My back is sore when I wake up. Oliver's getting dressed across the room. With one eye, I watch. He's losing weight, looking all scrawny and older than he is, with dark shadows for a ribcage.

"Morning, Carl."

I look away.

Oliver scoffs. "You can be so shy sometimes," he tells me, buckling his jeans up. "I mean, after everything you must've seen yesterday..." I think about him curled up on the shower room floor and blush. He grins. "See?"

"It's not that," I say. "You just look... smaller lately."

Oliver's face goes a little sad. He picks out my denim jacket from my duffel bag. I wore it the day I first killed someone. He asks, "Can I wear this?"

I shrug. "I don't care."

Oliver pulls it on, stuffs his inhaler into his front pocket, and pulls on his beanie. Without looking at me, he says, "I'll find you for patrol."

When I'm done getting ready, I find him in the foyer and he breaks away from Mika to give me my share of breakfast that Maggie brought over. Nothing but some berries and nuts. I eat while we patrol, and as we round the corner away from everybody, we check nobody can see us, then lace our fingers together.

By noon, the veterinary college run still hasn't returned. Dad left with Carol about four hours ago to find something to help, but in doing so, they've left Maggie as the only healthy adult. There's nothing Oliver and I can do to help her either because we have to stay in the office blocks. Mika keeps crying, and occasionally Judith, too, and finally, to take my mind off it all, Oliver takes me to the door overlooking the neglected parking lot. I'm watching the trees and he's reading Tom Sawyer — he managed to somehow steal it back at some point.

"Carl!?"

I turn to face the room. "Dad?"

Oliver looks up from Sawyer and frowns.

"I think I heard my dad," I explain.

"Think about something enough you start hearing it," he says. "I'd know."

"No, no. I wasn't talking to—"

"Carl!"

This time, Oliver hears it, too.

"C'mon," I say.

"Carl..."

I skid around the corner, Oliver behind me. My father stands at the end of the corridor lugging a large supply bag over his shoulder, two other full ones beside him. He looks stressed and tired.

"You okay?" I ask.

He smiles. "Was gonna ask you that." We walk towards him but Dad steps back at the same pace, so we stop, and so does he.

"We're okay," I say.

Dad nods, shifting his eyes between us. "No one's sick? You didn't have to do anything?"

I shake my head. "Haven't had to use my gun, Dad."

He nods. "And Judith?"

"With Beth."

"Good." He sets the trash bag on the floor. "Found some food on the run." He slides the bag across. I catch it and sling it over my shoulder. "There's a bunch of fruit that're in there so have everybody brush their teeth after."

Dad picks up the other trash bags and walks away.

"Can we come out soon?"

Dad stops, turns. "Not jus' yet."

"Dad," I insist. "We were around you when you were in the middle of it. Oliver was in there. And we were around Patrick. We didn't get it. We can help you."

"Thanks," he says, "but I need you to stay here."

He's walking away again, and I watch him... until Oliver pushes me to go after him. I stumble forward, clearing my throat. "Dad."

He looks at me.

"Look," I say, "I will stay, we both will, but..." I sigh. Dad's frowning. "You can't keep me from it."

"From what?" he asks.

"From what always happens..."

"Yeah. Maybe. But I think it's my job to try."

Finally, he leaves. I stare after him. I hear Oliver walk up to me but I don't turn to him. I just let him pull the bag off my shoulder, and then he hooks my two fingers with his two fingers, and I go with him.

As the sun sets, we get done eating our peaches, and Oliver and I brush our teeth in the office block bathroom, drooling and pulling faces at each other in the mirror. Two more people fell ill today. Pulling faces is how we don't think about it.

It's on our way back to our office that we hear the gunshots.

"Carl..."

I snap my head around. "Dad?"

"Boys..."

We run.

"Boys!"

In the next corridor, Dad's holding a flash-light. The moon draws stress lines across his expression. He motions us to hurry. "I need your help." The three of us head down to the fences—away from the gunshots. "We gotta keep 'em from cavin' in," Dad explains. "The walkers're getting too heavy."

We go through the watch tower, then out into the inner fence strip. That terrible smell sticks to my throat and nose like tar. Then we see the state of the fence, and Oliver and I stop in our tracks. The walkers are stacked on each other, trampling themselves, and the fence is hanging low enough that soon they'll climb over into the inner strip.

