47

Complications

Complicated.

Deilune had hiked into the foothills fronting Breima manor to get some air and to mull over the last few days. The sun had long since cleared the treeline along the wide trail. In the hazy distance, he could make out the town of Kreistia where his parents had taken Nick and Lottica earlier that morning. From this vantage, the town and all Lebreima appeared peaceful. But he knew his presence here could throw his homeland into turmoil.

Complicated.

A person makes decisions. Believes in a path, in a direction. The journey feels right. Satisfying. Productive.

And then…

A person looks back. Longings. Heartfelt desires for all that was left behind.

Many times as a boy, Deilune trod this path into the foothills. A care-free kid. Not an heir to le Breima, not an expatriate, not a husband and father, certainly not a zombie.

Deilune couldn’t exactly place what he was feeling. It wasn’t regret exactly. Certainly not remorse. It was more like searching for something he’d misplaced. Something vital. Like a sense of control. A sense of purpose.

Deep down, he was mourning a loss of simplicity. From his boyhood to adulthood to whatever it was now. Zombiehood?

Yes, Deilune was simply wishing his life hadn’t become so complicated.

Then, again, complicated or not, he wondered if he should really be questioning what had been given back to him. Life. His family. His country.

So, why was he questioning himself, his identity? Why was he worried about the future, his destiny?

No doubt Deilune was at a crossroad. Fate had brought him back to Lebreima, his homeland, though not really his home anymore. He was the heir to his parents' estate. To them he was le Breima, a title he’d never given serious thought to before.

He took a deep breath and felt the crisp rush of autumn fill his lungs. It felt good to be alive, even with the pang of uncertainty that accompanied each breath. What were his responsibilities now?

They had seemed so simple before: Linda, Nick and Lottica. Now, his heart that ached was not really his. He clasped a hand to his chest and hoped for reassurance. The Kareima was inseparable from him. The lore of Lebreima was bound up in mystical creatures and magical stones. He had become a part of it. Man to myth. Myth to man

He stopped on the trail in the crisp November light, wishing all he had to do was laugh, a good cleansing laugh, and have all his cares fall away.

He managed a half smile and sigh. It was purely and simply—complicated.

Behind him along a bend in the trail, he heard faint footsteps. Instantly, he felt it must be Linda. She was the part of his being that he needed to make life whole, give it meaning and uncomplicate things.

His mood lightened at the thought that she had followed him. She’d listen. Help him, as she always had, make the right decisions. Her patience and insight would enable them find a new balance between this old world of Lebreima and the life they’d known in America.

Deilune trotted back down the bend in the trail, anxious to see his wife and start making plans to get them beyond this zombie paralysis. His spirits soared, and he broke into an uneven jog that swiftly brought him round the bend into a hollow of trees where, indeed, he caught sight of Linda coming up the trail.

He raised a hand, waving to her.

But his wave turned into a fist.

His jog turned into a charge.

For, emerging behind his beloved wife, Deilune saw the menacing shapes of Beilla and Abzeig in their raven-black capes.