Rebirth13 min read
Six Hours Before: I Came Back to Save My Family
ButterPicks17 views
I woke to the elevator bell and a clean, ordinary morning. For a heartbeat I could not remember which life this was.
"Abby, are you okay?" Jacqueline Schmitz asked from the corridor.
"I'm fine," I lied. My hands shook when I slipped the phone open. "Zack, it's three hours to noon, right? Six hours until—"
"Until what?" he asked, distance in his voice.
"The day everything changes," I said, and I did not tell him the real reason. I did not tell anyone yet. I did not want the heavy weight of knowledge to make them frantic.
"My name is Abigail Allen," I said to myself. "You know the steps. You know the names. Don't say them out loud."
"Abigail?" Emelia Fernandez ran in with flour on one small cheek and the kind of grin children have in morning light. "Mama, can I have my toy?"
"Not now, love." I scooped her up. Her small arms wrapped around my neck. "I need to get you out of school early. Wait here."
At nine in the morning the city seemed to be the same as it always had been. People in suits moved like planets in quiet orbits. But I had lived the other orbit, the orbit where the sky turned and monsters walked. This time I had a map.
"Call Miss Zhou," I told Jacqueline. "Tell her to keep Emelia with her. I'll be there in five minutes."
Jacqueline frowned. "Why, Abigail?"
"Because I said so," I replied sharply, and the tone shut her down. She moved like the old, steady woman she had always been—calm hands, heavy steps. I left the apartment and the air tasted like ordinary smog.
"Call me if anything happens!" a small-voiced teacher said to me when I picked Emelia up at the kindergarten.
"I will. Thank you." I felt my throat burn. I had four hours to change fate.
I ordered everything I could think of on the delivery app. Canned meats, rice, dried beans, fuel cans, batteries. "Leave it at the gate," I typed, because too much at the door would attract eyes. I took only what I could walk with for now. On the way back I called Devin Cohen, my brother.
"Dee, go to the market. Get shovels, hammers, seeds—any seed. And strong locks."
"Abby, I have a paper due in—"
"Do as I say," I cut him off. "I'll pay for it. Take a taxi to me with everything."
There was no time for argument.
By noon the small elevator was pressed to the ground floor and the world had turned on an axis I had learned by heart. Sirens began like an omen: far, then closer. People screamed once like a chorus and then nothing, man or beast.
"What do we do?" Devin asked when he piled into our kitchen and saw the small mountain of supplies.
"Lock doors, fill water, plant seeds on the terrace, hide the good stuff," I said. I felt the neat list steady me. "We have six hours."
"Six hours?" he repeated.
"Six hours."
The first screams came from downstairs. I remember feeling the hairs stand up on my neck. The building sounded like a panicked heart. From the window I watched neighbors pushed and bitten. I knew this rhythm. I had been there once. I had lost everything once.
"Don't tell Emelia," Jacqueline whispered. "She is too small."
"She is old enough," I said. "She is our hope."
We packed sacks with food. We stacked heavy furniture against the door and wedged a table under the knob. We put up the curtains and closed the windows.
"Why are you taking so many batteries?" Devin asked, puzzled.
"Batteries and lamps save your senses the night after," I said. "When the grid goes down, people lose more than light."
When the first people reached our hallway, they were confused and frantic, blood on their sleeves. "Please, open the door—" a man gasped.
"Do not open," I said to Devin. The door shook.
He took a breath and, like he had been taught, he said to the visitor through the crack, "There are sick people here. We cannot help."
We held quiet until the banging stopped.
At three-thirty in the afternoon the first clear thing came: the dead got up.
They were not dead in any sense I had known, but something else had rewritten their smiles. They moved like puppets and smelled of iron. My grandmother fainted. I caught her.
"Abigail," Jacqueline moaned as she came back to herself, eyes huge. "You said this day would come."
"I did," I said. "We have to do what we practiced."
There were so many small things I did differently this time: I taught Devin how to crush a skull back before he needed to do it. I taught Emelia how to crawl silent and still. I learned to boil less water so the smell of cooking would not invite trouble.
"Abby, I'm going to the roof to work on the raincatcher," Devin said that night in a voice like glass.
"Be back before dawn."
"I will," he said, but he did not come back till dawn. He had been helping neighbors trap water.
The first weeks were a mirror of the life I remembered—but with small differences. We planted radishes and spinach on the roof. I taught Emelia to water at dawn. The radishes came up in twenty-one days. She called them "mountain babies."
"I remember you." Jaxon Palmer called out one rainy day from the market ruins. "You used to come in with your minivan for gas."
