Fall of the Risen – Week 14 – Dawn

Lynn van Lier came back for another post and it’s a slobber knocker! Get out your hankies and don’t forget to check out some of Lynn’s other works like her blog, her satirical short story Interminable, or her helpful guides 50 Free or Cheap Ways to Entertain Your Toddler and 50 Everyday Ways to Show Your Kids You Love Them.


previousbeginning

It wasn’t the same. Everyone was different after Clark was gone. Even Ferguson wasn’t as amorous.

It didn’t take long for Clark to become a legend. People lowered their voices when they talked about him. They said they saw him hulking around the perimeter, like he was some kind of sasquatch. I wanted not to care. I learned not to when I saw my sister and her family eaten by zombies. Told myself I was lucky to be unattached. But people are sticky, and I was stuck on Clark. I smiled in spite of myself remembering Lionel Ritchie.

It was no use. I had a curious mind. Never could leave anything alone. I figured out cars and I figured out survival. I thought I’d never figure out people, and I didn’t even want to until recently. I had to get back in that tower.

I found Ferguson in his usual position, feet up, eyes fixed on the horizon. He didn’t even register my boots on the metal steps.

“Hey,” I smiled at him. “How’s it going?”

He looked glum. I looked out where he was staring. It was the last spot we could’ve seen Clark, after he jumped.

“Thought you might need some company,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing to either of us.

“Forget it, Dawn.” He pushed up out of his chair, stood up and stretched. There were dust trails in his face where he had been crying. He rubbed his bleary eyes.

“I knew I was a piss-ant, but I never knew how much of one until I watched a friend sent to his death.”

I must’ve looked surprised because he poked a finger at me.

“Yeah, sure, I wasn’t his friend, but he was mine. I admired the shit out of him. I don’t need your comfort, Dawn. Leave me alone.”

Jesus, it was getting heavy around here.

“Look, Ferg,” I couldn’t remember his first name. “Why don’t you just take some time, let me do lookout. Lord knows, I can’t sleep, and we could both use a change of scenery.”

He searched my face with suspicion.

“Never mind,” I said. “It’s okay. I just thought I could help.”

The next day, as I was cleaning up a puddle of motor oil, Ferguson trudged up my driveway. He’d been crying again. He just nodded at me and kept going to his place.

I scrambled to get some clean clothes and my lantern, and raced back to the tower.

It was quiet that day and through the night.

The next morning, Ferguson wasn’t back, and I saw some of Marshall’s goons harassing Daffodil. I peered through the binoculars, trying to read lips. They circled around him. He just shuffled around awhile, kicking the gravel. My stomach tightened, waiting to see unleashed cruelty. At last, he looked up at Jansen and said something that made them all stop in their tracks. A minute later, they cleared off and left Daffodil standing alone.

Ferguson was kind enough to bring me a sandwich at dinner time, but he didn’t stick around. I was actually beginning to worry about him. I didn’t know a whole lot of piss-ants where I came from; they never seemed to be around very long.

Just after sunset, when I could still see the tree line, I heard them. That familiar swell of shuffling feet, low moans and grunts. One by one, they filtered through the forest. I couldn’t tell if there were twenty, fifty, or more. I kept my eyes on them as my hands fumbled for the radio.

Instead of getting louder, the sound stayed the same, and then grew quieter as I saw one after the other disappear into the tall grass. The last staggering one, a woman, from what I could tell, looked as if she was doing a comedy bit, pretending to walk down stairs that didn’t exist before falling on her face. She was down a few seconds when up popped Clark. No mistaking him. He was pumping his fists in the air and dancing like a six-year-old on Christmas morning.

I put my hand up to my mouth to stifle a laugh, but before I knew it, I was crying. That was the minute I knew; either he was coming back in, or I was going out.

next

Fall of the Risen – Week 7 – Dawn

Today’s special guest post is from talented talented Lynn van Lier. You can read more of Lynn’s work like her satirical short story Interminableor her helpful guides 50 Free or Cheap Ways to Entertain Your Toddler and 50 Everyday Ways to Show Your Kids You Love Them. Don’t forget to visit her blog and show her some love in the comments below!

 


previousbeginning

First thing I saw when I walked through the door from the kitchen to the garage was Ferguson running out the bay door. Next thing was the pile of broken shit he left behind; a yellow Schwinn with the chain draped over the seat, a toaster oven, a gas-powered weed-whacker, and a push mower.

“Hey!” I called after him. “Hey, skid mark! This ain’t the junkyard, get back here!”

Residents of Sisco were responsible for maintaining what they used. Technically, no one owned anything, but since we had places to live, we had “stuff” to go in it, and if you had stuff, you were supposed to fix it. We were supposed to clean, protect, and fix it ourselves.

“I’m keeping this shit, asshole! It’s mine, now.”

I looped the chain on the bike and snapped it back together. So easy, an eight-year-old could do it. I felt a pang of sadness as I turned the pedal and watched the wheel spin. My niece had a tiny purple bike with Mylar streamers. She could ride on two wheels before she was four.

The sound of footsteps on gravel snapped me back to reality. Romanda and Daffodil trudged up the driveway.

“Aren’t you clearing brush today?”

“Jansen said brush clearing was man’s work. He sent us over here to help you.” Romanda replied.

“Jansen said that? That little shit.”

Daffodil shifted his weight.

“You okay?”

Romanda spoke up for him, “He said you were busy today.”

“Huh! Thanks to Ferguson. He just dumped this stuff and ran off. Who the hell’s at the front door, if he’s at home cleaning out his closets?”

They didn’t answer.

“Well,” I cast my eyes around the garage, “I wouldn’t say I’m busy. Sure as hell not for them, I’m not. I know you both know basic car repair – we all figured out how to patch flats and siphon gas, didn’t we?”

Daffodil’s eyes met mine for an instant. When he looked away, I thought I saw a little smile.

“Okay, then.”

They were too quiet. Something happened out there, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the details. Besides, I had been looking forward to a quiet afternoon of tinkering. I’m Thich Nhat Hahn like that.

“Well, you could help me get things straightened out in here,” I said slowly. Sent from “man’s work” to straighten up? Shame on me. I’d have to have a little talk with Ferguson. Jansen, too – where did he get off?

I looked at them closely as they surveyed their surroundings. They were a strange couple. Romanda was built like an F150 and her face was flat as a VW bus. Daffodil had knobby fingers and elbows and sinewy arms. A few weeks here would bulk him up, but for now, he looked les Miserable.

“Or, I show you something I’m developing. But it’s top-secret. Could I trust you to keep it between us?”

They smiled at me. I pulled the bay door shut and flicked on the overhead fluorescents.

next