The Bells of Saint Mercy

Sam woke up to birds. Not the hollow scavenger caws that picked over corpses outside broken windows. Not the frantic warning cries that meant feeders were near. Morning birds, bright and annoyingly repetitive and alive, were singing like the world had never ended. For a long second, she didn't move. She reached out a hand to find Jack, but the bed was empty except for her. A distant lawn mower coughed to life. The sound hit her harder than the birds. Her eyes snapped open. The ceiling above her was white and clean. She can't remember seeing a ceiling that didn't have water stains or cracks spreading like veins. There was no soot. no mold. no bullet holes. She stared at it, her pulse slowing for exactly one breath before panic slammed into her chest hard enough to hurt. Her body moved before her mind did. She sat up too fast, dizziness hitting sharp and fast. The soft, warm blanket slid off her, exposing her to the warm summer air drifting in through her window. Her fingers tenderly picked up the quilt her grandmother had made her on her 16th birthday. Pressing her face into the soft underside, smelling the floral detergent her mother had used so many years ago. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her fingers tightened, knowing this was the same blanket she had traded to get food for her and Jack 6 years ago. Her eyes scanned beyond the bed and saw her old room. The pink walls she had begged to repaint and never did. The stupid desk lamp that only worked if you hit it twice. Math homework was still half-finished on the desk. Her hand flew to her arms. No scars. No teeth marks. Her fingers shook as she lifted her hand to her neck. The memory of the feeder tearing her throat out behind the compound walls. The walls that held the gate where her stepfather had stood watching with a smirk. All because she refused to go to his bed. Jack had followed her when she ran. He always followed her. They hadn't made it far. She was breathing too fast, and her hands were shaking from the shock. She tumbled out of bed, in a panic when her blankets and sheet caught her feet. She grabbed the math homework off the desk and stared at the date written in her stylized high-school handwriting. July 3, 2030 She couldn't be 18 again, And one month before this world came to an end. She couldn't relive that nightmare again. She smelled pancakes. and bacon. But she didn't move. Not wanting to break whatever dreamscape this was. She stood still, holding onto this for as long as it would let her. Then she heard Jack laugh. It echoed off the walls, from the kitchen. Sam ran barefoot into the hallway, crashing into the corner as she turned too fast. There he was, Jack. The boy had eaten a can of peaches with a screwdriver in a basement with her. The one that had her back when she went hunting for antibiotics, and three men jumped them and stole the medicine her mother had needed. The man who had shared her bed for the last 10 years. Who had watched the cities burn from their rooftop. Who had defended her from his dad. The one that had died in her arms moments before her own death. She moved slowly, like approaching a wild animal. Every step felt wrong. He looked young, so young. He still had a childish pudge about him. Jack was leaning against the counter in his stupid high school jacket, stealing bacon straight from the pan as if the apocalypse had never taught him manners. He looked up first. Grinned. "Morning, Peanut Butter." And just like that, Sam remembered exactly how much it hurt to love him. She stumbled to him like a mad woman in a dream and hugged him tight. Holding him, breathing him. "Ok, ok, a little Breathing room." He chuckled as his head leaned into her and his words whispered. His arms tightened for one second. Just one. Then his mouth brushed near her ear. "Careful, PB." His voice was softer now. Private. "You trying to get us caught before breakfast?" Sam pulled back and began checking him for injuries. She could still hear his screams of help echoing in her head. Jack tried to push her off as she checked his arm for the old bite mark scar, but there was nothing. "Seriously, Sam, what is up with you?" Jack laughed. A throat cleared behind her. The sound sent ice through her chest. Sam turned slowly. Her stepfather sat at the kitchen table with a tablet, using the news as a wall, just like every morning since he moved in. Her murderer. His eyes lifted over the edge of the tablet, lingering on her bare legs for a second too long before dropping back to the headlines. Rage grew inside her at the sight of him. He was still alive. And suddenly the world didn't feel quite as safe. "Sorry, J had a bad dream," Sam said, trying to cover up for her odd behavior using his nickname as he had done with PB for her. "A really bad one" "Wow. One nightmare and suddenly I'm your emotional support animal?" Sam couldn't stop staring at Jack until the sweet orange blossom scent of her mother's perfume pulled her attention away. "Mom!" Her words broke from her as she spun and hugged her mother tight from behind. "I've missed you so much." Her mother