by J. B. Beatty
No mattresses, though, so RIP and I leave to do some more scavenging closer to home. Justin locks the gate behind us with a new padlock. We take the driveway slow—it’s about a half mile through the forest, with no houses visible along the way. That leads us to the dirt road that curves through the national forest. At the intersection, already we can see houses scattered through the woods, mostly vacation or retirement homes. We pull up at the first one, leaving the truck pointed for a quick getaway if need be.
It’s broad daylight, and we don’t know what we’re dealing with, so we follow our standard procedure. “Anyone home?” we yell, taking care to be behind some cover—the truck or a tree. In this case, no one answers. Plus, there are two dead bodies on the front lawn. They’ve been gone a while, so there’s no telling if zombies tore them apart or the animals that came after.
The front door is cracked open, so we push it farther, guns at the ready. “Anyone home?” I yell again. No answer. We move toward the kitchen, staying together and taking care that our eyes are collectively looking both forward and backward. Ambush prevention, RIP calls it. The cabinets are all open—the shelves have been picked clean. Not even a jar of maraschino cherries left behind.
“We could use the microwave,” he says.
The rest of the house is clear of threats. But we end up with two beds, decent mattresses, a microwave, a chainsaw, a new laptop, toilet paper, and so on. We hit two other houses that morning, taking care to steer wide of one we see back from the road that has smoke coming from the chimney. One of the houses has a cast iron wood stove, and RIP resolves to come back later to disassemble it and bring it back. “We need back-up heat. That furnace we have is going to be on life-support soon.”
One thing about scavenging is that I cannot shake the feeling that we are being watched. Occasionally I hear noises that can’t be accounted for by the wind or the last few squirrels of autumn hustling to pad their food stashes. I constantly swivel my neck looking everywhere—especially when we are outside, though RIP insists are biggest dangers will be inside.
But where are the people? In this forest we have not seen any zombies. Justin has said he thinks the weather this far north has been colder and that has made all the difference. “Exposure is deadly,” he has said. “And when you are a zombie flu victim, it would have to be worse. For one, you’re sick. Two, you’re not making good decisions: your diet is fucked up, you’re not dressed for the weather, and you’re not getting along with the people around you.”
The healthy people are keeping an extraordinarily low profile as well. Using a topographical survey map that we have on the kitchen wall of our fortress, we start circling those homes we have spotted that have signs of life, as well as keeping notes on the structures we have searched (mainly regarding larger items they have that might prove useful to us). However, by “signs of life” we usually mean smoke coming from the chimney; occasionally it means a vehicle we have seen that has changed position. It never means people we actually see walking around. And that is quite unlike the areas that we have been through on the way here.
Then again, this is week 6 or so of the end of the world. Maybe it’s this way everywhere. The world is hunkering down for a long winter. A winter in which civilization will die.
Or maybe not. A couple days of scavenging later, Maggie says that we need to go get her some gourmet popcorn and some wool socks. “That’s kind of specific,” I say. “Any suggestions on where to look?”
And she says to go to the porch of one of the houses that we hit a few days earlier. “The address is 5764,” she says, quite specifically.
I raise my eyebrows. She raises her eyebrows in response. Conversation over.
“Coming?” I ask RIP. He shrugs, equally confused. We pull out in the truck, Justin locking the gate behind us.
When we get to the house there is a cardboard box on the porch. Amazon. RIP grabs it, shakes it. Shrugs. I cover him with my rifle, listening to the forest.
Maggie tears open the box when we get back. We are all offered some of the popcorn, but just once. “Mine,” she says when any of us go for seconds. “You have to order your own.” She’s feeding pieces of it to Homer, but she’s cut us humans off.
“What in the sweet baby Jesus do you have going on here?” demands Justin.
“I used the credit cards you brought from their house. Set up an Amazon account. Delivery by drone. I’m not sure what their credit limit is, but for now, this kicks ass.”
