Flowers from Exodus
Life after the invasion leaves Cora in a state of distress. A secret grows inside of her, one that she struggles to share with her husband.
Flowers from Exodus
Cora stared into space, elbow-deep in fresh soil. Mounds of midsummer garlic sat beside her, ready for autumn harvest. Fresh bulbs were ready for spring. It was time to pluck and turn, prepare the earth and prepare the garlic for consumption. Cora had plans for the garlic, plans to store them in jars with honey, ginger, and hot peppers for when someone inevitably fell ill.
These plans, however, were not on her mind.
When she shut her eyes, Cora envisioned vines wrapping around her arms. Her fingers curled into the earth, willing herself to take root and yanked downward. Her hands, once soft and painted, developed calluses along the palms. Unseen in the dirt, it was as though no change occurred. The ground was passive to the ever-marching trill of time. It denied nothing so long as it was fed: rain, sunshine, blood…
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Cora opened her eyes and looked at her hands, sifting the loose soil in disappointment as she realized that she remained in total freefall. Worse still, she had time to reflect upon her dismay. The chickens and cattle were fed, eggs basketed, milk and water drawn and stored. Later, Cora would prepare pats of butter. It was not even noon.
Joshua would be home around dark. It left a good amount of time for dwelling.
Her husband had gone out hunting early that morning.
“I can see you doing nothing from the house,” said a voice.
Cora turned.
Victoria’s sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, a fruit knife in one hand and a half-peeled apple in the other. Her sister enjoyed a plentiful fall harvest.
“I’ll trade you apples for butter,” said Victoria.
Cora’s laugh was hollow. Without meeting her sister’s eye, she said, “Of course. I’ll, um… I’ll stop by later.”
Victoria cocked her head. “What’s wrong?”
Cora felt her eye twitch, covering up the tic by rubbing her wrist along her brow as if wiping sweat.
What’s wrong?
What a stupid question.
This was not the life she’d envisioned for herself. After school as a young girl, Cora would lie on her back in her bedroom and dream. She was always good at that, dreaming. It took time but with each second in her mind, Cora would layer texture upon texture until she could make out a white Victorian house at the end of the street. It was her plan, amongst many plans.
When she met Joshua, Cora could swear that she’d see their children reflected in his eyes. His face spilt onto the pages of her imagination. They’d paint the walls of their new home and they’d dance in a half-finished kitchen. So many plans… Sunday naps, blue-birds, coffee on the porch, blueberry pie on the window sill, making love while it rained.
Then, they came. It began in mid-October when the skies were clear enough to see Jupiter. People began to have visions, the same ones. At first, it was only artistic types, those whose minds were open. The visions reached others and spread until there was panic. It was then that they—whoever they were—arrived on earth. Aircraft descended from above and sent everything into chaos. All communication was nixed, the power grid was destroyed, and soldiers marched through the streets. They’d torn the flag down from their porches and ripped apart each dream Cora had with tactical gloves.
Surviving the initial wave was difficult. Yet, Joshua managed to tow his new wife through an active warzone. They left Charleston and their new house. Their families and close friends met upstate, along the mountainous North-South Carolinian border.
Cora came to the sinking realization that this was her life. There would be no white Victorian at the end of the street.
Of course, they'd been lucky. Lucky that their white and blue-collar families joined through Cora and Joshua.
Lucky that her sister’s husband was a physician associate.
Lucky that her husband’s brother was a welder.
Lucky a family friend was a veterinarian, that her younger brother was in IT.
Lucky that her husband could hunt with a bow, that he could shoot, that her sister could preserve, and that they’d all moved to the same property together.
Lucky.
Lucky.
So very lucky.
It didn’t bother her yesterday. Today it did.
Though difficult, they’d figured it out. Through trial and error and stolen library books, they’d rediscovered charcoal toothpaste and beeswax candles. Somehow, through the grace of God, they expanded to horses, pigs, sheep, chickens, and cattle; tomatoes, apples, peaches, peanuts, garlic, and…
Her eyes darted to her hands planted in the dirt.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Cora chirped to Victoria with a smile.
Victoria’s brow wrinkled, eyes growing distant. “Is it Grace?”
Cora began to dig with renewed vigor. Grace was the girl a hill over who’d married Beau, a carpenter.
“I mean, it’s terrible,” said Cora absently.
Nodding, Victoria took a nibble of the apple in her hand. “Terrible,” she agreed, mouth full.
Cora went along with Victoria and Jackson, her brother-in-law. Jackson needed an extra pair of hands to keep things clean. Teresa, the vet, was there to help deliver the baby. Violent deaths were to be expected, sure, but not on happy days; not on days where new life was meant to be celebrated.
