Last Another Day (8 page)

The dull thunk of an ax blade echoed through the humid air. Two pieces of wood landed in the grass on either side of an old stump. In the distance, dark clouds promised rain but the heat was unrelenting.

Morgan wiped the sweat from her brow then lifted the ax high again, bringing it down in a smooth arc. For half an hour, she split logs until there was enough to last them a few days.

She groaned, straightening up to ease the nagging ache that nestled in the small of her back. Her skin prickled with heat and she longed for an ice cold drink.

Morgan loaded the split logs into a wheelbarrow then headed towards the house. She added the firewood to the small stack next to the kitchen door before heading inside.

Weathered by sun, wind, and rain, the battered old farmhouse welcomed her into its shadowed confines. She pulled off her work gloves, tossing them on the table before slumping into a chair.

Hannelie stood by the counter, chopping tomatoes and onions while Joanna stirred a boiling pot. Flames flickered in the old coal stove Henri had dug out of storage. If it wasn’t so hot it would be homey.

“Finished, my dear?” Hannelie asked.

“For now,” Morgan replied. “I still have to check the fences with Henri. Where is he?”

“In the barn, but have a drink first before you go.” Hannelie pressed a lukewarm glass of water into her hands and Morgan swallowed it gratefully.

These past few weeks, she’d learned not to complain. Her thoughts wandered back to the first day of the outbreak. They’d been lucky to make it out alive, she realized. If a large group of those things had mobbed them, they would have been overwhelmed.

They barely made it out of town before getting a flat tire. If old Henri hadn’t found them and offered them shelter for the night, she shuddered to think what would have happened.

It all seemed like a bad dream now. Brian, her father, all of it. A nightmare they had yet to awaken from.

Henri’s wife Hannelie, had welcomed them into her home. One night turned into two and before they knew it, a week had passed. The farm workers disappeared one by one, leaving to be with their families.

The oldest, Abraham, who would have brought his family back to the farm, promised to see them within a day or two. He never returned.

Being young and strong, Morgan had volunteered to help with the farm work while Joanna and Julianne helped around the house. At night, they watched the news on TV to keep abreast with events. When all broadcasts ceased, they listened to the radio. Eventually, that stopped too.

The cellphone networks never came back on and none of them knew what had happened to friends and family. Perhaps, it was better that way.

After two weeks the electricity went off and the water followed soon after. Morgan reckoned it had been around six weeks now and things weren’t looking good. Then there was her little sister.

“How’s Meghan doing?”

“Still the same,” Joanna replied.

That was bad news. A few days ago she’d developed a cough which soon escalated. Last Morgan saw she was running a fever, a fiery red blush flushing her cheeks. Julianne never left her side, sponging her forehead ceaselessly.

Morgan sighed and put down the empty glass, wishing for more. She would not ask, though. Time to get back to work.

Henri was busy mucking out the barn when she found him. As small as his wife was large, he possessed copious amounts of energy. The gleaming tack on the walls and arranged equipment testified to that.

Lola the milk cow, lowed at her when she walked in and Morgan scratched her forehead while chickens clucked around her feet.

“Need help?” she asked.

“Not with this,” Henri replied. “But you can put the buckets out for when it rains.”

“You think it will?”

“I’m hoping so. We need the water.”

That they did. Once a day, Henri switched on the generator to power the borehole, pumping just enough for their most pressing needs. More he could not do as they were fast running out of fuel.

Morgan set the buckets down outside, glancing at the clouds on the horizon. “Please let it rain,” she begged.

Afterward, she saddled Pete, an old draught horse, and set off to check the fences. This was the most important task of the day. They could not afford for any infected to get through. The fences were all that stood between them and death.

It was also the one task she looked forward to every day. Riding on Pete’s broad back gave her a taste of precious freedom. A freedom lost now they were confined to the farm.

Every day she wished she could head out, explore, find out what was going on in the outside world. The old folks wouldn’t hear of it, though, insisting it wasn’t safe. Perhaps, it wasn’t but the uncertainty was killing her.

The ride also gave her a chance to process the feelings of guilt and grief she harbored. At first, it had been all she could think of. Now, it wasn’t so bad anymore. Perhaps because she was too busy trying to survive.

