Randy put out his arm. “I’ve got this. Stack the wood. Then go tell whoever’s on duty next that Hazel and I are pulling a double shift. They can sleep in. Got it?”
Frodo wagged his head.
“Mess up the message and you’ll be doing laps around the island, savvy?” Randy said.
“Aye, fire guard,” Frodo said.
“Don’t call me that anymore. My name is Randy.”
The boy finished stacking the wood and disappeared back into the forest.
The trees around the Womb whispered and sighed, and the sound of running water brought a peace Randy doubted could be duplicated. He’d have to find peace somewhere. Change was inevitable, even if Hazel left while he stayed on Respite. People would come and go, traditions would be lost as necessities changed, and the definition of needs blurred further into wants.
“I wish my mother and the expedition had never gone, and that Respite was still alone in the world. Somehow that world was more secure,” Randy said.
“I hear you. Sometimes I wish I was stuck in time like the reborns,” Hazel said.
“I’m not sure about that. Time will tell. Reborns don’t know what their future holds, just like us. Being a highborn certainly has its disadvantages,” Randy said. The citizens of Respite had voted not to allow reborns on Respite, and it was unclear how the leaders of Argartha felt about that, though Randy had a good guess.
“But if I was frozen in time, I’d pick the year we took our fire guard tests. What about you?”
“The first time we kissed,” Randy said.
“You’re bezoomny,” Hazel said. “I broke your nose.”
“Let’s not make the same mistake our parents did. Wait until it’s too late,” Randy said.
“Where does that leave us?” Hazel said.
“That’s always been up to you.”
“Not anymore.”
“OK. Will you pair with me?” Randy said.
Hazel didn’t answer.
“Otherwise we’ll be forced to say goodbye.”
“You’ll come with me on the ship to Argartha?” Hazel said.
“Yes.”
“No conditions?”
“Only that you love me. If you can’t do that, then let me go.”
“Who’s cold now?” she said.
“I’m done trying to stop things from happening. I’m going to make things happen. You and I are going to protect Respite.”
“I have two conditions,” she said.
It was Randy’s turn to say nothing.
“No lies. Under any circumstances. No matter how bad it is, or who’s involved, I want the truth. Un-sanitized and un-edited.”
“I understand. You’re willing to do the same?”
She nodded.
“I have another condition, now that you’ve jogged my memory,” Randy said. “The past is the past. All perceived slights are forgiven. All accused parties are deceased, and with them goes their story. We write a new chapter.”
“That was my second condition,” Hazel said.
“That makes things easy. How unlike us.”
“I want to make love to you. You up for it?”
“Are you sure?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You didn’t answer my question?” Randy said.
“Yes, I’ll pair with you,” she said.
Randy pulled her to him and they embraced for a long time. The sun rose, and morning came to Respite.
Hazel turned the ashes of the Perpetual Flame with a bamboo pole, and the last of the fire sputtered out, leaving only glowing pieces of wood coal where flames had flourished for almost half a century. Randy took off his fire guard ring and tossed it into the cinders, and Hazel did the same.
“They’ll be embers to get it going later if they need it,” Randy said.
Hazel went around the Womb and snuffed out each torch as the glow of morning washed over everything. When she was done, she took Randy’s hand, and they headed for the beach where they’d make a fire, and let the ocean and sea breeze serenade them.
“I love you,” Hazel said.
Randy smiled, and in the back of his mind he heard Milly say, “Well done, son. Now don’t muck it up.”
So he didn’t.
The End
Read on for a free sample of On Quiet Earth: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel
Chapter One
Fallen Silent
Go to sleep, you little baby.
She begins. My wife to my son. That same old song. In a voice slight from silence all day. I imagine her backlit in the doorway, the light in the hall haloing her silhouette, leaning softly against the frame as she sings to my son, his little face turned up from the blankets of his crib. I am so used to the lyrics I can’t help but sing the refrain. Go to sleep, you little baby.
I remember the warmth of the morning, of waking before the alarm woke us both. The sun, as it sat on my night table, made a strange shape, at once oblong, at once square, that rippled with the wind through the lace of her curtains. Her expression was the same as a thousand mornings before. Her voice, as she swore at the hour, was ever the same.
But she didn’t swear today. She coughed. She didn’t say a word. I shake my head, shake my memory loose. She was quiet. I raise my eyes from the still of my chair in the centre of the room. My wife has fallen silent.
I thought she would have continued to sing.
There is panic in my son’s cry. Brief though it was, it rose awful and sharp in surprise. The sound is primal, and I experience a moment of clarity. My hands tighten into fists, my stomach lurches. My knees quiver in anticipation. It is the first time my son tells me what to do.
I was sick with worry when he was born. I stared at his little limbs,
