Afterwards: The Librarian

A team of scavengers make their way into town in search of the local library.

The deserted town sways through the binoculars as my horse shifts its weight beneath me, chuffing with annoyance at our stopping on the road rather than the ditch, thick with inviting green shoots and soft grasses peering through cruel winter’s retreating snow. Her glossy hair is velvet under my hand as I pat her neck absently while scanning the surrounding fields for signs of life… and unlife.

“Looks alright.”

My partner doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t have to. Her knuckles are white on the reins as she fixes me with wide eyes framed by thick glasses. It’s rare that someone looks exactly like you would expect, but the young woman announces her former profession with everything from her hair in its no-nonsense bun to her pigeon-toed feet dangling above the stirrups. Even her red wool coat shouts librarian, standing like a rose against the camouflage and weathered workwear sported by the rest of us cow-punchers.

“Relax. It’s your first time out, that’s all. Things aren’t as bad as you’re imagining.” She nods but doesn’t believe me. Who am I to say? Someone who reads books all day might be imaging shit I can’t even envision.

My clucking tongue urges the horses onwards, steel-shod hooves raise a clatter over asphalt as the other two party members follow. Both of the scavengers have been tested against the horrors of the last few months, dependable in a tight spot; unlike this little bookworm. She surprised me not only with her idea for this outing, but her insistence upon accompanying us—which is why I gave her the chance to prove herself.

Bare soil shows in the fields alongside the road on tire-rut ridges like bones emerging from rotting flesh. The melt accumulates in deceptive channels ready to swallow legs and hooves if given the chance. Untold miles of sagging barbed wire encircle the quagmires, broken in places where starving cattle pushed through; leaving a trail of frozen hides and scattered bones to mark their passing.

We pass an obsolescent town sign with a long French name, halting on the outskirts to plan our next step. Nothing moves down the main street, but this ain’t my first rodeo. “Give ‘em a holler Brad.”

Cupping his hands around his mouth, his oversized voice calls long and loud towards the sparse collection of houses. We wait short minutes while he continues until the first inevitable corpse shambles into view. Others join, coming along slowly with cold-stiffened limbs.

The deep winter freeze gave us survivors a break from the undead—I even figured that when those corpses froze solid, that was the end of them. How could flesh withstand the freeze and thaw? Spring betrayed the truth of it.

“All yours, bud.” Brad and his partner watch the fields and tree-lines behind us for any surprises as five of the town residents stagger down the road in various states of dress; none of which would have kept the chill from a beating heart.

Gauging the distance and their glacial speed: I motion to Jane. “Might as well give ‘em a try with that rifle.”

Wide, magnified eyes blink until she jerks her head in realization and slides the deer gun from its mildewed leather scabbard. We had trained her as well as we were able back home with snap-cap cartridges to help her understand the mechanics of the weapon. We had even given her five live-rounds to get a feel for it; but there was hardly an abundance of ammunition these days… or anything else useful for that matter. She raises the weathered wooden stock to her shoulder, lowering it again as her horse bobs its head unexpectedly.

“Gonna be harder to shoot from the saddle. Try it on the ground.” I reach out for her reins as she hesitates. “Don’t worry, I won’t let ‘em get too close.”

She fumbles with the rifle as she tries to swing her short legs over the saddle horn, unsure of how to dismount holding the gun and inadvertently pointing it in my face. I ease it from her grasp by the barrel, allowing her to anchor herself on the aged tack with her hands and drop down to the road.

“Don’t rush and remember to breathe; it’s all good.”

She takes up the weapon and stands in front of us, inward-slanted feet planted firmly, narrow shoulders hunching around her ears as she aims at the leader; an old woman in a tattered nightdress dragging a foot along by shreds of necrotic flesh as a jagged tip of tibia scores the dusting of snow behind her. Two power-line poles away now, a hundred metres. The horses stir at her approach, I hold them fast; coaching Jane through the shot. Her finger eases the trigger, and she flinches at the report.

Couldn’t see where the bullet went, but it didn’t go into a geriatric skull. She sights again. “Cock it.” She blushes and cycles the action before the next round rips into the wrinkled face below the cheekbone—the mushrooming projectile fails to find grey matter. Inky, viscous tears dribble down from the neat hole to her quivering chin. Jane steps back as the old woman groans, reaching for her from one pole away; fifty metres. “It’s okay. You’ve got plenty of time. Focus on the breath.”

