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“You’re sharp. You ever serve?”
Another shrug. “I was one of those who went back to being who I was.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”
We handed the bottle back and forth. I told her my story, even some of the stuff that was classified as above top secret because why not? Secrets didn’t really matter. She listened, nodding, not interrupting. I like people who don’t interrupt. When I wound down, she put the cap back on the bottle and gave me her tale.
She’d been one year shy of a late retirement, and was planning to fight it, preferring to grow old and die among her beloved books. When the dead rose, Abigail was among the people who gathered in an emergency shelter, but first the power went out, then the back-up batteries failed, and finally the food ran low. That’s when she decided that waiting for help was likely to be a suicidal pursuit. So, she and a few others went out of the shelter to find a destroyed town filled with monsters.
There were younger men and women in the shelter, there were bigger and stronger people, but there was no one tougher. And by that, I mean tough of mind, tough of spirit. Over the next few weeks Abigail polled the survivors about their skills and put them all to work. Anyone who knew how to do basic household repairs or construction were assigned the task of reinforcing the shelter. Hunters were tapped to find weapons and ammunition, and to establish elevated shooting positions on the key routes leading up to, or away from, the shelter. People who could cook from scratch were tapped to work with scavenging teams to locate bulk staples and oversee nutrition. Those with first aid training were required to teach that to everyone else.
That’s how she did it. “Everyone has some useful skill,” she said, “even if they don’t know it yet. You get someone who played field hockey in school or was good at tennis or softball and you make them your front-line fighters. They may not know how to fight per se, but they’re used to hitting things in ways that don’t hurt their own backs and elbows and knees. The dead don’t require finesse out of us, but fighting them requires efficiency.”
I grinned and listened. The smell of roasting mutton filled the air and that was wonderful. Sentries with sharpened staves and bows patrolled the road.
“Then,” continued Abigail, “you have to think about other skills. Not fighting or direct defense. Anyone who was a therapist or had been in therapy long enough to understand what it means to really listen. Anyone who could tell jokes, sing songs, tell stories, read stories, entertain in any way—they’re important because once the walls are secure and everyone’s fed we all have to get through those long nights, don’t we? We have to have laughter and song because that reminds us of possibilities and it also reminds us that we’re people. Civilized people. If we lose that, then it’s a pretty short step downward into savagery and brutality.”
“That’s brilliant,” I said.
She tried to wave it off, but there was a little bit of a blush on those lined cheeks. “It’s practical, at any rate. I’ve always been like that, even as a little girl. Things should make sense, and if they don’t, then we have to make them make sense.”
“Preaching to the choir, sister,” I said.
Someone grumbled about us making too much noise, so we drifted off to the verge beside the road. She spread out a big blanket and we lay down and looked up at the stars. Baskerville lay between us, dreaming doggie dreams.
“Staying alive has become quite a chore,” said Abigail.
“A bit.”
“You’ve lived a harder life than most. Tell me, does it ever get easier?”
“Easier? Sure. I suppose,” I said. “You develop useful habits of survival. Routine helps with the fear and fills time so you don’t always feel the loneliness. And there’s always something new to learn, or a skill that you can focus on to improve. That lets you be more in your mind and less in your heart.”
She nodded, accepting that. “Have you ever felt in danger of losing all connection to your heart?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “And it would be much easier to be able to reach inside and pull the plug on all emotions. It would make the nights easier to get through.”
“But you haven’t done that . . . ”
“No.”
“I’ve met people who have,” said Abigail. “Out there. Since the end. There are some people who seem genuinely dead inside. Bands of Rovers, I think they’re called. Some loners, too. They seem to have forgotten what it’s like to be human. To feel compassion. All they seem able to feel is greed and hate and lust.”
“Those are emotions,” I pointed out.
“Don’t be pedantic. I’m talking about people who have lost both sympathy and empathy. Who are predators a lot more frightening than the living dead.”
“I know,” I said. “Met more than a few of those.” I told her about the Nu Klux Klan.
“Exactly,” she said. “The end of the world seems to have ended them.”
I thought about that for a moment, then shook my head. “I don’t think that’s right. I think these people were always like that. Hatred, misogyny, racism, sexual abuse, and all the violence that goes with those things aren’t a byproduct of Lucifer 113. No, I think what happened is that the comprehensive failure of the infrastructure took the cultural and legal shackles off of people who have always harbored those appetites. It’s just now there’s no one left to stop them or punish them.”
She turned and gave me a long, appraising look. “There are people like you.”
“Oh, hush now,” I said.
The stars above us seemed to move as the world turned.
