by Urban, Tony
Early on the third day, long before the sun had risen, Wim woke with a jolt that sent a searing flash of pain down the left side of his face. He’d been dreaming about zombies, about being attacked. Eaten. And in his barely awake stupor he thought he’d been bit. His hand shot to his cheek and he found wetness and when he drew back his fingers he saw the tips were stained black.
As his bearings returned, he realized he hadn’t been bit, that he was still very much alone inside the box, but he still wasn’t certain how he’d been injured. That answer came as dawn’s first bits of light seeped into the box and Wim saw a thin strip of flesh clinging to the steel wall. He knew that skin was a jigsaw piece that fit perfectly against his face and, coupled with the nonstop shivering, he solved the mystery. His face had frozen to the box through the night and his sudden movement as he escaped his nightmare had ripped the two apart like halves of heavy duty Velcro. He made a mental note to try to keep his exposed flesh to a minimum from here on out.
By the end of the day he’d completely abandoned any remnants of hope that he’d be sprung early. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a mouthful of sandpaper and every time he managed to conjure some spit, it burned like fire when he swallowed it down.
The pain sapped any hunger he’d been harboring. Even if someone had set a double decker hamburger in front of his face, he’d be afraid to eat it. He imagined his throat had shrunk to the size of a drinking straw and couldn’t even imagine trying to get anything down. It wasn’t food he wanted, it was liquid. Any liquid. He hadn’t pissed since early on day two and he knew that, if he did work up the need to go, he’d have to find a way to catch it and consume it. The thought would have nauseated him before but now he prayed for it.
Phillip’s taunts came several times a day and Wim got the feeling the man was never more than a few yards away. He let him talk but had mostly given up on responding. Tempting though it was, he thought it best to conserve his strength,
The muscles in his legs seemed to have locked up and gone limp at the same time. He tried to keep his mind occupied, to think about taking Ramey and leaving the Ark behind for good, but as the hours passed, staying positive became an impossible cross to bear.
When night came and the temperatures dropped even further, he understood he was probably going to die. The thought bothered him more than he expected because there were days back on the farm, when he thought death might be a blessing as he’d go into God’s paradise and see his family again. See mama again. On many days, that sounded just fine. But things had changed. Wim didn’t want to die even though the world around him was on the edge of extinction. He wanted to live. He wanted to see what was coming and what remained.
Chapter 12
The recent nights had been full of tossing and turning but little sleep. Hal couldn’t stop his mind from churning the events of the last few days repeatedly. Damn, Wim, he thought. This was all his fault. But if that were true, why did Hal feel so guilty?
Wim had threatened him. He knew it by the tone of his voice but he also knew Wim wouldn’t have shot him unless Hal had tried to kill him first and maybe not even then. He worried that maybe he’d made it sound a bigger deal than it was. That it was his recollection that had sent Wim to the box where he might - probably would - die. And damn it, he didn’t want that on his conscience. He liked Wim, even if he was just about as quiet as a monk. He’d often thought the Ark could use more men like Wim and less Phillip’s. And now Wim could - would - die and he’d be responsible. He didn’t like that one bit.
I should tell someone.
But who was there to tell? No one talked to Doc unless he spoke to them first. Phillip? That was a joke. That would be like telling a bear why he should take mercy on a salmon. No, there wasn’t anyone to tell. This bed was made and all that was left was waiting to see how it ended up.
I never should have come here. It was a thought he’d had dozens of times, especially after they got word of the zombie apocalypse that was going down outside their walls. He’d initially been recruited by Doc to head construction, as Hal had overseen building a new wing onto the Cunningham/Miner Research Center. It all sounded good. He’d get to do what he loved, which was build things, and do it in one of the most beautiful damned places in the country. Maybe even the world. Sure, the hippy let’s all live in harmony nonsense they preached got a little on his nerves, but the longer he worked and was away from civilization, the more he realized he didn’t miss it. So, when they asked him to stay on permanently, an affirmative answer came quick.
They got word of the zombies from Phillip and a few other men who had gone to buy supplies. At first Hal found it hard to believe, but the look he saw on the faces of those men was impossible to fake. When the entirety of the Arks population came together for a meeting later that night, Doc informed them that similar results were coming in from all across the globe. He told them that this was the type of cataclysmic event they’d been preparing for and then he said something that still gave Hal chills whenever he allowed himself to think about it.
“The world is over,” Doc told them. “Everything and everyone you knew before is gone. All that remains is the Ark.”
Hal tried again to sleep and even dozed off for a fast hour, but woke himself up coughing around the time the first light of the day began to chase away the dark. He took a few swallows of water from the glass he kept on his nightstand but that didn’t seem to help and, when the second wave hit, he had to lean forward in bed just to catch his breath. As the room slowly brightened, he saw specks of red spittle marring his bedsheets. That’s not good.
Hal wondered if it was 33 years of smoking catching up to him. He hadn’t had a cigarette since arriving at the Ark (they were on a long list of banned items) but he doubted a couple years made up for the previous decades. He thought about going to see Dr. Sideris but, truth be told, that woman gave him the creeps and he wouldn’t trust her to treat a hangnail. Well, if it was the big C, he supposed waiting a few hours, or even days wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference. He flopped back in bed, pulled the blankets over his head to block out the light and tried to fall asleep but sleep wouldn’t come.
