Free Fermata: The Winter: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (The Fermata Series: Four Post-Apocalyptic Novellas Book 1) by Juliette Harper
Authors: Juliette Harper
Chapter One
Prelude
A leather flap tied in place with a single strap protected the journal's pages. It kept the riot of notes and photos wedged inside from spilling out. The stray bits of paper were creased to a worn softness, the edges of the pictures curling and cracked.
Cramped, conservative handwriting crawled over the pages of the book. The author had meant for the volume to last. A lone symbol adorned the flyleaf. It looked like the eye of a bird. In musical notation, it was called a fermata — the grand pause.
Under the drawing, there were ten words. "The end of a phrase, where a breath is taken."
The Winter of 2015: The Cabin
A bitter wind rattled the bare branches outside the window. Lucy stared at the winter landscape. The snow was deep enough that even if the dead came out of the woods, they'd be slogging through it up to their knees, but that knowledge didn't put her mind at ease.
There were no bars on the window, no barricade at the door. Lucy felt raw and exposed, her senses run out around her like quivering antenna. How did he live like this? Did he count on the isolation and the cold to keep him safe? If he did, he was wrong.
The dead would come. It was only a matter of time.
In the few days they'd been at the cabin, there had been almost no conversation. She refused to leave Vick's side, trying to get her to come to full consciousness. In those brief, half-awake times when Vick did drift upwards, she'd open her eyes, sip a little water or take a spoonful of soup, but then sink back down again.
When Vick was asleep, Lucy stood watch at the window, peering through the frosted pane for any sign of movement, one ear trained to the labored rasping of Vick's breath. It was better today. Wasn't it?
But if the dead came, how would she get Vick to safety and take care of the others as well? No matter where she was, Lucy was always looking for the way out, planning the escape, assessing the contingencies.
Complacency in this new world meant death, which she didn't dread, but then there was the resurrection. That was the thought she couldn't bear. All her life the priests talked about the resurrection, about heaven. They got their directions wrong. Nowadays, people arose and went straight to hell.
Long ago she and Vick pledged to put the other truly down if it came to that. These past few days, Lucy looked at the drawn and pale face of the only true friend she'd ever known and wondered if she could put a bullet between those eyes.
Of course she would do it. She wouldn't let Vick become one of those things, but then there would be the living with it. For however long living went on. She tried to imagine doing this now without Vick. Surviving without the sound of the other woman's calm voice. The inventive resiliency of her mind.
Lucy shook her head to stop the runaway train of her thoughts. Even after five years, the thought of turning into one of those stumbling, ravenous horrors made her stomach heave. Five years.
As Lucy stared out the frosted pane she wondered at how incredibly ordinary her life was back then, how perfectly normal. Now "normal" meant being prepared to bolt in an instant. It meant being prepared to fight for your life.
It meant putting a bullet between the eyes of those things, even if what was looking back at you was the rotted remains of someone's grandmother, a once kindly priest, or just a little kid like Beth.
It might mean putting a bullet in Vick. Lucy fought back the lump in her throat. If it came to that, what she would be shooting wouldn't be Vick. She knew that. They were all monsters. They'd all rip you to pieces if you hesitated even an instant.
But for Lucy, the only part of the new "normal" that felt safe was the woman lying there in the bed. Vick, the most unlikely leader anyone could imagine, and the only person who had the power now to make Lucy feel safe.
Back in that other world, they would never have been friends for the simple reason that their lives would
Prelude
A leather flap tied in place with a single strap protected the journal's pages. It kept the riot of notes and photos wedged inside from spilling out. The stray bits of paper were creased to a worn softness, the edges of the pictures curling and cracked.
Cramped, conservative handwriting crawled over the pages of the book. The author had meant for the volume to last. A lone symbol adorned the flyleaf. It looked like the eye of a bird. In musical notation, it was called a fermata — the grand pause.
Under the drawing, there were ten words. "The end of a phrase, where a breath is taken."
The Winter of 2015: The Cabin
A bitter wind rattled the bare branches outside the window. Lucy stared at the winter landscape. The snow was deep enough that even if the dead came out of the woods, they'd be slogging through it up to their knees, but that knowledge didn't put her mind at ease.
There were no bars on the window, no barricade at the door. Lucy felt raw and exposed, her senses run out around her like quivering antenna. How did he live like this? Did he count on the isolation and the cold to keep him safe? If he did, he was wrong.
The dead would come. It was only a matter of time.
In the few days they'd been at the cabin, there had been almost no conversation. She refused to leave Vick's side, trying to get her to come to full consciousness. In those brief, half-awake times when Vick did drift upwards, she'd open her eyes, sip a little water or take a spoonful of soup, but then sink back down again.
When Vick was asleep, Lucy stood watch at the window, peering through the frosted pane for any sign of movement, one ear trained to the labored rasping of Vick's breath. It was better today. Wasn't it?
But if the dead came, how would she get Vick to safety and take care of the others as well? No matter where she was, Lucy was always looking for the way out, planning the escape, assessing the contingencies.
Complacency in this new world meant death, which she didn't dread, but then there was the resurrection. That was the thought she couldn't bear. All her life the priests talked about the resurrection, about heaven. They got their directions wrong. Nowadays, people arose and went straight to hell.
Long ago she and Vick pledged to put the other truly down if it came to that. These past few days, Lucy looked at the drawn and pale face of the only true friend she'd ever known and wondered if she could put a bullet between those eyes.
Of course she would do it. She wouldn't let Vick become one of those things, but then there would be the living with it. For however long living went on. She tried to imagine doing this now without Vick. Surviving without the sound of the other woman's calm voice. The inventive resiliency of her mind.
Lucy shook her head to stop the runaway train of her thoughts. Even after five years, the thought of turning into one of those stumbling, ravenous horrors made her stomach heave. Five years.
As Lucy stared out the frosted pane she wondered at how incredibly ordinary her life was back then, how perfectly normal. Now "normal" meant being prepared to bolt in an instant. It meant being prepared to fight for your life.
It meant putting a bullet between the eyes of those things, even if what was looking back at you was the rotted remains of someone's grandmother, a once kindly priest, or just a little kid like Beth.
It might mean putting a bullet in Vick. Lucy fought back the lump in her throat. If it came to that, what she would be shooting wouldn't be Vick. She knew that. They were all monsters. They'd all rip you to pieces if you hesitated even an instant.
But for Lucy, the only part of the new "normal" that felt safe was the woman lying there in the bed. Vick, the most unlikely leader anyone could imagine, and the only person who had the power now to make Lucy feel safe.
Back in that other world, they would never have been friends for the simple reason that their lives would
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