I’ll be moving on sooner than I thought.
Thankfully, the woman who lived here had big feet. The running shoes I find are about a size too large, but that’s far better than too small. Her clothes fit a little better. A pair of black sweatpants and long-sleeved, black cotton shirt, hair twisted up into a dark blue snowcap—like Murray’s—and I’m ready to blend in with the shadows. But not before puking a few more times throughout the house and then lying in bed, fetus style.
I fight the sickness until dusk, shivering in hot and cold sweats. My body thirsts for what it’s been fed for too long now. My mind plays tricks on me, tells me to go back to that place, to them, because maybe I won’t find Gideon, or maybe I will and he won’t want me, so maybe it’s better that way, going back . . . But I tell it no, like Murray told me to.
An attempt to eat more crackers finds I can’t keep anything down. There’s nothing more I can do. As my body decides whether to live or die, I replay my entire life over and over in my mind. No longer do I want it to end, so something has changed in me. Somehow, through all of this, I’ve found a will to live, even if it’s in darkness. This unspent love hasn’t left me. It still begs for me to give it away.
When I can walk again, I search the entire house for a gun and find nothing. The most I find is a Taser, which won’t do me much good, though I stuff it in my found black cloth backpack anyway, just in case. I add another sleeve of crackers and two bottled waters, the aspirin and rubbing alcohol, and with a butcher knife in each hand, I make my way to the front door. As soon as night falls, I’ve got to move. Mind over sickness. For the first time since I’ve been alive, I want to live. I want to do what I can to make it right. Body, please, let me.
I rest by the door until it’s dark, and then duck out onto the porch. Crouched low, I survey the area around the house. No bodies in sight. My fastest route is down the main roads, so hopefully it’s dark enough to slip through the shadows. Clear of runners might be too much to ask.
My breath and footsteps drum in the silence as I hurry along the sidewalk near overgrown bushes and hanging tree branches, a good cover for at least a fourth of a mile. The tree line stops and the space widens to a shopping strip, and a gory scene before me. A sports car with the driver’s side door open is covered in a splattered array of parts, blood dried for probably a few days and buzzing with flies. As I edge around it, a shuffling behind me makes me freeze for a second before whipping around. In a breach of light in the passing clouds and an almost full moon, a group of infected crosses the street. One picks up the pace, the others follow, and they change course to my direction.
I bolt to the dark alley behind the shopping strip, then duck behind a dumpster, covering my own mouth to quiet my breathing. The runners pass me at full speed, not slowing until one of them slams into a light pole. The others stop, then attack each other when their hands touch. But just as quickly as it begins, the attack is aborted. Maybe they don’t like the taste of rotted flesh after all. With half of his face skin now hanging from his chin, the fallen one rises to join the others in their hunt.
As soon as they’re out of sight, I slip out from behind the dumpster and continue on in the shadows of the storefront awnings in the shopping strip. The absence of smells from the laundromat, taqueria, and burger joint at dinnertime are a sure sign that the world has finally gone off the deep end and it’s never coming back.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I get a little over halfway the first night, until the light of dawn tosses aside the safety blanket of darkness. When it does, I slip into the first unlocked door I come to—an ice cream shop, of all places. I lock it behind me and grip my knives, ready to defend myself, but the space is empty. To my astonishment, behind the counter by the cash register is a loaded shotgun. I hold it for a moment, stricken by utter disbelief. Murray had mentioned a place like this, or . . . the same place? How could that be?
Am I still in a dream?
Though I linger on that thought, I know it’s not true. Certain things stood out about the scenery—the blue sky, the pothole filled with water and weeds, the Humvee and the fighter jet—but the way they all fit together is a blur. As Murray had said himself: faded snapshots.
The thing that was most real was Murray himself. I can’t shake his presence from my soul.
After a feast on waffle cones and toppings—pecans, maraschino cherries, and M&M’s—I curl up beneath the counter with the shotgun in my hand, and I fall asleep.
