Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

"We need to rest," Harold gasped, his chest on fire. The scene was chaotic at the moment, and Bellamy didn't know where his mother was yet. Although he wanted to keep running without stopping, he didn't object.Judging by Harold's appearance, it was obvious that he couldn't run anymore.He put Jacob down, and the boy immediately joined his father. "Are you okay?" he asked. Harold coughed and gasped for breath. "Sit down." Bellamy helped the old man.They were now near a cottage on Third Street, well away from the school gate, and should be out of trouble.This part of the town is very quiet, because of what happened just now, everyone rushed to the school gate.Bellamy felt that maybe everyone who could escape from Arcadia had already fled, and this place would become a ghost city sooner or later.

If Bellamy remembers correctly, the house should belong to the Daniels.Bellamy had been trying to memorize this information about the town, not because he was a prophet, but because his mother always said, be a detail-oriented person. A gunshot was heard from the direction of the school gate. "It's a good thing we got out, thanks to your help," Harold said.He looked down at his hands, "I can't run fast alone." "We shouldn't have abandoned Lucille," Bellamy replied. "What else to do, stay there and watch Jacob get shot?" He groaned, then cleared his throat.

Bellamy nodded. "That makes sense. But I guess they're going to be over soon." He put his hand on Harold's shoulder. "Is there anything wrong with him?" Jacob asked.Harold was still coughing and panting, and Jacob hurriedly wiped the sweat off his father's brow. "Don't worry about him," said Bellamy. "He's one of the worst characters I've ever seen in my life. Wicked people live a thousand years, don't you know?" Bellamy and Jacob helped Harold up to the front porch steps of the Daniels house, which stood alone behind a broken traffic light post and next to an abandoned parking lot.

Harold was still coughing, his hands almost clenched into fists. Jacob rubbed his back for him. Bellamy stood by, staring at the heart of town, the school side. "Go and find her," Harold said. "We won't be bothered. Only the soldiers have guns, and there aren't many of them." He cleared his throat and stopped talking. Bellamy continued to stare in the direction of the school. "Nobody's going to notice an old man and a little boy at this point. You're not here to protect us," he leaned over Jacob, "will you, son? You'll protect me, won't you?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob said gravely. "You know where we live," said Harold. "We'll probably go back to find Lucille. It seems to be getting quiet down there, and everybody's going to leave the gate, but Lucille's staying, I guess. She's waiting for us." Bellamy turned her head abruptly, squinting in the direction of the south gate. "You don't have to worry about Lucille, nothing will happen to that woman." Harold laughed, but the laughter was full of heaviness and worry. "We just dropped her like that," Bellamy said. "We didn't abandon her, we just got Jacob to a safe place, or she'd shoot us herself, I'm sure." He hugged Jacob tighter.

There was another shout of people in the distance, and then it fell silent. Bellamy wiped sweat from her brow.Harold noticed that, for the first time since seeing this man, he was sweating. "She'll be all right," said Harold. "I know." He replied. "She's alive," said Harold. Bellamy laughed twice. "That's not sure yet, is it?" Harold and Bellamy shook hands. "Thank you." He coughed again. Bellamy grinned. "Why are you being polite to me?" "All you have to say is 'You're welcome,' Mr. Detective."

"Oh no," Bellamy said, "I have to take it easy. If you're going to be so nice to me, I'll have to take a picture. Where's my phone?" "You bastard." Harold stifled a laugh. "You're welcome." He paused and replied happily. The two parted ways. Harold sat with his eyes closed, concentrating on his breath, trying desperately to suppress the damned cough that would never end.He had to figure out what to do next.He had a premonition that before everything was over, he had to pay attention to one thing, a terrible thing. What he said just now that he didn't need to worry about Lucille were just words, and he really wanted to confirm her safety with his own eyes.He felt more guilty than Bellamy for leaving her alone, since he was her husband after all.But he reminded himself that he was doing it for Jacob's safety, and Lucille herself asked him to leave.And it was the right thing to do. After all, there were so many guns, so many people, and such a terrifying atmosphere, who knew what would happen?Can't risk kids staying there.

If the situation were reversed, if it was him standing there and Lucille was opposite the soldiers, he would also like her to run away with the baby. "dad?" "What's the matter, Jacob?" Harold was looking forward to a cigarette now, but his case was empty.He folded his hands in front of his knees and looked at the distant city of Arcadia, which was now dead. "You love me, don't you?" Harold didn't answer the question. "What nonsense are you talking about, son?" Jacob curled his knees into his chest, hugged his legs, and said nothing.

