Short Little Life

“Where’s dad going with the machete?”

Between the window slats, I see my dad’s wiry frame slip out from the barn and lope toward the edge of our property. He’s been spending more time there, ever since the incident.

Mom drops an overflowing basket of laundry onto the old pull out couch in the family room. She gingerly removes the rifle she has strapped to her back and lays it on the end table within arm’s reach. “He thought he saw something past the tree line. Going to check it out,” she says absently as she tosses clothes into efficient piles.

My gun and knife appear in my hand. “Why didn’t he get me?” I can still catch up with him. I don’t need to be left behind like I’m some helpless child.

Before I can take a step toward the door, Mom makes a disapproving clucking sound. “Because it’s most likely nothing, just some critter.”

“Most likely nothing, until it’s something.” I have a little more steel in my voice than I usually care to talk to my mother, but it had to be said. There has been more movement from the roads. Most people miss us being set back behind trees, but it only takes one ornery group to cause significant damage. We learned that lesson well.

“Never mind that now, Charlie. Your dad can handle himself.” Mom picks up a sock, finds its mate in the pile and rolls it into a little ball. She repeats the process until she has five balls stacked together, all completed in seconds. “He’s got his own chores to do, same as us. Go on now. You still have some cleaning to do before he gets back, and I want the table clear for supper.” She cocks her eyebrow up, which is a sign she means business.

“Yes ma’am,” I say, going back to the kitchen table where some of our guns are laid out in a row waiting to be cleaned. I lay my weapons down next to my plate of forgotten lunch. Ruger on the right. Spyderco Harpy on the left. An apocalyptic place setting.

I clean one gun after the other, the scent of the lubricating oil familiar and relaxing. There’s a kind of zen to it, taking care of the things that take care of you. The routine brings a sense of normalcy, which is much needed, especially when the world is so upside down.

The dead no longer stay dead. What were once decent neighbors have become poachers and mercenaries. The last time someone came around asking for help ended up wanting to hurt us real bad.

Bad men, Dad calls them.

We taught them a lesson that day, but what about tomorrow? Seems like bad men are what’s normal nowadays. Makes it so that I would rather face a zombie, one of the living dead, than the predatory living.

The sound of the barn doors sliding shut breaks through my reverie. All the guns are clean and loaded, ready for action. I move to the window over the sink and see my dad striding up the lawn. There’s mud caked over his boots and jeans up to his knees. There’s dried blood splattered across his face. Smears of gore cling onto his shirt and fall in clumps with each step.

He pauses before stepping foot on the porch, as if he just realizes what he’s covered in.

Mom appears at the back door, rifle at the ready. She tosses a brown towel at him. “Trouble?”

Dad wipes his face and hands, tossing the towel onto his shoulder. “Barn.” He nods toward the old building as if he could mean some other place. “Throw me my bug out bag, then grab yours. We’re hunkering down for a bit.”

Mom hefts his bag without complaint and tosses it to Dad. Then, she grabs hers. In the span of heartbeats, I pack our guns, and have my rucksack on. 

Less than a minute later, we’re following Dad down to the barn.

* * *

“Help me lock the door, Charlie.”

Dad slides a reinforced steel bar across the width of the door while I engage the deadbolts that latch down into the reinforced concrete floor. The front of the barn may look like it’s falling apart, but that's by design. No need to advertise the upgrades Dad’s been putting on the bunker.

Mom pushes the trap door in the second stall, and goes in. Dad lingers, waiting for me to go in before him.

The passageway is just wide enough for one person carrying a full load. Leads down below the barn to a shelter that is fortified enough to withstand a nuclear winter.

The lights flicker on, and whatever I was going to say dies in my throat.

My mom points to one of our cages. “Who is that and why is she in a cage?"

“I’ll explain as we prep. Charlie, get the weapons out here so we can take stock. Claire, see to the girl. She had so much blood on her I couldn't tell if it was hers or not. I don't think she's been bit."

Mom's face is rigid but she nods. She's not skittish around patching people up. None of us are.

But potential zombies are another matter entirely. We're used to killing them quickly, from the newly bitten to the shambling corpse.

Mom goes to the girl, whose stringy hair covers her face. The girl lets my mom wipe the dirt and blood from her skin. "No wounds,” Mom says. “Are you hurt sweetheart?"

The girl doesn't answer, and Mom looks to Dad expectantly.

"There were some bad men out," Dad starts his story. "They were getting the girl, or at least is what I guess they were doing. She was running around, weaving in and out, and one of them grabbed a hold of her. That was when one of the dead came out of nowhere. He attacked the guy holding her and bit him in the neck. I took out the other two before getting the one that was bit. I heard a car coming down the road, and so I just grabbed the girl and ran."