The sound of gunfire wakes me up. I roll to my feet and rise to peer over the counter. It’s midday. A tank and a large white truck move together down the street, taking out runners by the handful.
“Survivors, please come with us to safety,” a man’s voice says through a speaker.
“I don’t think so, assholes.” I crouch low as a group of infected races past the store.
The tank redirects his aim, and I hit the tile flat, as shots fire through the shop window, spraying glass across the counter and onto my back. I lie there in it until I no longer hear the engines, then I pull myself up by the countertop, shaking broken glass from my hair and clothes.
Looks like I’ll be finding a new hideout for the second half of the day.
When it’s quiet again, I sneak out the back door and into the alley, which I’m relieved to find empty. My strength is the same; I’m definitely not operating over about thirty percent.
Overhead, a passenger plane flies by, low in the sky, and I worry for a second it might crash, but it inclines and grows smaller. Probably the Suits. Now, they and their families can take everything and run to Fiji, or Tahiti or somewhere, and leave us all to be devoured.
Down the alleyway is a brown-and-white Huey’s Barber truck, with a chipped green-painted helicopter on the side. The coast is clear so I jog toward it, sweeping my acquired weapon left and right, spinning around to make sure I’m not being followed. When I reach the truck, the back doors are unlocked, so I swing one open and hop in, locking it behind me.
Empty, aside from a cabinet full of barber stuff and a barber chair.
I try to make myself comfortable in the barber chair, my backpack as a pillow, but no matter which position I lie in something hurts. And when I get still and the adrenaline wears off, the withdrawals take over. In this moment, caught between hells, it makes every shredded inch of me beg for insertion—like begging Death to fuck me until I bleed. I’ve never needed anything more.
For the rest of the day I try to sleep, but instead I fill up the van with my body fluids. I vomit some more, then pee in the corner and cry. I’m in bad shape. I need to find some antibiotics. And maybe a doctor.
My mind tries to run, but the people I love are everywhere it turns. Their faces, like autumn leaves in their best colors and light, now that they’re gone from the tree of life.
But I can’t keep crying for them; now’s not the time to be weak. I have two and a half miles to go. I try to eat again, and this time, I keep four crackers down. Hoping I’ll be able to move a little faster tonight, now that I’ve got a few calories in me.
A shiver becomes a wave of warmth that turns to a cold sweat, and I lay my arm across my hot forehead. Great. I sit up and dig the bottle of aspirin from my bag, along with a bottle of water, take two pills and swallow them, guzzling probably more water than I should. I’m so thirsty. But no matter how much I drink, it’s not enough. This thirst . . . it goes deeper than water. I would fuck a church steeple right now if I could.
Maybe I’m in worse shape than I realize.
I awaken in pitch-black darkness, shivering. I’ve been out for a while, because the aspirin has worn off and the fever’s returned. I’m not sure which wounds are infected, but my guess is my female parts may never work the same again.
I give the pills thirty minutes to bring my fever down, then I scan the scene. No bodies in sight, so I lift up the latch and open the door slowly, stepping out onto concrete and loose gravel. I move along the wall in the shadows cringing with each step
toward eighty-four and Ridge Point Road. So much pain. But I have to get there tonight.
When it starts to rain, at first, I think it’ll just sprinkle a little, but it soon turns to a downpour, drenching me to the bone. I keep on until the shivering and trembling is so violent that my teeth chatter, then I duck inside of a broken thrift store window. And when I hear shuffling around inside I hop out again, crunching through broken glass. One of them lunges toward me, so I bolt down a side street and slide under a car with my backpack, busting my chin open on the slick ground.
I lie there, heaving, sobbing silently until it passes, wondering what it would be like to have my life end like this, right here, beneath a car in the rain. Perhaps it would be fitting. But I don’t even know what street I’m on. I couldn’t be more alone.
