Authors: Joss Ware
“Thank you again,” Yvonne said. “And I do hope you’ll join us—I was thinking of a barbecue in front of our house and we could watch the sun go down on the beach with a little fire.” She turned to Ana. “I was thinking of asking the Lucks and Davises too.”
“Sounds great. I’ll rummage around and bring over something to share,” Ana said. “See you in a few.”
After Yvonne left, Fence watched as Ana got busy in the kitchen, poking through cupboards and opening a refrigerator that had seen better days.
That was the thing about post-Change appliances: they existed, but they needed to be well-cared-for and maintained. He could tell that the door of this fridge wasn’t its original one.
“Can I give you a hand?” he asked, looking around the cozy, cluttered space. “I’m good at chopping things up.”
A few drawings decorated the walls: the little cottage surrounded by sprays of bright flowers, a group of young girls playing jump rope—one of them looked like Tanya—and a cozy still life of a table set for three with fat red apples, a wedge of cheese, and a bowl of grapes. On a long side table in the dining room, a wooden bowl held a starfish and the delicate white fan of coral. Someone obviously liked the sea, for there were also a few shells, some driftwood, and a small framed picture of a dark-haired woman with Ana’s smile.
“That would be great, thanks,” Ana said, and moments later gave him the tools to cut up a small pile of vegetables.
As he began to work, Fence realized with a sharp pang that he hadn’t been in such a comfortably domestic environment since coming out of the Sedona cave. He felt a wave of nostalgia and grief for times past, for sitting in his mama’s or sisters’ kitchens as they bustled about preparing or cleaning up a meal, often nagging him into helping. Or even in his own kitchen, in the little bungalow he rented at the foot of a small hill, as he slapped together a burger and salad for him and Lenny and whichever other friends happened to be around. He wished for a glass of water to ease his suddenly dry throat, and opted for a few strawberries instead.
“So who did the drawings?” he asked as he began on a cucumber.
“On the wall? I did,” Ana replied, her back to him as she washed something at the sink. He didn’t mind, because he had a great view.
“I like them. You have talent,” he added, slipping a cool slice of cuke into his mouth too. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and he could already smell something cooking outside. “Is that your mom?”
“Yes.”
“I can see where you get your looks,” Fence said, pausing to admire the drawing. The face gazing back at him gave off an impression of both serenity and strength. “Where is she now?”
“She died. About twelve years ago.”
It struck him sharply then, that photographs were now a thing of the past—something people of his time had taken for granted, snapping pictures and videos on everything from their cell phones to computers to digital cameras. It had been so easy to capture an image, save a memory or a moment, that he’d taken it for granted. He’d hardly ever even uploaded the photos from his phone to computer, and never printed them off, knowing they’d always be there. But in this age, that wasn’t an option. And he bemoaned the fact that his phone had been smashed during the earthquakes—and along with it, all of the pictures of his loved ones.
“You drew that twelve years ago? Or from memory?” Realizing that, he was even more impressed with her talent.
Ana was washing some dishes, and she turned as she dried a plate. She looked over at the image, her features softening. “I did it shortly after she died. So a little of both.”
“Like I said, you’re very talented.” He picked up a tomato and began to slice it. “What happened to her?”
“Mamya got sick, and she never got better. She knew she was going to die, and I was fortunate in the sense that we had a few months to . . . to say goodbye. We talked a lot, spent as much time together as we could. I still miss her.” Her voice had gone low, and she turned back to the sink as if to cut off her memories.
“You were fortunate you had time to spend with her before she passed,” he said as a little ache settled over his heart. He blinked hard, then was rescued when the front door flew open.
“We’re here!” Tanya announced, bursting into the room. She was followed by a boy about her age, a bit taller than she was, with skin almost as dark as Fence’s and an Afro the likes of which he hadn’t seen since
That ’70s Show.
“Time for you to fix our awesomely crazy ’pology. Remember, you said twenty pushes
each
without stopping.”
Fence looked up at Ana, who’d turned from the sink with a bemused smile. “Sorry about that,” he said, bringing the knife and vegetables back to her. He could smell her sunny, fresh scent over the tang of garlic and onion. Both smelled delicious, but it was Ana for whom he had a sudden, sharp craving. He was suddenly horribly thankful that George had had a fainting spell. “Gotta run. Duty calls.”