Justin stands there with his mouth open, hands spread in confusion. “You’d think the world is all pretty much over with, and this princess is still ordering from Amazon—and it’s working?? How??”
“Automation,” says RIP. “We were warned. Robotic warehouses, drones, the whole works. Our world doesn’t need people anymore. In a consumer sense, there has probably never been a better time for the Apocalypse.”
“But…” I say, revisiting a theme we have talked about before, “in every movie, in every book, the breakdown of society features a loss of electricity. That’s like one of the first things.”
“Dude,” Justin turns toward me, “this is still America. You can have anything you want as long as you have a valid credit card and pay your bills on time.”
“And you wanna bet that someone’s not still making money off this?” adds RIP. “Jeff Bezos is probably in some Amazon fortress, ka-ching kachinging his way to a sweet retirement.”
“Whatevs,” says Maggie. “I wanted popcorn. And I got it.”
33→WHAT MOST PUZZLED AND CONFOUNDED YOU
The door in the basement continues to taunt us. There is no keyhole. There is no doorknob. Only a metal box that is inset into the concrete wall next to it just below eyelevel. It features a small, dark glass window. Retina scan? Fingerprint scan? God knows. After several hours of steady work, RIP finally manages to pry the box open.
Wires. He stares at them. He studies them.
“Good with electronics?” I ask.
He stares at them longer, touching them gently. Finally, he responds with, “I can rewire a garage door.”
“So… no?”
“So no, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. I’m kind of hoping it’s like a garage door.”
“What does the wiring of a garage door look like?”
“Don’t remember. There was a manual that explained the colors.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“A sharpie. And a drink. No ice.”
I bring him a bottle. And a marker. And leave him in head-scratching peace.
We don’t have ice anyway.
34→TO WELCOME SUCH GLAD-HEARTED VISITANTS
We get the welcome wagon visit the next day, after we had been there nearly a week. A van pulls up and five men get out. They are all gray-haired, each carrying a gun. They stand in a small circle, and only two are looking our way. The remaining three, who all seem to have shotguns, are covering their flanks.
“Hey there,” shouts one of the men who is facing the gate. He’s wearing a Carhart sleeveless coat, flannel underneath. Looks like he stocked up well on food before the end came.
Homer senses something is up and starts barking. Maggie tries to shush him. Now I see why RIP had us reinforce our windows. Basically, they still open, but he bricked them up partially so that no one can climb through and we can slide them open and poke guns out. I do just that. RIP cracks open the front door and says, “What do you need?”
“Just want to talk is all,” says Carhart. “Welcome you to the neighborhood.”
RIP turns back to us. “Cover me,” he says. “But I think they’re alright.” He steps outside, and starts to close the door behind, but Justin grabs it and follows him. They walk slowly to the gate, both carrying their rifles relaxed and ready.
“We noticed you moving in a few days ago,” says Carhart. “Just wanted to say hello.”
“You all live on this road?”
“Or nearby,” says Carhart. “My name’s Larry.
This is Joe. Can we come in?”
“Not just yet… you understand,” says RIP.
“Okay, no worries. It’s just the guys…” he says, gesturing at his rear guard. RIP shrugs. Larry Carhart goes on, “So, I guess the question is, do you have permission to be here?”
“Here?”
“Yeah, here.”
Long silence. RIP looks at Justin, then he says, “We got permission. The university wanted us up here as caretakers. Protect the connections.”
“It’s important that you have permission, because we don’t like people taking private property. That’s not what America’s about.”
“I just told you we have permission.”
Larry Carhart looks at him long and says, “Like I said, private property is important. Looks like you’ve been doing some scavenging in the neighborhood. That’s not how we do it around here.”
“We only take from the dead. Didn’t figure they’d mind.”
“Not all those houses are owned by dead people. In some cases, they just moved to more secure locations.”