I don’t want to die like this.
When a few minutes have gone by, I roll out from beneath the car. The rain has slowed, but it’s still too much for me to deal with. I try the handle of a Cadillac, find it open, and a body jumps out at me, so I fire the shotgun, knocking the wind out of me with its recoil to my chest. The body flies back, and I jump into the vehicle, gasping for air until my lungs open up again to allow the mass intake.
Gasping, I lock the doors, curl up on the back floorboard, and wait a few trembling minutes before digging for more aspirin and water in my bag. I take two, drink, shake, and cry.
I’m going to die here.
THIRTY-NINE
The door opens, and there are hands on me. Someone’s carrying me. When I look at his face, see the white beard and blue snowcap . . . I know it’s him.
“Where are you taking me, Murray?”
“You need help, Grace. We’ve got to get you to a doctor. I know of one. He’s a great one to have on our side.”
“Am I going to die?”
“No ma’am. I will not let that happen.”
FORTY
“The only time you can be brave is when you’re scared. You told me that, remember, Phelia?”
FORTY-ONE
“Remember Hao?” Murray asks me.
“Yes. How could I forget?”
“There are men you can trust.”
FORTY-TWO
Hao guides me through the jungle amid the tat-tat-tat of weapons firing all around us. He speaks to me in Chinese, and though I don’t understand the words, his body language says what I need to know. With one arm under my shoulder and around my waist, he leads me through the thick underbrush. In my chest is a hole where my heart has been blown to smithereens.
We pass the bloody remnants of Hao’s village, his family, and though he mourns them, he doesn’t stop to dwell on their loss.
I’m his mission now.
Getting my heart pieced back together is important for him, and for the little girl he left behind when he went to prison.
The little girl who would later become my mother.
FORTY-THREE
“Wake up, baby cakes.” Aislynn plants a kiss on my lips. She winks down at me, her tiny, diamond-studded pentacle twinkling from her perfect nose. Skin, soft and creamy like an angel’s, she sweeps a platinum wave over her shoulder, adjusts me in her arms.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in my arms, baby. Where you’ve always been.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the bright side. It’s time, Ophelia.”
“But Ais, I don’t want to go yet. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. Please, let me stay.”
“You . . . want to stay? Why? There’s nothing there for you.”
“There’s a guy, Ais.”
“A guy? That’s it?”
“Well, no . . .”
“What else is there, then? What else could there possibly be?”
“Another chance to make it right.”
She blinks away tears.
“Please, Ais, don’t be sad.”
And she dissipates like a smoke signal.
FORTY-FOUR
Someone’s undressing me again. I want to fight it, but I have no fight left. I hope he’ll take it all the way this time, to that place beyond, where there’s no more pain forever.
“Who did this to you?” he whispers, brushing hair from my cheek.
I drift away to a dark place, warmth on my skin and softness below me. Is this the end?
Am I finally at peace?
“Don’t die on me, Ophelia.”
FORTY-FIVE
My eyes open to rippling walls, where sunlight peeks through hung plastic. Bars this time instead of windows.
“Oh my God, you’re awake.” Someone moves from behind me.
“Gideon?”
Tears accompany his grin. “Hey.” He tucks a light brown wave of hair behind his ear.
“How? Where . . . are we?”
“Wipeouts Water Park. Waterslide tower.”
“How did I . . . get here?”
“I saw you stumbling through the parking lot at dawn. Almost thought you were one of them. You had a couple of them following you. You’re lucky I saw you when I did.”
“When?”
“A week ago.”
“I’ve been . . . out . . . for a week?”
“Yeah. You were a sick girl. I’ve been going out at night to the pharmacy down the road to get medicine. They had a book there with medications and common uses. First thing you got was Tylenol and a tetanus shot. Then I was afraid you’d be dehydrated, so I scored a few bags of saline from the retirement home down the street—which, by the way, was pretty damn creepy—and I had you on an IV drip for four days, until I ran out. I had to guess on some things, but I gave you antibiotic injections. That was the main thing, I think. You had some pretty serious infections: your shoulder wound, a gash on the back of your other shoulder, your wrists, your feet, and your wounds . . . down there.”