Today, like most days, the ride was uneventful, free from intruding zombies. Within an hour, she was on her way back. Only twice had she come across an infected. Both times they were stuck in the fence, entangled in the wire and Henri had taken care of it after she called him. She didn’t know what she would do if she needed to do the job herself.

Do I have what it takes?

The memory of Brian’s face surfaced and she blanched.

I can’t go through that again.

When she reached the farmyard, a cool breeze stirred her ponytail, bringing blessed relief from the heat. The clouds had moved closer and once more she prayed for rain.

She spent the rest of the afternoon weeding the vegetable patch, noting with displeasure the wilted stalks and leaves. If it didn’t rain, they’d have to pump more water.

Supper was a quiet affair, notable only by the absence of Julianne and Meghan. It was also bland beyond belief. Since the electricity gave out, all the refrigerated goods had spoiled. They were left with the pantry and what the animals and garden could provide. Tonight, it was maize porridge with tomato and onion gravy. No meat.

What I wouldn’t give for a nice juicy steak.

But food was food and Morgan scraped her plate clean until it shone then placed it in the sink, still hungry. “Thanks for supper, Hannelie. Joanna. I’ll just go check in on Mom and Meghan.”

“Take them something to eat while you’re at it, dear,” Hannelie replied, pointing to two plates on the stove.

Morgan obeyed, making her way to the small room Julianne shared with Meghan. As expected, Julianne sat hunched over on a stool next to the bed where Meghan lay, tossing and turning. Every few seconds her small body spasmed, wracking coughs tearing through her chest. It was painful to hear.

“Here, Mom. Have something to eat.”

Julianne looked at the plate like it crawled with insects. “I’m not hungry, thanks.”

“Come on. Try to eat, please. You’ve had hardly anything all day.”

Julianne took it from her with reluctance, picking at a tomato without enthusiasm while Morgan tried to coax a few bites into Meghan. Hannelie had used some of their precious sugar and milk for the little girl’s porridge, knowing it was her favorite.

“Do you think she’ll get better?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t know.” Julianne shook her head, looking defeated. “Her fever is so high. If only I had medicine to give her. Antibiotics.”

Afterward, Morgan went to the kitchen where Hannelie was preparing a pot of tea. The older woman eyed the two plates and pursed her mouth. “You might as well eat that, dear. It will only go to waste if you don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You need it anyway, working as hard as you do.”

This was true. Or so Morgan’s screaming stomach tried to convince her. Before she could feel too bad about it, she gulped down the leftovers, groaning with satisfaction when the cramping in her abdomen eased.

“Have some tea.”

Hannelie thrust a steaming mug into Morgan’s hands which she accepted with muttered thanks. Henri lit his pipe, sucking on the fragrant tobacco while Joanna read out of the battered Mills and Boon book she always carried around with her.

She must have read that thing a thousand times
, Morgan thought. She said nothing, though, not mentioning that the smell of tobacco was torture to her. It was nobody’s fault that she was a smoker. One who now had to do without.

Moments later, Julianne joined them for a rare cup of tea. “Meghan is sleeping,” she explained.

Silence descended over the room, disturbed only by Morgan’s fidgeting. She couldn’t stand to just sit there, sipping tea, and she couldn’t understand how they could do it either.

Every bone in Morgan’s body itched for action. The world was dying around them, day after day, yet here they were: spectators.

She watched the others through lidded eyes, wondering how they would react to what she was about to say.

“I’m going to town.” The words dropped into the silence like a stone. She kept her face straight, lips firm in an attempt to look decisive.

This time, they won’t talk me out of it.

“You can’t,” Julianne cried.

Hannelie gasped while Joanna dropped her book, fixing shocked eyes on her face. Only Henri said nothing, watching her with a shrewd expression.

“My mind’s made up.”

“No,” Julianne replied.

“We need food. We need fuel. We need water.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Julianne protested. “I’ve already lost Lillian and Max. I can’t lose you too.”

“We have no choice. If we do nothing, we’ll starve or die of thirst.” Morgan fixed her mother with a determined look. “Besides, how do you know you’ve lost Lillian or Max? We know nothing!”

“I can’t take that chance,” Julianne whispered.

“If you don’t, you might lose Meghan for real. She needs medicine.” Silence fell as Morgan delivered this, the killing blow. It was the one thing guaranteed to sway Julianne.

“She’s right,” Henri said, surprising Morgan. “Let her go.”

