Life Sentence (17 page)

Back in the classroom everything was as I had left
it—Mr. Enders struggling weakly, Ms. Wright pushing against the
table to keep him contained.

She told me to set the muzzle and cuffs down, which
I did, and she braced the table with her hip as I helped her put on
the gloves. I put my pair on as well, and she looked around to
figure out how best to contain Mr. Enders.

“All right, Zoey. Stand back and be ready with the
muzzle and cuffs. This isn’t going to be pretty, so just be ready
for that.”

She let go of the pressure on the table. Mr. Enders
started to push it back, but he was slow and he was only working
with his right arm. Ms. Wright stepped around quickly and shoved
the table out of the way with her left foot, tipping it over. Then
with a snarl she smashed him in the side of the face with her fist.
It wasn’t a jab, but a powerful roundhouse, her whole body
uncoiling deliberately since there was little chance of a zombie
blocking a punch. It took me by surprise—how fast, strong, and
savage a blow she could deliver. As dangerous as Mr. Enders now
was, it was pathetic and brutalizing to see him beaten to the
ground. Worse still, in a way, was how gracefully and beautifully
Ms. Wright attacked, little different in form, if not intent, from
the dances we had been practicing. I suppose that’s one of the
things I learned that afternoon—that life is not just heavy
inertia, but equally the mesmerizing, beautiful dance of
violence.

The first blow knocked Mr. Enders off balance, and
Ms. Wright followed up with another roundhouse as she stepped
forward and tripped him up with her leg.

He landed facedown on the floor, and she straddled
his back, looking to me for the restraints. She grabbed his
writhing right arm and pushed her knee against his right leg, so he
couldn’t get the leverage to roll over.

I quickly stepped over to them. As I knelt in front
of Mr. Enders, his clouded eyes seemed pleading, but the snarl that
he now gave was only bestial rage.

The muzzle was simple—a sack made of heavy cloth. I
forced it over his head and tied the bag’s drawstring tightly. Ms.
Wright handcuffed him, binding his hands behind his back. I was
glad the whole thing was over quickly.

We stood Mr. Enders up and dragged him into the
hall. I tossed the couple of mops and brooms out of a janitor’s
closet, and we were shoving him in there when more people finally
showed up. They barricaded the closet door and set a guard on it
till final arrangements could be made.

Two days later, much of the community gathered at
the cemetery where I had taken my vows. Mr. Enders and Ms.
Dresden’s baby were taken in a special truck for safety reasons,
and we drove Ms. Dresden. I saw many people in the crowd I had not
seen in a while, including Will. It was nice of them to show their
respect, though I suspected most of them were there because of the
kindly, harmless Mr. Enders, and not for the scandalous Rachel and
her illegitimate child. I tried to tamp down my anger as useless,
misspent energy.

The ceremony was not nearly as involved as my vows
ceremony had been. Most of the preparations or ways that we eased
the transition from life to death seemed futile and ineffective,
especially for those still alive; they had to work through the
grief on their own, and in their own way, for a long time after the
actual funeral. And we had to admit, I think, that our situation
took a lot of the mystery out of death. It was hard to imagine the
elaborate rituals or speeches at funerals that I had read about in
books, when our funerals include the dead person, thrashing against
his bonds and trying to kill us. In our world, the dead demand some
respect and attention on their own; we’ve tried to find a way to
give them that, without causing more pain and killing. Whatever we
did seemed far preferable to killing them outright once they were
restrained, which sounded utterly monstrous and inhuman to me.

Milton ushered the dead away from the cemetery gate.
Dad and another armed guard led the restrained Mr. Enders into the
graveyard, removed the muzzle and handcuffs, and let him take his
place with the others, as he fled into the crowd to get away from
Milton.

