Chapter 24: Now
Marsha and I sit tensely in the window, watching the house next door, waiting tensely for that gun-toting man to come out and move on his way. It just isn’t comfortable having a stranger wandering this close to you during times like these, which is ironic since we used to live right on top of each other and think nothing of it.
“Just fucking come out already,” she mutters. “There’s nothin’ in that goddamn house worth a shit. I already checked it.”
“You did?” I wonder what she’d missed that was captivating this guy’s attention.
“I’ve been up and down every house on this street. I got all the food and water, all the tools and knives worth anything. Ain’t nothing else anybody needs.”
The stair creaks behind us and we both freeze.
“Zombie!” I whisper.
Marsha is already up, padding across the room, her knife appearing from her clothes. She moves like an animal, so graceful, despite her 50+ years on the planet. I admire that in her.
As she reaches the doorway, a voice floats through the air with a bit of the south in it, “G’mornin, sweet thing.”
Her free hand motions behind her back for me to hide.
“Don’t bother hiding, fella; I heard both your voices,” the man says, as if reading her mind, or her body language. “I don’t mean you any harm, just saw ya movin’ around in here and figured I’d investigate.”
“We’re okay. We don’t need nothin’,” Marsha says.
The man lets out a gut-wrenching laugh. “Sure, don’t need nothin’. Ma’am, all due respect, but have you been outside lately? This ain’t social services droppin’ by your trailer to see how much your husband beat you up this week. This is the end of the world as we know it!” He pauses. “And you feel fine!” He chuckles like he’d been the first one to think of that joke. “Put your hackles down, sweetie, I won’t hurt ya.”
I’d been torn between hiding in the closet and coming to the doorway of the room, and this REM quote seals it for me: that song is everyone’s anthem for the Shit Went Down era we live in. Team Doyle had a sing-a-long one drunk night where the six of us belted this sound out on a YouTube karaoke vid before the internet died.
I join Marsha in the doorway, and there’s this stranger at the top of the stairs. His skin is black. Ebony black. Wesley Snipes black. He’s old, though, and gaunt, wearing a tan raincoat and his crazy straw hat. A rifle and a pack are strapped to his back.
“Howdy, fella,” he says, and I notice his teeth look as bright as Tic-Tacs. “Y’all shouldn’t leave your front door wide open like that, dontcha know?”
“Oh, uh, I, we didn’t--” I stammer. “I mean, we don’t.”
“We just opened it for you,” Marsha says. “Saw you comin’ a ways back and wanted you to walk on by and think the place was empty.”
The guy squints. “I came in the back,” he says. “Picked the lock while y’all were watching for me through the side window there.”
“How’d you know we were there?” I ask.
He motions toward Marsha. “She’s got a gold crucifix on. It caught the sunlight and glinted at me. Saw it movin’. Didn’t know it was a crucifix, but I consider that a good sign.”
I snort. “Everyone’s got religion now. I think I’m the only atheist who survived.”
He smiles. “Oh I’m not sayin’ I got religion. I lost faith a long time ago. I’m just sayin’ it’s a good sign when someone’s still wearing a crucifix; means they’re prolly tryin’ to be good people.” He eyes us up and down. “Y’all don’t have guns?”
This makes me suspicious. Marsha and I don’t answer. I want to bluff, but I don’t know how to be convincing, and the pause is enough for him. He reaches down, pulls a pistol out of its holster, and holds it out, butt first. “Now you do,” he says. “No one should be running around out here without a gun.”
I’m still frozen, like a deer in headlights, wondering if this is some trick. Marsha sheaths her knife under her blouse and crosses the space, taking the gun. “Thanks, mister. I’ve been lookin’ all over for one of these.”
“I’m Vance,” he says. “Preston Vance. From Whiteville, North Carolina.” He grins. “The irony of that isn’t lost on me. Locals call it ‘AintWhite-ville’.”
I chuckle when that sinks in.
Marsha says, “Nice to meet you, Preston Vance. I’m Marsha Mahoney, from Taberg, New York. Good to see another friendly face around here.”
“I’m Sam,” I say. “From Syracuse.”
“Well, it sure is good to see y’all,” he says. “You’re a lucky man to be stuck out here with a lovely woman. You got a last name, Sam from Syracuse? I always like to know a man’s last name, unless of course you’re running from something. In any case, whoever was out for you probably ain’t out no more, unless you stumble into their line of vision, that is.”
His grin is warm and inviting, though I start wondering if he’s some blind apocalyptic warrior like Denzel Washington in The Book of Eli, because who in their right mind would look at Marsha and call her ‘lovely’? Gah--John Lithgow looks prettier than her!
There’s a reason I hate telling people my last name. In fact, I’d made it a habit of introducing myself casually as Sam and letting conversations slip past the fact that I’d left out my last name. As a professor, I even made my students call me Sam.
“Bland,” I say. “Sam Bland.” Just another one of those childhood wounds that had haunted me since 4th grade when ‘bland’ was in our vocab books.
Vance smiles. “Nice to meet you, Sam Bland. Now why don’t y’all come on down and help me push your barricade back in front of the door so none of them uglies get in here.”
Chapter 25: Then
As I reached the Geddes Street off-ramp, I knew this was my exit because all the gunshots were coming from the south, toward Strathmore, and I wanted to be where people had guns.
To the north, the jet fuel had caught so many buildings on fire it looked like the sky was burning, and the horizon was a wall of flame that could creep this way and devour the city.
Cars were blocking all the streets. Some of them had smashed windows, and there were blood stains on the cars and pavement here. And corpses littering the ground.