And Grace had gone violently.
Even with her hands six inches beneath the ground, Cora could still smell the blood.
“Poor Beau,” whispered Victoria.
“Poor Beau,” Cora repeated.
Such was life.
Danger presented itself at every turn. Cora learned to rely on Joshua. He was practical and strong. Halfway to the mountains, they’d stopped in Columbia and loaded up on over-the-counter medication at a gas station. It was not a good place to stop. She went in and Joshua remained in the car—a prized possession when most vehicles somehow ceased operation—with it still running. A man attempted to intercept Cora and things escalated. Seeing her husband kill a man with his bare hands imprinted on her a sense of profound respect.
There were things he could not protect her from, it seemed.
“I’ll bring you the butter in a bit,” said Cora to Victoria.
“What cheese did you use in your eggs yesterday? The ones in the bath.”
“Eggs cocotte.”
“Yes, that. What cheese did you use?”
“Mostly cheddar. You liked it?”
“Loved it. Jackson won’t shut up about it. I tried baking my eggs but they just don’t come out like yours. Would you trade rice for a wheel? It’s the best one you’ve done so far.”
“It’s all still a work in progress,” Cora muttered.
As Victoria began to turn away, Cora asked, “are you using cream?”
“Huh?”
“Are you using cream?”
Victoria’s forehead wrinkled. “In what?”
“The eggs cocotte.”
“Oh… No, I don’t think so.”
“You’ve got to use cream if you want it to be like custard.”
Later, as Cora pulled out the hefty block of cheddar, she felt her stomach lurch. Ignoring the sensation, Cora took the cheese to Victoria and Jackson’s house, a small cabin on the edge of the property. Her boots crunched on the freshly fallen leaves and her rifle gently bumped her hip. It was not yet cold enough to see her breath, but the air contained a promising bite. Without warning, Cora intensely recollected the taste of Cinnabon. Nothing was as easy as visiting a mall, however. She’d need to use a sourdough starter, make the butter, barter for raisins and brown sugar…
Everything took so long.
“Maybe I’ll just make cinnamon pancakes,” she said to herself.
The act of compromise, even with herself, filled Cora with rage. She found herself wrestling with the urge to throw the wheel of cheese through a nearby window. Crying was overrated and no one had time for it. She stood still, face tilted toward the sky. Willing herself to swallow the angry tears only seemed to make everything worse. Cora sat down behind a woodpile and pressed a hand over her mouth. There was no control over how she felt but at least Cora could control her silence. She used her other hand to curl into a fist, digging her nails into the palm of her hand.
If the skies opened up and swallowed the world now, she’d not be sorry to see anything go.
While Charleston burned, Cora hoped it was the end. How many people throughout time wished the same? As the hellish waters of Mount Vesuvius swept over Pompei, surely some felt it unfair for the world to continue.
Apocalypse or not, the cheese needed to be delivered.
She found Jackson seeing patients out the back. For a moment, Cora considered asking him for options. She quickly banished the idea. It would not make her life easier, she decided. With a silent wave to her brother-in-law, Cora entered his house and placed the wheel of cheese on their counter.
Ordinarily, Jackson would’ve taken a break to go out hunting with Joshua and his brother Tristan but radios revealed the invaders to be nearby. A man would need to stay behind. The two that went would need to be silent; no gunshots and no lights.
Joshua and Tristan were decent archers. Homeschooling left a large amount of time open to learn things that other children would not. They could ride horses, drive tractors, fix cars, and build houses; all things that Cora, Victoria, and Jackson exchanged for university education. She couldn’t rig a tractor nor could she understand the fickle way of horses. Never in her life had Cora felt more stupid.
Back then, her friends had made snide comments about Joshua’s lack of refinement.
Fat lot of good degrees and 1500 SAT scores did now.
The night came quickly and Cora found herself in the basement with a book. Every living thing was stored underground. The plants were covered with special camouflage netting. Neither drones nor planes would see there were people on the property.
Cora gnawed on her lower lip, staring at the words on the page. They appeared to her as a single block. She was in chapter 20, nearing the end of Grapes of Wrath. Not her favorite, but it would help the time pass. In the winter, she’d attempt to teach neighboring children literature based on this book.
An hour passed and Cora still did not turn the page.
Guilt seized her. Joshua would be upset, certainly. What sort of mother would bring a child into this world; a world where occupiers hanged her people from long-darkened street lamps? Cruelty was very literally universal. She should’ve been more careful.
Maybe they should leave, she thought suddenly. There were rumors of the nation’s survival in the rugged wilderness of West Virginia or out in Montana. If she could convince the others, maybe she might be able to start gathering information.
