Past The Fence

The Fence

When I was young, the fences didn't make sense to me. My dad would grab his rifle. I would hear a horse galloping away at dawn and I wouldn't hear it again until the afternoon. The one time he took me with him, we stopped in one of the fields outside of town. I watched as he pointed out to the fence, some hundred or two yards away, and he told me "Don't ever go near that fence, Travis. Not ever. Don't touch it, don't look at it, don't think about it."

I said "Alright, Pa," and that was that. We rode back into town, got some bread from Mrs. Finch, and went to bed.

Turned out my Dad should've taken his own advice. They wouldn't tell me what happened, not the truth of it. No, they were vague. "The fence took him," they would say. I started living with Mr. and Mrs. Finch. I was only ten and didn't understand what was happening. But my Father had been a drunk, a mean one. I didn't miss him, didn't cry. The truth of it was, I was curious. The fence took him, they said. What in the hell did that mean?

Chapter One: The Fence

"This is bullshit, Marge. Fence Duty, they're calling it. They can't do this to my boy." Uncle Sawyer never said it to my face, but he loved me like a son. Late at night, I'd here him and Aunt Marge arguing about how to raise me up the right way. He would say "We can't do that to our boy."

Their voices had started me awake that night and my young ears listened intently. Something had happened with Mayor Wesley. Uncle Sawyer said it was a "conscription" for all the fourteen year olds. I was turning fourteen in six months and I wasn't stupid. I knew what a conscription was. I would be called to fight, but for what? What would I be fighting and for who?

Uncle Sawyer wouldn't say, even as he nailed into my head how to load, shoot, strip, and clean any kind of gun. The morning after he had been yelling about the conscription, he pulled me out into the back yard and handed me a rifle. "In six months, you're going to shoot this gun better than me."

I looked up at him with confused brown eyes and asked "Is this because of the conscription?"

Uncle Sawyer looked down at me and said "It's 'cause I said so, boy." His gruff voice, usually affectionate, was forceful, rough. He spat a wad of tobacco out after he finished talking, and black spittle stuck to his beard. I was so confused. Why start chewing again now? That was another question he wouldn't answer.

"Again, Travis." So I cocked the hammer back and squeezed off another round. The Remington bucked in my hand, and the can flew from the post.

"Was that good, Uncle Sawyer?" I knew it was. I knew I had hit the mark and that he should be proud. But he didn't put his hand on my mop of brown hair like he used to and he didn't smile at me like he used to. In those days, I thought that if I hit the target, shot this far, he'd love me again. But bullets don't fix those kinds of problems.

It was almost time. One more month and I'd be on the wall, watching for walkers. The head watchman told all of us rookies that they looked human and moved human, but they weren't. He told us not to hesitate. But it wasn't that easy. I remeber that. It wasn't that easy.

It was my third rotation on watch. I had come to enjoy these peaceful nights, alone in the southern tower, my rifle in my hands. It gave me time to think and reflect. It was a relief to have that after recent times.

This rotation was different. Watchtmen had noticed an increase in activity on the southern side, closer to the fence than they had been for some time. So tonight, I had to share my tower. Her name was Abby and I liked her company well enough.