Z for Zachariah

So I decided: if anyone does come, I want to see who it is before I show myself. It is one thing to hope for someone to come when things are civilized, when there are other people around, too. But when there is nobody else, then the whole idea changes. This is what I gradually realized. There are worse things than being alone. It was after I thought about that, that I began moving my things to the cave.

But what I wonder—should I wear a dress? Suppose it is a real rescue party, an official group of some kind? I guess I could sneak back and change. I do have one pair of real slacks left. The others wore out. But I haven’t had on a dress since the war. Anyway, I can’t climb a tree very well in a skirt. But I think I will compromise and wear the good slacks.

I said I don’t know how bad a mistake it was. That’s because I don’t know what is wrong with that water. The stream merges with the other one, the pond stream, farther down the valley, and they flow out the gap as one. Downstream from where they merge, they are both dead—I have looked many times, thinking that maybe, after all this time, the water in Burden Creek might be all right again. But no fish swims into it, or if it does, it dies and drifts away.

It might be that if he had taken his glass rod, he would have found the water is radioactive. But I can’t be sure. On the radio, at the end of the war, they said the enemy was using nerve gas, bacteria, and “other antipersonnel weapons.” So it could be anything. All I can do is wait and watch. I hope it doesn’t kill him.

I suppose it seems wrong to be so afraid of that. But I don’t know what the man will do. I liked most people. I had a lot of friends at school. But that was a matter of choice; there were some people I didn’t like, and many that I didn’t even know. This man may be the only man left on the earth. I don’t know him. Suppose I don’t like him? Or worse, suppose he doesn’t like me?

I lay there realizing that it was not true, but also realizing something else. I thought I had become used to being alone, and to the idea that I would always be alone, but I was wrong. Now that somebody is here, the thought of going back, the thought of the house and the valley being empty again—this time forever, I am sure of that—seems so terrible I cannot bear it.

So, even though the man is a stranger and I am afraid of him, I am worrying about his being sick, and the idea that he might die makes me feel quite desperate.

I gave him the water and asked: “Who was Edward?” Because that was the name he had called me when he first saw me in the tent, when he was delirious.

For a second after I asked the question I thought the sickness had come back on him, because his eyes got a wild look again, as if he were seeing a nightmare. The hand holding the glass of water opened, and the glass slipped and fell to the floor. At the noise it made, he shook his head and his eyes unclouded. Still he stared.

“How do you know about Edward?”

“I’ve been digging,” I said, which of course he had already seen. “This is going to be the garden.”

“Hard work for a girl,” he said, noticing, I suppose, how messy I looked.

“I’m used to it.” I started to tell him that most of it had already been dug before and was therefore easy, but then I decided not to. I did not want him to know how afraid I had been when I first saw him coming.

I remember so many things about it. I started when I was two; it was my nursery school and kindergarten; I learned the alphabet there, from a picture book called The Bible Letter Book.

The first page said “A is for Adam,” and there was a picture of Adam standing near an apple tree, dressed in a long white robe—which disagrees with the Bible, but of course it was for small children. Next came “‘B is for Benjamin.” “C is for Christian,” and so on. The last page of all was “Z is for Zachariah,” and since I knew that Adam was the first man, for a long time I assumed that Zachariah must be the last man.

So to me the idea of getting married seemed like quite an enormous step. Still I thought, when Mr. Loomis recovered from his sickness, there was no reason why we could not plan to be married in a year; that is, next June, perhaps on my seventeenth birthday. I knew there could not be any minister, but the marriage ceremony was all written out in the back of the hymnal. There should be a ceremony; I felt strongly about that, and it should be in the church, on a definite date, with flowers. The whole idea was thrilling. I thought I might even wear my mother’s wedding dress. I know where it is, folded up in a box in her closet.

A strange thing had occurred. Though we had both known the fever was coming, and I had dreaded it more than he had (or more than he had seemed to), now that it was there, and he was visibly distressed, my own fear seemed to vanish. I felt calm—almost as if I were the older one. It was as if when he got weaker, I got stronger. I suppose that is why doctors and nurses could last through terrible epidemics.

And then he said:

“You’re a thief and a liar, Edward, but it’s no use. Stand back from the door.”

A pause.

“No. I warn you. I will shoot. The suit will stop radiation, but it won’t stop bullets.”

