red. Almost as though this is a movie set and they’re using food coloring or something for fake blood.
“Marvin, I call out, running down to stop him from killing this guy. Marvin’s got a pocket full of shells and is reloading as fast as he can. Marvin, what the hell?
“Run, Ferg, he says. Still remember those words. No one’s ever called me Ferg. Not before. Not since.
“Run!
“I’m confused. I’m trying to calm him down. Just give me the gun, I say, holding my hands wide and showing him I’m unarmed. A cop car races past, sirens blaring, lights flashing, but it doesn’t stop.
“You need to run, he says again, only he’s calm. He’s too calm. There are bite marks on his arms.
“The guy in the swimming pool drags himself onto the deck. His eyes. They’re bleeding, but he doesn’t care. Marvin fires from the hip, hitting the guy on the side of the neck. He’s dead. No one could survive that, but he does. He snarls and it’s only then I see there’s dozens of them. They’re everywhere. Breaking windows and dragging people out of the ground floor apartments.
“Run, Marvin says, and I run. I run and I don’t stop.
“It’s madness on the streets. They’re everywhere. They turned so fast in those early days, but I run. It’s all I can do.
“National Guard had a checkpoint on the outskirts of town. Somehow, I got there in one piece.”
I listen intently. This is important. This is our history, our heritage. Unwritten, it will be lost with his death. Everything is lost in death.
“You need to go,” he says, reaching for his rifle. A shiver runs down my spine as he adds, “You need to run.”
Twigs snap behind me, breaking softly underfoot as Zee approaches.
With only one good arm, Ferguson rests the rifle on his lap. He works with the box of bullets, sitting them on the rock beside him and taking them out one by one. Like the apartment manager he described just moments before, Ferguson is unusually calm.
“Take the pack,” he says.
I want to say, no. I want to say, I won’t leave you, but that would be the petty folly of a childish girl. He knows it. I know it. There are no illusions between us. No denial. Just bitter reality.
“Run,” he says, coldly, echoing the words of that long dead apartment manager.
Ferguson feeds bullets into the side of his lever action rifle, pushing each round into the receiver with his thumb.
“Get up there quick as you can,” he says. “When I go loud, you run. Go long. Go deep. Get behind them. Double back.”
I nod, holding back tears.
I rest my hand gently on his good shoulder saying, “You sound just like David.” That gets a smile.
“Stay on the move. Don’t go to ground.”
I pick up the pack and sling it over my shoulder.
Ferguson takes one lonely bullet and stands it upright beside the box of shells. We both stare at it for a second, admiring its brass casing, its dark, arrow-like tip, its authority, its finality. We both know what it’s for.
Zee snarls, signaling his approach, but I still have my back turned. I can’t take my eyes off Ferguson. I understand what he’s doing. Why do moments like this end so swiftly? I can’t turn away as I need this memory to last.
“Bye, Ferg.”
“Bye, Haze.”
Tears fall from my eyes as I clamber onto the concrete footing, but I can’t let him see. There’s so much unspoken in our farewell, so much expressed in those soft, endearing terms. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Unity. Friendship. Sorrow. Remembrance. Heartache. Loss.
I hate myself.
I climb because I’m told to.
I climb because if I don’t, his death is meaningless.
My fingers are numb, but I push off with my legs, working my way up the steel latticework. Again, the birds are quiet. It’s as if they anticipate the coming storm. Below me, there’s the soft sound of the lever action loading a bullet into the chamber and cocking the firing pin.
I wait for the break of thunder.
Chapter 06: Spaceman
Dark figures
“Marvin, I call out, running down to stop him from killing this guy. Marvin’s got a pocket full of shells and is reloading as fast as he can. Marvin, what the hell?
“Run, Ferg, he says. Still remember those words. No one’s ever called me Ferg. Not before. Not since.
“Run!
“I’m confused. I’m trying to calm him down. Just give me the gun, I say, holding my hands wide and showing him I’m unarmed. A cop car races past, sirens blaring, lights flashing, but it doesn’t stop.
“You need to run, he says again, only he’s calm. He’s too calm. There are bite marks on his arms.
“The guy in the swimming pool drags himself onto the deck. His eyes. They’re bleeding, but he doesn’t care. Marvin fires from the hip, hitting the guy on the side of the neck. He’s dead. No one could survive that, but he does. He snarls and it’s only then I see there’s dozens of them. They’re everywhere. Breaking windows and dragging people out of the ground floor apartments.
“Run, Marvin says, and I run. I run and I don’t stop.
“It’s madness on the streets. They’re everywhere. They turned so fast in those early days, but I run. It’s all I can do.
“National Guard had a checkpoint on the outskirts of town. Somehow, I got there in one piece.”
I listen intently. This is important. This is our history, our heritage. Unwritten, it will be lost with his death. Everything is lost in death.
“You need to go,” he says, reaching for his rifle. A shiver runs down my spine as he adds, “You need to run.”
Twigs snap behind me, breaking softly underfoot as Zee approaches.
With only one good arm, Ferguson rests the rifle on his lap. He works with the box of bullets, sitting them on the rock beside him and taking them out one by one. Like the apartment manager he described just moments before, Ferguson is unusually calm.
“Take the pack,” he says.
I want to say, no. I want to say, I won’t leave you, but that would be the petty folly of a childish girl. He knows it. I know it. There are no illusions between us. No denial. Just bitter reality.
“Run,” he says, coldly, echoing the words of that long dead apartment manager.
Ferguson feeds bullets into the side of his lever action rifle, pushing each round into the receiver with his thumb.
“Get up there quick as you can,” he says. “When I go loud, you run. Go long. Go deep. Get behind them. Double back.”
I nod, holding back tears.
I rest my hand gently on his good shoulder saying, “You sound just like David.” That gets a smile.
“Stay on the move. Don’t go to ground.”
I pick up the pack and sling it over my shoulder.
Ferguson takes one lonely bullet and stands it upright beside the box of shells. We both stare at it for a second, admiring its brass casing, its dark, arrow-like tip, its authority, its finality. We both know what it’s for.
Zee snarls, signaling his approach, but I still have my back turned. I can’t take my eyes off Ferguson. I understand what he’s doing. Why do moments like this end so swiftly? I can’t turn away as I need this memory to last.
“Bye, Ferg.”
“Bye, Haze.”
Tears fall from my eyes as I clamber onto the concrete footing, but I can’t let him see. There’s so much unspoken in our farewell, so much expressed in those soft, endearing terms. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Unity. Friendship. Sorrow. Remembrance. Heartache. Loss.
I hate myself.
I climb because I’m told to.
I climb because if I don’t, his death is meaningless.
My fingers are numb, but I push off with my legs, working my way up the steel latticework. Again, the birds are quiet. It’s as if they anticipate the coming storm. Below me, there’s the soft sound of the lever action loading a bullet into the chamber and cocking the firing pin.
I wait for the break of thunder.
Chapter 06: Spaceman
Dark figures
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