"Yes," I answered. "We all used to live over there."
He became a small lifeline: a young man who knew where a hidden box of canned fish still sat and how to fix a pump. He did not survive the early walk-throughs of the city without scars, but he kept us informed. He told us of groups moving through the highways and of a man with an ugly set of teeth planning raids.
"Pierce Ellis?" someone asked. The name itself stuck like a splinter.
"A leader," Jaxon said. "He moves with a crew. Take what you want and leave people to die."
I should have known the world would not only be full of monsters that bite; there would be monsters that bargain.
We kept moving east after a winter that was colder by a month than in my old life. The roads were littered with burned cars and bones. We met people who formed into groups. Most were hungry and raw, some were cruel.
One night in a rain-silver fog, after a hopeless detour around a broken bridge, twenty or so of us were taken alive by a band of armed men. I felt each breath like a coin being taken. They took our possessions at a village by the road.
"You can keep breathing," a tall man said. He was lean and had a voice like gravel. "As long as you don't cause trouble."
"I can lead you to food," I said. "I can bring you to a place where a safe zone stands. I know the road, but not the time."
He laughed, a small short laugh. "You're a liar. Or you're the trick."
The leader stepped forward. "Pierce Ellis," he said, with a terrible vanity. "You made your choices, lady."
I had to lie, to buy our time. "My husband is a soldier," I said, "Zack Campbell. He told me of a place. We can get there."
I held out an old photograph—Zack's face, calm and stern. "He will pay you."
The men eyed the picture like it might bite them. One of them, a younger face that looked like nerves, stepped close to Emelia and smiled. That smile was a man who had not known children in a long while.
"Don't touch her," I said low, and my voice was steel.
We left in a group that took our lead. They had cars and they had guns. They had hunger in their eyes. We moved as one rattling caravan toward the east, toward Dragon Bay and to a hope which had been my lifeline.
Days blurred. The rain carved rivers through the highways. The crew lost numbers and we lost trust. People skirmished for gasoline. The leader, Pierce Ellis, tasted power. He took to punishing people for the smallest things.
"Keep your eyes on your own," he growled as he pushed a man to the ground and took his blanket. "We share. We share as we see fit."
That night the man tried to steal back his blanket and Pierce cracked his jaw for it. He called the man a thief in the morning. The group grew smaller.
We made it near the safe zone after weeks. We were tired, ragged, and very, very raw. The city walls of Dragon Bay looked like a promise. Men with uniforms and shields guarded the gates.
"Hold the line," Maverick Said told us as we queued to be checked at the gates. He was not soft. "One lie, one broken rule, you go to containment."
I signed forms and watched the young soldiers check IDs. My heart knocked against my chest.
"Abigail Allen?" a voice called. I stepped forward.
It was a blur of names and questions. They scanned us. They took our guns away. They offered water.
"We will process you," the soldier told us. "But we need to ask about the bandit group."
"Pierce Ellis?" I said. The name moved like a scar.
"He is processed over there," Maverick indicated a fenced area. He did not smile. "But there has been trouble. He leads a raid group."
"Is he in custody?" A woman screamed from the line. Her child had died on the road. "Did you punish him?"
"We detained him," Maverick said, "and they are being questioned."
"Questioned?" the woman repeated. "We need justice."
They held a public hearing the next morning. I was there, not because I sought vengeance, but because people had to see what happens when you choose to prey on others.
They brought Pierce Ellis into the center court. The square was full of survivors. People stood shoulder to shoulder with anger and fear braided together. Cameras, old smartphone lights, and a small regiment of officers made a ring. The sun was low and pale, and the square smelled of smoke and old grief.
"Pierce Ellis," a soldier called. "You stand accused of robbery, murder, and reckless endangerment of survivors. How do you plead?"
Pierce threw back his head. He still had the arrogance of a man who had eaten others' rights.
"I did what had to be done," Pierce said. He raised his chin like a man declaring a creed. People hissed.
"Explain," the officer said. He had a clipboard but his eyes were soft when he looked at the crowd. They wanted to see justice, not a paper.
A woman in the crowd stepped forward—Fox Dawson, a neighbor whose house Pierce once stormed for food. She was thin but she had a voice that did not tremble.
"You killed my brother because he wouldn't hand over his medicine," she said. "You kicked my door in and you laughed. He was a teacher."
Pierce's face dropped a fraction. "We needed—"
"You needed nothing but your stomach," she shouted. "You left us with bones."
Enraged whispers turned to cries. The crowd clutched each other. Pierce's shoulders stiffened. He glanced at his crew; a few looked away. A young man who once looked at Emelia with greedy eyes swallowed.
