Authors: David Berardelli
Five days later, while Uncle Joe burned trash out back, Fields, Reed, and I fixed
lunch. We discussed Reed’s idea of taking riding lessons from Fields, who’d
learned to ride horses as a child in Maryland. My mother was an equestrienne and
had kept horses since she was able to walk. At one time she owned a dozen but
sold off most of them when arthritis started up in her knees and hips, preventing
her from working with the animals and mounting a saddle.
Her three remaining quarter horses stayed out in the pasture behind the barn.
Uncle Joe had said they were getting too fat, just soaking up all that grass and not
being exercised regularly. Reed, excited about the prospect of learning to ride,
began chattering away when he suddenly went silent.
We found my uncle lying on the ground, about twenty feet from the burning
trash cans. He’d apparently just keeled over and died.
Despite my initial shock, I was grateful it had happened so quickly. He’d been
slurring his words the last two mornings, spilling his oatmeal and coffee during
breakfast, and forgetting to close the refrigerator door on several occasions.
He was a large, solid man, and much too heavy for us to carry to my mother’s
gravesite. Reed and I found a ladder in the four-car garage Uncle Joe had built
years ago for the vehicles, as well as for the tractor and its many implements. We
set the ladder on the ground beside him, rolled him onto it, and carried him over
to the designated spot beside the buckeye tree. Being so close to my mother’s
grave again was difficult, but the birds singing from the trees nearby consoled
me. For an instant, I thought I could feel my mother’s presence again.
We’d found shovels in the garage as well. With Fields’s help, it didn’t take us
long to dig a suitable grave. We laid my uncle gently in it and covered him with
an afghan Aunt Patsy had made for him years ago. We refilled it in and carefully
patted the dirt. Reed and Fields took the shovels and ladder back to the garage,
while I sat on the grass facing the two mounds.
The death of the last living link to my family shattered me. During the last
few days, Uncle Joe and I had spent several enjoyable afternoons together,
trudging down the same winding trails I’d explored as a child after school and
during the summers. I actually felt like a boy again. Life had reverted back to
being as pleasurable as it was before the process of growing up had dulled most
of its mysteries, recycling them into silly childish fantasies.
Uncle Joe told me stories about my grandparents I’d never heard before. He’d
also told me things about my great grandparents my parents had never told me.
We’d shared a closeness unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Uncle Joe had
known me longer than anyone else, and now he was dead.
As I stared at the two graves, the emptiness inside me grew, causing a dull
ache in my gut. I felt more isolated than ever before –alone in a strange, dark
world.
My feeling of isolation was only natural. I’d spent the last few days talking to
the man, sharing his deepest thoughts and reflections. We discussed treasured
family memories and laughed about things I’d done as a child. He told me things
he’d probably never told anyone else. I was the last person he’d communicated
with. In just a few days, his spirit had bonded with my own, and his memory
wrapped itself permanently around my heart.
The tears drifted down my cheeks as I said goodbye to him.
Three weeks later, Reed snuck out to the barn right after breakfast. Usually, he’d
wait for Fields to help him handle the horse and place the saddle and bridle on
her. But this time, he decided to go alone. He grabbed the halter and lead rope
from the tack room and slipped into the horse’s stall for his morning ride. When
he reached up to slip the halter strap over the horse’s head, the twelve-hundredpound animal instantly reared and spun around, slamming Reed into the wall.
As I finished washing the breakfast dishes, Fields went out to check on Reed
when she spotted the horse in the pasture, nervously snatching up mouthfuls of
grass.
Reed lay on his back on the straw-covered floor, his head cocked at a terrible
angle. Fields immediately dropped to her knees and checked for concussion. His
glazed eyes and lack of response told us the worst. She looked up at me. Her eyes
had already filled.
“She ... s-spooked,” he whispered weakly. “A r-raccoon ... squirrel … scurried
across the rafters ... just before.”
“Your friend. Why didn’t he…?”
“Happened … too … fast.”
“Let’s take you into the house.” My heart raced, and I found it difficult to
keep calm. “We’ll put you on the couch in the library. It’s cool in there and…”
Reed coughed. Blood trickled out of his mouth. “I’m glad you … brought us
here,” he whispered. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”
I fought back the tears. I knew he wouldn’t want to see me cry. “I’ll get a
blanket. We can put you in it and carry you back to the house.”
