The Last Hour Page 10

I’m a little scared of what I mean to her.

  I was scared of what she means to me, but with only hours left, I don't have the luxury of time to stress anymore.

  I keep my eyes closed, smelling her and feeling her next to me.

  Eventually, I fall asleep, resigned to the fact every second after this is out of my control.

  Chapter Eleven

  I blink, seeing light, and I’m worried for a second that it’s the light, the one at the end. But I realize I wouldn't see light.

  That's not who I am.

  Regardless of being fixed, I’m not free of the past.

  I would see flames.

  Which means I’m alive.

  I blink again, forcing my eyes open.

  There’s a pillow with a dent from the head that slept there but now she’s gone.

  I pause and give thought to the fact I’m still here, before getting up. The house smells good, weirdly good. I think it’s what woke me.

  My stomach aches as I get out into the kitchen, pulling my shirt on.

  “Morning.” She stands with the indignant look on her face, the one that suggests there’s something wrong.

  “Morning,” I say casually, unsure about her tone and expression.

  “You owe me something, so let’s get it over with.” She sounds like a mom or a mean nurse.

  “Owe you something?” I’m drawing a blank until she cracks a grin.

  “You’re still here, Mister Pessimist.”

  “I am.” I grin back. “And you were right. I didn't die, I lived, and for whatever reason, the tiny robots saved me.” Even from myself.

  “As you were. That’s all I needed to hear.” She’s smug. She lowers her gaze back to what appears to be bread. She holds a roll up, grinning. “Want some breakfast?”

  “How?”

  “The stove is a woodstove, it cooks with fire not electricity.” She beams and spins, opening a small door and revealing more bread. The smell wafts out, joining the already lingering scent that had woken me.

  “No shit.” I rush forward, taking the small and hard roll in my hands. It’s not soft or buttery or any of the things bread rolls should be, but it’s hot food and when I take my first bite I moan a little. It tastes like fresh bread.

  “I found a recipe book, a paper one. I haven’t cooked much, I usually eat at work or in the car, but they’re all right, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I nod and gobble back a second one. “Oh my God.”

  She steps forward, pressing her face into my shoulder, resting there. It seems she’s smelling me the way I’m smelling the bread. We stay locked like this for a moment before I realize she’s crying into my shoulder.

  Swallowing becomes harder as I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head, letting her become the air I breathe instead of the bread. She doesn't speak, and I have no idea why she’s crying. But after a couple of minutes she stops and wipes her eyes as she kisses my cheek once, lingering. She pulls back and turns away from me. She leaves me standing in the kitchen, confused.

  I force myself to finish the bun in my hand, but it’s lost its taste.

  Pulling on a sweater, I head outside, still perplexed by her response to me, more so when I glance in the window and see her staring at me with a peaceful smile.

  I’ve always known that women are different from us, mysterious and complex, but she takes the cake.

  Lester grunts at me, making the dog bark. I turn to them both. “Let’s get to work.” We have things that have to be done now. Things like feed animals and figuring out how to run a farm.

  We spend the day working like old-fashioned Amish farmers, only we’re clueless so I imagine it all takes much longer than it needs to. As the sun sets, I make a decision. “Tell Grace I went to get something and I’ll be back in about an hour,” I fib. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.

  Lester grunts and saunters off toward the house, his limping dog behind him.

  I decide to jog, since driving might draw attention, plus I feel energized in a strange way. I’ve hardly eaten, except for the lunch Grace made of fried eggs and buttered buns, and yet I’m sure I could run a long ways.

  I don't know how I know this, I just do.

  And so I do.

  I run across the fields, through the small bushes and over the barren and desertlike hills until I reach another house. I pick up my pace as I hurry down the incredibly long driveway to the narrow road, and turn right, heading into the small town of Cashmere. Every house along the way is a farm or an orchard or a vineyard.

  It’s dark and silent in a way it most likely hasn’t been in ages, actual ages.

  When I meet the highway, Sunset Highway, I also meet a rushing river. I slow to a walk as I enter a more established area, not a city but more populated. There are dead people here, more than I expected. They’re on the road, lying with tar-like bloodstains on their faces, noses, ears, and eyes. It’s gross though somehow fitting. Of course this is where it led. Of course, when nanorobots self-destruct in your mind they nuke your brain. Why didn't I think that was the way it would go?

  I imagined I’d be sleeping and it would just end. I would simply fade into the sleep and live there, stuck. I didn't think explosions or black and gray stains or eyes filled with dark veins. I didn't push my imagination that hard or far.

  The road, River Street, winds into what I can only imagine is the core of the small town of Cashmere. I don't try to stay quiet, or make noise; I hover in the middle somewhere, pretending I’m meant to be here and yet not. Strolling is the way I would describe it. Strolling and searching. Assuming small farming towns have an abundance of bookstores or farm stores where farming books are prevalent appears to be a mistake, though as I turn a corner, I see something called Aplets and Cotlets Country Store. A country store surely has a farming book.

  The windows and doors are sealed up, something I’ve noticed along the way. The people of this place didn't break and enter or loot. They must have hidden or fled as it was all going down.