Julianne shook her head but uttered no further objections. After a few seconds, she got up and left the room, not saying a word. Morgan knew she had won, but the price had been high.

“Well, dear. If you’re going into the lion’s den, you’ll need your sleep,” Hannelie said, ever practical.

Morgan agreed, excused herself and went to bed. As she changed from her work clothes to pajamas, she studied her body, noting the changes six weeks had wrought.

Her limbs were lean and strong, every muscle showing while her shoulders had broadened, packing on the width that came with swinging an ax. Always athletic, she now moved like a well-oiled machine.

I can do this
, she thought with fresh determination.
I am strong enough.

The next morning, Morgan awoke to a hearty breakfast of fried eggs and tomatoes.

“You’ll need your strength, child. Eat up,” Hannelie admonished as she dished up a second helping.

“Thanks,” Morgan mumbled through a mouthful.

She kept eyeing the doorway, hoping her mom would come say goodbye but in the end, had to acknowledge that Julianne wasn’t coming.

“Give her time, dear. She’s very upset but she loves you something awful.”

“I know. Tell her I said goodbye.”

Morgan walked outside, tears pricking her eyes. Furious, she brushed them away. Time to be strong. She climbed into Brian’s truck and drove away while Joanna and Henri waved to her in the rearview mirror.

Still no sign of Julianne.

Morgan sighed and fixed her eyes on the road. Next to her on the seat, lay an ax and a bottle of water while her dad’s gun rode in its customary place on her hip. She felt as prepared as it was possible to be.

The road was quiet, and she saw neither people nor cars the entire way. That was disturbing. Only as she neared town did she spot the first signs of human activity.

Crashed cars clogged the crossing, forcing her to find a way around. She drove over the island and onto the sidewalk, circling around the site. A lone figure wandered along the road in an aimless fashion until she neared it. Then its head whipped up and it honed in on her, stumbling after the car on faltering legs.

It was impossible to ignore the gaping wounds in the abdomen trailing intestine, or the monstrous face leering at her. Morgan’s breath came in short gasps as the sight took her back to the first day of the outbreak, reminding her of Brian.

“Oh, God. I was wrong. I don’t think I can do this.”

Once she left the creature behind, Morgan pulled over and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. “Come on. Pull yourself together.”

All along she’d hoped that the army had restored order. That they’d been hiding on the farm for nothing and life could go back to normal. That was not the case.

After a few minutes, she calmed down and drove further. More infected showed up, their numbers increasing as she went deeper into town. It was disturbing to drive amongst them, seeing the ruined faces of people who used to be fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters.

They ran, tripped, and fell over themselves to reach her and she realized they would continue to follow her no matter where she went. Using a circuitous route on less inhabited roads, she lost most of them until at last, she faced her destination, the pharmacy. In the distance, three infected still hobbled along, but they were slow and she was sure she could make it in and out in time.

“Now or never.”

Despite her determination, her voice sounded shrill to her ears. Fear was an ever-present obstacle.

Morgan ran to the shop, holding the ax at the ready. The glass front had been shattered leaving the inside wide open and well-lit.

“That’s a plus,” she muttered before yelling, “Hello?”

Nothing moved. Tightening her grip, she gathered the nerve to walk inside, feet crunching over glass and debris. But it soon became clear that the place had been ransacked and her enthusiasm waned. Would she find what she was looking for?

The only good thing about the situation was that a raided shop meant other survivors.
Perhaps even the army.

The knowledge that three infected were heading her way spurred her on and Morgan grabbed a basket. She walked through the aisles, scanning the shelves and floor for anything useful.

Petroleum jelly, vapor rub, tampons, soap, shampoo, and toothpaste all found their way into the basket. Energy bars and drinks followed. Morgan loaded with haste, the hair on the back of her neck prickling.

At the back, the shelves were empty of medicine and Morgan ground her teeth in frustration. A few bottles were strewn on the floor, though. She scrabbled around, pushing aside papers and files.

There
.
Amoxicillin. That's an antibiotic, right?

Morgan grabbed the bottle along with another containing anti-inflammatories and a box of what looked like sinus pills. Certain that her time was up, she got up and ran to the exit. The light was bright after the dim interior, forcing her to pause while her eyes adjusted.

A wild feeling of relief flooded her when she noticed that the three infected were still a little way off. She rushed to the truck, tossing the supplies in basket and all, then made a return trip, scoring cough syrup, wet-wipes, batteries, and plasters.