At his mention of my wounded lady parts, embarrassment and shame wash over me, especially when I realize I’m wearing unfamiliar clothing that he must’ve dressed me in. “You’ve been . . . doctoring me there?”
“You were gonna die. I wouldn’t have even known about that, but I had to get you out of the wet clothes you had on when I found you and bring that fever down. And I couldn’t just leave them unattended to, they were . . . bad.”
I stare off into the space above my head, remembering that moment in the car when I knew I was about to die. Somehow, I’d managed to get the rest of the way to Wipeouts, as sick as I was, and in not even the frame of mind to remember it.
“What . . . happened to you?” Gideon asks.
When I tell him, he cries. To me, it’s dreamlike, cinematic, as if watching someone else’s life on a screen. I’m still wrestling with reality. I’d seen Murray again, he was carrying me, and Hao guided me through the jungle with my obliterated heart. His daughter, my mother. Aislynn. Eve’s sweet voice and Ais’s words . . . and Gideon. They had gotten me that last mile.
But that was another life. I’ve died and been resurrected as someone else.
What if this is my afterlife?
“You were hallucinating when I found you,” Gideon says, wiping his eyes. “From the fever, I assume. You were burning up. I couldn’t take your temperature right away because I didn’t have any medical supplies yet, but I bet it was at least one-oh-five, maybe six.” He moves in closer to me. “I thought you might be infected at first. I was . . . scared for you. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Am I?” Our eyes play with that for a moment, and in his loving and protective gaze, I find my answer.
He nods. “And I’m lucky you’re alive.”
“But I hurt you . . .” The guilt and remorse are still fresh, as if it happened yesterday. “I made you leave.”
“I know why you did it. You were hurting, too. So, I get it, okay?”
This time, it’s me who nods, shaking a few tears free from their hold. “I’m so sorry.”
“No.” He lies down beside me, easing a careful arm across my waist to hold me snug. “You
don’t have to be sorry, okay? I’m just glad you’re alive.”
When he goes to remove his strong arm, I clutch it to me. Our eyes meet again, and there’s a warm gush of relief that brings happy tears. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you.” I pull him closer to me.
“I was afraid you didn’t want to,” he whispers.
We hold each other there for a glorious moment frozen in time. Having him close like this fills me with life, hope.
There’s a soft clank of metal against teeth in my ear, and I spy a glint of silver in his mouth. “Is your tongue pierced?”
He shows me his barbell. “Yeah, for about five years now.”
“I had mine pierced once. I took it out because I kept biting it.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I’ve done that a few times.”
Silence settles on us again and it’s soft, welcomed, as if our joined breaths were all this moment needed.
“How did you get out of my yard?” I ask after a few minutes.
“I climbed up onto the fence and camped out on the roof until nightfall.”
“I see. That was smart. I—”
“You were going to shoot me. I knew you were, I could tell.”
“I’m . . . so . . . so—”
He touches a finger to my lips. “Shh . . .”
My eyes fall to the wall of our hideout, where bottles and jars of medicines and other supplies, food, water, and clothing are lined up neatly.
“And then you saved my life,” I say.
“I had to repay you for saving mine. And I’m so glad I could, Ophelia.”
“Thank you. Me, too. But . . . it’s Grace, now.”
“Huh?”
“My name. Grace.”
“Oh, oh yeah? Why the change?”
I start from birth and the dresser drawer, and tell him everything—some things I’ve never told a soul. About my young love for Aislynn and about the boy who raped me. About the day Eileen and Henry adopted me, and when they found out they were having their miracle baby. How jealous I’d been, and how I hate myself for it now that he’s gone.
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