  It makes me wonder how many small-town, gun-toting hillbillies are still alive. It also makes me think I should get more guns.

  Pausing outside the store, I lean into the window, my breath hitting the cold glass and fogging my view as I see something I don't expect but am excited for. It looks like food, real food. It’s packaged and encased and pretty. The window is dressed for fall, autumn, Halloween, and harvest. It’s nice.

  Turning and checking around me, I wait for it, the sounds of others, but there are none. So I turn back and lift my crowbar in both hands and get ready to swing. I take several breaths before I do it, smashing out the window of the door with one hit. I step inside, noticing the smell of food. The sound of my feet crunching on broken glass is all I hear for a moment. Then my breath and heartbeat join in. My ears do the thing they’ve been doing for a few days, sharpening the sounds of everything, like they’re tuning in for me.

  My stomach growls as the scent of food fills my nose.

  It’s not a farming store. It’s a candy store or gift shop or something.

  I rush the window, ripping open bags and stuffing my face with rocky road and peppermint bark and Turkish delights. I flip a lid off a box of chocolates and fill my hand with them, dropping them into my mouth one at a time, moaning as I discover they’re cherry chocolates. It's possibly the second best moment I’ve had since we left the institution, second best moment since I was born. My tongue aches from the sugar and my stomach stretches as I eat too much.

  Like a scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I end up slumped on the floor next to the window with sugarcoated fingers, crumbs all over my shirt, and chocolate-stained lips.

  I’m satisfied and a little queasy.

  Taking huge breaths, I force myself up and saunter over to the checkout counter. I find bags and begin filling them with bars, candy, and chocolates. I’m working faster than I’m thinking and being noisier than I should, when I hear it.

  Something else.


  It’s not a normal heartbeat.

  It’s not another person.

  But it’s a noise coming this way, shuffling or walking.

  Holding my crowbar tightly, I slip to the shadows of the store, pressing my body against the wooden shelves, and I wait.

  The sound comes again, a weird moaning, paired with someone dragging or pulling a body maybe.

  My eyes narrow. The picture before me of the shop in the dark and the moonlight spattered across the street out front becomes sharper.

  Shadows dance along the floor as the person walking, maybe dragging their leg or kicking a bag down the sidewalk, passes in front of the display window. They’re lost in the decor and signs and my carnage.

  They pass by the glass, dragging a leg that’s turned, suggesting the foot or ankle is broken. They walk like they’re dead or undead or whatever the zombies are.

  For a moment I forget he shouldn't be here, this hulking mass of a man in coveralls and dirt stains. But then I remember, they should all be dead.

  Him.

  Me.

  All of us.

  But he isn’t. And neither am I.

  So none of this is as it should be.

  The nanorobots went rogue somewhere along the line and somehow the thing crossing the window, the thing I don't feel compelled to kill, is still moving.

  It’s alive.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Why’d you go alone?” Grace demands, even as I finish laying dozens of bags of candy, food, and supplies at her feet like an offering.

  “I wanted to be sure things happened the way Dr. Stoddard said they would. The doctor we met.” I defend myself but at the same time struggle with whether to tell her or not.

  “Did they?” Her eyes narrow.

  “No.” I tell her the truth. I don't want to but there’s no choice. We don't live in the kind of world where one person can shelter the other. Not really.

  “What do you mean?” She gulps.

  “I saw a few of them. Not many, but enough to suggest they weren’t all killed like he said they’d be.” I don’t tell her I saw eleven of them. It seems like a lot. I can shelter her like this. A little.

  “Were they like you? Alive?”

  “No. Zombies. All of them. I didn't see one person who was alive.”

  “Shit!” She gasps. “So they didn't die?”

  “No. Most did. But some are still here. Randomly.” That’s also a half-truth. There were a few stragglers, random ones alone, but there were also some paired up. Hunting together.

  “Did they see you?” She’s frantic again, maybe thinking the sanctuary of the farmhouse has been breached.

  “Not at first. But then, yeah. A few saw me but still didn't see me. I was noisy and in their faces but nothing. They still ignore me.” I’m not as smug as I used to be about it. I’m worried. I’m worried about her. And Lester. And even the damned dog.

  Whatever the tiny robots did to my brain, it’s made me a weaker man.

  “So what are we going to do?” She steps closer, staring up into my eyes, tugging at something in my chest and tightening it.

  “Stay here. Be safe. Keep the fences intact.” It sounds simple. I realize I’m oversimplifying it. “Let the military come and get rid of the zombies and then we’ll rejoin the world. We can make it here. I’ll raid the stores and we’ll stock up for the winter and ration.” Something comes over me. I lift my hands and grab her arms, squeezing gently. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Panic fades in her gaze as she lets me promise her a truth I believe in. I don't know why, but I would die—no, I would kill for her. I would kill everyone to keep her safe.

  Her hands lift, breaking my hold on her, and wrap around my neck.