Dad takes us to the worst part. There are chopped wooden beams propped up along the mesh already, doing all they can, but there aren't enough to hold it yet. We don't wait. Dad explains how, and we get to work, wedging the beams against the fence and hammering them into place. We set up at least ten more, all while we can hear the other beams splitting, hoping for the best.

"Mr. Grimes?"

Dad looks at Oliver.

"What — What happened to Carol? I didn't see her come back with you."

Dad doesn't answer him.

"She's dead," Oliver says, "isn't she?"

Dad just grabs a beam for me when I struggle with it, telling me, "I got it."

"Let me help," I insist, lifting the other end. Again, something starts cracking. I dismiss it — until the whole beam snaps in two. On reflex, Oliver launches himself at it. I yell. Teeth snap at his fingers. Dad yells, drowned out by the shrieks and growls, and then we're just pushing the fence, using bars and metal signs to avoid teeth. It's heavy. Too heavy. I can't stop it. None of us can. Then the next beam is gone and the fence collapses. I run, yanking Oliver back by his collar. And then they're coming, pouring into the inner strip.

"Dad, come on!"

He's shoving through, launching through the door and slamming it closed. I'm heaving my breath. Dad turns to us, his mouth is wide. We all jump back when the walkers bang and shove from outside.

"Boys, stay close."

We stumble into the parking lot. The walkers see us come out and change course to the fence closest to us. It starts dipping in.

"Dad... what do we do?"

He wipes his mouth, looks at me, thinking and thinking and thinking, and then he says, "We gotta take them down."

"We can't see anything. Dad, it's too dark."

"I'll get the bus," he replies. "Stay here."

We do. Dad parks one of the buses adjacent to the dipping fence, lights beaming at our target. He then climbs out and ushers us to the armoury bins lined up against the fence behind us. He grabs a rifle and hands it to me. "You got it?"

"Yep."

He takes another rifle and hands it to Oliver. "Know how to use a gun?"

"Err... in theory."

"You ever fired one?"

Oliver shakes his head.

Dad just nods and puts a firm hand on his shoulder. "Today's the day you'll learn then..." He grabs a rifle for himself and motions us to follow. "Magazine goes in here. Release is here. Make sure to latch it. Pull back the operating rod. The rounds speed up. Keep squeezing the trigger for rapid fire, okay?"

We both nod. Oliver looks very focussed while he readies his weapon — I guess storytime has served its purpose. Dad looks like he's thinking the same thing, too. He stops and looks at us. He takes my shoulder.

"You shoot or you run," he instructs us. "Don't let them get close, okay?"

We're two boys made of nothing but adrenaline and nods. And then there's a loud clang and the whole fence panel slams into the gravel. Walkers flood into the parking lot, stumbling over each other. We start shooting. The parking lot rumbles with bullet-fire and walker after walker drop to the asphalt, black oozing puddles pooling around their heads. I catch Oliver jolt back from the kickback of his first shot — it's too bad you can't fire a gun in a library. I keep shooting. Headshot. Another. Throat. Headshot. Oliver gets some too after several moments.

We move back to make more distance after a few minutes, but the cluster is thinning. Dad's ammo runs out and he takes out an advancing walker with a hard blow to its temple. I shoot it through the head, then I throw him a magazine from my pocket. He loads up while Oliver and I keep going.

Finally, the last walker is down, and we overlook the parking lot. As the silence sets in, my ears begin to ring. I get to finishing off the last few stragglers. Dad turns to me. I watch him. He looks exhausted and worried and afraid. He has to look away. I know why. I know what this means to him: There's a hole in our home, a chink in our armour, and it's never going to be like it used to and there's nothing we can do about it, and he's known it all along but he didn't know it would be over so soon.

I look at the floor, feeling guilty and sad — sad like I feel when I'm alone and remembering. Then Dad looks at me and he seems so sad, too, like he's standing here in front of me feeling totally alone, swallowed in the remembering, too. I hear a car engine and look. It's the vet college run team. They're back.

I sigh. "Dad..." He looks at me. He's crying. "Everything's gonna be okay."

Notes

As always,
Happy reading.