This time, the infected were too close to ignore. She either had to kill them or leave. Next to the pharmacy, a convenience store beckoned with the promise of precious food and water, everything they needed. Morgan hesitated, torn between the desire to flee and the urge to get more supplies.

With a deep, fortifying breath, she squared her shoulders and took a firm, two-handed grip on the ax. She’d have to learn to face the infected at some point.

Might as well be now.

She set her sights on the closest one and sprinted forward until she was within reach. It snarled at her through torn lips and the smell made her gag. Before she could think too much about it, she brought the blade down onto its skull, splitting it the same way she’d been splitting logs for weeks.

Brain matter and black blood sprayed out, and she danced back to avoid it. The ax stuck in the bone, pulling the zombie with and it toppled forward, nearly falling onto her legs. With one foot planted on the shoulder, she wrenched her weapon free with barely enough time to get ready for the next one.

Don’t get it stuck in the bone again!

A short choppy blow to the temple put the second infected down and she readied herself to face the third. This close up, the true horror of the virus revealed itself in minute detail.

Milky eyes, putrid flesh, and a death head’s grin combined with tattered clothes and stringy hair to conjure up a person’s worst nightmare from the grave. Morgan forced herself to look, to study and if possible, get used to it.

A sideways blow to the neck struck it to the ground where a second blow caused the head to roll free, teeth gnashing at the air. With a shudder, Morgan turned away, stomach heaving. From beneath the nausea, triumph emerged. She was strong enough to do this.

With newfound determination, Morgan turned in a slow circle, studying her surrounds. It was clear. For now, at least. A quick jog took her to the shop front, the doors propped open by strewn trolleys and baskets.

The interior looked far spookier than the pharmacy had been. Precious little light found its way inside and Morgan paused, daunted by the gloomy sight.

“Hello,” she called, waiting.

When nothing happened, she cast a last glance around then stepped inside. She cleared a path and grabbed a trolley, heading for the nearest rack. It didn’t take long to determine that raiders had been here too and most of the items on the shelves had been carried off.

The sweet smell of rot hung in the air and she studiously avoided the refrigerated section. Scavenging amongst the empty aisles, she found a few forgotten items. It was not near enough.

Guess I’ll have to look somewhere else.

Morgan headed outside, eager to leave the dank, stinky shop behind. Tossing caution aside, she quickened her pace and ran smack into a zombie coming around the corner.

Acting on instinct, Morgan shoved hard with the trolley, bowling it over. A quick glance up the street caused her heart to drop. Infected were trickling down from all sides, converging on her location.

Abandoning her meager supplies, Morgan ran for the truck, not prepared to lose her life for a can of baked beans. Behind her, the surprisingly limber zombie got back to its feet and followed, its snarls spurring her on.

She sprinted around the back of the truck but stopped short at the sight of two more zombies waiting at the driver’s side. She groped for the ax then remembered she’d left it in the trolley.

In one smooth motion, she pulled the gun from its holster and fired, hitting the closest in the face. Her expertise was mainly due to an insistent Henri who’d made her practice every day for weeks now.

Morgan shifted her aim, ready to pull the trigger but grasping fingers hooked onto her ponytail from behind. A sickly stench washed over her as the zombie leaned in for the kill, its raspy growl raising goosebumps on her flesh.

Morgan wrenched her head free and sidestepped out of reach. Its other hand flailed, brushing across her chest. The sound of tearing cloth barely registered as Morgan tore loose and dashed up the street.

With infected closing in on all sides and the way to her truck blocked, she was left with only one option: run. She tore up the street, arms and legs pumping as she ducked and weaved between the limbs reaching for her with bloodthirsty eagerness.

Panic lent speed to her feet while all rational thought fled beneath the onslaught of fear that pulsed through her veins with each step. She no longer cared about supplies. No longer cared about anything other than escape with the specter of being eaten alive looming large in her mind.

Once she’d outdistanced the infected, a semblance of clarity returned and Morgan stumbled to a halt, heaving for breath. Her truck now lay far behind her while her panicked flight had carried her into the heart of town.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted more infected heading her way. To make matters worse, they were fresh which meant fast.

“Oh, God.”

She broke into a run again, pulling on reserves of strength she didn’t know she had. For hours, she evaded groups of infected until her body was close to collapse.