“My apologies,” says RIP. He’s smooth. I watch him and keep my rifle pointed at Larry. “If we accidentally took anything that someone has a claim to, they can file for reimbursement. That’s what the disbursements department at the college told us to do, because their supply services are all fucked up on account of most of their employees eating each other.”
“I see,” says Larry. And maybe he does see but maybe he doesn’t. But RIP threw some bureaucratic terms at him and his mind seems to be wrestling with those. As Americans, we’ve been conditioned to respect bureaucracy because that was the root of all power in the democracy we used to have. Finally, Larry shuffles a bit and says, “Okay.” And then he adds, “Who else you got in there?” He nods toward the house.
“We have a small group… good people.”
“Uh huh,” says Larry, in a way that he seems to hope conveys a message of some sort. Seems ominous. He looks at Justin for a moment. “Kind of young, some of you?”
“I suppose,” says RIP. “Depending on what you call young.”
“No gray hair,” says the other one, Joe. It’s the first time he’s said anything.
“Yeah,” says Larry. “In their 20s? Old enough to shave? That kind of young. Like this guy.” He indicates Justin.
“I suppose,” says RIP.
“Blacks?” asks Larry.
“Pardon?” says RIP.
“Are you guys Blacks?”
RIP cocks his head and looks at him quizzically. They seem eager to hear the answer.
Justin had silent till now, but he finally holds up a hand and says, “W-w-w…wait. Did I just hear you right?”
“Blacks. We were wondering if you were Blacks.”
Justin looks at the back of his own hand and says. “What do you think?
Larry starts getting testy. “I don’t know what I think, that’s why I’m asking.”
Joe lights up and says, “Oh, oh! No, not what you’re thinking!” He turns to Larry and explains, “He’s a negro, and he thought you were asking about skin color.”
“Negro?” says Justin, eyebrows up.
“Oooh,” Larry finally says, drawing out the word for a few minutes to get time to think. “Calm down, young man. We’re okay with your color and persuasion and all that…”
“Persuasion?”
“The Blacks that we’re talking about are the guys with the black helicopters and black Humvees and black shirts. We’re asking if you’re with them.”
“The Humvee boys,” RIP says to Justin, who slowly nods, but still looks a little tense.
“I’m getting that part,” he says.
RIP turns to Larry, “Why would you think we’re with them?”
“Just curious. You don’t look the part so much, but they’re the only guys we have seen that are young as this one here, who haven’t been turned into monsters. Plus, you’re pretty well armed.”
“That’s not us, though we’ve seen them here and there.”
“The Blacks are one of the reasons we have to be so careful around here,” explains Larry. “You never know when they might strike. They’ve been going after some of the survivors.”
“Gotcha.” RIP stares at him for a few moments and finally shrugs, adding, “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” says Larry. “We’ll be in touch with the university to see if your story holds water.”
“You do that.”
“And you might want to be careful around here.”
“Of what else?” RIP is puffing out his chest a bit. This is turning into a male dominance display. Strutting prairie chickens on the Nature Channel.
Larry seems a bit nervous, but not as bad as the guys who are covering the rear. He looks around and says, “We’ve got some sick people still in these woods. Not many. Maybe only a couple.”
Joe interrupts. “One.”
“You don’t know that.”
“There’s just one left,” insists Joe. “And he’s fast and dangerous. He killed the Kleins.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It was just one.”
“You didn’t see it happen. Could have been two or more.”
“You didn’t see it happen either. Was one. And he’s freaky fast and deadly. And smarter than the rest.”
“Bullshit. And I was supposed to be doing all the talking.”
“Sure. You talk. But it was only the one.”
“Anyway,” says Larry, after a long stare at Joe. Finally, he turns back to RIP. “Anyway, you might want to be extra careful out here in the woods. You want to be safe, stay inside with the doors and windows barricaded. Like we said, they’re pretty fast. Hard to shoot.”
35→A SORT OF SICK
“W
hat did they want?”