“By all means, you’d better go,” Ana told him with a smile. “You have to pay your dues.”
Fence grinned back and followed his little charges out the door, particularly pleased that the sun goddess’s smile seemed to have grown even warmer.
“H
e’s the one, isn’t he?” Yvonne said, leaning closer so she could hiss in Ana’s ear.
Not that anyone could hear what she was saying anyway—the small celebration had grown quite enthusiastic now that a few bottles of mead had been opened and the sun was beginning to set. No one worried about zombies here because this little settlement was surrounded by ocean on two sides, and the ravines on the other two sides were deep enough so zombies couldn’t climb them, but easy enough for a man to traverse, using wooden stairs. Tanya had gone beyond the ravines earlier today, for the stairs weren’t closed off except at night.
“He’s the guy you told me about, you met in Envy?” Yvonne persisted.
“What exactly did I say?” Ana asked. She didn’t remember telling Yvonne any such thing.
“Maybe it was Susie who mentioned it—that some sweltering guy had been hitting on you while you were there with her last week. Is this the guy?”
“Well, we did meet, and talk a little bit,” Ana admitted. She sipped from her glass of mead, enjoying the sweet taste. It was Pete’s specialty, the fermented honey, and everyone in Glenway looked forward to sampling each new batch. He’d added blackberries to this one, and that made it not quite as heavily cloying as the honey drink could be. It had been going down very smoothly, and she felt loose and warm.
“You talked a little bit? That’s it?” Yvonne was saying. “Ana, really. Envy’s not that far away—only a day and a half. Maybe two. You’ve got to give it a chance. I know things didn’t work out with Darian, but that doesn’t mean that every guy’s a gorm. I mean, look at Pete.”
Ana nodded absently. Although Yvonne was her closest friend, even she didn’t know the whole story about Ana’s past, or about Darian. Nor did she know why Ana could never fully trust anyone, let alone settle into the domestic life she so envied Yvonne.
Trying not to be obvious, Ana looked around, wondering where Fence had gone off to. He’d been over there a little while ago, sitting with Pete, John Luck, John’s brother Greg, and Randall Davis. They’d been deep in conversation about something—but Ana hadn’t been able to hear more than a few phrases about “halfbacks” and “quarterbacks” and “first downs.”
“He’s completely sweltering,” Yvonne said. “And he’s
tall
, Ana. Way taller than you—I was noticing it back in your house. His head nearly brushed the ceiling. Look how great he was with Tanya. And Pete thinks he’s really funny too,” she added, as if that were the deciding factor. “Plus Greg Luck’s been giving him the evil eye all evening. I told you, you could do so much better than Greg.”
Ana nearly spewed out a mouthful of mead, and she spun a horrified look at Yvonne. Half choking on her drink, she coughed and swallowed and managed to say, “Greg? You know damn well I have no—” Then she saw that Yvonne was laughing, and she rolled her eyes and nudged her friend with a sharp elbow as they both dissolved into mead-induced giggles.
“Hey, will you look at that?” Yvonne said suddenly, ending on a little girlish snort.
Ana looked over and saw Tanya, Carter, and two of the other kids crawling along the ground. They were in the area where the clearing met the wilderness, and they seemed to be searching for something in the tall grass.
“What are you doing, Tanya?” called Yvonne.
“Tracking a bear,” her daughter replied absently. And then she squealed and pointed. “There!” All three of her companions dove to the ground, putting their noses right where she indicated. “A track! A bear track! I found it!”
“A
bear
?” Yvonne said, her voice squeaking with shock and concern.
“An’ there’s a broken stick, right where he stepped,” said Carter, leaping onto something a bit farther into the tall grass. “He musta gone this way.”
“Come on,” said Tanya, disappearing behind a clump of bushes. “Let’s find him! This way!”
Ana and Yvonne looked at each other and got to their feet. Yvonne was frowning as she headed toward the thin wooded area where the kids had disappeared. Their voices were still intelligible as they announced new finds and tracks, and then all of a sudden, the air was filled with a roar . . . followed by squeals and screams.
