…
We mourned at Sherlock's gravesite for a total of twenty minutes before Uncle Jonah salted and burned the corpse. Nothing was really said. My father set a warm, damp, hand on my shoulder and it was all I could do to shrug it off. My mother stood beside me, and when I turned to look at her, her eyes reflected the liquid flames but not herself. She was as dead as Sherlock.
Izzy looked frightened and small, so young, against the night, the flames leaping and licking the crisp air in front of her. Dean held Clint's hand in brotherly defense against the promise of death. Aunt Meghan held baby Martina close to her bosom, as if the closer to her the baby was the further away she was from the world, further from the danger and the Zeds. Further from me.
The girl who couldn't stop her little brother from dying.
We stood in the night, letting the frozen air threaten our lungs, watching the pyre burn and the stars burn coldly from millions of miles away.
…
For the next few days I tried to be strong. Uncle Jonah tapped on my door, offering words of encouragement and comfort, but I ignored him and kept my door locked. Doing chores, I stacked wood like I had a fever, building and building and building the pain away, callouses forming as the bark scraped at my palms sharply, building and stacking and chopping.
Sherlock is dead.
Everywhere, traces of him, his clothes, his weapons, lay strewn around the house, a constant reminder of our loss. None of us talked about him, but when they passed me in the hallway, they looked away from me, either in guilt or sympathy I don't know.
My mother disappeared from outdoor duties, sleeping in often, eating little and talking less. We gave her our distance, for Sherlock's sake.
One day Uncle Jonah swore and slammed through the house, yelling, and we all gathered to watch in both interest and horror. "He was just a fucking boy!" he yelled, throwing a small wooden chair on the grass, the legs splitting. "It's not fair!" A picture book with dinosaurs on the cover flapped beside the chair. "Fuck!" a shirt Sherlock had outgrown last year. Trip after trip, item after item, tears and snot and dirt on his face. He tossed things of Sherlock's into a pile outside, lighting them and throwing in more and more until nothing of Sherlock's was left, save his knife snug by my leg. He ended by kneeling a short distance from the flames and sobbing, arms slipping to the ground until he was lying beside the fire in the agony of loss. "Fuck, fuck. Oh, God, fuck."
The crowd dissolved.
…
About two days after that, a red pickup truck rumbled down our driveway, and my father ordered everyone inside. The rest of the family huddled together in the dining room together. Jonah left for the family room, where he had been sleeping, and sat on the couch holding his head in his hands. I rushed to the window and watched my father greet the driver cordially. They shook hands and the man slapped my father's back playfully.
Their voices murmured and I couldn't discern any words clearly. My breath fogged up the glass and it smelled moldy and damp. After a brief exchange, they hugged tightly and the man returned to his truck and backed out of the driveway, engine rumbling.
I hurried down the stairs into the dining room as Uncle Jonah joined the rest of the family and my father entered. His face looked old and haggard and for the first time in a long time I realized how prematurely old he was. Deep wrinkles pinched his face together around his eyes and mouth. His eyes grew dark before he spoke and I knew something was up.
"Ted's brought news," he began.
We waited. "And?" urged Aunt Meghan.
He made a half-smile, half-grimace, and she shooed Clint and Dean into the other room to play. When they were gone, he continued, "Town's gone. The late have completely consumed it. This new strain. They've got a group at the Y but they're running out of supplies. Ted said he had a hell of a time getting here, the roads are so clogged up with dead."
"We makin' a run?" Uncle Jonah was tough again.
"We have to. They've helped us in times of need."
Jonah nodded and Izzy bit her lip in worry. My father continued, "We're going to make a run down to the Shelter in the morning and then we'll head to the Y and make the drop-off. Peter, Meghan, Jonah, and myself will make the trip."
"I should come."
He turned and looked at me before nodding fairly. "Okay, and Aeowyn. We'll eat dinner early so we can hit the road at sunrise. The rest of you can hold down the fort." With this, he walked away, leaving us all stunned.
Aunt Izzy excused herself and joined him in the kitchen. As the family continued their activities, focusing on the upcoming day, I stood and listened, but the only thing I heard from their conversation was Aunt Izzy asking him, "Why aren't I going?"
He replied, "Because I don't want to lose you."