“Should we check on him?” I ask.
Morgan stirs beside me, letting loose a long breath as he pulls himself out of his thoughts. His mind is like a machine, constantly thinking, worrying, analyzing. He’s always placed the needs of others above his own. It’s that same selflessness which got us here. Being reunited with his family hasn’t changed that. I don’t know how he does it—how he carries the weight of so much on his shoulders. The least I can do is be there for him, to help carry the burden as much as he’ll let me. It’s the reason I’m here now instead of curled in my sleeping bag. Until he knows his friend is alright, he won’t allow himself to rest.
“No,” he says. “He needs some time to work through things. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
I nod, expecting as much. “I just wish there was more we could do.”
He sighs. “You and me both.”
He grows quiet, slipping once more into his thoughts. Being here must be nearly as hard for him as it is for Felix. The way he spoke of it on the trail, I know it holds a special place in his heart.
“You’re thinking about them,” I say after a while. “Felix’s family.”
“Yeah,” he says. He pauses as if gathering the right words to answer. “His family...they were like my own. I practically lived out here during the summers in high school. I always liked how different it was from town. More simple. Quiet, you know?” He laughs, lost in a memory. “His Aunt Christina, she even bought Leon and me our own cots. Said if we were going to be there as often as we were, we might as well have our own beds.”
I share his laugh. “Thoughtful of her,” I say.
“Very,” he says. “That’s just who she was though. She had this warmth to her, this ability to make anyone feel welcome. She had some fire to her too, though. There were times when something set her off, usually one of her kids or Frank doing something or another to get under her skin, and she would start ranting and raving in Spanish, only to turn to me a minute later with a smile and some sassy one-liner that would make me laugh. His Uncle Frank was the same way, the true definition of a big ole teddy bear. He’s as tall as me, but thicker, more powerfully built. I’ve only seen him truly angry once in my life, and I hope I never see it again.”
He continues on for a time, sharing memories of this family he feels as close to as his own. He speaks of being rescued from the worst hangover of his life in the form of green chili and tortillas when Felix’s aunt took pity on him. Of heated debates with Felix’s uncle over football, and of early morning hunting trips. He tells of Felix’s younger cousins: the eldest, Lena, who skipped two grades and was on track to earn a bachelor's degree in biology this winter at the age of twenty; Brianna, who at eighteen just graduated high school and had planned on enrolling in the Navy come fall; and Rob, thirteen with a knack for mischief, constantly looking to play jokes and pranks on unsuspecting people.
“They’re still alive,” he says a few minutes after talking himself silent. “I don’t know who or what made them leave here, but I know they’re still out there somewhere. Their story can’t end in that house...not like that.”
“I’ve been telling myself the same thing for the past few hours.” Morgan and I both start as Felix solidifies out of the dark. He moves slowly our way, his eyes settling everywhere but on us. He glances behind him, toward the outline of his childhood home and shakes his head. “But I can’t see them leaving this house. Even if they did try and join up with others, it doesn’t explain what happened inside.”
“You’ll drive yourself insane trying to come up with the answers, Chavo,” Morgan says. He stands and closes the distance between us and Felix. “But I swear, we’re going to do everything we can to find them. We’ll figure it out together.”
Felix nods, finally meeting Morgan’s eye. “I know, Moe. That’s why you’re my brother.”
Morgan pulls him in for a brief hug and slaps him on the back. “You know it,” he says. “And as your brother, I’m telling you to get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“You give hell a bad name,” he says, attempting a smile. “But I think I’m going to give it a bit. If I wear myself out enough, maybe I won’t dream tonight.”
I feel my heart clench as he says this, at the blunt honesty of his words. I don’t blame him. After all he’s been through, it would be only too easy for it to bleed into his dreams. A night of dreamless sleep is all he can hope for.
“But you two should go ahead and try and grab some sleep,” he says. “I can keep an eye on things.”