They walked cautiously through the town and walked slowly towards the school gate.From time to time, I would meet some other resurrected people on the road. Although most of them fled to the suburbs, many of them stayed in the town. Harold tried to walk steadily, not to let himself gasp.From time to time, strange memories popped up in his mind, and he told Jacob about them.It was Arcadia that he spoke most of all, about what the place had been like "in those days," when Jacob was alive.After so many years, many things have changed, and he seems to have just noticed these. The empty parking lot next to the Daniels house wasn't what it used to be.Back then, when Jacob was still alive, there was an old ice cream shop there. It wasn't until the energy crisis in the 1970s that the shop closed down.

"Tell me a joke," Harold said, squeezing Jacob's hand. "You've heard it all," Jacob replied. "how do you know?" "Because you told me the jokes in the first place." Harold was breathing easier now and feeling better. "But you must know some others." Jacob shook his head. "How about the ones you saw on TV? Or did you hear some of them?" Still shaking his head. "When we lived in the art room with Mrs. Stone, there were a few kids who were always telling jokes? They didn't say anything before the school was so crowded and you didn't fight with them. Is it fun?"

"No one tells me new jokes," Jacob said dryly, "not even you." He let go of Jacob's hand, and they walked together, arms swinging. "Well, then," said Harold, "let's see what else there is." Jacob laughed: "Then what are we going to tell a joke?" "Animals, I love jokes about animals." "What kind of animal?" Jacob thought for a while. "chick." Harold nodded. "Okay, okay, there's a lot of jokes about chickens, especially roosters. But don't let your mother know." Jacob laughed. "What does the dam say to the river?" "what?" "I will always hinder (love) you." By the time the father and son approached the southern gate of Arcadia, they had made up their own jokes and even chatted about the philosophy of joke-telling. "What's the trick to a joke?" Jacob asked. "The way of speaking," Harold replied. "How do you say it?" "Pretend you heard it from somewhere else." "why?" "Because if people think you made up the joke, they don't want to hear it, because people think it's only funnier if someone else has told it, and they like to share their feelings." Harold concluded, "People When they hear a joke -- and we're talking a good one -- there's always the hope that they'll be part of a bigger circle, and then they'll take the joke back and tell it to family and friends. They want to be around people can also join the group.” "Yes, sir." Jacob said happily. "What if the joke you made up is really funny?" "If it's really ridiculous, then you can pass it on to ten or ten to a hundred." "That's right," said Harold. "Good things don't die." However, before they had time to revisit their own jokes, they suddenly realized that they had reached the South Gate.It's like they've been wandering the streets aimlessly, just father and son spending time together, as if they have no intention of going back to where all of this happened, of going back to where Lucille was, back to Jim Where Wilson now lies. The resurrected were in a mess around Jim Wilson's body.Harold took Jacob's hand and squeezed in. Dead Jim's face was very peaceful. Lucille knelt beside him, weeping.Someone put a coat or something under his head, and put another coat on him.Lucille held one of his hands, his wife Connie the other.Thankfully, the children have been taken elsewhere. The soldiers sat together in groups of three or four, surrounded by the resurrected men, their guns confiscated, and some were tied together with impromptu ropes.Some soldiers were not tied up. Realizing that they were doomed, they gave up resistance early and sat on the sidelines watching silently. "Lucille?" Harold called.He squatted beside her, muttering something. "He's family," she said, "and it's all my fault." For some reason, Harold didn't see the blood on the ground until he knelt down. "Harold Hargrave," said Lucille weakly, "where's my son?" "Here he is," said Harold. Jacob came up behind Lucille and put his arms around her. "I'm here, mother," he said. "Great," said Lucille, but Harold wasn't sure if she really realized the baby was there.Then she grabbed Jacob and pulled him towards her. "I just did something terrible," she said, clutching him tightly. "God forgive me." "How could this be?" Harold asked. "Someone shot behind us," Connie Wilson said, before pausing to wipe tears from her face. Harold rose to his feet, slowly, his legs feeling heavy from the pain. "Was it a soldier, or that damned colonel?" "No," said Connie quietly, "he's gone, not him." "Which direction Jim was facing at that time? Did he look at the town, or the direction he turned his head?" He pointed back to the road in the city. From this direction, he could see the border between the city and the countryside, and beyond that was the farmland. and woods. "Towards the city," said Connie. Harold turned to the other side and