Of course, she’d need to talk to Joshua.
Yet Joshua did not come.
On the mantle, the analog clock ticked.
Cora tried to anticipate his reaction to the news. In her mind, she pictured his face, freckled and fair. Joshua had begun to grow a mustache this past year. It matured his face, made him appear more serious, his brows more pronounced, and brought attention to the hooded and predatory shape of his eyes.
He’d also become quiet.
In a strange way that Cora could not explain, this disturbed her. Silence filled her ears like cotton. In the night, as the house creaked and the wind blew, she’d watch the back of his head. It was once blond from the seaside sunshine. It had since darkened.
Cora would gaze and wonder about the color of his thoughts. When he held her it was absent-minded, a hand on the shoulder to move her out of the way in the kitchen, an obligatory kiss in the morning. Did the years force them to become different people or were they always this way?
He might frown when she told him.
She’d heard stories of survivors turning those with children away. There was a family nearby, the Forresters, whose husband was rumored to have drowned his pregnant wife to save their commune. Babies were, after all, hard to keep quiet.
Sweat beaded on Cora’s brow.
Still, Joshua did not arrive.
At her elbow, the candles burned low.
Anxiety pricked at her belly. Could he already know? She’d been so careful, hidden everything so well. If Joshua found out, maybe he’d leave.
A bell tinkled pleasantly from above. The floorboards creaked and dust descended. Quietly, Cora rose, blew out the candle, and moved into a corner. She readied her rifle and waited. The trap door opened and a pinprick of light from a candle appeared. Moments later, Victoria’s pale face emerged.
Cora released the breath she’d been holding. “What the hell, Tori? You’re supposed to knock! I could’ve shot you!”
Victoria’s eyes were wide. “Lights in the distance,” she said.
“How do you know?” demanded Cora. “Is Joshua back?”
“No, Jackson sent me to come get you since you’re alone.”
Cora swallowed.
“Hurry, hurry,” Victoria urged, beckoning with her free hand. “We’ve got to get over before they pass.”
Cora left everything, save her firearm and climbed the ladder. She followed her sister up and out the door. Victoria covered her candle, plunging the two into relative darkness. Both held still for their eyes to adjust. Then, quietly, they crossed the lawn.
It was silent.
Two lights flashed above the trees, both white. Cora and Victoria ceased their movements, watching for the third light. A censor from one of the aircraft was on the prowl. It had not found them just yet—
A red light flashed.
“Shit,” cursed Victoria. “Motion detected. What do we do?”
Cora felt herself grow cold. They had sixty seconds before a follow-up censor would determine whether they were human or animal. Then, they’d come. They’d come with their great black ship and strange helmets. Visions would infect Cora’s mind and spread to the others in due time.
They’d become like the Forresters.
“We can’t lead them to the house,” whispered Cora.
“So we go into the woods?”
“Separately.”
“Okay.”
They tore off, Cora to the East and Victoria to the West.
Cora sprinted through the trees, off the path and into the foliage. Another light flashed. This one was painful, sending a shock into her sockets. Cora pressed on despite the discomfort. Branches and nettle caught on her hair and clothes. On the crest of the hill, Cora paused to catch her breath, looking down into the valley.
Before she could plan or worry about Victoria, from the shadows something descended upon her. Cora ducked. When she looked up, nothing was there. She stifled a cough. Her chest felt tight and her crouch was uncomfortable.
It might’ve been an owl or a bat… hopefully.
She waited for the tell-tale winking of light, for a flash in the dark. There was nothing. An hour later, Cora began a slow and careful crawl along the ridge. When nothing appeared, she stood.
She found a path, just barely overgrown, and followed it for a few moments before stopping. Should she continue, she’d be moving further downhill. In emergencies, the family had a “plan”: move uphill toward an abandoned cabin. Cora did not care to follow.
A sudden urge washed over her to take the path and walk on until light. She could go to the lake and just keep walking until its black waters closed overhead and brought the cool, dark comfort that the soil brought earlier.
Cora pressed the heel of her hand to her twitching eye and turned away. Perhaps she’d find some alternative solution. Cora walked to the base of the second hill and found a rocky overhang. She tucked herself behind the bushes so that she could see out but none could see her. Then, with her rifle at the ready, she waited.
And waited.
The dark turned gray and a mist settled over the land, weighing thickly over the Blue Ridge Mountains and lingering in the hollers. Still, Cora sat.
Then, her eyes caught movement.
