The Remnants (Book 1): Dead Loss Page 5
“Six months?”
His jaw tightened in the darkness, and he said, “Since everything started. The dead walking and the whole world ending, et cetera. Six months, right?”
“Oh,” she said, uncertain herself. It felt like a week to her, or even just an afternoon. Her internal clock had never been all that accurate, even when there'd been all sorts of digital gadgets to check against. She'd been fired from her last job, the night clerk at the Git-N-Go gas station, after forgetting to go to work for two days in a row. But she felt the man's impatience through the darkness, so she said, “Yes, six months sounds right.”
“Six months is pretty good, for kids,” the man said. “Better than most grown people did.”
“It is?” she asked. Faintly alarmed by the idea of hardened, survivalist children, she forgot herself and spoke at full volume. The man raised an eyebrow, and made a cutting-off motion with his hand, and she fell swiftly silent.
They froze, watched the house. There was no activity from inside, and after a moment they both relaxed. The man said quietly, “Good Lord, woman.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, this time little more than a whisper.
He turned his head in her direction, and though it was dead of night she could tell his look was rueful. “Well, they're not going anywhere. Let's turn in for tonight. I need some shut-eye and holy hell, so do you. We'll kill the rotter in the morning. I think she's out in them cornfields now.”
“Sure,” she said quickly, “okay. Whatever you want.”
They started back across the field behind them, and their voices dropped to whispers. There were dead around – always were – and it would be hard to spot them in the dark, but the man didn't fear them overmuch. He claimed he could smell them coming, and the woman believed him.
“What are we gonna do with those kids?” she asked abruptly, about halfway across the field. A quiet despondence had fallen over her as they walked, and she was suddenly tense.
“Hell, I don't know. We always wanted kids, didn't we? Now there's two of them across the street, and no family around to mind them. Maybe they can help us with the housework and the scavenging.”
“Yes, but...”
He stopped in his tracks and turned on her, eyebrows bristling in the dark. She caught the gleam of his teeth in the starlight. “Yes? Yes, but what?” he hissed.
“What if, well...” Her hands balled into fists at her hips as she searched for words. Finally she blurted out, “Well, what if they're no good?”
He half-laughed at that. “No good?”
“What if they're rotten children, and the little boy smokes cigarettes and the little girl steals from me. What do we do about them then?”
“Oh, hell,” the man said, shaking his head. He turned away from her and started walking. He went a dozen paces before he stopped and looked back. “Everything's different now, hon. You got to know that.”
“I know it.”
“Value is different and laws are only good for toilet paper. Everything is as valuable now as the day you find it.”
She stared at his back, an inky figure swallowed by a greater darkness.
“So what do we do if we don't like them, you ask me? If they're no-good sons-of-bitches? Eat all our food and won't do no chores?”
He shook his head, looked at her. Spit on the ground.
“We beat the snot out of them, then. Or we trade them to someone who wants them, if we like. Hell, drown 'em in a sack, like kittens.” He threw up his arms, as though this conclusion couldn't be more obvious. “Who the fuck cares? It's a new world, you know.”
The woman started after him, feeling warmth rise up in her chest. She was calm again, as only he could ever calm her. It was why she loved him.
“Hon,” she said quietly, “I love you.”
He didn’t answer.
It really was a new world, but some things never changed.
Continued in Part 2: Dead Wrong
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JONATHAN FACE is a writer and software developer who enjoys writing anything except his own stupid bio which no one is gonna read anyway. He lives in a log cabin in the woods of New Hampshire with his wife, Elena, and too many cats.
Twitter: @JonathanJFace
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