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The First Day After
(© Daniel Lee)

Page 1

I woke up in warmth and sunlight underneath a wool blanket in a soft, single bed in a small room with blue wall paper. Tiny dust moats swam in lazy arcs towards the ground in the stream of golden light that kissed my face and welcomed me again into the world. My right hand slid instinctively from under the covers and up to the headboard. It groped the empty air where only yesterday there would have been a pistol holstered; waiting for the violence I'd expected would follow my waking. My heart began to race, pounding like a drum in my ears until Slowly the realization sank in. I lay my hand on my bare chest and stared up at the swirling blades of a ceiling fan overhead.

"It's over," I muttered weakly. "It really is over."

Rolling out of bed I dressed and found my gun belt lying on top of a dresser at the other end of the room. My beat up .38 and two speed loaders were present and accounted for. I hesitated for a moment before wrapping the belt around my waist. I was waking up from a long nightmare in an alien world. Maybe I didn’t have to worry any more? Maybe the days of looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next catastrophe were all behind me? Old habits died hard as I cinched the belt tight and stepped into the hall.

From downstairs I could hear laughter and the sound of children being frivolous in a way I'd long ago forgotten was possible. I took my time on the steps being careful to make sure that each footfall landed softly and drew the minimum attention of those below. Reflexively my hand moved to the gun on my hip as a silhouette danced across the hardwood on the landing. The tremble of adrenaline dumping into my veins at the prospect of a looming fight took control of my muscles. I fought the urge to draw as two little girls spilled out of the kitchen giggling and chasing each other into the hallway and out into the yard. I slid my hands into my pockets.

"Good morning, sweetie," Misses Miller called as I entered the kitchen. "Sleep all right last night?" She was an older woman, a grandmother figure with soft, wrinkled features and white hair in a bun atop her head. She wore horn rimmed glasses that were always down on her nose to let her look over the top at whoever she was talking to. She was busy over the stove flipping pancakes and humming an old gospel tune as I slid into a seat at the table. I put my back to the wall giving me a vantage point on the door and the windows. She turned and put a steaming plate down on the table between me and the jug of milk I was sure had come fresh from the barn out back.

"I don't think you'll need that here," she said pointing the spatula at the revolver on my hip.

"Old habits," I muttered. She shrugged and turned back to the stove.

After breakfast I wandered out onto the front porch looking for something to do with my time. My mother always said that idle hands were the devil's plaything. That son of a bitch had played enough as far as I was concerned. I wanted something to do that was meaningful and worthwhile. I’d spent so long tearing apart that I wanted to build now, create something. I had no idea at all what to do. Mister Miller and his sons were out tending the business of the farm and his daughter was busy working in the flower bed in the front yard while her two little girls played. The family's old hound dog was lying on the porch by the swing, too lazy to even lift his head and acknowledge my presence as I sat down beside him and lit a cigarette.

Over the years I'd heard a lot of folks talk about a lot of things they wanted to do when "this is all over." Now that it was, that civilization was coming back to the South and the war that so many of us had fought against the things that bumped in the night was done I had no idea what was coming next. I'd lived for so long not thinking about tomorrow and now that it was here I had no idea what to do with it.

I barely noticed the little girl who had sat down beside me on the swing.

"You happy to be here, mister?" Her blue eyes shined as she looked up at me with her question. She was only five or six and probably wasn't alive when the whole mess began. She'd never known the world before it had changed but looking at the farm and the family around her, I doubt her world had ever been a bleak or frightening place to her.

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Genre:Living Dead
Type:Short story
Rating:6.7 / 10
Rated By:66 users
Comments: 4 users
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