  I’m frozen for half a second, trying to fathom what she is to me as she melts into an embrace she’s in alone. Heartbeats pass before my hands lift too and press into her back, pulling her into me. I don't melt into her the way she does me, instead I crush her to me. The feeling of her in my arms is everything and nothing. The nothing being a black hole that pulls all the danger and worry from me. She drags it from my arms and chest and absorbs it, but she doesn't take it on. She lets it pass through her.

  We stay this way, clinging to each other, her cleansing me and me protecting her, until I blink and we’re in the bedroom. Clothes are flying and skin is touching and mouths are caressing. Hands are needy and shaky, similar to last time.

  She slides beneath me, welcoming me into a similar though completely different type of embrace. And yet, as we sway and rock and kiss and invade, I’ve never felt more cleansed.

  She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  Her name, Grace, fits.

  She is gracing me with love and compassion and healing.

  Maybe God graced me with her.

  Payment for what he or she owed me.

  Time served for the sentence I never received.

  We wrap up in each other, heaving breath, sweating and clinging.

  She falls asleep, something I thought the man was supposed to do.

  As she sleeps and I hold her, my thoughts turn grim.

  Perhaps that is the true penance.

  In order to have her, I must admit my sins, even if only to myself.

  And so I do.

  I think of the second life I took.

  A person whose only sin was looking the other way. A person who pretended not to see me, not to see it, not to see us.

  There is no remorse in me. There wasn't the first time I killed and there wasn't the last time.

  My regrets are empty and hollow lies that I tell myself, or told myself, were truths.

  But they weren’t.

  I’ve never regretted taking a life.

  I don't imagine I ever will.

  I hold her and contemplate the second life I took and the sheer genius necessary to accomplish it.

  Having killed one person already, I should have been a suspect and I wasn't.

  Instead, I was left to plot number three.

  But no one knew I’d plotted far past three.

  I’d plotted all the way to seven. In fact, I’d plotted number eight.

  But I got caught before I could kill her.

  She was weak.

  And now she is likely dead.

  Everyone from that time in my life is.

  Not one of them could have survived this.

  In that family, only I am strong.

  Realizing I no longer have the luxury of lying in bed all day, I slip from her embrace and tuck her in. I can’t leave right away. I have to linger, hover, and brush the stray hairs from her face. I have to watch her sleep peacefully for a moment longer. She’s a miracle. My saving Grace.

  She makes a sound and curls into the blankets, getting comfier.

  And I leave her there, not knowing it is the second to last time I’ll see that look on her face.

  Pulling on clothes, I make my way back to the kitchen and begin to put away food. The cellar in the basement is where we’ve decided to keep our food, trying to utilize the cold storage more.

  I get everything downstairs and stored away while Grace sleeps. I suspect she hasn't slept much in days and is in need of it.

  Deciding to let her sleep more, I head out into the fields to check the fences again.

  The night air is cool and smells of fire, not ours. Ours isn’t burning.

  It makes me nervous to smell it but also relieved. Clearly, someone else is alive. Someone else is burning wood to stay alive. Someone else is surviving this.

  After I check the fences, I bring in more wood and get the animals back in their places, not sure if farmers do this every day or not. It seems like the right choice. Animals going out in the day and back in at night.

  When I return to the living room, I find Lester and the dog curled up on the sofa as if they’re watching TV together. I grab a huge fluffy blanket from the back of the sofa and spread it across him, tucking them both in.

  T
he dog opens an eye, checking on me. She closes it again when she realizes I’m helping. I don't know that she trusts me, not completely. A fair assessment of me.

  Standing back, I stare at Lester in the moonlight that’s filtering in through the old windows and shining down on him.

  He’s the brother I never had.

  The brother I might have actually wanted. Someone who’s kind and easygoing. Even if he is dumb.

  Nothing like the brother I did have.

  Lester wouldn't have liked my brother either.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Following the scent of smoke is simple but worrisome.

  The fields and orchards are open and easy to be spotted in.

  Hurrying through the plots of apple and pear trees, I stay low, ensuring I don't move branches or disrupt anything.

  Grace isn’t the same.

  She insisted on coming, cabin fever or some nonsense.

  I regret bringing her, even if she makes everything less and more in all the good ways.

  “Do you think they’re famers? Will they know the people whose house we’re staying in? What if they tell them?” She hasn't stopped whispering since we left the farm in the direction of the smell. A wood fire she couldn't smell until moments ago.

  “I don't know,” I whisper back, trying not to sound as annoyed as I am.

  “What if they shoot at us?”

  “They’re going to shoot at us if you keep talking,” I remind her.

  “Fine. I won’t say anything.” She says the right thing but in a way that suggests she’s not at peace with the decision, it’s not her choice. Or she’s doing it to punish me. It’s followed by a series of long sighs as if I’ve done something wrong.

  I’m lost.

  When the farmhouse comes into view, she loses the sighing. She’s silent. Almost.

  A beast of a man, almost as big as Lester, comes out of the house. He’s bald and scowling and ripped. But then a woman comes out. She’s got brown hair and a big smile.

  “Are those people?” Grace asks.

  I turn back to ask if she’s serious but don't when I realize she’s squinting and truly can’t see. “Do you need glasses?”