Once you get those sheets, bring 'em to me, and head inside and just be around Joan and Tammy if they need anything."
"But I don't know nothin' about delivering a baby."
"Don't matter," she said. "It's gonna come whether you know anything about it or not."
Theresa sat there, waiting for the water to boil. Its still surface reflected the small light coming from the cloudy sky. She was alone now. She didn't like to be alone. When she was alone, that's when the bad thoughts would come. For the most part, she was able to forget the loneliness. She felt her baby move in her belly, and she patted it absently with her hand. I guess I'm not totally alone.
The babies were coming. She was terrified of having her own baby. She felt like the baby growing inside her was strong, but this was a strange time now. This was a time when a pregnancy could kill you. There weren't any hospitals anymore. If something went wrong, they had to rely on Joan to fix it, and she didn't have nearly the shit that she would need to do the job right.
Tammy… for all she knew, Tammy could be dying in that ranger station right now. She liked the girl. She felt like a daughter, though she was only a few years younger than herself. Her innocence and child-like spaciness made her seem younger than that. And now she could be dying. It was a tale as old as time, mothers dying during childbirth. Or worse, babies dying during childbirth. What would happen if the umbilical cord got wrapped around that baby's neck and it died? Would it turn into one of the dead, eating its way out from inside its mama? She shivered at the thought and pulled her coat tighter, burying the lower half of her face in the top of the zipped-up jacket. Dark thoughts. Now was not the time for dark thoughts.
Liz threw open the door of the trailer they all shared and came down the steps to stand next to her at the fire. "Aw, who let the SPAM get cold?" She reached into the pan and pulled out a square of SPAM, thick with congealed grease, and popped it into her mouth. Theresa focused on her chewing. Normally, the sound of chewing made her want to punch something, but in this case, it was a nice distraction.
The doors of one of the trailers slammed shut as Mort moved onto the next trailer, a bundle of dusty sheets in his arms. The water in the pot began to hiss.
She was about to answer when there was a scream from the ranger station. Her heart quickened its pace. What was happening in there?
"That doesn't sound good," Liz said. She was excellent at stating the obvious.
"No, it doesn't," Theresa said.
"You think we should go in there and help out?"
"We'd just be in the way," she said. She didn't like it, but it was the truth. All of the rooms they had were small, and with all of their bodies smashed into one of the ranger station's rooms, it would be impossible for anyone to get in or out in a quick manner. Also, Tammy probably needed the calm. She didn't need five or six people yelling instructions at her.
Mort popped out of a trailer, trailing sheets. Another scream pierced the night. She saw steam rising from the pot. The water was about to boil.
****
Joan resisted the urge to wipe the sweat off of her forehead. She had never delivered a baby before. She was not an obstetrician. She was an E.R. doctor, much more comfortable with setting bones and stitching cuts. She knew the principles and had been taught about it at school, but she had no practical experience.
Katie reached over and wiped the sweat off her forehead with a towel. "Thank you," Joan muttered.
They were in a waiting game now. It was just time and a lot of talking and comforting. "You're gonna be ok. Everything is looking good," she assured Tammy.
Tammy didn't hear it. She was screaming.
"Did you scream this much when you had your baby?" Joan asked Katie. For all intents and purposes, Katie was probably the most qualified person to talk to about delivering babies in the compound. She was the only one who had actually given birth to a child.
