What We Left Behind Read Online Free PDF Page A

speculation, less paranoia.
    “Hasn’t he got heads in jars or something?” Jane asks.
    I nod, a little embarrassed. Everyone assumes I see them all the time, but I don’t, as they’re normally kept in the workshop in the back of the house. Sometimes, if dad’s experimenting on them, I’ll see a few heads on the bookcase in his office, but he knows how creepy they are and quickly covers them with a cloth whenever I walk in. I’ve seen him scoop up body parts after the school yard “demonstrations.” Execution is a better word, not that anyone cares.
    A couple of the marauders help my dad with a wooden handcart. Normally, we use these when we harvest apples or pumpkins. There’s a dark blanket draped over the contents of the cart, hiding it from sight. Dad is admonishing the two men helping him, telling them to slow down, to be careful.
    The oval is surrounded by a curved hillside. Concrete bleachers set into the hill once allowed spectators to watch Little League. Nobody plays anymore. There’s no time. Occasionally, we teens will have a hit on a Sunday afternoon, but you don’t want to hit a home run. You’ll never get your ball back. And the older folks seem to look down on us. I guess we’re not supposed to have fun in the apocalypse. I think that’s silly. What is life without relaxing a little and fooling around?
    “All right,” Ferguson yells through an old-fashioned megaphone that’s little more than sheet metal rolled up into a cone. “Let’s get everyone seated.”
    A couple of zombies moan in reply—they must be up against the fence.
    Marge takes the megaphone.
    “Thank you everyone, for coming along at short notice.”
    I can’t help but think—Like what else were we going to do? Watch TV?
    Most people were settling in for the night, so getting them together was easy. The unrest and noise subsides as Marge continues talking. I sit down on the edge of the crowd.
    “I’ve called you together tonight because Abraham has discovered something that might have a profound impact on our lives.”
    Hearing zombies respond to Marge sends a chill down my spine. Do we really need to shout into the night?
    Marge is everyone’s grandmother. Like all of us girls, she keeps her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Silver strands have long since replaced her dark hair, but the odd black thread still peeks through the thick bundle hanging down her back. How she doesn’t get lice is beyond me, but I know she washes her hair weekly as I’ll often see her coming back from the recycle pond with dripping wet hair.
    Marge is the most unlikely leader. She seems too kind. If the zombie apocalypse hadn’t taken hold, I imagine she’d spend her days tending to a rose garden and baking homemade apple pies for the neighbors.
    The commune has factions. There are the marauders, the farmers, and the laborers, but the women tend not to think along factional lines. They band together and that makes them the most powerful group of all. Not that the men would openly admit that. Marge has a way of bringing all sides together. Even unpopular decisions seem popular when she puts them forward. I like the way she keeps Ferguson in line.
    Ferguson looks angry. He’s clenching his teeth. I think he wants to get ahold of the megaphone and lay out his own opinion, but Marge clearly wants to keep control of the discussion. My dad is setting up to one side. He’s putting up a light stand running on solar-powered batteries to highlight the cart. Someone sets up a rickety old card table beside him, and he starts laying out items on the aging wood.
    A couple of the marauders light a bonfire, providing some ambient light on the field, but for those of us in the bleachers, it’s a dark, cold night.
    “It’s important to understand, there’s no agreement on Abraham’s findings at the leadership level,” Marge says. “But I know how easily rumors can spread. I wanted you all to have access to the same information we have. As with any