looked at the countryside in the distance. There was only one long black road that ran through the empty cornfields and stretched beyond the city of Arcadia.Along the border of the cornfield was a row of tall pine trees, their tops reaching out into the starry night sky. "Damn it," said Harold. Connie seemed to hear the clue from his voice, and asked anxiously, "Who did it?" "The son of a bitch," said Harold, his hands clenched into fists. "Who did it?" she asked again, wishing she was the one being shot.Her eyes turned to the forest in the distance, but she saw only tall trees and endless darkness. "Take the kids," said Harold, looking at his old car. "Put Jim into the car. You and Connie go up too. Lay down until I tell you to get up again!" "What's the matter, Dad?" Jacob asked. "Don't worry about it," Harold said, and turned to Lucille again. "Where's the gun?" "Here." As she spoke, she quickly handed him the gun with a look of disgust on her face, "throw it away." Harold strapped the gun to his belt and walked around to the cab of the truck. "Dad, what's the matter?" Jacob asked, still holding his mother's hand.She patted his hand, as if finally acknowledging his existence. "Don't talk now," said Harold grimly. "Come and get in the car. When you get in, put your head on the seat." "What about mom?" "Jacob, son, do what you are told!" Harold yelled. "We have to get out of here and go home, where we can keep Connie and the children safe." Harold reached out and patted Jacob on the head as he sprawled over the van seat, to let him know it was for his own good.Harold didn't apologize because he didn't think it was wrong to yell at the child just now.He has always believed that people need to apologize only when they have done something wrong, but this does not prevent him from patting the child's head lovingly. When the child was in place, Harold went around and helped carry Jim Wilson's body to the car.Watching them lift up the corpse, Lucille suddenly remembered a sentence from the Bible, and blurted out: "My God sent an angel to shut the lion's mouth, so that the lion would not hurt me, because I am innocent before God." Harold made no objection, which sounded reasonable at the moment. "Be careful." Harold said while moving the corpse. "Sin." Lucille was still on her knees. "Sin," she said again, "it's all my fault." The body was placed firmly on the cargo bed of the carriage, and Harold asked Connie to board the carriage as well. "If necessary, let the children stand in front." He then apologized quickly, although he didn't know why. "What's this for?" Connie asked. "I don't understand at all. Where are we going?" "I think it's best for the kids to sit in the cab," said Harold. Connie did as Harold instructed.The children crowded into the cab, too, and sat beside Lucille, Jacob, and Harold.Harold told all three children to bury their heads in the seats, and they all obediently obeyed, whimpering and crying from time to time.The car started and drove all the way out of the city. Lucille looked into the distance, but her mind was already elsewhere. On the cargo bed of the van, Connie lay next to her husband's body.During the years of their marriage, they almost always lay together like this.She held his hand without any nervousness or fear from being next to the corpse, maybe she just didn't want to leave her husband. As he drove, Harold scanned back and forth into the darkness at the edge of the headlights, fearing that a gun barrel would pop out and send him to his grave with a bang.They were not far from home, and the town was already in the shadows behind them.He freed one hand and took Lucille's. "Why are we going home?" Jacob asked. "When you were alone in China and you felt very scared, what were you thinking?" "I want to go home," Jacob said. "Everybody does," said Harold, "even when they know the devil might come." As they got off the highway and onto the dirt road home, Harold said to his wife, "Let's let Connie and the kids in first. Don't ask anything, don't worry about Jim, just be with the kids." Just stay in the house together, you hear?" "Okay." Lucille replied. "Go upstairs as soon as you enter the house, and don't delay for a second." Harold parked the car at the entrance of the driveway and turned on the high beams on the front of the car. The blinding light illuminated everything so brightly that it couldn't see the original color.The house was dark and empty in a way Harold had never seen his own home look like. He pressed the accelerator and continued forward, picking up speed along the driveway, then circled the yard and stopped at the bottom of the front porch steps, as if he were not unloading the body of Jim Wilson from the van but A Christmas tree, or a carload of firewood. There is always a lingering feeling in his heart, as if the matter is not over yet, and someone is chasing after him, which makes him anxious to do everything.If he listened carefully, he could still hear the faint sound of a motor, and judging by the volume of the sound, Harold thought there seemed to be a truck at the other end of the dirt road. He opened the van door