It is still hard for me to realize, even after all this time, that I am not going to be anything, not ever have a job or go anywhere or do anything except what I do here. I had chosen teaching because I liked specifically the idea of teaching English. I like books and reading more than anything else. My plan was, as I taught, also to study, to take graduate courses in English literature and possibly writing.

Then I made a mistake.

I said: “In the end, I did go to the church.”

“To church?” He sounded as if he could not believe it. “To church!” He lay back in the bed. “How long did that take?”

I said: “I’m not sure. I went three times.” I realized that I should not have mentioned it at all. It seemed to irritate him so.

“Three times to church, and the field not planted.”

“But I can. If you’d lend me the suit, I could go.”

I could hardly believe how annoyed that made him. I should have known, I guess, having heard him dreaming when he was sick, and the way he talked to Edward.

“No,” he said, his voice very quiet, but angry and hard. “You could not go. Understand that. Keep away from the suit. Never touch it.”

I had a theory about it, more than one really. I thought the murder of Edward, the months alone in the laboratory, the long desperate walks, also alone, through the dead countryside—all that had been so horrible and deadening it had blotted out everything else in his mind. When he thought back, that was what popped up, so he did not think back, nor talk about the past. But beyond that, his sickness and at the end the high temperature may have done something to him; the temperature might even have changed parts of his mind. It was not impossible, I thought.

The more I thought about it, the more the feeling grew in me that it was wrong; it was as if he were playing some kind of a trick on me. And that idea made me feel more nervous than ever—in fact, afraid. Then I got quite angry with myself for feeling that way. I told myself I was making up problems. There was no reason to believe that he did not really want to be read to, even though he did not pay close attention. The sound of a voice can be soothing; surely he must be bored and restless with inactivity. I reminded myself that that, at least, was sure to get better as he was able to walk farther and do more. I must be patient.

But I had tripped over his leg in my dive and before I could get my balance his hand, grabbing blindly, had caught my ankle. His grip was strong; I was amazed at his strength. He was pulling me back, and my hands, grasping for something to hold, slid backward over the smooth floor. His other hand groped forward and caught the back of my shirt. I pulled forward again, heard the shirt rip and felt his fingernails tearing the skin of my back. I hit back with my elbow as hard as I could.

Poor Faro! He had never in his life been tied up. When he finished eating, he shook himself again, trying to get the collar off, and then trotted away. When he came to the end of the tether, his head snapped back and he fell down. He stood up, shook himself, and tried again. Next he turned around and backed off, trying to pull the collar over his head. Mr. Loomis watched; at last, having seen that the dog could not get away, he turned and went back into the house.

“I have no choice. I can only hope you will change your mind,” he paused, “and act more like an adult and less like a schoolgirl.”

I thought of the gun again. It was frightening to see. But perhaps not so frightening as it had seemed at first. I was beginning to get used to the way his mind worked, the way he thought about things. There was a pattern that kept repeating. In the case of the gun it meant—or, I thought, it might mean—not that he was planning to shoot me, but that he thought I might shoot him. I still think that might be correct. He may have reasoned that if I was encamped in the store and saw him coming, I might be frightened, and might try to drive him away. But what made him think I had a gun at all? My guns had been at the cave all of the time since his arrival, and I was quite sure I had never mentioned them.

And I suddenly realized that he was not trying to miss. He wanted to shoot me in the leg so I could not walk. He wanted to maim, not to kill me. So that he could catch me. It was a simple plan, a terrible one. Starvation would force me to come to the house or the store. And the gun would keep me from going away again. And I knew he would try until he succeeded.

And so I have decided to leave the valley. I am convinced, since the shooting incident, that Mr. Loomis is insane. We will never be able to live in the same place in peace. I have lived in constant fear of being seen and hunted down: the sound of pebbles sliding on the rocks, a twig snapping, even the wind in the leaves can make my blood run cold. The valley, which has been home and shelter for my whole life, seems now to threaten me wherever I go, whatever I do.

And if I saw him, what would I say then? He would be mad with rage, and ready to kill. He would do anything to keep me from leaving. He would say anything. He would tell me of the horrors of the deadness, of the loneliness of silent roads and fields. He would speak of bodies in the houses and in cars; he would say he knew there was no other place: surely he had searched long enough. He would say, Come back to the house, come back, come back: this time I will leave you to yourself.

“Don’t go,” he said, “don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here alone.”