…
I recognized my road and shuffled coldly towards the direction of my house. The sun had set swiftly and left me shivering for forgiveness in the sharp cold, letting a thick fog settle over everything. I estimated the time to be nine or ten thirty. The wind and fog mixed and left me shuddering. The moon partially illuminated the abandoned-looking houses. I remembered putting up blackout curtains left from my great-grandparents from WWII. My father and I covered each window tightly to avoid visibility in case we were bombed or chosen for looting.
We had established the house as an impregnable fortress against both Zeds and humans. My father and uncles staying with us kept watch during the nights to keep the rest of us safe. None of us slept at first, and the nights were quietly endless. We kept our weapons clean and at the ready at all times. Food was rationed and protected, as was gasoline and hygiene products.
My two aunts, Izzy and Meghan, took care of the children, Clint, Dean, and little Martina. My uncles, Peter and John, kept watch and helped with the cooking and the protective duties. I did some of each, being the able-bodied teen, bouncing from group to group and helping when I could.
I remembered these things as I stumbled towards the house. It came into view and I hefted my arms above my head. The universal signal for: "Not a Zombie."
I heard murmurs in the dark ahead of me, but my head was already swimming, my nose releasing phlegm freely, holding my hands above my head for all my worth. I prayed for them to recognize me. At least if they shot me, it would be in the head, once, a death that offered no suffering. My uncles are superb shots.
Instead, the whispers and softly spoken words came closer and I could make out my Aunt Izzy and my father. The fog crept up and choked my vision, like smoke. I kept walking, but their voiced echoed around me.
"We can't let this go on," I heard Aunt Izzy whisper right next to my ear, echoing against the leafy wetness of the night.
"Isabel, please. Just think about this. For me." My father said quietly, halfway across the world.
"No. Rob, stop. Think about Marie."
"I can't think about Marie. Not with you around."
"What about Sherlock? Or Aeowyn?"
"Stop this. You were fine with us before."
Their footfalls ceased. "I'm scared, Rob. Scared of us, scared of this, scared of the world. Scared of you. I don't even know why Peter brought us here." I heard her leaving.
"I love you. And you love me, too. And no goddamned apocalypse can stop that. So just come back. Peter has nothing to do with us. Neither does Marie."
"Dad," I called, not able to take any more. I continued walking forward, feeling my footsteps against the hard ground. All I wanted was to be home. No more of this.
"Aeowyn?" Concern rang in his voice.
"Yeah. I'm home."
"Oh my God," I faintly heard Aunt Izzy say, coming closer.
I realized I looked like shit. "I haven't been bit," I said defensively against the fog. They linked arms with me and brought me home.
...
I woke up in my bed after a dreamless sleep. Dreams weren't even an escape anymore, as the reality crept through the rose-tint and waking up was a disappointment. The only true relief was the deep black inside my mind. I often wondered if that's what death is like. Peace.
My mother was sitting there beside me, sleeping. Keeping watch. Seeing if I would turn. I crept out of bed, coughing softly, and she woke immediately. Trained by the attacks, we all were nervous.
"Mom. I'm fine. It's okay, I swear."
She looked like a ghost, thin and pale. Even the tough hours outside hadn't brought color to her cheeks. "Aeowyn. We worried." She stated this simply. I understood. You only mourn so long. Even a night was pushing it these days, although we all tried to move past the Seven Days. Everyone tried. But horror like that is something that changed us all, try as we might to hide it.
I didn't have to say anything. She stroked my cheek with a thin, cold, hand, like she didn't believe I was there, and floated past me.
...
"Sherlock."
"Aeowyn." He sounded vaguely angry. He didn't look at me as I sat down, just concentrated on sharpening his knife. "I thought you were dead."
"Pity, huh?"
"Just stop! Stop trying to be funny. It doesn't work anymore."
"Sherlock-"
"No. You're a fucking-"
"Where did you learn that word?" Sherlock never swore. He had been against it completely and announced loudly every morning that swearing was bad, vegetables were good, and to always always brush your teeth.
"Uncle Jonah."
"Jonah's here?"
"Uncle Jonah."
"Yeah?" Jonah swept into the room, eyes filled with happiness.
"Uncle Jonah!" Sherlock's face was filled with joy at its purest. "Teach me how to shoot again, Uncle Jonah!"
I stood there feeling numb. Wasn't Sherlock supposed to be happy that I was alive? Didn't my parents care anymore? Or did my father just want to gallop through sunshiney fields with petite little Aunt Izzy?
"Come on, Sport." Jonah gathered Sherlock and the pistols. "Wanna join?" he offered me.
"The noise'll attract Zeds."
"Nah. Ain't been no fuckin' Ol' Z-faces around for at least a month." He glanced at Sherlock.
I ignored my little brother's presence. He was twelve. Around here you needed to grow up fast. "They just released the news report three days ago. The new strain? Stronger, faster, smarter? Isn't that why you're here? Not just so you can butt into our business?"