Hal’s cough earned him a fair share of askance glances at breakfast that morning. He got so self-conscious about it that he gave up halfway through his scrambled eggs and pushed his plate aside. He wasn’t very hungry anyway.
After leaving the mess hall he made a detour which took him within twenty yards of the box. He’d pocketed a piece of bacon that he couldn’t bring himself to eat and thought maybe he’d be able to sneak it to Wim. Hal had built the box, just as he’d built most of the structures on the Ark and he knew where all the best cracks and crevices were located. But, when he was close enough to see the box, he also saw Phillip sitting Indian-style, a rifle resting in his lap. The man just sat there staring straight ahead. Like a zombie, Hal thought and almost smiled.
He must have made a noise or maybe Phillip caught him in his peripheral vision, because the young man swiveled his head in his direction.
“You need something, Hal?”
Hal felt another coughing jag coming on and simply shook his head.
“Move on then.”
Hal did and when he was confident that he was out of Phillip’s sight, he let his chest muscles do what they’d been longing for and choked and coughed until he was so lightheaded that he had to take a knee in order not to fall. Near the tail end of it, what little he’d eaten for breakfast ended up on his shoes along with heaps of yellow bile and bright, crimson blood. The pile of it looked a little like an abstract painting.
Hal’s head felt like a balloon at the end of its tether and he grabbed onto his ears to stop it from floating away. The world in front of him spun and twirled and then went black.
In Hal’s dream, he was eating meat. It was thick and rubbery and red and with every bite blood squished out like jelly from an overfull PB&J sandwich. It was warm as it trailed down his chin and neck before getting caught up
in the webbing of gray hair that covered his chest. The meat itself was flavorless. All he could taste was the coppery flavor of the blood and, as it plunged down his throat, all he could think was ‘More. I want more.’
Hal came awake feeling stiff, frozen. The sun was high overhead but it gave off no heat. It must be noon. I’ve been laying here for hours.
He rolled onto his belly then worked his way up to his knees. His face felt tacky and wet and it reminded him of the blood in his dream. When he reached up and felt his skin, he came away with a handful of sticky, semi-congealed vomit. He swiped at it with his fingers, trying to clean it away before someone saw.
But, as he scanned the area around him he realized his worries were for naught as he was alone. Thank God. He thought again about going to Dr. Sideris and that time the idea didn’t seem too bad. But first he wanted to clean himself up.
As he worked his way back to his cabin, he kept far enough away from the others so as not to draw their attention. Almost there. Another hundred yards.
His belly tightened and growled. The nausea was gone and, in its place, hunger that bordered on famishment. He remembered the bacon in his pocket and shoved it into his mouth. His cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk gathering nuts for winter and he thought he must be quite the spectacle as he chewed. No one seemed to notice. As he swallowed it down, his body gave no signs of satiation. He was still hungry. So hungry. He felt like his internal organs were devouring themselves in a tearing, raucous rumble and knew the only way to stop the pain was to eat.
Chapter 13
The fourth and fifth days inside the box were a nightmarish jumble of cold, delirium, and thirst. Wim felt dried out as a scarecrow. He could barely move and his body was contorted into a fetal shaped ball on the floor of the box. Once, he thought he saw frost on the steel wall and went to lick it off. As soon as the tip of his tongue touched the frozen metal it stuck like glue.
Double dog dare you.
He quickly jerked his head back and the pink tissue stretched, then tore. There was no pain. No blood. Only cold.
Later he scratched loose a few handfuls of dirt from the floor of the box, then shoved it into his mouth and he tried to suck whatever moisture it contained. He repeated that every few hours and each time it gave him enough wetness to be able to swallow again. He never thought such a simple act could be so blissful.
He dozed off, or lost consciousness briefly and when he awoke the world was dark.
You’ve fallen down the well, you damn fool. How’d you manage that?
I’m gonna have to climb out.
He tried to stand. Couldn’t. Aw heck, I broke my legs. Or my back. Maybe I’m paralyzed.
Wim tried to scream out for help but no words came. It was just as well because there was no one around to hear him. He had no neighbors and even the mailman only dropped his delivery at the end of the lane, far out of earshot.
He attempted to move his arms and at first, they too wouldn’t cooperate. He tried again and that time they moved, slowly at first, painfully. He reached out, trying to grab hold of the walls of the well but when his fingers touch them they slid down helpless, unable to get a grip.
He stared up and saw nothing but darkness. How did he get down here? Was he sleepwalking? Or did he get into the apple pie moonshine his pa kept hidden in the root cellar behind the preserves? Damn fool, Wim. You damn fool.
Hours passed. His fingertips had gone bloody from trying to climb the walls to no avail. He sucked on the blood that oozed from his battered digits and didn’t even mind the penny-like taste of it. Somehow it soothed him.
He must have drifted to sleep, or lost consciousness, but her voice brought him back to the world.
“Wim?”
His eyes fluttered. Opened.
“Wim? Are you all right?”
