Chapter 22
A Farewell
The storm had passed and the sky was a flawless blue. Matt was in the garden, going from shrub to shrub, delicately snipping flowers with his mother’s gardening shears. Elvis sat on the front veranda watching him, with his head resting on his paws. Matt wondered if this would be the last time anybody would tend this beautiful, well-loved space that his mother had created from scratch. The boy thought that from now on beauty might be a luxury that he could barely afford. The events of last night had changed him, made his soul hard, like a piece of volcanic glass. He looked inside himself, trying to glimpse the positive, happy boy he’d been just a few days ago, but that person seemed to have gone somewhere else. In his place now was a man who had seen too much and, out of necessity, done things that no son should ever be expected to do.
After Matt had shot his father, he carried the body back to the house in the dark. The mud, rain and blood made the body slippery, but after a few attempts the boy managed to get his father’s lifeless shell out of the deluge and deliver it onto the dry front porch. When his father’s head clunked tonelessly against the worn timber boards, Matt felt something slip in his mind, but he managed to keep himself together enough to carry on. He walked to the shed and pulled a heavy canvas tarpaulin from an ancient tractor, and took a piece of coiled nylon rope that was hanging on the wall before returning to the front veranda, where Elvis was patiently maintaining a vigil beside the body. Matt laid the tarp out flat on the floor, and went inside to the linen cupboard, where he found a couple of his mother’s best towels. He used the first one to clean up his father’s face and wipe down the body as best he could. Then he carefully removed the shredded shirt and covered the gunshot wounds with a second towel, before dressing him in a clean shirt he had found in his father’s closet. When he was satisfied that he had restored a little dignity to his mentor and guardian, he dragged the body onto the canvas tarp and wrapped him as tightly as he was able. Finally he used the nylon rope to secure the makeshift shroud, so that by the time he was finished his father looked as if he were ready for a burial at sea. With the first part of the task complete, Matt slumped down on his mother’s favourite rattan chair and wondered why he wasn’t crying. Within seconds he was asleep.
Matt woke as the first light of dawn was colouring the sky and the magpies were warbling to each other in the eucalypt trees. He rubbed his eyes and stood up. Falling asleep outdoors had been stupid! He had been unprotected from the feeders and he owed his survival to nothing more than sheer good luck. A more religious person might have said that the spirit of his father protected him while he slept, but Matt was a realist, and knew that the only way his father lived on now was through the genes he had passed on, the practical skills he had taught the boy, and the values he had endowed him with. Matt scratched Elvis behind the ears and went into the kitchen to find the dog something to eat. While Elvis ate a microwave-defrosted steak from the freezer Matt forced himself to eat two bananas and drink the last of the milk from the fridge. He was going to need all of his energy today.
The spot he chose for the burial was a shady corner of mum’s garden beside a bench where she had loved to sit and read. The rain had made the ground considerably softer near the surface, but about half a metre down, rocks made the going difficult. It was almost ten o’clock before he was satisfied with the size of the pit and he was ready to bring this latest in a bizarre chain of events to a close. He went to the shed and hitched the trailer to the all-terrain vehicle, which he then towed to the front veranda where his father’s body laid. He gently positioned the shrouded figure on the vehicle’s tray then rode slowly back to the spot in the garden where his father’s remains would be committed to the earth. He slid the body onto the ground beside the hole, as carefully as he was able, and climbed down into the cool, dark space. He slid his arms under his father’s back, braced himself and, lifted him from the damp ground. With the body securely in his arms, he kneeled down and laid his father at the bottom of the grave. Wearily, Matt climbed out and diligently and began bury the man he loved. The man he had killed. Still there had been no tears.
Now Matt stood beside the burial plot with a large bunch of his mother’s flowers clutched in his right hand. The rocks that had made digging so difficult were now placed on top of the grave in a tidy rectangular mound to mark the spot and ensure that the loose soil would not be washed away in a heavy downpour of rain. Matt bent over and placed the flowers neatly on top. He tried to think of something profound and meaningful to say but his mind was blank. Then, out of the blue, a memory came, like a piece of flotsam bobbing to the surface after a shipwreck. It was Christmas Day two years ago. The three of them had finished breakfast and mum was passing out gifts to Matt and his father. Without ceremony Matt’s father suddenly handed him a clumsily wrapped gift, which was unusual because it was always his mother who distributed the presents on Christmas morning. He thanked him and unwrapped the gift to discover a triple-pack of woollen work socks. “Gee Dad, thanks. They’re great,” he had said, forcing a smile.
“That’s okay son,” his father replied, beaming. “They’re the same ones I wear. They’re really comfortable”.
And that was that. Mum went back to handing out the gifts and the normal Christmas routine was resumed. It was only later that night that Matt realised how special that moment had been. His father - the tough, rugged, independent farmer - had gone into a store, chosen a gift, then wrapped it himself and given it to his son because he had thought that’s what he would want. And his dad had been right- they were really comfortable socks. Matt smiled.
Then the tears came.
-
An hour later, after a shower and a change of clothes, Matt was back in the truck heading to Carswell with Elvis, where he hoped to find a survivor or two. He would need to pass through Millfield, which was not something he was particularly looking forward to, because he knew that the human remains littering the streets (and inside some houses, he supposed) would be decomposing and the smell would be bad. Despite his misgivings, however, he needed to reassure himself that there were no other survivors in town. He had no plans to stop in Millfield, though. He would cruise through the town slowly, make observations, and then drive to Carswell to see how the 'event' had impacted on the larger town.
Matt rolled through Millfield, with his windows wound up and the air conditioner pumping, and noticed that there was a relatively small number of fresh corpses. There had been less feeding last night, which made him wonder about the habits of the creatures. Would they just continue to feed on each other until their population was so small as to be unsustainable, or would they adapt, finding new food sources such as livestock or even vegetable crops? It was only common sense that any species of living thing could not feed just on itself without eventually becoming extinct, no matter how appealing that idea was to him.
Matt reached the eastern outskirts of Millfield and put his foot to the accelerator and was beginning to pick up speed when something in the front yard of a little white cottage caused him to slam his foot down on the brakes and stare incredulously through his side window. Surely, this had to be his tired mind playing tricks on him! He slowly opened his door and stepped out of the car, as Elvis leaped across the seat and ran, tail wagging furiously.
In the front yard of a modest house, in the sunshine of Millfield, a little girl was rocking back and forth on a swing.