“Nah,” Morgan says, brushing the suggestion aside. “You should know by now I don’t sleep. I could stretch my legs though.” He jerks his head to the side, indicating for Felix to follow him. “C’mon, Chavo. A zombie hunt for old times sake.”
There’s nothing forced about Felix’s smile this time. “Zombie hunt,” he says shaking his head. “Was life really ever so simple?”
The question brings with it a moment of silence, one in which we’re all undoubtedly remembering that simpler time before things changed. I can’t help but wonder what goes through their minds. Do they see their adolescent selves venturing through darkened fields, their worries low and their imagination high, facing off against hordes of the undead? Is it the laughter they shared on those nights that makes them smile now? I find myself smiling as well, not in my own memories, but in watching them remember theirs.
“Once,” Morgan answers. “Maybe they can be again. For tonight at least.”
Felix nods, his smile returning to his face. “You want to take point, or watch our six?” he asks.
Morgan slaps him on the back with a smile of his own. “Lead the way, Chavo”
I decline their offer to join the hunt. It’s not my place to be with them right now. Besides, as tired as I am, it’s enough of a struggle just to stagger toward my sleeping bag. Before I lay down to sleep, I reach into my pack and deposit half of the protein bar that was tonight's dinner, adding it to the emergency stash I keep for Grace. Ignoring the rumble of my stomach, I zip the pack closed and settle in beside my sister.
“Is Felix ok?” Grace asks, her words softened by sleep.
“He’s fine, Gracie,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.” Quietly, I begin to hum a gentle tune, my fingertips tracing up and down her slender neck, just as they did when she was younger. I hear her breathing deepen as sleep claims her, a smile curling on my lips at the sound. I’m not like Morgan. I don’t have memories of zombie hunts or a past full of laughter and close friends. But I’ve always had Grace. As complicated as things were, this has always been simple: the love I hold for this beautiful, kind-hearted girl. Nothing will ever change that.
I wake to a nearly empty barn, Morgan and Felix the only other occupants. I stifle a yawn so as not to wake them. I have no idea what time they finally made it to their beds, but I have a feeling it was long after I fell asleep. They need all the rest they can get. Quietly, I dress and exit the barn. It’s early. The sun hovers inches above the eastern horizon, its rays welcome against the chill of the morning. Despite the hour, there’s a frenzy of activity about the place. To my right lies a small apple orchard, the string of trees stretching from behind the barn all the way past the house. A half-dozen people go about harvesting the fruit, picking at the lower boughs and using step ladders to gain access to the upper branches. Another group work in the garden, pulling weeds and seeing what can be salvaged. I notice Grace with them, listening raptly to Morgan’s Aunt Virginia. The rest of the family I find in the house.
Everyone has thrown themselves into the restoration effort. Inside the kitchen, Vince’s fiance and future mother-in-law assist his mom in cleaning and organizing the place. There’s not a scratch of food, but I do notice flour and cooking oil and other usable items stacked on the kitchen counter. Every little bit helps. Passing into the living room, I immediately take notice of the difference between its current state and its state last night. The wall mounted flatscreen has been removed, as have the
stereo system and floor speakers. There’s no point in keeping them. I notice the busted in front door has been removed as well, one of Morgan’s cousins walking through the empty entryway with two bags of trash to add to the pile we started yesterday. A loud thump makes me flinch, my hand gripping my revolver on instinct. Then I notice the source: Morgan’s dad boarding up the broken window with Richard.
“Fast reflexes,” a voice says behind me. I turn to find Mrs. Taylor wearing a smile, forehead glistening with sweat. She nods to my gun in explanation. “Your hand flew to your gun like you were born with it.”
I feel heat creep up my neck, embarrassed. “Habit from being on the trail,” I say. “I hated being exposed like that. My hand was always flying to my gun for one reason or another. It even got us dinner one night,” I say, unable to keep from smiling as I remember the scene. “Heard something moving in the bushes as we set up camp. Moment the raccoon stepped into the open it had a bullet in it. Didn’t taste half bad, to be honest. Much better than the squirrels Felix would sometimes bring in.”
