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Tommy loved his father like a lamb loved a slaughterhouse, in more ways than one, it was going to kill him. For the longest time, it had been just the two of them against the world despite how lonely it made him feel. There was the occasional grunt about one thing or another on TV, sometimes about something on the radio. His Pa often talked about times passed, about people Tommy had never met or understood.
They never visited people outside of their home, his Pa always told him there wasn't much family left to know, and the ones that remained weren't worth keeping. Sometimes, in the late hours of the evening when it was hot and muggy out, he felt like the heat of the day acted as a confessional for his Pa. He was kinder then, more open as it were. He would tell stories about when he was younger, more wild, of times when he was stronger and more capable than he was now.
Tommy would listen to him quietly, letting the old man prattle on about whatever it was that came to mind. It was moments like these he cherished, ones he would later recall in his sleep, or when he was fishing. When he was younger, he wouldn't say his Pa was cruel to him. Snippy on the occasion, but never to the extent of laying a hand on him. When he drank too much he would confess that perhaps he'd thought about it a time or two, going back to how he was raised.
He never feared his father, but it was times like those that made him uneasy. He was eager to do the right thing, to not disappoint the man. Not out of fear for what might happen though, he'd always been something of an anxious child. He was often too small to fit into his Pa's hand me downs, his toes never reaching the end of the soles, wearing jackets that sat too large on his shoulders. He was constantly trying to fit into a mold that was too tight at the edges and far too pointed in the heart.
Tommy never recalled his father explicitly saying that he loved him, it was never that way between the two. Instead, his Pa would place a heavy jacket on his shoulders when he was slumped over their dining table, or slide a mug of coffee that was too bitter for his tastes over to him in the morning. They'd sit in silence together while Tommy learned to whittle away at walls that were never meant to be put between a father and son. He didn't grow up being fed love on a silver spoon, instead he learned to lick it off of dull pocket knives. Love, when it came, was something he had come to notice rather than receive. It taught him early how to be quiet with himself and how to take up as little space as possible without disappearing entirely.
He felt the most like himself when he took long walks alone outside, he'd spend hours getting lost in the woods, underneath the foliage where sunlight danced across his features. He felt like less of a person and more like a force of nature, a soul drifting between the trees in the small bubble of comfort he'd created in the woods.
The first time he held a rifle in his hands was a heavy weight, he was clumsy in his grip, unpracticed. It was a cold winter day, the bitter wind bit through his jacket despite his layers. They'd waited for hours, he could feel the sweat soaking through the first layer he wore underneath it all, despite the chill. That's when he'd heard it, a medium sized buck nosing around in the snow nearby. He propped the rifle up on the log like they'd practice, and his Pa put firm hands on his shoulders, gently correcting him. He took a breath and fired, the shot went astray quickly and missed the heart, puncturing a lung. His Pa cursed under his breath and yanked Tommy up by the back of his jacket.
"Damn it-" He growled, the younger boy winced at his tone. "I-I thought-"
"You don't rush a shot." His father spoke, low and sharp. "Not ever." He exhaled, his breath fogging the space between them for a moment. "Thinking comes before you shoot. Finish him off." He unsheathed a blade from his side, placing it in the boy's hand. Tommy glanced over to where the deer had begun to flee, but fallen in the process. It struggled on the ground, moaning out in pain. He could hear the blood filling it's lungs from the garbled noise it was making. He didn't recall much between making his way over to the buck and the messy spurt of gore that came after, steam rose from the blood that melted the snow, like a macabre fountain from the deer's neck. He felt a gloved hand on his shoulder when the body went slack, and a gruff voice.
"That's enough."
The sound of cicadas surrounded them, buzzing in the night. Tommy's face illuminated by the headlights of the truck, the sound of a lighter flickering as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled too quickly, and coughed, before holding it up to his Pa's lips. "Thank you, son. That's good." He spoke softly after, almost too quietly. "Can I do anything for you?" Tommy offered, his voice almost drowned out by the sounds of the night. "Make sure those knots are tight." His Pa sucked in a sharp breath, his breathing unstable. A moment of silence hung between them, before the older man spoke up again
"It's not gonna be long now." He leaned his head back slightly, gritting his teeth together. The feeling of gravel below him was rough on his skin.
"It's a double-half-hitch just like you taught me." Tommy reassured, correcting his posture as he inched closer to his father. "Just..be sure." His Pa reminded quickly, as if it would suddenly fix the wound.
The boy reached over him, checking his handiwork as he tightened the knots slightly. "Promise me. You'll do what we talked about, when the time comes?" Tommy swallowed and nodded, avoiding his gaze. "Promise me." His Pa repeated, his eyes almost desperate. "I promise," he spoke too quickly. "Just like we talked about. I swear." His eyes crinkled slightly, a ghost of a smile graced his lips for a moment. "Don't swear. Your mother never liked that." Tommy dropped his gaze, staring at the wound. "I promise." His father nodded a moment. "Good." He tapped his thigh thoughtfully. "I can always trust you to do the right thing." He clenched his teeth and looked up at the sky, then back to his son.
"You're a good boy." His voice strained. "Your mother, she'd be proud of the man you've grown up to be." His voice pitched up at the end of the sentence, holding some semblance of restraint. "Gimme another puff, will ya?" His eyes were glassy, matching the young boy's. His Pa closed his eyes, breath hitching once more. The sound of the gunshot rang out clear in the night, and not even the cicadas could muffle the noise. Tommy stayed where he was, long after there was nothing left to hear but insects and wind.
And in the early light of the morning, when the sun rose over the hills, Tommy was gone by the time 10k packed his things to head west. Tommy died along with his Pa that night, but only one corpse had been left. He took a couple last puffs off of the cigarette before putting it out on the sole of his boot, carrying on westward. He hated how the morning never looked so beautiful, how the pine trees bristled in the wind like restless dogs, the way the sky was so clear he could still faintly see stars.
He wanted to be angry with the world, he wanted to be bitter and hard. It was a fresh wound deep in his chest he couldn't begin how to know to stitch up. It wouldn't matter anyway, nevermind the fact that Tommy died screaming. Nevermind the way he held his Pa's hands, waiting for a grasp that was never going to come. And nevermind the fact that 10,000 zombies wouldn't bring his Pa back.