It took Ana only a moment to recognize that the roar was human and obviously fake, and then that the children were giggling and laughing—that their screams were of delight and surprise, not fear.
She started laughing. “It’s Fence. He’s the bear,” she told Yvonne. “They were tracking him!”
And sure enough, moments later the four laughing and shouting children came tearing back into the clearing with a big, growling man lumbering bearlike behind them.
“We found you! We found you!” Tanya chanted, dancing around in jubilation.
“That you did,” Fence said, and as he crouched down to talk to the kids, he happened to glance over at Ana.
Their eyes met, he smiled, and she felt her insides tumble into something soft.
Oh shit
.
I think I might be in trouble.
She didn’t even dare look at Yvonne.
T
he water rushed over his face, filling his mouth and nose, coming and coming and
coming
. He twisted and fought, desperate . . . choking . . . but it surged, fast and cold, rushing relentlessly, stronger and harder.
He couldn’t breathe.
Water filled him, pummeled and beat into him as the world darkened.
At last, with a desperate gasp, Fence dragged himself free, bursting from the dream into wakefulness. Relief.
He lay there for a moment, shaking, his breathing rough and too quick, his heart ramming in his chest.
It took him a minute to remember where he was . . . and then the moonlit sight of a pencil drawing of three girls playing jump rope reminded him. On the too-short sofa in Ana’s little cottage.
His fingers curled into the quilt, his eyes gaping wide, and he swore softly.
Fuck.
Hoped he hadn’t been too loud. He should have slept out under the stars on a pallet like he’d planned to, instead of taking Ana up on the offer of her sofa. The last thing he wanted to do was explain his nightmares to her or her father.
Sonofabitch.
Even now that he was awake, his eyes open and his heart slamming, he had to fight to stay out of the dream. It still tugged at him, trying to drag him back under like the same rush that had nearly drowned him twice.
No. Make that three times now.
Fence knew he’d be unable to fall back asleep tonight . . . and he didn’t want to, even if he could. Today’s episode in the water—the first time he’d been in water for years—was too fresh and raw. He knew the nightmares would return as soon as he eased back into sleep.
Silently, he slid from the sofa, tossing the quilt on it, and padded on catlike feet to the window. The moon was waxing, just about to half size, and the stars were amazing—like a swath of glittering lace.
He never got tired of seeing the beauty of the night sky—so much cleaner and clearer than what he’d known before. There was Mars, not in the place he should have been for November, but in his new position now that the Earth had changed her tilt. And the North Star . . . not quite as north as she used to be, but cocked a bit more to the east.
Down and just beyond the cottage walkway, Fence saw the sea, heard its churning as it surged onto the shore; inky black and murderous except for a shimmering path lit by the moon. The familiar tightening began in his chest, followed by the ripple of panic in his belly, and he swore violently in his head, furious with himself. Mortified.
The very sight of water turned him into a mess. Even from this distance. The smell of the sea, the sound of the rush of waves on the shore of a lake or even the tumbling of water over rapids . . . all of it brought back the terror, paralyzing him.
Hell, when he was in the shower, with the water hitting him in the face, he got a little freaked out sometimes. His jaw tightened.
What the fuck kind of woman would understand
that
?
How a guy like him could be such a goddamn pussy?
The first time had been when he was seventeen. He and a buddy, Brian, were swimming in the lake. Both of them excellent swimmers, with no fear of the water at all. To this day he couldn’t understand how it happened, but Brian got in trouble. Caught up in something or got a cramp or whatever . . . and so of course he had gone to save his friend’s ass.
But Brian, like most drowning people, was beyond panic. Big and strong—bigger than even Fence—he grabbed onto him and they got tangled up, Brian’s hands digging into Fence’s head as he desperately tried to climb up over him to get out of the water. That pushed Fence down, down, where he couldn’t move or breathe. It was dark and cold and Brian was on top of him, grabbing blindly, clinging, climbing, kicking, scratching . . . and Fence couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he couldn’t pull free . . .
The memory, like its accompanying dream, overwhelmed him now, and all at once, he was back in the center of that deep, dark lake, feeling his lungs ready to burst and the water pressing in on him, twisting and fighting with his friend. Fence had finally been released, finally dragged free and onto shore by someone who knew life-guarding techniques.