“Mama?” He stared up again but everything was still dark. “Mama, I’m down here. I fell into the well. I’m sorry I’m such a klutz.”
“Wim! It’s Ramey!”
Who? “Mama, you’ve got to get me out. It’s so cold down here.”
“Wim, listen to me. This is Ramey. You’re not in a well. They’re keeping you prisoner inside the box. It’s been five days now.”
The box? That sounded familiar and so did the voice. He shook his head in an attempt to clear away the cobwebs.
Think, you big oaf.
“Wim, come back to me, please. I need you.”
Ramey. That was Ramey’s voice. His fog dissipated and his sad reality came back to him. The box wasn’t much better than the well but it was a moderate relief to have a mostly clear head.
“Aw, shoot. I’m sorry, Ramey. I think my marbles got scattered a bit in here.”
“That’s okay. I just needed to hear your voice. To know you’re okay.”
He thought he heard relief in her voice, but he heard sadness too. Not sadness, tears. He didn’t think you could actually hear tears, but he knew she was spilling some. And he wished he could drink them.
“Where’s Phillip? You can’t let him see you here.”
“He’s asleep. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. They both knew that.
“Wim, are you really okay?”
“How many days did you say it’s been?”
“Five.”
“Is it nighttime?”
“No, just before dawn.”
Aw, heck. He was sure it was night. That meant he had almost two full days remaining.
“Wim, don’t you lie to me. Are you really okay?”
His head had that taking on water feeling again. It made it hard to concentrate but he tried to push through.
“Will you make me a promise?” He asked her.
“Anything.”
“No matter what happens, you’ll still leave this place.”
“We’re going together. In the spring. As soon as the weather turns for the better. Did you know it’s snowing now?”
Stop talking, he thought. Answer my question. I need to know you’ll be gone from here. “I’m saying, no matter what. And that means even if you have to go without me.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Wim. I won’t go anywhere without you. We’re in this together. Have been since you saved my life back on that Pennsylvania road. You remember that, right? Poor Stan the truck driver almost made dinner out of me. But you didn’t let that happen. We’re always going to be together.”
“Promise me Ramey.”
She didn’t. He could tell she was trying to prevent him from hearing her sobbing. It sounded like she’d moved a yard or so away. The soft hitching sounds passing through the wall caused him far more pain than the deep, frozen aches that assaulted his body.
“I need you to promise.”
More crying and some sniffles. Then finally, “Promise.”
She didn’t say anything else. He heard her leave. Then Wim waited to die.
Part II
Six Months Earlier
Chapter 14
The tomcat was old. This was his seventeenth summer and his once jet-black fur was now dotted and dashed with bits of gray. His eyesight was still admirable though and he watched the robin digging away at the wet soil, attempting to unearth a worm, with rapt, ravenous attention.
Hunting had been a challenge the last few weeks. The chipmunks, mice, and birds that usually fell prey to his still deadly sharp claws had seemingly gone away. And the humans, some of which used to set out dishes of milk or hard, tasteless kibble, were either gone or dashing around like animals themselves. Either way, they weren’t feeding the old tom.
He took two slinking steps closer to the robin, trying to remain unseen in the cover of the unmown, foot deep grass. His movements were just a shimmery wave of green against the foliage and soon he was close enough to the bird to smell its moldy aroma. The tom’s belly spasmed. It had been days since his last meal.
When the robin pushed its face into the dirt, its beak grabbing hold of a long, fat earthworm, the tom sprung. His
old body crossed the yard-long void between them fast and silent and when he came down, he was atop his prey.
He sunk his teeth, what remained of them anyway, into the feathers. Their buttery texture tickled his tongue as his jaws closed. He felt hot blood flood his mouth and he felt more alive than he had in days, maybe weeks. Since everyone and everything went away.
The robin struggled, its wings fluttering furious and panicked. But even though the tom was old, he was still strong. There came a muffled crunch as its teeth smashed the bones in the bird’s neck and then it went limp.
The cat savored his meal, devouring everything edible. Afterward he took a long nap, enjoying the warmth of the sun as it baked his ancient bones. Later, when it awoke, he felt renewed, almost young again. He wished some of his friends were still around so they could romp and jump and play together, but they were all gone too.
He spied the robin’s severed head resting in the grass and he grabbed it between his paws, tossing it into the air and batting it to and fro. The game lasted for five or so minutes before the head went careening down an embankment and onto the road below.
Before everything went away the tom was cautious about roads. He’d seen too many of his own kind lying flat and dead upon them. But there hadn’t been a vehicle in weeks and he bounded down the bank, his eyes locked on the robin’s head, his new play toy.
The tomcat was old. He’d lost his hearing more than three summers before and now that became his undoing. As he sat on the road, rolling the head back and forth, he didn’t hear the roar of the approaching engine. And by the time he felt the subtle vibrations through the pads on his paws, it was too late. He turned around just in time to see the orange monstrosity barreling down upon him.
The tom tried to flee, but it was far too late. The oversized wheels of the truck were the last thing he saw and then he joined his feline friends and the chipmunks and mice and birds in wherever it was that animals went when their days on Earth came to an end.