The interment of dead children was trickier. It had
to be done quickly and carefully, but the parents were allowed to
set the child down among the dead themselves. My dad handed Ms.
Dresden her baby, wrapped just with a towel and not taped up like a
mummy. With my dad and the other guard flanking her, Ms. Dresden
quickly moved into the enclosure behind Milton. They led her to a
small mausoleum near the entrance, where she could lay her baby at
the door, under the stone overhang. Milton had made a little bed or
nest out of leaves and flowers to make it as gentle and easy as
possible on the mother, even if there was little reason to think it
mattered to the baby. Though there was no telling what would happen
to the creature in its new home, the dead were unlikely to hurt one
another, and the ones herding away from Milton were fairly careful,
if clumsy, around the smaller ones among them. Ms. Dresden bent
down, kissed the middle and forefinger of her right hand, and
pressed them to the baby’s forehead. The men led her out of the
cemetery and locked it up.

Milton’s speeches were always simple and very short
at funerals. His talent was for uplifting messages, encouragement,
and flights of speculation and hope. He believed it better to leave
people with their private thoughts and pain, perhaps to remind them
of their responsibilities before they went back to their regular
lives. I’ve always thought he was quite right in this, and that day
was no exception.

“My friends,” he began, “two of us are now a part of
our community only with their bodies, for their spirits—or most of
their spirits—have left us. But whatever is left, we will honor and
remember and protect. We owe that tiny bit of reverence and
gratitude, for all the joy they gave us. Mr. Enders had no family,
but the children of the community saw him every day, and I know
you’ll remember him fondly. Rachel’s child would’ve had a loving
family, and I can imagine how much you all will want to comfort her
after this loss.” I thought I detected more accusation or
admonition in Milton’s statement about Ms. Dresden than in his
comments about Mr. Enders. “Let us go, and remember, and help one
another heal.”

We dispersed after that. Ms. Dresden stayed to cast
a handful of flowers over the wrought iron fence, onto the more or
less uncomprehending heads of our deceased. We waited patiently and
discreetly for her by our truck. After she left the fence, people
offered their condolences. Will spoke with her briefly. I thought
it was nice of him, as he didn’t usually say much, but her
situation was so sad I imagined anyone would be moved by it.

On the way home, Ms. Dresden sat between me and my
mom, silent, though she squeezed my hand when she first got back in
the truck. Inertia or not, I looked in her small, sparkling green
eyes and wondered whether I could ever have as much strength, or
even if that was something to hope for. I vaguely remembered a line
I had read somewhere, that to the one who has much, more will be
given, and I thought how some people had a lot of sorrow, and
sometimes they were given even more sorrows. Perhaps that was
Rachel, and I could hardly envy her, but only marvel, and squeeze
her hand, our eyes locked for a moment of perfect understanding and
compassion.

Over the following days I was anxious that Will
might not come back after what had happened. I certainly wouldn’t
have blamed him. It was nice enough of him to take us out, when,
from what I could tell, the outings didn’t offer him anything
tangible. Unable to speak, I couldn’t imagine Lucy and I were much
company, though I think we had tried our best. But for him to be
with us when it was positively dangerous to do so, I thought very
unlikely.

After the incident, Lucy seemed especially nice,
always letting me get close to her or touch her without objecting,
as though she were making up for what had happened, or showing me
that she wasn’t as savage and violent as she had appeared that day.
If Will didn’t come back, it wouldn’t be so bad to stay here with
her and her music and my haphazard collection of books. I did have
to admit I was a little disappointed. That library had really
filled me with hope. There was little point in dwelling on mistakes
or false hopes, however, so I enjoyed our days there in the storage
facility as best I could. I spent much of the time typing up our
story. I was happy with the progress I had made on my journal, and
how my writing seemed to improve with practice, coming to me more
naturally the more I put down on paper.

After that day, I had also decided on a special
project that I needed to do. I would need Lucy’s help, especially
her better coordination. Finding the supplies was the easy part,
there were always so many miscellaneous and useful things around
where we lived. From one unit, I grabbed a rope and some wooden
slats, about two feet long, and in another cubicle, where I’d seen
some medical equipment, I handed Lucy a crutch.

We roamed between the buildings until we found the
girl Will had shot. She had not been able to stand since, but
pulled herself along with her hands, agonizingly slow. Some of her
fingernails had torn off with the exertion. Even though she no
longer bled, the wounds looked horrible, and it was impossible to
know how much pain they caused her. I knelt next to her, and Lucy
followed my lead. I, of course, couldn’t make the girl understand
what I was trying to do, so she growled and tried to push my hands
away. She seemed to trust Lucy more, as Lucy made soothing sounds
to her, and gradually she struggled against me less, so I could put
four of the slats as a brace along her wounded leg. I was very glad
Lucy was there, first to calm the girl, and then to help tie the
slats to her leg. I didn’t have the dexterity to do it on my
own.