He looked genuinely stunned. I walked away before getting hurt feelings was an option.
...
Later, I went into my bedroom and opened up my journal of last words. I added "'Jim.' –June Linda. 11.12.19." The emerald earrings were placed atop the book.
...
The next morning I rose and took duty with Uncle Peter. We only had school twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, so we kids could all do our part with help fighting the Zeds. It had been six years and none of us counted grades anymore, we just learned what we needed and continued on our way.
That morning Peter looked haggard and worn. I hid any thoughts of Aunt Izzy and my father away and smiled painfully at him. We set to work on feeding the chickens and Moosey the pig, named by Sherlock and Dean. Then we relieved Uncle Jonah from his post and sent him away to the kitchen and his coffee. I didn't look him in the eyes. Uncle Peter and I sat on the frozen porch behind the lookout and soaked up the silence.
...
I awoke to a pool of drool on my hand. I had fallen asleep. Uncle Peter looked off into the distance at the sun, barely up through the trees at eight o'clock. I yawned and excused myself. He only nodded.
I stood up and stretched, letting the cloth shake out on my clothes. I spotted movement. "Peter! There!" I whispered.
His hands flew to the rifle and positioned it. "Positive it's one of them?"
"Mm, hold. Wait here." I stood and jumped down, letting my legs wobble.
"Aeowyn!"
I shushed him and crept closer. It was indeed a Zed.
Behind him were about fifty more.
My eyes widened and my hands shot out to my sides. Slowly, I backed away, back into the lookout. "They're there."
"We can't go shooting them like this. Noise'd just attract more. Then we'd really be fucked."
"Okay, okay. Hold on. I'll wake up the rest, make sure they're fine and aware." I slipped through the side entrance and began to wake up the household.
...
My father made a plan: Jonah would lure them into the barn and we'd torch it. It sounded like a good, sound idea. A fine idea. We all shook our heads in agreement.
I counted everybody up. Immediately I knew something was amiss. My mother's eyes looked dead and my father's eyes looked alive. Aunt Izzy's screamed of guilt as she held her baby girl and Aunt Meghan held her boys in her arms like she never wanted to let go. Peter, Jonah, and John sat on the lookout, surveying the situation. Everyone was accounted for. Except for Sherlock.
I snuck out, letting the numb, emotionless internal quiet settle through me. I was already over Sherlock's death. I needed him to be alive.
The Zeds huddled in a mass, forward like disease-riddled sheep being led to slaughter. Or were they coming for the sheep in the slaughterhouse? Jonah would decide that. I heard yelling and knew the plan had begun to take effect.
I searched for my brother among the Zeds. He's only twelve.
Normally twelve-year-olds are proud of a good grade or a model car or learning how to ride a bike. Normal twelve-year-olds worry about girls and skinned knees and sometimes grades. My brother was proud of his first kill. My brother worried about protecting his family.
I spotted him, on the roof of the house, above the Zeds, as Jonah walked in slowly, the Zeds following him in bloodlust.
"Sherlock, please. Get down from there."
He held his gun and said, "No. I'm trying to save you."
I was crying but I didn't know where it was coming from. My stomach felt empty and my brain light. "I don't need saving."
"Aeowyn, please."
"What do you need? Want? I'll get you anything, just hold on." I could save him, really.
"No. I'm killin' 'em, Big A. Watch." He started to pull the trigger.
"No!" I yelled, but it was too late. His proud grin collapsed into a fatal, woeful look. The last time I saw his face was a look of pure terror as the shotgun's recoil sent him flying down to the ground, towards the old pigpen. The trough rose up to meet his fragile neck, sending blood spurting out in all directions. A few Zeds broke away from the group and went towards him.
"No!" I roared, rearing up my knife and hurtling at them. My cry brought the attention of two more, but most of them continued stumbling into the barn. I sunk the knife into the earthy flesh of the godless cannibals, tears blurring my vision and spine aching.
I went to my brother's side, in time to watch the light in his eyes click off. At that moment, everything shut down. I held him in my arms, wishing to God I could do everything over again. Treat him like a brother. A true brother. Teach him how to dance. Give him shit advice and hugs and Christmas presents. Annoy him about friends, listen to him complain about mine. Show him how to make new friends, a pie, a decent Photoshop job. Listen to him complain, cry, whine, pour his heart out. Be a sister. A good sister. One he'd look up to and love and admire and need.
Regret coursed through my body. I blindly shanked a Zed across the eyes and turned around. The smell of blood brought up by the Zed brought Sherlock back. His eyes opened, but nothing was behind them. Uncle Jonah closed the barn door and tossed me one of the pistols he was carrying.
I raised it and looked Sherlock up and down. He stumbled forward, blood coursing from his neck, bent at an angle. I squeezed both my eyes shut and the trigger down.
I heard the slap of his small body against the cold, hard, ground. The barn began to blaze behind me, and I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.