and got out. "Get inside," he said, pulling the kids out of the cab, making them stand one by one like ponies, and pointing to the front porch. "Go ahead," he said, "get inside quickly." "It was fun," Jacob said. "Come in." Harold urged him. Suddenly, the driveway was illuminated by another pair of headlights, and Harold shaded his eyes with his hands and drew his pistol from his belt. Jacob, Lucille, and the Wilsons had just opened the door and entered the house in a hurry. The first truck was parked in the front yard, under the old oak tree, and the other three trucks behind were parked in a row. Cars are on high beams. But Harold already knew who it was. He turned and walked onto the front porch as the truck doors opened and the drivers got out. "Harold," said a voice from behind the intense beam, "come, Harold!" said the voice again. "Turn off those goddamn lights, Fred!" Harold yelled back, "Tell your friends to turn off the headlights too." Hearing that the people in the house hurried upstairs according to his instruction just now, "I can tell that the belt in Calerence's car is still not tightened." "You don't have to worry about that," replied Fred Green.Then he was the first to turn off the headlights of the car, followed by the headlights of several other cars. "I suppose you're still carrying that gun," Harold said. While Harold's eyes were still adjusting to the dark, Fred circled to the front of the van, the rifle in his arms. "Harold, I don't want that either," said Fred. "You ought to know." "Hey, come on," Harold said, "you've been meaning to do this for a long time, and now you've finally found an opportunity, so you do it. You brat, now's a good time to let yourself go." Harold took another step back toward the door, raising his pistol at the same time.Several old guys who came with Fred also raised their rifles and pistols, but Fred's rifle was not raised. "Harold," Fred said, shaking his head, "you hand over those things, and the matter between us will be over." "And kill them?" "Harold!" "Why are you so anxious to keep them in their graves forever?" Harold took another step back.He really didn't want to leave Jim's body hanging out on the deck like that, but there was no other way. "How did you become like this?" he asked. "I always thought I knew you well." Harold almost retreated into the house. "It's wrong to come back from the dead," Fred said. "It's wrong." Harold entered the house and slammed the door behind him.For a while, everyone was silent.Suddenly a gust of wind came from the south, rustling the branches and leaves of the old oak tree in front of the house, as if to herald misfortune. "Bring over the petrol can," said Fred Green. When he saw his mother staying alone in the school classroom, he sat at the end of his bed and waited obediently.Her hands rested on her lap, her eyes stared straight ahead, but without focus.Seeing him enter the door, her eyes suddenly lit up, as if she recognized him. "Ah, Charles," he said. "It's me," he said, "I'm coming." She smiled, a smile as bright and vivid as Bellamy's memory had never seen her smile. "I was so worried," she said. "I thought you had forgotten me. We had to get to the party on time. I couldn't stand being late. That would be rude and impolite." "Yeah." Bellamy said, casually sitting beside her.He sat with her and took her hands in his own, and she smiled wider, resting her head on his shoulder. "I miss you," she said. "I miss you too," he said. "I thought you had forgotten me," she went on. "Am I stupid?" "It's kind of silly." "But I know you'll come back to me," she said. "Of course," Bellamy's eyes glistened with tears, "you know I'll never leave you." "Ah, Charles," said the old lady happily, "I'm so proud of you." "I know," Bellamy said. "That's why we can't be late," she said. "It's his big day tonight. After tonight, he's going to be a great public servant... our son. He should know that we all think of him." Proud to let him know that we all love him and will always be there for him." "I'm sure he knows." Bellamy felt the words choke in his throat. They just sat there for a long time.From time to time there was a commotion outside, as if there were fights everywhere.Some soldiers remain loyal to Colonel Willis, or at least to the side they represent.What Colonel Willis did, all his opinions and orders about the Risen was wrong - they couldn't accept that.As a result, they persisted longer than others, but the resistance eventually became weaker and weaker.Eventually, it all came to an end.So there was only Martin Bellamy and his mother left, reliving their old life until they died—or, whatever it was called, like whispers in the night, quietly carried away the resurrected A certain force, to her, or to him. He will not repeat his previous mistakes again. "Ah, little Martin," his mother began again, "I love you so much, son." She began to grope in his pockets, as she had often done when he was a little boy, hoping to get his hands out of it. Give a few pieces of candy to my son. Martin Bellamy held his mother's hand tightly. "I love you too," he said, "and I'll never forget that."