(Book 2)What Remains (32 page)

Lance asked, “How are the kids doing with the
adjustment?”

“They are stronger than I am, I think. The two
of them act like they are blissfully engaged in a never-ending
vacation.” I chuckled. “It’s good to see them happy. Spending all
this time with Grandma and Grandpa is like a reward for making it
through. Both of them were incredible through it all. Stuck in an
attic, stuck in the back of the mail truck, always needing to be
quiet… I don’t know that I would have been able to get through it
when I was a kid.”

“Hell, I don’t know that I could have done it as
an adult!” he joked. “How are they handling all of this? I mean,
the stuff they had to see and all.”

I’d wondered the same thing as each day passed.
Maddox and Calise were brilliant kids that had been exposed to
genuine nightmares. I tried not to bring anything specific up with
them while making it clear that Sarah and I were available if they
wanted to talk about it. It was a treacherous line to walk when
trying to figure out what was going through their little heads.

“Hard to say. Having room to run around and
places to get away from each other has to help. Still, it’s hard to
say. I tried to keep a lot of it from them. That’s easier said than
done when everywhere you look has some evidence of what’s
happened.”

Lance set his empty mug down then walked over to
the desk to return the flask. He looked at me with a serious
expression I’d seen him use in the past on people in handcuffs. “Go
easy on yourself, okay?”

“I’m good. Really.”

“Cut the bullshit, Nathan. You’re not good and
you have every right to
not
be. If you
are
good, then
you’re more fucked up and twisted then the monsters out there.
Anything that happened, anything we’ve done, anything we will do,
does not matter because of who we did it for. All that matters is
the simple fact that we’re still living and so are the people we
care about. So I know that you’re beating yourself to death in that
big head of yours, but it’s gotta stop at some point.”

A streak down my cheek chilled as a tear
dropped. I nodded. After tipping back the remaining contents of my
mug I hoisted myself back to my feet. “I should start hiking back
to the farm. They’ll be getting lunch ready soon. You joining
us?”

He shook his head. “I’ll see you at dinner. We
need to start planning supply runs. The old man had a few area map
books so I’m going to plot out some possible routes.”

I set my empty mug on the desk next to Lance’s.
Beneath the remnants of a newspaper I saw the spine of two
composition notebooks. I slid them from the pile to discover that
each was entirely blank. “There was a pile of receipts too that I
took for fire starters. I think he was starting a new bookkeeping
system or something. His name was Jon. Saw it on the envelope of an
unopened bill.”

When the pandemic hit, it essentially took a
snapshot of life before the collapse. What wasn’t destroyed or
ruined was frozen in time at the moment of abandonment. This desk,
like many other places we’d inevitably encounter, remained a
memorial to what we lost.

“Think Jon would mind if I take these
notebooks?” I asked.

We both laughed from the sarcastic absurdity of
the question.

“Grab that nice pen of his while you’re at it.
I’m not planning on finishing his bookkeeping anytime soon.”

Lance saw me out the back door. We shook hands
then I walked up the street in the direction of the farm. I zipped
my coat and pulled a newly knitted hat that my mom crafted after
our arrival from my pocket to combat the chilly air. The Kukri
tapped against my side with every step. Looking at it there in the
scabbard was like smiling at an old friend.

My smile faded, and weakness returned to my
body. Regardless how much sleep I was getting I still felt
exhausted. I neared one the ponds that connected the creeks on the
property. This one was closer to Lance and Della’s house with the
far edge reaching the outer farm fence. A scattering of big rocks
gathered towards the shore. Knowing I still had time before I was
due to check in with the family, I decided to sit on the largest
rock to give myself a moment to regain my composure.

Patterns danced along the surface of the pond
with the brisk wintry breeze. Again I found myself in awe of how
quiet it was. I don’t know what triggered it but suddenly tears
streamed from my eyes. The guard that held them back throughout the
day vanished. I sat next to the edge of the pond weeping
uncontrollably.

Crimes, sins, regret - whatever they’d become in
this broken existence, bombarded my thoughts. I saw all the
mistakes. I recalled every face of the people I couldn’t— or
wouldn’t— help in the moments I might have made a difference. I
looked into the eyes of the two men I murdered. Phil’s showed me
betrayal; Ian’s showed me painful acceptance. Every tragically
minute detail of devastation that I refused to process while
witnessing them replayed in my mind.

The Reaper virus washed over our world like a
festering tidal wave sparing nothing from its wake. What remained
of humanity was a disseminated blend of our best and our very
worst. All that I did during events that unfolded after the dead
began to walk had certainly condemned me. I remained a broken man
with barely a soul masquerading as a cornerstone for what remained
of the reasons that my heart still beat. For the unknown time that
I’d be counted as one of the survivors, I would hold myself
accountable for what I’d done. If I didn’t, then I feared I’d fully
descend the darkness as one of the monsters.

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

I needed an outlet. Breakdowns like this were an
impairment that had to be avoided.

Then I remembered the composition books. In the
past I was told that it was important to account for your mistakes;
examining past errors could allow you to make amends and move past
them. Recalling what brought me there was like deciding to slowly
remove a bandage instead of ripping it off. However, since
suppressing the memories only allowed them to infect my sanity I
had to do something different.

If anyone were to somehow read my story they
would certainly judge me for what I’d done. Perhaps judgment was
precisely what I needed, what I deserved. Regardless, my actions
were dictated by who I am inside and what I fought for. With the
three people I love most as the stakes, death itself could not
stand in my way.

There, alone beside the pond in the chilly air,
I touched the pen to the page and closed my eyes. I tried to
imagine the disgruntled man I was. My thoughts took me back to a
night that felt like several lifetimes ago. On that night I was a
sleepy civil servant getting irritated from the emergency calls
that kept interrupting my reading and researching about a virus
making people sick on the other side of the planet.

Nathan Barnes lives in Richmond, Virginia with his
two kids and lovely wife. Whenever he can he is exploring creative
hobbies of writing, photography and some graphic design. Nathan is
a long time reptile enthusiast that enjoys dabbling in the many
outlets of doomsday preparation. His first novel, THE REAPER VIRUS,
uses many real life people and places set against an apocalyptic
turn of events. He also wrote the darkly humorous novella, MY
FRIEND ASMODEUS, and has stories featured in several horror
anthologies.