The tribunal asked for witnesses. One after another, people told stories: a child stolen and sold; a grandmother's canned milk taken; a woman beaten in the street; a couple forced from their car and stranded to the wolves. Each testimony added to a mountain.
Pierce tried the defense of necessity. "We were hungry," he said. "We were cold. We did what we could to survive."
A man near me bellowed, "You survived by killing hope."
Pierce's eyes flicked to me. "You promised us a safe path," he spat. "You led us into slaughter."
"Do not blame the guide for the hunger in your heart," I said. My voice surprised me—calm but bright with a blade. The crowd turned.
"You took without giving," I told him. "You used people as tools. Some of us gave what we could; some of us took to keep the children alive. You took beyond that. You do not get to call it survival when you created the hunger."
Pierce's jaw trembled. "You were the one who lied about the safe zone," he shot. "You led us here. You promised sanctuary and you had nothing."
A ripple moved through the listeners. A man cursed.
"No," I said. "I told the truth as I knew it. I lied once to save my family on that road, like any mother would. But I did not take children or medicine or life and make it my business. You did."
Then the tribunal read their ruling.
"They will be publicly accountable," Maverick said. "Not because we need blood, but because they must taste the consequence of taking human life. This place will see them fall, and remember."
Pierce's face contorted. He tried to pull on an older soldier with him but hands gripped his arms. A cord was bound around his wrists. The crowd began to record, never letting the moment pass into forgetfulness.
They led him into the center. The public punishment was to be both humiliation and restitution: forced labor to rebuild and restore what he had broken, reparation to those he hurt, and exposure to the crowd who had watched him turn others into things to be used.
"Take him to the work yard," Maverick ordered. "Let him rebuild the walls he helped break. Let him carry the packs he took and feed the people he starved."
Pierce's lips quivered. He expected physical mercies or a roll of money. He did not expect work. He did not expect people to watch him at every step.
They stripped him of badges and belts and the rough coat he wore when he raided villages. They made him sit in the center of the square. A woman who had lost her husband shook the bag with the last of the rationed sugar from Pierce's coat. She threw the sugar into the air in a slow, showy motion. The sugar glittered and fell like small white ash.
"Take it," she said. "Now eat it." Her voice was empty and she began to cry.
Pierce tried to eat but his hands trembled. He had never done hard labor beyond intimidation. The first shovel they gave him scraped his blisters. The crowd watched and recorded with phones. They photographed his flinches and his attempts at work. Some cheered every small movement he made toward rebuilding. Others spat.
"You will march the city walls," an officer said. "You will carry stones for the gap you helped leave. For every house you broke you will build a foundation. For every child you scared you will sing the name of their lost parents."
He forced Pierce to kneel before the families he had harmed. Fox Dawson came forward with a list: names of people Pierce had robbed; names of things stolen. The men and women who had been wronged came forward and took what was given. The young who had once been mean eyed met him with silence like a blade.
At first Pierces's face was cocky. He tried to laugh and found his laughter thin. Then he began to cry—first like a man whose plans had failed, then like a man seeing himself in the low mirror of other's eyes. His expression slid from obstinacy to denial.
"No—no, I didn't—" he stammered.
"You did," a neighbor said softly. "And now you will do."
The crowd reacted. Some spat. Some began to call names of the children he had hurt. Others stood with arms folded, not trusting the world to allow nicer healing. Photographs went across the square like birds on wires.
I watched him break. He was proud when the sun was behind him; now he starved under it. He had been a man who used hunger to make others grovel. Now he was hungry, cold, carrying stones.
Pierce's crew was not punished in the exact same way. The leaders got hard labor; the young were put to watch duty and assigned to rebuild what they had burned. One of them, a young man who had complained in the rain that "nothing made sense anymore," started to weep openly when a woman who had lost food gave him a bowl of hot rice. He kept his mouth open, and the bowl did not help his skeleton of sorrow. He had to drink and that simple act rebuked him.
The sequence of public punishment lasted six hours. The crowd watched while the punished carried sacks and then when they sat exhausted, families were allowed to speak. Some pleaded. Some sang little prayers of thanks. Cameras recorded everything. The leader, Pierce, had the worst of it: a daily roll of labor, public shaming, the obligation to stand before every rations queue and carry loads until the families he wronged had what they needed.
At first Pierce swore at us all. He promised vengeance. He tried to pry away the rations and steal a tool. People watched him and their faces tightened. He staggered when a child called him by name—"You took my toy."
"You're not human," the child said, and Pierce cried behind his hands.
