Z for Zachariah: Chapters 1–5

I went into the church and prayed all this morning. I sprinkled water in front of the altar, and put some flowers on it, violets and dogwood.

When they came back, it was dark. Mother had been worrying—they took so long—so we were glad to see the truck lights finally coming over Burden Hill, two miles away. They looked like beacons.

He kept repeating his latitude and longitude, though he was not on a ship, he was on land—somewhere near Boston, Massachusetts.

He kept repeating his latitude and longitude, though he was not on a ship, he was on land—somewhere near Boston, Massachusetts.

He said that men should act with dignity even in the face of death, that no one was better off than any other.

It is one thing to hope for someone to come when things are civilized, when there are other people around, too. But when there is nobody else, then the whole idea changes.

My father said that cars would stay radioactive for a long time—because they’re made of heavy metal, I suppose.

From here I can see most of the valley, my own house and barn, the roof of the store, the little steeple on the old church (some of the boards are off the side—can I fix them? I don’t know), and part of the brook that runs by about fifty feet away.

The big one, Father’s deer rifle, has too much kick. I have shot it, but I tend to wince when I pull the trigger, and that throws my aim off.

This stream flows into the valley out of a sort of cleft in the rock ridge to the left of Burden Hill—the water comes from outside, and it was poisoned.

As I said, you can see the green from the ridge, but not too well—it is a long way. And maybe he has been fooled sometimes; maybe he thought it was a mirage.

And yet it is—what is the word I—companionable to know there is someone else in the valley.

First, somewhere out behind the chicken yard one of the hens cackled.

Almost immediately a rooster crowed. And from the distance, as if it were answering, one of the cows mooed, a real bellow, long and loud.

They were grazing there quietly, with the calf between them; they were not fenced in, but as I had thought they would, they had stayed near home.

An inexplicable thing: the dog, Faro, has come back. How that is possible I don’t know.

But Faro was always really David’s dog; he would never go with any of us unless David went, too. He was—he is—a mongrel, but mostly setter, and he loved to hunt.

I crept back into the cave, and in two minutes Faro came bounding in.

Inevitably, if he stayed around, he was going to betray me.

The man on the radio station, fighting to survive, saw people that were desperate and selfish.

He did not wear the plastic suit and walked much more briskly without it, so I had to work a bit to keep up with him—the path is not as straight as the road; also I had to be careful not to make noise.

He looked around him as he went, curious about everything, but he did not slow down much until he reached the culvert.

At that point the small stream, having flowed into the pond and out again and meandered along through the meadow, runs into a rise (the beginning of the end of the valley, I suppose), bears right and is joined by Burden Creek.

Higher up there was a big outcropping of gray rock, a cliff. We used to climb it; it is not as steep as it looks from a distance.

I am writing in the morning, having eaten my breakfast; I am sitting at the entrance to the cave with my binoculars, watching the house and the tent for a sign of life. So far there has been none, except that the dog went to the tent again, wagged his tail again, and sat down expectantly for a minute or two.

He was dreaming; he was delirious, and his voice sounded thick, as if his throat and mouth were swollen.

I helped my mother sometimes taking care of David or Joseph when they got sick (grippe, chicken pox, things like that), but never anyone this sick.

He was awake, and when I entered he stared, quite bewildered, and with some effort managed to raise himself on one elbow.

From close up, in the dimness of the tent, he looked extremely frail.

His eyes have lost the dazed look they had earlier.

I got the smaller of the tubes out of his wagon-trunk, and he showed me a gauge on one end of it, a small needle that wavered a bit when you moved it, like a compass.

I got the smaller of the tubes out of his wagon-trunk, and he showed me a gauge on one end of it, a small needle that wavered a bit when you moved it, like a compass.

He will get a very high fever, and since his blood cells were damaged and cannot reproduce, he will also get anemic.

Worst of all, he will have no resistance to germs and infection; he will be very susceptible to pneumonia or even the mildest impurities in his food and water.

Worst of all, he will have no resistance to germs and infection; he will be very susceptible to pneumonia or even the mildest impurities in his food and water.

Worst of all, he will have no resistance to germs and infection; he will be very susceptible to pneumonia or even the mildest impurities in his food and water.

He said all this in a very matter-of-fact way; he was calm about it. I think I would have been hysterical.

He looked at the jar of pills, still on the floor where I had put it. “Those won’t help, not now. No, there’s no medicine. In a hospital they give transfusions and intravenous nutrients.”

He looked at the jar of pills, still on the floor where I had put it. “Those won’t help, not now. No, there’s no medicine. In a hospital they give transfusions and intravenous nutrients.”

I can boil and sterilize everything he eats and eats from—just as you do for a baby.