Night Gathers Its Tatters
Sawyer wanted so desperately to be brave.Â
His father was brave. Hard and unforgiving, with a critical eye that could cut his only son down to size in an instant, but brave. A military man through and through, sworn to God, country, and family. In that order. He was brave, even in the face of the infected neighbour smashing through the driver side window of the familyâs station wagon. Without question, without hesitation, he grabbed the madmanâs head and drove it down, stabbing broken glass through his throat and bleeding him out in seconds. It wasnât enough to stop the infected behind that one from grabbing him and half-dragging him out of the car, biting and clawing the skin from his face while he screamed at his wife and child to run. But it was brave.Â
His mother was brave. It was quiet courage, not the forceful hurricane of willpower her husband exhibited. But she didnât waver, even for a second, when the soldiers at the blockade raised their rifles and aimed them squarely at her as she slowly stepped out of the shadows, hands raised and shaking. Her voice was calm, belying the sleepless days and nights of terror, as she entreated them to let her and her son pass. She fell silent when they opened fire in panic, thinking the scratch on her arm was an infected bite, and fell to the ground with the same dignity that defined her in life. Sawyer sobbed as he ran from the bullets chasing after him, back into the woods they had been so eager to leave behind. Back into the dark, the unknown.
Sarah was brave. She was young, only slightly less so than himself, and scared -- maybe as much as he was -- but she was brave. An only child like him, but she had a way about her that made him think she would have made a great big sister. There was a kindness and sharp wit about her that would have lent itself greatly to humour, though there weren't that many reasons to be funny these days. She found other uses for it, like convincing a truck driver and his wife to let them tag along on their route to the D.C. Quarantine Zone -- said to be the biggest and most secure QZ still standing, where the government was holding out strong.Â
The truck driver -- Phil -- would have left them behind, Sawyer felt certain, but his wife Diane was soft-hearted and didnât take much convincing. Even now that they were slower, weaker with two kids in tow, and she and her husband argued almost constantly, she was true to her word so far that they would be looked after.Â
Their last fight had been the worst one yet. Despite the need for quiet out here in the woods (âroads are too dangerousâ, Phil had gruffly explained, when Sarah politely asked), the husband and wife had practically screamed at each other over the ration situation -- namely, who got what and how much. Diane insisted that Sawyer and Sarah get more, and was prepared to sacrifice her own supply for them, but Phil wouldnât hear of it and demanded to know why they were weakening themselves for âa couple of straysâ.Â
It was frightening. And exhausting. But brave people donât complain, and Sawyer was determined to be brave. They would be at the QZ soon, where they could finally be free of each other. Sarah would find her dad, and he...he would find something.Â
The makeshift camp was mercifully quiet now that the arguing had stopped. Or paused, at least. Sawyer looked up from the stick he was sharpening -- for no other reason than to keep his hands busy, and to make use of the knife Phil grudgingly let him carry -- to see Diane still pretending to be asleep. Her husband occupied himself by pouring over their worn, crinkled map of the area, jotting down the odd note to himself here and there.Â
Sawyerâs gaze drifted over toward Sarah, brows furrowing together a little.
âDo you think heâs gonna take off on us?â he whispered.