Brian had died, and Fence nearly did too. And so began his nightmares.
If he could have done it differently, if he’d been stronger, smarter, faster . . . But no.
Brian was gone.
The second time was six years later. After Brian drowned, Fence never got over his terror of swimming, the sense of helplessness. But he reluctantly agreed to join a group from his old Boy Scout troop on a white-water rafting trip. It would be fine, he told himself. He’d wear a life jacket, they’d be in kayaks, and there was a guide. He was going to prove once and for all that he was over his phobia. For God’s sake, a big strong guy like him? Even his four-year-old niece didn’t hesitate to jump into the lake in water over her head.
Plus he wouldn’t even have to get into the water except to wash his hands or portage. It was time he got over this ridiculous fear.
Wrong.
God or the devil surely had it in for him, because halfway through the trip, Fence’s kayak hit a bad spot in the rapids and he flipped out of the boat. The water was deep enough so he didn’t slam into rocks beneath, but it also tumbled him downstream a mile or two. Even that might not have turned him into the basket case he now was, except that as he went over one of the rushing falls, his life jacket caught on a submerged branch and he got suspended there, twisted and caught on his back and unable to get free.
And all the while, the water rushed over his face, over his nose and mouth in great, violent surges as he struggled to right himself or pull up on the slippery rocks. It was like being waterboarded, he told Lenny later.
No wonder they call it torture.
He was only trapped that way for five minutes, or so he was told, but that was all it took. Five minutes of struggling to breathe through a rush of water, ebbing and flowing with a chance for air, all the while pummeling him into sharp rocks beneath his back and thighs, and he was done.
Stick a motherfucking fork into him.
He was never going in or near water again.
And he hadn’t . . . until today.
And even then, he’d been as incompetent and cowardly as possible. Nearly had another tragedy on his hands.
Fence swore again, acid rising in the back of his throat.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Lenny had understood, though. He’d been with him on the kayak trip and saw what Fence had gone through. They’d even talked about it, about the irrationality of his fears, about Fence’s guilt for being unable to save Brian . . . and Lenny didn’t even look at him funny. But Fence felt as if he were half a man. As if he wore the big-ass flaw on his forehead like a brand.
“We’ve all got something,” Lenny had said, wisdom burning in his eyes as he clasped Fence’s wrist with a heartfelt squeeze. “We’ve all got something.”
And now, here he was: a damned survivalist in an overgrown world . . . who couldn’t wade up to his knees without turning into an infant.
And, fuck it all . . . he felt himself flush as he stood at the window, the gentle sea breeze cool against his bare chest. Ana had seen him afterward . . . what the hell she must think of him, puking his guts out after staggering out from a little pool like that. Unable to pull an eight-year-old girl to safety. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
So much for the sun goddess.
Sure, she let him kiss her on the beach afterward—and what a crazy kiss that had been!—but that was just him seizing the convenience of the moment. That was the sort of thing he
did.
And, true, they’d had that cozy domestic moment in her kitchen . . . and there was the way their eyes met when he was playing Track the Bear with the kids, the sizzle and warmth that came with it, but . . .
fuck.
A smart, beautiful woman like Ana would want the whole package from a guy . . . and he didn’t have it to give to her.
A
fter their sassy exchange and that sweltering kiss on the beach in Glenway, Ana couldn’t help but be surprised that Fence had taken her offer of the sofa that night without making any overtures—serious or joking—toward anything else. Not even a hint at a good-night kiss after several glasses of mead.
Not that she would have accepted the offer . . . but still. He could have
made
it. Or at least hinted around or joked about it.
Was it possible he’d . . . not liked kissing her? Or that her messed-up leg grossed him out?
Not that it mattered, except to her pride. It was a matter of self-preservation to keep him at arm’s length and herself fully clothed.
As they started off for Envy, Fence seemed serious and almost remote.
He hardly spoke directly to her at all as he guided them along the long, wide expanse of an old highway. There was little left of the original concrete other than random islands of cement with a river of grass, brush, debris, and trees flowing around it. A few old signs indicated that it was either Highway 309 or 809.