She shakes her head, an odd look on her face I can’t read. “Raccoons and squirrels,” she says. “I still have trouble comprehending what you went through to get here. It’s a miracle any of you made it at all.”
She’s not wrong. There were dark times on the trail—times when all we had to go on was hope and faith. Yet somehow we pulled through. A lot of it was luck, but I know more than anything, it was because we stood together. Because we had each other to lean on when things were at their darkest. Sometimes I think back to that cramped break-room all those days ago when Morgan offered Grace and me the chance to join them. Saying yes went against everything I had taught myself over the years: rely only on yourself, don’t trust others, never admit you need help. But I saw something in Morgan, sensed it—some ancient, deep-seated instinct that told me to trust him. I don’t even like to think of what would have happened had I said no. There’s no way Grace and I could have made it ourselves.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just wish Maya was here to help us rebuild.”
She nods slowly. “I know,” she says. “She was such a sweet girl. Genuine and kind. It’s not right that she’s dead while so many wicked people still live.”
“No. It’s not.” That familiar pressure builds behind my eyes, and it takes all I have to fight it back.
“But the important thing is we will,” she says. She gestures to all the work taking place around her. “That’s what this is all about. We can’t bring her back, but we can at least build something she would have been proud of.”
I nod. “How can I help?”
The place transforms throughout the course of the day. With everyone helping out, the house begins to look more like the home it once was. Bullet holes are patched. Bloodstains are either washed away or tactically covered up. We make it a point to tread carefully inside the bedrooms, throwing out only what is broken or useless. Still, it’s strange going through a stranger’s private space, unwittingly sifting through memories and catching a glimpse into their world. I sort through the clothes of Felix’s cousin Brianna, the eighteen-year-old with naval aspirations. I fold the clothing inside her closet, curious of the stories stitched into the fabric—if she had a favorite pair of jeans, a dress that made her feel sexy, a faded sweater filled with holes and frayed edges, but so comfortable she could never bring herself to throw away. I have no way of knowing. When I’m finished, I carefully store the clothes away, hoping one day I get the chance to meet the girl they belong to.
Morgan and Felix join us later that morning. I find them in the living room as I return from adding yet another bag of trash to the heap gathering out front. Neither can hide the surprise on their faces. The house has come a long way since last night. Mrs. Taylor turns from her examination of the patched front window and spots them.
“I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds,” she says uncertainly. “I just didn’t want you to wake up and—”
He doesn’t give her the chance to finish her sentence, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. Tears silently stream down his cheeks and onto her shoulder. She pays them no mind, rubbing his back in a slow, soothing pattern perfected over years of practice. She whispers something into his ear, wringing out yet more tears. Morgan catches my eye and smiles, nodding toward the two of them knowingly as if he knew this scene would happen.
“Thank you,” he says, finally unwrapping his arms. “You’ve always been good to me.”
She smiles and lays a hand against his cheek. “You’ve always made it easy,” she says. “We may not be blood, but I love you like you’re my own. I always will.” I feel a wet spot travel down my cheek and I hastily turn my head to wipe it away.
By the end of the day, the house has been returned to its proper state. Or as proper as it can be at any rate. The trash heap out front has been moved into a shallow ditch where we now set it ablaze. As it catches fire, I can’t help but feel optimistic. I feel it flow between us as we watch the flames leap higher, and plumes of thick smoke billow into the evening sky. Each of us played a part in creating this moment, a moment we desperately needed. I can feel the bond taking place, the camaraderie building between us as we realize what we can accomplish together.
I feel his arms wrap around my waist, the warmth of his breath as he leans closer to whisper in my ear. “Have I told you that you look beautiful today?” he asks.
I roll my eyes but am unable to keep the smile from my face. “You just love spouting corndog lines don’t you?”