dropped her spatula in surprise right on the pancake she was making. "You saw me last night, right before you slammed your door in my face and told me your dating life wasn't my business." Sam laughed at the absurd creature she had been at 18, "Sorry about that. I didn't mean it." Lena Kirk turned off the stove and pushed the pancake pan from the heat before turning to look at Sam. "Seriously, what is wrong with you?" Her hand went up to her only child's forehead and felt for temp. Sam pushed her mother's hand away and pulled her mom into a hug. "Can't I just love my mom for a moment?" Her mother's laughter washed away so much of the pain of the previous years. "Sam, if this is you trying to get out of that tour of St Mercy's, it isn't going to happen." Sam froze. For one terrible second, she saw Saint Mercy burning again. Smoke rolling through shattered windows. Bodies in the courtyard. The bells silent. Stepping away from her mother, "I actually would prefer to stay away from that place." Painting on the fakest of smiles, "It does feel like a graveyard to me." "Nonsense, you're going." Her mother stepped away, taking the warmth with her. Sam bit the inside of her lip hard enough to stop the tears that threatened. "Now let me go, I have breakfast to make before your father needs to get to work." "Ok, mom." Sam leaned forward and kissed the back of her mother's head. "But I still love you." Her mother let out an exasperated sigh, but Sam could see a smile on her lips. Sam spotted the coffee pot sitting on the counter, almost beckoning to her. Her hand was already stretching out. It had been at least five years since she had her last cup. She grabbed the #1 Best Mom mug she had given her mother in fifth grade, after her real father died And she poured a mug of the delicious and coveted brew for herself. Leaning against the counter, she breathed in the sultry aroma and took a slow sip, warmth spreading slowly through her chest as she closed her eyes. Her stepfather cleared his throat in the way that made her skin crawl again, She heard more than saw her mother spin around, trained to jump whenever that man beckoned. Sam opened her eyes to find her stepfather staring pointedly at the mug in her hands. "Sam! When did you start drinking coffee?" Her mother said and took the mug away, "I know you're 18 and starting college next month, but no coffee until then. Not on my watch." "Ok, mom." Sam smiles as she sets the mug down, pushing it to the back of the counter to keep it safe for later. "Can I help with the pancakes?" Sam moved back to her mom and got a grin and a threatening spatula, warding off any spontaneous hugs. "You can get the syrup from the fridge," Lena said, smiling like she still couldn't believe the sudden change in her sullen daughter. Sam opened the fridge and forgot how to breathe for a second. Food filled every shelf. Real food. Milk. Produce. Leftovers nobody had bothered to finish because more could always be bought tomorrow. Her fingers brushed over a yellowing head of lettuce, a carton of takeout, and a tomato with only a small spot of mold near the stem. Waste. Casual, ordinary waste. She had seen men kill each other over less. Her eyes burned suddenly. All this abundance. Sitting forgotten inside the refrigerator. She quickly drew out the syrup from the other condiments. Climbing into her chair next to Jack and placing the syrup down at the small round table that fit just their family of four, it felt so surreal. Her stepfather's thick, clammy fingers brushed over hers as he took the syrup. He smiled lazily at her like they shared a secret. Then his eyes went to something in the paper, unconcerned, comfortable. Sam stared at him and remembered blood on the kitchen floor. Jack shouting with a knife in his hand. Her mother coughing into a dish towel, already sick by then. The front door slamming behind him. And the silence of his abandonment. "Sam, you look like you saw a ghost," her mother said. "You okay?" "Just a bad dream," Sam said, smiling at her mother in a lace blouse and tailored skirt, makeup perfect. "You look really pretty, Mom." "Oh, Sam," Her mother's blush made Sam's heart break, knowing the man sitting at the table with them would kill all of them in the end. She turned and watched Jack eat his breakfast with the casual, overconfident laziness of a boy who had never known hunger. She couldn't help but stare at his being so alive and so close to her. "Jack, have you sent your acceptance?" Her stepfather snapped when he caught her looking at Jack. "I was thinking of not going." Jack gave a sly wink to Sam. Her mind raced to find this exact moment in the history of her memories. Military school. Right. Jack's full-ride scholarship for his senior year. He had planned to turn it down. Stay here. Stay with her. They were supposed to move in together once he turned eighteen. Her at college. Him taking Running Start classes while he finished high school. They had felt so grown-up planning it. Her stomach lurched as her heart broke. In ten years, he would die with her, Or she could change history right now. "I think you should go."