She rode Bruiser, of course, for she could never have made the trip on foot. And Dad had his own mount, which she insisted he ride—despite his arguments to the contrary.
“There isn’t any sense in making whatever is going on with you worse,” she argued back. “If Elliott says there isn’t anything wrong with you, then you can walk back to Glenway if it makes you feel better.”
Dad had griped and complained, but he swung his lanky frame up onto the saddle and argued no further on that topic. Instead, he focused his compulsive attention on the safety and stability of the vials and bottles and little dishes he was transporting to Envy—a sampling of his experiments that he didn’t want to leave unattended during his absence. Ana was glad to leave him to it.
She tried not to worry about what was wrong with her father, and whether this Elliott person would be able to help him. He’d have to do an examination of her father, of course, but there was nothing for him to find, like the energizing gems that were embedded in her own body. When they all lived with the Atlanteans, he’d hardly ventured from their protective island and into the sea, and therefore didn’t need crystals to breathe . . . at least until they made their escape. Then his deficit turned out to be almost fatal, and had cost her the use of her leg as well as much of his memory of their life in Atlantis.
That happened more than twelve years ago, but she had no illusions that her mother’s family had stopped searching for them. Ana shivered, remembering that terrible, whirlwind of a night so soon on the tail of her mother’s death . . . and brought her attention back to the present.
Only Fence traveled on foot, but he moved along at a steady pace, seemingly tireless. She and Dad kept their horses at a comfortable walk, and whenever they stopped to rest—which, in secret deference to her parent, was often—Fence would go on ahead and scout out the way.
Even as they traveled, he often stopped to listen, to sniff the air, to climb up onto an old car or pile of debris and look into the distance. He pointed out where an elephant mother and her kid had crashed through the brush, and a spot beneath a low, wide tree where a small pack of wild dogs had slept. He identified black raspberries, wild corn, tangled cucumber vines, and edible mushrooms. Even a patch of potatoes in one unlikely spot near an old house. He held up a hand once, lifting a shushing finger to his lips, and pointed to a wild peacock wooing his nondescript female.
Ana knew she would never have seen or recognized any of those things had she been traveling with anyone else. It gave her a new appreciation for a part of the world she took for granted in favor of her beloved Sea . . . and a greater appreciation for the man with them.
When they left the remains of the highway and began to traverse rougher terrain, Fence led them across a long, open area with a big white pole at one end. Behind the pole was an old electronic sign, long corroded and weathered. Off to one side was a massive, twisted metal object.
“This used to be a football field,” Fence told them, pausing for a moment. “That white post at the end is the goal—the top’s broken off. It used to look like a wide, flat Y. Over there used to be the bleachers, where everyone sat.” He pointed to the rusty, rickety framework of metal that resembled a tall, wide set of steps.
Ana could see it now that he filled in the missing images, remembering scenes from DVDs that featured football games. She recognized a note of sadness in Fence’s voice and looked at him curiously. He stood there, looking up and down the field, which now sported grassy moguls and low-rising shrubs.
Then, as if shaking himself from some nostalgic spin, Fence started walking again. “We’ll stop for the night in about an hour,” he said, but his voice seemed unusually low and rough. “There’s a place up yonder that’s in good shape, with a place for the horses.”
Sometime later, when they’d settled for the evening in a dilapidated house, he said, “I’m fixing to keep watch tonight.” He glanced at the small fire she’d started in an old sink. Smoke wafted out the broken window above it, and beyond, the sun had set and the world was cast in shadows. “The both of you can sleep.”
“What are you keeping watch for?” Ana asked, unpacking the satchel of food she’d prepared. “The zombies can’t climb the stairs to get up here.”
“Could be anything. Wildcats or coyotes. Or feral dogs. Other intruders.”
“Oh,” she replied, reminding herself that the cries and howls she heard while safely in Glenway could just as easily be from lurking cougars or wolves. And then she shivered—for when she and her friend had made their recent trip to Envy, they hadn’t had anyone in their party of six keep watch at night.
Then she realized what he’d said:
other intruders.
Like . . . other people?
“That looks good,” Fence said, wandering over to the package of flaky, grilled tuna she’d just unwrapped. “Do you need some help?”
Ana shook her head. “No, I’ve got it.”