He smiled. “No, my friend.”
I grasped his cold, weak hand.
“It’s … been an adventure,” he said, his voice weakening. He was slipping
away.
Now I couldn’t help it. The tears began streaming down my cheeks. “It truly
has been.”
“I told you, Moss. I didn’t want … be … last one … left.”
I nodded.
“Hope … you … and Fields … won’t … be … either.”
I patted his hand. “So do I, Reed.”
His eyes registered surprise. “My friend … he’s … he’s … gone.”
“He helped get us here, Reed. We don’t need him anymore.”
“But … maybe…”
“It’s all right. Just relax, okay?”
“Maybe … I’ll … see … him … now.”
“I know.” The knot in my chest tightened.
“Moss?”
“Yes, Reed.”
“Take … care … of her. You and she … good … together.” He smiled, closed
his eyes, and went silent.
Fields and I brought the ladder from the garage, rolled Reed onto it, and carried
him over to the buckeye tree. We dug a grave beside my uncle’s. I said a few
words, then Fields. After staring at the fresh mound for a little while, we walked
down the long gravel drive leading to the barn.
The horse that had accidentally killed Reed grazed peacefully in the pasture.
As we drew nearer, she raised her head and watched us curiously while chewing a
clump of fresh grass. I wondered if she realized what she’d done. Since I’d grown
up around my mother’s horses, I knew I was being silly. Something had spooked
the mare, and she’d reacted the only way she knew. She probably hadn’t even
noticed anyone else was in her stall when she bolted.
We spent the rest of the day quietly. Fields wandered up the hill that led to the
woods, where Uncle Joe and I had enjoyed our daily walks. I sat on the front
porch, sipping Jim Beam and thinking about Reed.
In a short period of time, Reed had become more of a friend to me than
anyone I’d ever known. I’d hoped we could spend more time on the farm
together. It would have been nice, the three of us driving around the
neighborhood, looking for other people, or finding businesses still operating.
Even if no one else was left, we would have stayed busy and happy.
I couldn’t help feeling bitter about what happened. I’d tried my best to keep
us all safe, even though I knew I couldn’t possibly own every situation. We’d
survived all this death and destruction, only to have a freak accident take our
good friend from us.
When Fields returned from her walk, she brought out a bottle of beer and sat
beside me. We stared at the gentle valley below the farm in silence.
The main road running past the house turned into a hairpin curve around the
other side of the barn. As a child, I’d frequently heard the screeching of brakes as
passing motorists, underestimating the severity of the curve, slammed into the
guard rail.
At the time, the accidents scared me. Now, I found myself longing for such
familiar sounds. I wanted to hear traffic. Or someone walking down the road. Or
laughter. I wanted to hear anything that would convince me the relentless plague
could not conquer us all.
Except for the chirping of the birds, the silence consumed us. We might as
well have been sitting inside a tomb.
“This silence is scary.” Fields was obviously thinking the same thing.
“Yes.”
“Makes you want to be in the middle of a crowd.”
“I’ve always hated crowds.”
“Even now?”
“Maybe not quite as much.”
“As crazy as it sounds, right now I wouldn’t mind being in the ER, waiting
for an ambulance to bring in half a dozen criticals.”
“Not so long ago, after a particularly hectic week, I’d spend the weekend
alone in my apartment with a couple of six-packs, a giant-sized pizza with three
toppings, the TV on, and the phone turned off. Those few times I went the entire
weekend without talking to another human being are among my fondest
memories.”
“I know the feeling. But since it’ll be this way from now on, it’s different.”
I had another sip of Jim Beam and thought how it was so much quieter now
without Reed. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Reed was still here.”
Fields drank more beer. “I really liked Reed. He was very bright. I’ll bet he
was a terrific teacher.”
Reed’s teaching horror story rushed back to me, bringing along with it a
special sadness far worse than what I’d felt when he first told it.
“Knowing him as I did, I’d say he was that special teacher students like us
would always remember.”
Fields stared at the bottle in her hand. “That’s the worst thing about all this.
