Chapter 8: My Daughter
892words
The world's sounds instantly change. The chaotic screams and gunshots recede to a muffled background. All I can focus on is her rapid breathing, her slender silhouette, and Hank's hand reaching out to grab her shoulder.
Hank reaches desperately. He wants to push Mom aside.
He wants to hurt her.
This thought strikes like lightning through my clouded consciousness.
I move.
Before I can even realize it, my hand shoots out like lightning, grabbing Hank's wrist. My movement is no longer sluggish or stiff. It's fast and precise.
Hank freezes. He stares at my purplish hand—the hand that should be powerless—now clamped around his wrist like an iron vise.
I raise my head.
In my hollow, unfocused eyes, a clear reflection appears for the first time. I see Hank's shocked face. I see Miller's bewildered expression behind him. I see my mother's back.
Something struggles to escape my throat. Not a howl, not a hungry growl. A word—a word I never thought I'd speak again. It breaks through layers of obstacles, forcing its way through my hoarse, broken vocal cords.
"…Mom."
The voice is soft and rough, like sandpaper on wood. But in that chaotic battlefield, it rings clear as thunder.
Brenda's body trembles. In disbelief, she slowly turns around.
I look into her eyes. Then I release Hank and push him back with all my strength. He stumbles and crashes into the trailer wall.
I don't look at him again. I turn and rush out of the trailer.
I charge toward the largest breach on the west side. Three or four zombies are about to climb through. The defenders' firepower has a momentary lapse.
My actions are no longer instinctual. Each step has purpose. I knock away the first zombie with my shoulder. I grab the second zombie's arm and yank it from the fence. My body is a weapon—a cold, painless weapon controlled by a clear will.
Protect.
I must protect this place. Because Mom is here.
The battle rages for hours. When the sun reaches its zenith, the howling finally subsides. The camp has held.
The cost is devastating. The air reeks of gunpowder and blood. Survivors lean wearily against walls, many in tears.
I stand amid the devastation. My body is covered in wounds, black blood seeping from injuries I cannot feel.
Everyone stares at me. In their eyes, fear and disgust have been replaced by a complex, indescribable silence.
Hank leans against a wall, head down, his shotgun on the ground. Miller stands nearby, his revolver lowered.
Mom walks toward me. She passes through the silent crowd, step by step, moving slowly.
She stops before me. Her eyes are red as a rabbit's.
I look at her and, with effort, clearly call out once more:
"…Mom."
Her tears immediately well up.
Several weeks later.
The weather is pleasant. Warm sunshine feels good on the skin. Safe Harbor is being rebuilt. People have cleared the ruins and reinforced the fences. A new order is slowly forming.
In a corner of the camp, we've cultivated a small garden. Brenda and I work the soil together. I crouch on the ground, digging holes with a small shovel. My movements are still somewhat stiff and poorly coordinated, but I can now complete simple tasks.
Brenda follows behind me, placing tomato seedlings one by one into the holes I've dug.
"Here," she points to a spot, "dig another one, Lily."
I obediently swing the shovel. The soil turns, releasing a pleasant earthy smell.
Beside us sits a basket containing several ripe, bright red tomatoes—traded from other survivors with our precious supplies.
Brenda straightens her back and wipes sweat from her forehead. She picks up a tomato, wipes it on her shirt, and hands it to me. "Try it," she says.
I take the tomato. It feels heavy in my hand, its skin glistening in the sunlight. I bring it to my lips and hesitantly take a small bite.
A burst of sweet and sour juice explodes in my mouth.
The taste is unfamiliar. But my body doesn't reject it.
Brenda watches me, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. She comes over and affectionately brushes dirt from my clothes, just like when I was little.
"See?" she whispered, her voice carrying that uniquely smug confidence I knew so well. "Told you it was just pickiness all along."
I met her gaze and attempted a smile. My face muscles probably twisted into something awkward, but she got it anyway.
We tucked the final tomato seedling into the soil as the sunset painted our shadows across the garden. Brenda scooped up the tools, slipped her hand into mine, and led us back toward our trailer. The new one—roomier and cleaner than our previous home—courtesy of Miller himself.
"Damn good work today," she remarked out of nowhere as we walked.
I glanced over at her.
Her eyes crinkled as she gazed at our little patch of green promise stretching before us.
"Tomorrow," she said, tapping my arm, "we'll get these babies some water."
I nodded hard, meaning it.
Yeah, tomorrow. So much still waited for us beyond today. Mom and I had a hell of a long road ahead. But with her beside me? I wasn't afraid of a damn thing.