This time ‘baba’ collapses as if a light-switch to her body were flicked. Clotted black blood oozes onto the road like tar, blending in with the asphalt. “Good job. You’re a badass now, look at that. Mount up, I’ll take care of the others.” She flashes a nervous smile as I pass her the reins and spur forward.

“Ready.” I warn. Flickering ears point forward as my horse lowers her head—my hunting mount for years before the sickness, and no stranger to my ways. Four shots paced as if by metronome as my body aims, fires, and cycles the lever-action independent of thought. I clear the way into town.

Every house is beaten, front doors kicked in or windows shattered; unsurprising given the desperate circumstances over the last winter as survivors scavenged for supplies or fought the living and the dead alike for dominance of their homes. We aren’t here for food though, so we push on towards a two-storey, brick-sided manor at the dead heart of town.

“That’s it eh?” Jane nods. Small movement further down the street; a crow or a feral dog maybe. My binoculars bring forth neglected dwellings, undisturbed snow, and a curtain fluttering with the wind in a glassless kitchen window. No sign of the dead.

Our security detail waits with the horses in a cedar-hedged park across the street while we approach the antique building. The steel of the back door glints where pry-bars have scraped away the paint, freeing it from the frame. “Hey! Anybody here?” We listen to the wind moaning, the rhythmic tapping of something inside rising and falling with the gusts.

The scent of earth and old carpet fills the air of the stairwell as dried leaves rustle and dance in a desiccation vortex. A yellowed paper sign on the wall shows downstairs to the hair-dresser, right for the museum and second floor for the library. Stairs creak as we make our way up; the stink of burnt plastic filtering in. Jane waits as I survey a wide room cramped with steel shelves. The cold remains of a fire lie in a brightly-painted corner of the children’s section. Discarded food wrappers whisper across the floor as the wind picks up, knocking an interior door against the wall.

“Come on in.”

Jane’s face lights up as she enters. “This is better than I hoped for. Practically untouched.” She runs her hand along a row of paperback spines.

“Grab whatever’s important and let’s get going.” Into my bag go titles such as ‘The Homestead Gardener’, ‘Raising Chickens’, and ‘Renewable Energy for Dummies’. I even grab a handful of kids books for the few we have back at home.

The librarian shifts around the shelves, confidently pulling titles loose and placing them in her backpack. The town is still quiet through the window, and I shake off the feeling of eyes upon me. “The good shit’s over here, what’re you grabbing?”

“Just the essentials.”

Wrappers crinkle under my boots. “Steinback? ‘East of Eden’? What good is that gonna do us?”

“It’s Steinbeck, actually, and if I had a copy of ‘Mice and Men’, I’d show you, Lennie.”

“Well as long as we’re doing some light reading, why don’t you grab ‘World War Z’, or ‘The Zombie Survival Guide’?” I ask, holding the paperbacks from the science fiction section. Leafing through the guide, it’s clear that the novelty book would best serve as kindling.

“Actually that’s not a terrible idea.” She stows a copy of ‘I am Legend’ in her bag. “But we have to do more than just survive. We have to thrive. We’re lucky no one came in and burned these yet; every one of these books contains the life and experience of our greatest thinkers.”

I flip through the pages of ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’ and arc my eyebrows at her.

“Well… some of them anyways.”

We leave the same way we came, pausing at the battered steel door to check the road. The cedars surrounding the park wave with the breeze between us and the others. A vague sense of dread settles over me as Jane steps into the road—I dash forward, hauling her back by her coat as a bullet snaps through the air in front of us.

The sharp crack of the shot reverberates around the houses, obscuring its origin; but definitely coming from the opposite side of where we entered town. We scrabble back to the cover of the doorway. “Brad! Brad!” My eyes flick from window to window in the surrounding buildings, my rifle follows. Shitfire. We hadn’t planned on having issues with the living.

Brad’s disembodied voice calls through the trees. “Whatchu wanna do?”