“I admit, I do,” he says, kissing me on the nape of the neck. “But not nearly as much as I love you.” I can’t help it, I burst out laughing and he joins in soon after. “Alright, that one might have been a bit much,” he concedes.
“Just a bit,” I say.
He turns me around so that we’re face to face. His smile mocks me, but his eyes are warm and sincere. “But just so we’re clear: you are beautiful, and I do love you. More than I could ever put into words.”
I close the distance between us, putting all I want to say into a long, slow kiss. “You better.”
I look back to the fire, watching as the debris from the house burn and the western horizon transforms into a patchwork of red and purple clouds. We still have much to do. I realize that. But standing here, surrounded by so many good people, I feel hopeful for the future.
Chapter 7: (Morgan)
“You realize we must look like a bunch of idiots, right?” Leon grunts.
“You’d think that after twenty-four years, you would be used to it by now,” Felix says from up front.
What breath I can spare gets lost in laughter. Though Leon does have a point—pushing a stalled out, nearly six-thousand pound SUV, doesn’t exactly make us look like scholars. But it’s all for a purpose.
The garden at the farm fared better than we had hoped. There was some damage, made both by man and animal, but most could be salvaged. We’ve harvested some already: cabbage, brussels sprouts, broccoli, cucumber. And more will be ready in the next few weeks. Personally, I most look forward to the potatoes—paper thin slices fried in oil and sprinkled with salt. Before the collapse, nothing quite hit the spot for me like a bag of Lays and a Pepsi. Learning of the potatoes the other day has set off a craving I can’t shake. It’s been rough. Still, I’m thankful for the food we do have, little as it may be. But with nearly thirty of us, we’re going to need a lot more. That’s where the SUV comes in.
A dozen of us were out in the garden, brainstorming on how to grow more food. Thanks to Elroy we have seeds and a handwritten book full of information and techniques, but that only goes so far. My Aunt Virginia and Vince’s soon to be mother-in-law, Leah, are the only two with any gardening experience. Felix knows a little from living here, but the garden was his aunt’s domain. As for the rest of us, we have Elroy’s notes and a prayer. We’re going to need both if we’re going to have a chance at surviving this winter.
There was a large section consisting of
greenhouses—the different builds and how to maintain them. Page after page of information, but one thing became clear to us quickly: the majority of greenhouses in the book would take time and material to build, two things we are desperately short on. That’s when my Aunt Virginia had the idea to convert vehicles into miniature greenhouses, the modern relics one thing available in abundance throughout the area. A clever idea, one we can only hope pays off in the long run. That brings us here.
Three days we have spent gathering a fleet to convert. It’s physically demanding. The farm sits removed from major roadways, the neighboring farms and homes spread out far and wide. It’s a great location as we try and rebuild, but it makes finding suitable vehicles difficult. Two teams have spread out from the farm to search—the first consisting of myself, Leon and Felix—and the second made of Vince, Jerry, and Ted. The rest of the family is back at the farm, gutting out the interiors of the vehicles we’ve gathered so far, and constructing raised garden beds to fill them. With any luck, at least a couple will be ready by the end of the day.
“Another quarter mile or so is the Begay’s place,” Felix says. “We should check and see if they know anything.”
“You got the wheel,” I call back. “Lead the way.”
This will be the third home we’ve visited in as many days, fishing for any information that might lead us to Felix’s family. The previous two yielded nothing we could use. Neither had left their property except to hunt, and in any case, had turned cautious of their neighbors. I get it. Trust was a fickle beast in the best of times. Today, it can mean the difference between life and death. Why check on a neighbor when doing so might get you killed? Who’s to say Bill from down the street, president of the PTA, local handyman, all around good guy, wouldn’t rob or kill you if it meant his family’s survival? It’s not pessimism, but the cold truth of the world we now live in. I don’t like it, but it’s the only logical way for us to start our search.
A Cruel and Violent Storm Page 7