In the mist, just ahead, Cora could make out a figure. Her teeth gritted. He had a particular gait, like a deer in the morning. She recognized the breadth of Joshua’s shoulders and distinct profile; the heavy brow and the high nose bridge.
Cora remained behind the bushes. Her dark eyes stared, unblinking, from the shadows. Joshua stood upwind so that Cora could make out the smell of pine and sweat. He turned his head one way and then the other. Her finger traced the rifle’s safety. Perhaps there was no need to wonder about the color he kept in his mind.
Her breathing slowed and her chest felt bruised. Cora ignored the dull ache.
The Forresters,
Beau,
Grace,
the Forresters…
If she wanted to do it, she should do it now. There would be little chance once Joshua saw her. She recalled the gas station in downtown Columbia, Joshua’s stranglehold on their attacker. No chance if he saw her.
There was a soft click as Cora turned off the safety. It was deafening. Joshua stopped moving. His eyes narrowed, brows drawing together, and his hand reached for his holster. Cora watched his chest rise and fall rapidly. His lower lip was drawn anxiously in between his teeth.
Why? wondered Cora. Another part of her answered, What if we end up like the Forresters? What is the point if things continue as they are?
She dreamt of the house; a waking dream where she walked through its halls and to the back window. No longer was Cora in the mountains. She was South of Broad, near the Catholic cathedral. The sky was an eternal blue, the French Quarter bustling with tourists and medical students.
Her left eye twitched.
Joshua came after that first dream reached her. Maybe she could go back. If she receded a single step, Cora mused, she might fit the ink back into the bottle and wake up in her childhood bedroom. The Spongebob radio would be playing and the existence of other-worldly invaders would be limited to Hollywood movies.
Flowers are living things and have no place in the underworld.
It was a strange thought, a series of words that made sense to Cora as she thought them in the moment. Yet as she reflected on their meaning, the strange spell receded. Something was wrong.
As Cora moved to stand, something jutted into her chin. She blinked. The rifle’s barrel pressed against the soft underside of her jaw. Her fingers were on the trigger. The safety was off. Try as she might, Cora found that she could not move to place the rifle down.
What am I doing?
A memory flashed through her mind from a month ago. Tristan came in through the front door as Joshua ate breakfast. The brothers were distinct in their respective appearances but shared the same green eyes, walk, and crooked smile. Politely, he removed the baseball cap from his head.
Cora greeted him sunnily. “Morning, Tristan! Have you eaten yet?”
“If he wanted to eat like this, he should get his own wife,” teased Joshua.
“It’s okay, Cora,” said Tristan. “I can’t stay. I just came to get Josh.”
There was a pause, Joshua placing down his coffee cup and Cora ceasing her movements over the stove.
Cora exchanged a look with her husband. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Tristan. “Something happened at the river near the Forresters.”
Her brother-in-law had always been a bad liar. There’d been strange cases like this all over the mountain. Whispers of visions snagging onto the survivors, weakening large groups to help an oncoming wave.
Turning back to the stove, Cora did not press further. She did not want to know.
Joshua got to his feet with a brisk nod. “You can tell me on the way.”
He crossed the kitchen and kissed his wife.
“Be careful,” whispered Cora.
“Cora?”
Joshua’s voice echoed through the memory, dragging her back to the forest floor with the gun beneath her chin. “Cora, what are you doing?”
Trembling, she raised her eyes to her husband. He was a few feet from her, hands raised, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t put it down.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, you don’t need to put it down. I want you to turn the safety on.”
Something overcame her, like a shadow over the sun. The smell of damp soil filled her senses.
“They don’t like you, Joshua.”
“What?”
“They don’t like you. They want every piece of you gone. Every little piece.”
“Okay, Cora. Don’t listen to them. I want you to listen to me. Just move your fingers off the trigger, alright? That’s all you have to do.”
Her eyes grew big and her breathing ragged. “Flowers are living things and have no place in the underworld. Tear out the root, tear out the root.”
“Baby, you’re scaring me. I’m begging you.”
Cora clenched teeth to stop them from chattering and squeezed her eyes closed. Twigs snapped as Joshua stepped closer. “Talk to me, hon,” he said. His voice pitched.
Licking her lips, Cora—though the name no longer seemed to fit her—revelled in the sound of his rising hysteria.
“They want you to watch,” she said.
In the blackness behind her shut lids, she concentrated on the tenor of his voice and allowed it to anchor her. Like the soil, it drew her in and held her. Yet—
Her lungs burned as Cora struggled for each breath. Just as she felt his fingertips brush her arm, another voice spoke from the dark.
Flowers are living things and have no place in the underworld.
Tear out the root,
Tear out the root.
Good one!
That was great. You had me captivated to see what happened.