No one’s around to remember anything anymore.”
That night, as Fields and I sat at the kitchen table, I stared at the hamburger we’d
thawed and pan-fried on the stove and found that I had no appetite. I could think
only of Reed and his imaginary friend. I couldn’t help wondering who the voice
belonged to, where it had come from, how it knew so much. It had not only saved
Reed’s life, it had saved mine and Fields’s as well. Without its help, we wouldn’t
have been able to leave that government facility.
Since it knew things about me and what was going on around us, it could not
have been Reed’s conscience. I didn’t believe in miracles, so I couldn’t sum it up
as spiritual intervention. If I had been religious, I might have considered it a
guardian angel or some other benevolent spirit coming to our aid.
As Fields took a bite of her burger, she noticed my troubled expression. “You
okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anything to worry about?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then stop moping.”
“I know.”
“Remember what Reed said to you just before he died?”
“What was that?”
“He told you to take care of me.”
“I remember. I wanted to take care of him, too. You saw how that worked
Fields frowned. “It was an accident. I warned him not to handle those horses
by himself and not to go into the barn alone. He was inexperienced, didn’t know
the horses, and when you don’t know what you’re doing…”
“He was excited. He liked riding. He would have been a good rider, too. He
was a quick study.”
Liked. Would have been. Was. Everything about us, about our lives, our
dreams and desires and hopes, had become mere memories.
“He also said we’d be good together,” she added.
“I remember that, too.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What do you think about that?”
I’d thought about it many times. Fields was an attractive woman, but with all
that had happened, I’d kept my male impulses under wraps. Our ordeal had never
seemed opportune for such activities.
On the other hand, what could be more perfect? The need for accountability
had flown out the window long ago.
I still had doubts, however. This was Reed’s idea—not hers. I didn’t want to
have sex with her just because Reed had suggested it.
“You’re taking too long.”
“Only for the obvious reason.”
“Meaning?”
“Reed brought it up. You didn’t.”
“So?”
“It wasn’t your idea.”
She drank more beer. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“How far would you go?”
“Actually, I’ve thought about it several times.”
I sat up. “Really?”
“There was just too much else going on. It was never the right time or place.”
“When did you think of it first?”
She shrugged. “It’s not important.”
“As far as we know, we’re the only two people still functioning in this area.”
“So?”
“I suggest we be as truthful as possible with one another. If one of us gets
pissed, we can’t very well go running off to someone else.”
She frowned. “I’ve never been that kind of girl.”
“What kind?”
“The running-off kind. I’d rather just fix the problem early on.”
“So when did you think of it the first time?” My curiosity was piqued.
She sighed. “Breezewood. How about you?”
“In their lab.”
“Not in Breezewood?”
“I’ve never been aroused by a female pointing a gun at me.”
Neither of us spoke for the longest time. Then I said, “I thought about it a few
other times, later on.”
“When?”
“When you kicked that female clone’s ass. And when you sliced off her hand.
And when you kept bumping into me in the hall. And when you leaned against
me and told me you wanted to shoot the general. Your hair did a number on me a
couple of times. And there was that time you…”
She reached across the table and pressed her fingers gently against my lips.
“Moss?”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes you talk too much.”
“My ex used to tell me I didn’t talk enough.”
“I’m not your ex.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She pushed back her chair and got up. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Then she hurried out of the room.
That evening, I sat by myself on the front porch, watching the star-filled sky.
There seemed to be even more activity up there than I had seen the night before,
and I wondered once again what could cause such a phenomenon.
Had all this death done something to the night air? Had it caused the darkness
to increase in intensity?
Even if I had a clue, it wouldn’t change anything. Other than Fields, there was
no one else to share my ideas with.
The only thing that really mattered was our immediate future. Most of the
population was gone, but not everyone. Based on my experiences on the drive up
from Orlando, many of those who were left had no qualms about taking what
they wanted. This meant we had to lock the doors and windows each night and
keep our guns handy. It also meant being vigilant when we went out in a few
weeks to get butane gas for the generator and to find some gasoline for the
vehicles. Half a dozen five-gallon cans would probably last us for the rest of our
lives. If we found any local stores or markets that hadn’t been picked clean, we
could take what we needed. And if we encountered anyone else during our trip, I
was sure we’d be able to handle them.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what was bound to happen. Even though we
seemed to be immune, would we eventually succumb to the plague? Would I go
first? Would Fields?