“Did you get the zombie?” Mom asks before I do.

Dad shakes his head. “Didn’t want to risk getting caught in case that car was part of their posse.”

"Poachers active in the middle of the day, and now a zombie? They're getting bolder," Mom says.

"Bolder. That's one word for it." Dad rolls up his sleeve.

“Are you hurt?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. "Nah. The girl’s got some bite to her. But her teeth didn't go through the cloth."

Mom inspects Dad’s arm nonetheless. "She doesn't seem to be bit, either," she says, “so we don’t have to worry about her turning or turning others.”

"Good," Dad says. Then, he places a gentle hand against my mom's cheek. "I didn't mean to bring trouble to our home."

My mother's gaze is pure steel. "What are we if we let the good ones suffer and the bad ones live?"

I look away from their private moment, and move silently to kneel before the little girl in the cage. I unlock the door and open it. "Hi," I say. "What's your name?"

The girl’s eyes remain unfocused, as if she's retreated into her own little world. I continue to talk to her anyway as I unload the weapons from my bags.

I line up each piece, talking in a one-sided conversation. "My name is Charlotte, but I go by Charlie. It's easier that way. Do you have a nickname that people call you?"

She's paying attention to me now, following my movements as I prep for what may come. My Ruger and knives are always on me, of course, but I clip an asp to my belt and slide my backup piece into my boot.

A mangled sound creaks out of the girl.

“Did you say something?” I ask.

She pulls on the hem of her shirt. "Fern."

“Nice to meet you, Fern.”

She nods, still looking at my weapons and not at me particularly. I take a little pocket knife and hold it in front of her. "You like these, don't you? Have you held a knife before?" I ask her.

Fern nods. "I had one. My dad gave it to me. Just in case."

Our world is full of "just in case" moments now. "Do you have your knife on you?"

She shakes her head. "It got stuck in my dad. I couldn’t pull it out."

Oh. “Was your dad changing?”

Could he have been that zombie that Dad didn’t have a chance to kill?

Fern confirms my theory with a nod. She wrings her hands as if trying to hold herself back from grabbing one of my weapons.

Poor girl. Probably doesn’t feel safe around strangers without one. She’s already had to face a lot in her short little life.

I glance at my parents and see their attention is on readying the surveillance equipment. “Here, take this little one.” I push my Spyderco Lil Native into her hand and show her how to open it and close it.

Mom paces between one video monitor to another. "Something's happening." A group moves through the woods. The motion cams track their progress through our property.

They would be able to see our house in minutes. Maybe they'll see the house is empty and move on. Maybe—

An unholy growl rumbles from behind me, setting off all of my primal instincts to run.

It’s coming from the girl.

“Fern? Are you okay?” I ask.

Fern backs away from me. “You need to let me out.” Her voice is pitched low and garbled as if someone is crushing her throat.

“Out? You don’t want to go out. We’re safe here.”

Fern points my own blade at me. “Not for you it’s not.” Her face contorts as if in pain. Seeing her struggle makes me sick.

“Charlie get over here,” my dad whispers fiercely. His strong hand clamps around my upper arm.

I don’t want to move. If I give my dad an opening, he would kill her. I can’t let him kill her.

I should want her dead as well, but it’s getting harder to remember why that’s the case. A red gleam shines in her eyes for just one moment. She blinks and keeps her gaze on the floor.

“You have to let me leave,” she says. “I won't let them hurt you. Not when I can save some good in this world.”

She edges her way out toward the passageway that leads to the exit. “Lock the door behind me,” she says. “Don’t let them in. Especially not the doctors.” She disappears on silent feet.

My father shuts the inner doors, barricading us inside. “What in the world were you thinking, Charlie?”

I tune him out. My eyes are transfixed on the monitors. Fern’s small figure dashes across the lawn in a blur of inhuman speed toward the tree line.

The men who were traveling through the woods stopped when they saw her. We watch transfixed as Fern takes my knife and rams it into her neck. She crumbles to the ground. Instead of retrieving her, the men that tracked her here turn tail and run.

Fern’s fallen body convulses, back arching in impossible angles. She contorts until she looks less human. She pauses and looks directly at one of our motion sensor cameras. Though the video is in black and white, I can almost see the red glow of her eyes even now.

She nods, and then is gone.

As soon as she’s gone, I feel like a fog has lifted from my brain.

“The virus is mutating,” Mom says.

“Looks like,” Dad confirms.

I nod, afraid to say aloud just how much the virus has changed. I take up the machete. “We’re going to need more weapons.”