Denial hissed through his mouth. Then the arrogance cracked, then fear, then an ugly bargaining that failed. "Forgive me!" he begged toward the end, a low, broken sound.
"Forgiveness is not free," Fox said. "You will work. You will feed the people. You will carry the things you stole in your pockets and give them back until there is nothing left."
The crowd reacted with a mix of relieved murmurs and scorn. Some took out small notepads and lists—names, dates, injuries—so future survivors would not forget.
At the punishment's end, Pierce fell to his knees and could not stand for a long time. He had been, in one dark season, a small tyrant. Now he was a man who had to build walls he had broken.
That was justice for us—not public spectacle for glee—but a lesson that men who prey on others must see their wrongs in the face of those they hurt. The eyes of survivors were merciless. The lesson lasted months. Pierce kept his head down and his hands raw.
After the tribunal, I walked out into the sunlight and felt the past years like a coat falling off my shoulders.
"Thank you," Fox Dawson said softly. "You were the one who told the truth."
"I just wanted it to stop," I replied.
"You made it stop."
Months turned. Dragon Bay taught us how to fight differently. Maverick and his squad trained volunteers. Jaxon taught others how to fix pumps. Devin worked in munitions and could not stop talking about the boxes he had carried, as if every box was a small victory. Jacqueline found a community volunteer group and led the kitchen line like a general.
"Abby," Zack said one cold morning, wrapping both hands around mine. "You changed everything."
"You planted a seed," I said. "But we have to grow it."
He kissed my forehead like he had promised to do once, long ago. "We will grow it together."
There were more trials. There were losses we could not stop and miracles we could not explain. The day of the great siege—three days of noise and a storm of the dead—was different from the one I remembered. We were prepared. We had trenches and fences and drills. I watched from the wall and watched the soldiers throw themselves at the teeth of the tide. I saw Maverick hold a line and I saw men and women fall and spring like iron flowers shattering.
"Where is Zack?" Emelia whispered at my side, small fingers clutched in mine.
"At the command post," I lied. "He's fine."
The sky opened and the world turned to a long slow scream. I felt ourselves like a small boat—tossed, but still afloat. The noise was ash and flame. We dug and we fought. I thought of the sugar the woman had thrown in the square and how small acts of cruelty had been healed by bread.
On the third day the guns fell silent. The wall stood though torn. Bodies lay like fallen leaves. The sun came up and scrubbed the sky clean.
"I thought the world would end," a soldier told me with a shaking laugh.
"No," I said. "It just began again."
The doctor came to me and said they had something: a vaccine that would prevent infection after a bite. It was not perfect, but it was something. We cheered like people who had been given a new language.
"Abigail," Zack whispered when he found me after the battle. He was soot-covered and smiling like a man who has been given his life back. "You were right about the star maps."
"I was lucky," I said, and then I told him the whole story: the six hours, the food lists, the little lies that had saved us. He listened and did not laugh.
"I am proud of you," he said.
Years later we walked out of the walls. The city beyond was not the same, but the river flowed and there were green sprouts in the cracks of roads. Emelia, older now, ran ahead to catch a paper boat. Jacqueline danced in the square with other women who had learned small steps of joy again.
"Remember the butterfly?" I asked Zack, pointing to a pale moth that fluttered near my sleeve.
"It survived a storm," he said. "So did we."
"This city will remember," I told Emelia. "It will remember why people must help, not prey."
"Will Pierce remember?" she asked.
"He will work," I said. "He will carry stones."
We walked to the river and watched the sunlight hit the water like a promise. I felt the life inside me react—the small rhythm of a child not yet born. I thought of the sugar in the square, the shovel in Pierce's hands, the small hands of Devin carrying boxes, and the kind smile from Jaxon Palmer when he handed me a can of fish.
"This is not the end for us," Zack said. "It's a beginning."
"Not because we survived," I said. "Because we chose to be better."
I held my daughter's hand and watched her run. The road ahead was long. I had more to teach and more to protect. But the heavy circle of fear had been pierced. People had seen wrong and named it, and that naming had changed how we lived.
We would not forget the dark days. We would not forgive the easy cruelties. We would build walls and gardens and a place for a child to grow up who would not have to learn to hide.
I looked at the river, at the flowers blooming between the broken stones, at the family that had returned to me twice, and I whispered a promise—not a glib vow at the end of a tale, but a steady plan I had already put into motion.
"I will keep you," I said to my family. "I will keep us all."
And the butterfly landed on Emelia's hair, bright and small, like everything fragile and brave.
The End
— Thank you for reading —