Free All Our Tomorrows by Peter Cawdron Page A

light is dim and a mist sits on the ground, it’s hard to tell if it’s just a soft wind rustling through the trees or if there are zombies out there on the edge of our vision.
    We reach the rise of a hill a couple of miles from the commune and Ferguson brings his horse to a halt. Vapor condenses into a mist as our horses breathe in the cold air. Fall is upon us. Winter isn’t far behind. Zee slows up with the cold. I’m hoping that will give us an advantage, but with the sun already on my face, I know it’s going to be a warm day. We might get some rain, but we could equally have a bright, sunny day in spite of the change in seasons.
    Ferguson peers through a set of binoculars, looking out over the forest. A few of the distant oaks are beginning to turn, with hints of yellow and orange preceding the brilliant reds of fall. I wait patiently, keen to hear about all he can see. From where I sit on my black mare, the track ducks in and out of the trees, winding its way down toward the river. Beyond the river, rooftops mark the outer suburbs. Most of the buildings are only one or two stories high, but in the distance, skyscrapers rise out of the fog.
    After roughly a minute, he says, “I’m not seeing them.”
    Them. Zee.
    “That’s good, right?” I say, somewhat naively, and then I remember David’s warning— it’s not the zombie you see that gets you .
    Ferguson ignores my comment.
    “There’s a small clutch of zombies feeding on the carcass of a horse down by the river, but there’s no more than ten to twenty of them.”
    That must be where David and Jane fell. Ferguson has to be thinking the same thing.
    “No bodies.”
    And I hear the sadness in his voice, understanding the implication latent in his comment. David would have saved two bullets—there should be two bodies, or at least torn remains. Perhaps we’re still too distant to see bloody rags strewn in the forest.
    I’m silent as Ferguson asks the question I’m wondering as well.
    “Where the hell is the goddamn herd?”
    James warned us about thousands of zombies in this valley. Could such a large number of zombies disperse within a day? We’re only used to hearing about small bands of zombies in the woods. The hordes keep to the cities. Hundreds would be unusual this far out. Thousands is unheard of. Where could they have gone?
    “Too quiet,” he says, almost to himself. “Something’s wrong. Feels like we’re walking into a trap.”
    I’m impressed by Ferguson’s resolve. He isn’t distracted by his desire to find and bury his son. He’s seeing the bigger problem before us, or the problem that’s not before us, as the case may be.
    “Maybe they’ve returned to the city,” I say.
    Ferguson holds his hand up, signaling for me to be quiet. The slight turn of his head indicates he heard something out in the forest to our left. Slightly behind us. I listen. I can’t hear anything, not even birds. And that’s when my blood runs cold.
    Ferguson dismounts without making a sound and pulls a lever action rifle from a scabbard on the side of his saddle. A quick glance at me, and I copy him, lowering myself quietly to the sandy track. He holds his finger to his lips, signaling for quiet, and directs me to duck down out of sight.
    The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
    Moss grows over an old log lying in a ditch beside the trail. A tree must have fallen across the track at some point as the marauders have shifted it to one side, stripping most of the smaller branches.
    Ferguson leans his rifle against the log and unhooks a bag from his saddle, resting it quietly on the ground. I crouch beside the log not knowing what I’m hiding from. Paranoid, I look around. There’s nothing but forest. There’s no movement anywhere beyond the gentle sway of nature. Knowing how easy it is for Zee to blend in with the trees, I scan the woods for the slightest sign of motion, but there’s nothing.
    Birds fly high overhead, but they don’t settle