“Hell if I know. I was trying to bluff them a little bit, and not give them too much info on us. First thing I ever learned in business negotiation was to never show the other guy your cards. Always make the other guy think that you’re in a better position than him. Just act cagey enough, and you usually win.”
“Is that true?” asks Maggie.
“Sometimes,” says RIP. “Sometimes it blows up in your face. Just like marriage. Or explosives.”
“Got it. Sounds like there might be a story there.”
“For another time,” he tells her.
Later that day, when we were downstairs loading up shelves, I ask Justin how Maggie is doing. We’re alone down there but he still looks at the stairs and lowers his voice to say, “She’s sick. Real sick.”
“Is this something more than the injuries from when her truck got blown up? Is it something more serious than that?”
“Leukemia.”
I swallow. “That’s serious, isn’t it?”
He nods.
“Is this… Is it something new for her?” I ask.
“No. No way. She didn’t want to tell anyone, but it’s been in the works. She was supposed to start chemo and radiation the week after the flu hit.”
“Shit. What happens now?”
“Now? Now we try to do the chemo. There’s still some drugs we need but we won’t find them in a CVS. We’ve got to hit a hospital, and that’s going to be in a city and that’s going to be dangerous.”
“Can we do the radiation?”
“I’ve been reading everything I can, but without access to her medical chart and without any sort of expert knowledge of how to do it right, that’s a no-go. I mean, I could find the equipment, and we could get her there. But there’s no frickin’ way I could do it without killing her faster. For now, we just concentrate on the chemo and hope that’s enough.”
He goes to start up the steps and then turns back. “And we didn’t talk about this. She doesn’t want anyone to know. Girl’s in a major case of denial. It was like pulling teeth to get as much information out of her as I did, but on her blood tests, her white blood cells were seriously stratosph
eric. Her body is fighting World War III with itself.”
He goes up. I stay down. I know I wouldn’t have made it his far without Maggie. She saved me more times than I can count. And I had been hoping that she would be back to her old self as soon as the bruises healed up from her explosion. Now I have to face the reality that we may have seen the last of her at full power. Holy hell.
I’ve had two relatives who were close to me die. I know there are people who’ve lost a lot more, but I’m not going to apologize for that. You get what you get. I’m sure it hurts a lot whether you lose 2 or 20.
The first was my grandfather two summers ago. He had a heart attack while he was mowing the lawn and no one spotted him for a couple days. Not because he was living alone but because he was driving his lawn tractor. And when he died it just kept going down the hill and into the pond. And to the bottom. My grandmother noticed he was missing after she made supper, but when she called the police she told them he must have gone off walking because he had been absentmindedly doing that at times. We searched the neighborhood and put up posters.
Eventually the neighbor mentioned seeing him mowing the lawn that day and someone went to check if the tractor was in the shed. And it wasn’t. The police didn’t think it was that important until the neighbor pointed out that there was a mowed path that led to the edge of the pond. They called out a diver and found the tractor. And Grandpa. That was hard for me. But I figured everyone has a story like that. Okay, maybe not with the underwater lawnmowing part, but heart attacks? They’re a dime a dozen. It’s one of the most common ways to check out, and everyone has to check out. And it’s pretty easy. Just eat lots of bacon.
When my cousin Kristin died last year, that was way worse. Because Kristin was the princess of the family. Ultra-feminine, ultra-beautiful. Not a tomboy like Julie. She lived a town over, and so occasionally my friends would see her. And they loved what they saw.
Kristin was driving alone and hit black ice, where the ice isn’t really black so much as it is dirty and hard to see while you’re driving. It must have caught her by surprise. She plowed her new car into a tree. And she lived. Everyone thought she was going to be okay. The hospital was going to send her home a week later. Then the day before she was to get her walking papers, they found her dead in her hospital bed. Stroke. Something must have gotten knocked loose in the accident and the doctors didn’t catch it. Not that they could have.