Ducking behind a low wall, Morgan pressed her back against the cool concrete and tried to catch her breath. It came in deep, ragged gasps that shuddered through her ribs. The stitch in her side made her wince every time she moved. She slid down to her haunches and huddled in the shade as she listened for the sounds of pursuit.

Morgan snuck a quick peek around the corner of her barricade. She had to get back to her truck. There was no way she’d get out of town alive without it. Breathing deeply to calm her panicking heart, she reflected that it felt like forever now since she’d arrived that morning.

It really sucks to be at the bottom of the food chain.

She peered around the corner. No sign of them yet. But she knew they were coming. It was only a matter of time.

“God, please let me make it out of this alive,” she pleaded, wiping her forehead with a trembling hand. “And I don't mean by becoming a zombie!”

Judging by the sun, it was around noon and the sun was blisteringly hot. Sweat trickled down her back and her ponytail drooped. Her mouth was parched.

In the distance, she heard sounds heralding the arrival of another group of infected. Upon looking around the corner, she saw a big crowd moving up the street in her direction. They were aimless for now but they’d spot her soon enough.

Closing her eyes, she marshaled all her strength. It was make or break now. Throughout the chase, she'd been tracing a large circle back to her vehicle. Now she was close enough to reach it.

“C'mon, Morgan. You can do this.”

Taking a deep breath, she plunged forward and took off at a flat run. Behind her, she heard the moment they spotted her and gave chase. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Sweat streamed down her face but she ignored it and focused on her footing. To fall now would be the end of her.

The stitch in her side was back and her lungs burned like fire. She could hear them gaining. In the distance, Morgan made out the shop where she’d parked that morning and kept going through sheer force of will.

A quick glance over her shoulder nearly proved her undoing when she saw how close the infected were. She could almost smell the decay, feel the teeth sinking into her flesh. Not far in front of her, a second group came running out of a side street, seeking to cut her off.

Shit!

Redoubling her efforts, Morgan closed the distance and a kernel of hope blossomed inside.

I'm going to make it!

Then, with only a hundred meters to go, she spotted a zombie beside her truck. Maybe even the same one from earlier. Biting back a curse, she forged ahead. There could be no stopping now.

She pulled out her gun and shot at the zombie as she ran. Most of her shots went wild but one bullet hit it in the shoulder and spun it around with enough force to make it fall. Vaulting over the infected, she hit the door of her truck, pulled it open and jumped in with seconds to spare.

The first zombie slammed into the side with enough force to make her jump and then she was surrounded. Morgan fumbled for the keys in the ignition and froze. Her fingers grasped at air.

Where are the damn keys?

With her brain in overdrive, Morgan tried to remember where they were, what could have happened. She’d last gotten out and...her pocket! She patted the small breast pocket on the front of her shirt and came up empty.

The material flapped loosely and the memory of tearing cloth returned to her. Craning her head, she stared at the spot outside the truck where the zombie had hooked its fingers into her shirt. Sure enough, a glint of silver shone in the sun.

It was only a few meters away but it might as well have been the breadth of the earth. The swarm was upon her and there was no escaping this time.

She was trapped.

In a sudden fit of rage, Morgan smashed her hands against the steering wheel, pouring out her anger in a torrent of abuse. Then she burst into tears. Sobs wracked her body as she stared at the monstrous faces leering at her through the glass.

I don't want to die.

At that moment, she realized that no matter how bad things were or how much she missed Brian, she wanted to live.

All she saw was death.

The infected beat on the windows and she wondered how long the glass would hold. The seconds ticked by as the tears dried. The beating fists retreated to a distant thrum and a hollow space opened up inside her.

Some of the infected crawled onto the hood and slammed on the windscreen. A crack appeared in front of her eyes. She watched it run across like a line being drawn with an invisible pen. Little starbursts punctuated it and with trembling hands, she pulled her gun from its holster.

Morgan pressed the barrel to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut, filling her mind with images of happier days. “I'm sorry, Mom, Meghan,” she whispered, preparing to pull the trigger.

A distant sound penetrated her thoughts and her finger froze. It sounded like gunshots. Wild hope suffused her body in a tingling rush. For several seconds, nothing happened, then the throng surrounding her thinned out ever so slightly. Their attention was shifting, and a few were peeling off the outer edges and moving in the direction of the gunshots.