Or was something far worse about to happen?
Was there a wing in that government facility we hadn’t encountered? A
program we hadn’t destroyed? Would another army of superhuman clones be
dispatched to clean up the streets? Would a platoon use my chip to track us down
and take us back to the lab?
I couldn’t let myself dwell on such things. In my mind, we’d been through the
worst. We’d destroyed as many of their programs as we could find, and since the
rest of them were dropping like flies, no one would be left in just a few weeks. It
didn’t matter if there were other programs. If no one could execute them, they
would forever remain in cyber limbo, as non-lethal as an empty gun.
Fields came outside carrying two drinks. She wore one of Aunt Patsy’s robes.
Aunt Patsy, as I remembered, was several inches shorter than Fields. As a result,
the robe showed off much of Fields’s shapely thighs—a pleasant sight to behold.
She sat beside me, handed me a glass, and kissed me. “I was afraid you’d
gone out looking for another woman.”
I sipped the drink. It was rum and Coke, and she’d made it strong.
“Know how long it would take me to actually find another woman around
here? One who’s still functioning and doesn’t drool all over herself?”
“One of the few good things about all this. You can’t cheat.”
“I’ve never been the cheating kind.”
She rested her cheek against my shoulder. “What kind are you?”
“It’s been so long, I can’t remember.”
She sat up sharply. Her eyes were enormous.
“What’s the matter?”
“Please, don’t say that again.”
“Say what?”
“You can’t remember.”
She actually looked scared. I couldn’t blame her. Reed’s fatal accident made
us both realize how temporary everything was. Fields and I had to do whatever it
took to stay together.
“I won’t,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
She took a sip of her drink and looked up at the sky. “A lot of stars are out
tonight.”
“More than last night.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve been wondering about that for a while.”
She coaxed some hair away from her face. “I have a theory. It’s probably
stupid, but…”
“Let ’er rip. Who knows? You might actually be right.”
“When my parents died in that car accident, I couldn’t understand what
happened. I was just five or six at the time and pretty clueless about everything.
I’d never been told about death before. I knew they’d gone away, I just didn’t
know where, and I couldn’t sleep, because I kept wondering if they were hiding
and would show up one day, as if nothing happened. This went on for a while,
and my uncle and aunt were really worried about me.
“One night, Uncle Ed came into my room and told me that when someone
died, his spirit went up into the sky and became a star, and you could talk to them
at night if you looked out your window before you went to bed. I asked him how
I’d know which stars were which. He said you could always tell which star
belonged to you because it would be the brightest, and would twinkle as soon as
you started talking to it.” She smiled. “Silly, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“I believed it at the time, but as I grew older, I realized he’d just told me that
so I’d sleep.”
“Did it work?”
She looked down and smiled at some memory. “I didn’t have trouble sleeping
after that.”
I drank more rum. “Before all this happened, I would have laughed at such a
story.”
“And now?”
I sighed. “You can’t help wondering. A lot of people have died during the last
few weeks. Anyone who believes in an afterlife would wonder where all those
spirits have gone.”
“It certainly makes you think—no matter what your beliefs are.”
I looked up. Many were twinkling, but three of them sparkled like polished
diamonds. I didn’t know if I believed in the afterlife anymore, but even so, I
couldn’t help wondering if Reed, Uncle Joe, and my mother were up there, trying
to get my attention.
”Yes,” I told Fields. “It definitely makes you think.”
Fields finished her drink, stood, and reached for my hand. “Time for bed.”
I took her hand and got to my feet. Before following her inside, I gave the sky
one last glance and felt a sadness much deeper than anything I’d experienced
before. It was a sadness for everything bright and cheerful that would never be
seen again—at least, not by us.
I knew the sun would rise again the next morning, as it had for billions of
years. I knew that for most of that time there was no one to appreciate it. Now,
one day soon, it would rise, and again there would be no one alive.
And when the final darkness fell, it would serve as a shroud to cover the dead.