I want to fuck off, but without catching a bullet in the back. My breath is ragged; my hands shake from adrenaline. Adrenaline—right. “Hit ‘em on my call, we come to you.” I lick my lips and peer around the corner of the library—multiple broken houses, the shattered facade of the bank and—muzzle flash.

I shrink back as disturbed air slaps my face. “The garage, he’s in the fucking garage!” Jane stares at me. “Get ready to run, go through the trees and get the fuck down.” There is no comprehension on her pale face. “Hey! Snap out of it. You’ll be fine, just listen to me.” She clings to the bannister and nods, wide-eyed.

“Light ‘em up!”

Brad and his partner fire as fast as they can at the dilapidated building. I shoot twice towards where the flash was before grabbing Jane by the sleeve and dragging her after me. Another projectile snaps down the road towards us from the next house over—we tumble down beyond the cedars. “There’s two of ‘em!”

If we mount up and gallop down the road they have a shot at us for hundreds of metres, and Jane’s like to fall off the second the horses start running—so damn short she can’t even reach the stirrups.

We crawl through muddy snow to where Brad lies prone in the tree-line, evergreen leaves fluttering down around us as bullets shred branches. We have to go now, before they hit one of the horses. “Jane, start firing when we move. Stay down and stay here.” Fear in her eyes… but excitement too. Maybe she is a badass.

“I’m going for the house, you guys take the garage.”

Brad grimaces and nods. This is going to be fucked.

“Come on boys!”

The three of us break from cover and rush up the gentle slope towards the street. Running in slow motion, boots slide on wet grass and slush. Movement in the garage—the chilling leer of lustful rifle sights as my body outruns my feet, sending me tumbling to the saturated soil. This is it.

A bullet rustles my hair with its passage as I scrabble over greasy earth and the last metres to the plastic-sided wall. Another shot, this time from the house window to my left where a curtain whips against the breeze. My chest heaves with gulping breaths, the rifle is slick with mud as it nestles in my shoulder. My boot shatters the door-jamb, but I pause before entering—sure enough two neat holes appear in the centre of the wood.

The kitchen is strewn with the cast-off leavings of scavengers, cupboards lie open; obscuring my sight-lines. A shadow moves in the murky light of the living room and my ears ring from the report of my weapon. The metronome clicks and burnt brass tumbles to the dirty floor. Pained groaning, shoes kicking out over hardwood strips.

My rifle leads me into the next room, covering the writhing shape of a middle-aged woman bleeding out on the floor. Her gun lies forgotten on the ground as she moans; clutching a gut-wound and pedalling her feet weakly. “Ppplease! Wait—“ The metronome clicks again and her head snaps back.

“Hey! You good?” Brad shouts from outside.

Copper and gun smoke sting my nostrils as the spreading crimson tide laps against my boots. “Yeah. Coming out.”

Frigid air chills where my clothes cling to sweat as I emerge carrying what could be salvaged from the shooter. Brad grins, holding a fine hunting rifle recovered from the garage. He inclines his head towards the cedars. “Jane nabbed this guy on our way in. Only right she should get this.”

“Hell yeah man.”

I call to her as we walk towards the trees, my ears still ringing from the battle. My heart drops as she comes into view, lying limp below the brush. I roll her by the coat, exposing a ragged gash streaking across the side of her neck where a bullet found her. My hands come away sticky with blood and I fight a wave of nausea as I clean them with handfuls of snow.

The others are quiet as I ease the backpack from her frail shoulders. Wide, unfocused eyes behold me and my lies behind glasses knocked askew from her death-throes. She’ll turn, even without being bit. I can’t stand the thought of her damned to wander endlessly hungry. “I’m sorry.” The metronome clicks.

People are somber at home, they always are when we return fewer than we left. There is no blame; we who remain know the risks of our new world. That doesn’t ease the guilt of my failure.

Sleep eludes me as wide eyes stare in the darkness. I light a candle and pull a book at random from her blood-stained backpack. What in here was worth dying for? Sitting in bed, I search for Jane’s meaning. The words of a man long-dead speak to me from the page; profound and deep as the ocean.

“Call me Ishmael.”

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The following link is the short story of the initial attack that collapses society, creating the ‘Afterwards’ timeline.