When it was done, I thought she might be able to
stand, as her knee wouldn’t just immediately give out, but I didn’t
think she’d be able to put all her weight on it, so walking would
be difficult, compounded by not being able to bend at the knee.
Lucy and I helped her stand, then slowly loosened our grip till she
was standing on her own. She grunted her approval, then tried to
take a step and faltered, but we caught her and held her up. I
tried to put the crutch under her shoulder, but it was too long.
There were two bolts with wing nuts near the bottom of the crutch,
so you could slide the bottom strut in and out to adjust the
height. I held it up and fumbled with those, until Lucy put her
delicate fingers on them and loosened them while I braced the girl.
Lucy slid the strut in to its shortest position, threaded the bolts
back into their holes, and put the wing nuts back on. We put it
under the girl’s shoulder, and I put her hand on the crutch’s
handle and pushed on her fingers till she had tightened her grip.
Now we could let go of her completely and she was able, slowly and
with difficulty, to hobble around. She looked at us and nodded.

I took Lucy back to our cubicle and she snuggled up
to me. I felt good about what we had accomplished, and more
reassured that Lucy had acted to protect the girl and the boy the
other day. At least, mostly. Certainty was a luxury which I lacked
now in most things, even assuming I or anyone else ever had it as
much as we hoped or liked to believe we did.

Eventually, Will returned. I heard the usual
commotion as the people in the storage facility milled to the fence
near our cubicle. A lock and chain flew over their heads and landed
near Lucy and me. The crowd then shuffled to the other end of the
area, farthest from the front gate. “Truman,” I heard Will call,
“if you want to come out, then take the chain and lock and secure
the inner gate, so the others are kept at this end. Then go to the
main gate with Blue Eye.”

I looked to Lucy. She nodded. We did as Will had
instructed. When he met us at the main gate, he looked behind and
around all the buildings, and we did the same, making sure no one
was hiding again. Convinced it was safe, he opened the gate, let us
out, and locked it behind us.

He looked at us a minute. “We okay?” he asked. “No
misunderstanding or bad feelings? Well, I don’t know how you’d
express them if there were, but I kind of like you guys. I don’t
want you to think I’d do anything to hurt any of you all.
Okay?”

Lucy and I nodded.

“Good. I thought you might want to see more of your
old school, Truman. Maybe we could find your old office, or get
some more books. Let’s go.”

On the long walk to Stony Ridge College, Will told
us two people had died in his community. As usual, I didn’t know
how to express my feelings, but I hoped he knew that I shared their
sadness.

When we got to the college, we looked around at some
different buildings, passing by what looked like the cafeteria and
some classroom buildings. I hoped Will had a plan for searching,
because I didn’t know how to go about it. All the buildings were
labeled things like “Adams Hall” or “Ridgecrest Commons,” with no
indication on the outside of whether they were offices, classrooms,
or something else. At one point, Lucy and I rested on the stone
steps of one building, while Will went inside. I at least was very
tired from all the walking in the hot sun, though it felt good to
be out and good that Will trusted us.

He came back out soon after. “Well, Dr. Truman,
please come in. We’ve been expecting you.” He smiled as he held the
door open for us. He could be quite playful. It was very endearing,
I thought.

On a board just inside the door, there was a list of
offices, and on it, my name. I had been a member of the Philosophy
Department, and my office was on the second floor. I was more
dumbfounded than anything else. Philosophy? I liked the sound of
it, but I didn’t remember specifics, or what I did or thought or
believed in. It was intimidating, like there would be more
expectations and demands now that I was a “philosopher.” The
designation made it seem as though I had loved wisdom more than
other people did. And what arrogance if I had ever thought that I
did. I just had read and studied more than other people, and I had
been a philosophy teacher. Since I’d forgotten most everything I’d
known, I wasn’t even that anymore, and certainly not a
“philosopher.” As we walked upstairs, I became increasingly
apprehensive about what we would find in my office.