A cop car faced the wrong way, semi-blocking the off ramp, red and white lights flashing, driver’s door hanging open. Corpses littered the ground here, too. I stared at the flashing cop lights, thinking how panicky and obnoxious they looked. People with seizures must start flopping around the minute they get pulled over. This is my inner monologue as I shamble half alive through the wasteland.
I couldn’t see anything but a shifting, unsettling darkness beyond the halo of cop lights. The lights moved so much it made the shadows stumble and yawn to life.
I crept toward the police cruiser, vigilant for any incapacitated ankle biters hiding under the cars. I’d been doing that on the bridge but much less carefully. There was a different feeling of isolation and safety up there. Here, it just looked like corpses everywhere, and most of them had lived more than once. My eyes were playing tricks on me with the goddamn cop lights leaving tracers, like movement in every shadow. This is when I thought to myself: I will never ever be pulled over by another cop in my life!
But even if I survived today, I knew there was no possible way for me to survive this whole thing, and probably no chance for humanity either.
Reaching the car, I popped the trunk and checked for a shotgun. No gun. But there was a duffle bag, and I perused it quickly for a weapon. Nothing but the same stuff the last cop had, so I flung it over my shoulder in case I needed flares, first aid, or any of that crap.
Down here, the highway overpass made the gunshots ring loudly and I just wanted to get to that place where people with guns were killing people without guns.
The street was strangely devoid of zombies, and when the gunshots paused in the distance, it felt like a deserted city at night, nothing but some wind gusting and papers b
lowing across the ground. Where were all the people that had been in those cars?
Within two blocks, I came across a convenience store, and the street suddenly smelled like a porta-potty from all the corpses littered outside where a massive battle had taken place. Neon beer signs glowing reassuringly against the night. I stepped carefully toward the store, occasionally kicking a body with my foot to make sure it wasn’t going to suddenly grab me.
The inside of the place had been pretty ransacked, but some edible supplies were strewn about the floor, as well as a couple bodies that had been dragged into a corner. They unnerved me so I didn’t get too close but kept an eye on them in case they decided to get up. The top corpse had a hairy plumber’s crack hanging out of his pants that kept glaring at me like a Cyclops. So I had to keep an eye on the bodies in case they moved, and on top of this, I’m forced to look at man ass! Fuck my life.
I used the racks for cover, ducking and weaving through the store. The bright lights felt like a spotlight, and I was a sitting duck for any hungry zombie who happened to walk by the windows and look in.
First thing I did was rip open a package of donuts and shove them into my mouth so fast that I had to swig water to get them down. Then I scarfed down a bag of chips, some peanut butter crackers, and guzzled another bottle of water.
My stomach now full, I loaded cans of fruit and veggies, plus chips and mini-donuts into my duffle bag, cursing as my foot sent a can skittering loudly across the floor into a rack. Adrenaline cruised through my body, amplifying my heartbeats against my chest, but nothing moved. Joe the plumber stayed dead, scrutinizing me with his crack. Quit being paranoid, Sam!
I crawled across the floor and picked up the can. Bush’s baked beans--yum! An expiration date stamped on the top was less than two years away. What the fuck--weren’t canned goods supposed to last forever? I put it in my bag and checked some other cans, which were all expiring in the next couple years. If the zombies don’t kill us all, then botulism will.
I threw the remaining six water bottles into my pack, which had gotten quite heavy. A couple bottles of Snapple found their way in as well, though I didn’t really want anything glass in there.
The beer cooler sat completely empty, and I knew if I checked above the counter the cigarettes would probably be gone too. This looked like the LA riots after Rodney King. Had people gone to salvage televisions and stuff at the start of the zombie attacks? Someone must’ve. The Have Nots lived their entire lives enthralled by those who could afford good things: Best Buy was probably the first place looted in Everytown, America once people heard the police were all busy!
My eyes landed on a telephone. I grabbed it excitedly, then realized I didn’t know anybody’s phone number since my cell phone was still charging next to my bed! Remember being a kid, when we had to actually memorize peoples’ numbers? We each had about twenty numbers packed into our head on cerebral speed dial.
Well, I knew my parents’ landline, so I called it, keeping a watchful eye on man-ass, which was still glaring from the body pile. Why didn’t grown men have enough sense to wear a belt? Why was it up to the rest of us to…? Ring. Ring. Ring…
“Thank you for calling the Bland residence,” my mom’s voice proclaimed, like some far away memory catching in my throat and choking me. When was the last time I’d called my parents? I couldn’t even remember. I felt like I’d been so selfish and absorbed in my petty stupid life! “Please leave your name, number, and a message and we will get back to you as soon as possible.”
BEEEEEEP.
“Hi Mom, Dad, it’s nice to hear your voice. I don’t know if you guys are okay, but the world is ending now. I’m still alive, and my city is crawling with zombies. They’ve pretty much bitten everyone. I have no idea how you guys will get away from them since you’re so old. They aren’t too fast though, and hopefully it hasn’t spread out there yet. Just get somewhere safe if you can and hopefully the Army will fix this soon. I love you guys.” I couldn’t hang the phone up. I sat listening to the silence because this fiberoptic connection felt like a lifeline to me. “This isn’t a joke, by the way. It’s really happening. Turn on the news… I love you. Please get somewhere safe.”
I hung up and was consumed with the desire to cry. It was as if I’d just heard my mother’s voice for the last time and said my goodbye. One they probably wouldn’t ever hear. And what a lame goodbye. There were so many better things I could’ve said than making fun of them for being old.
I jammed my emotions down into whatever pit I’d been digging since childhood to store all these things. If there was any beer left in the store, I would’ve drunk myself into oblivion. I thought of calling them back, but I didn’t because I didn’t have anything to say.
I called 911 and got a busy signal. Of course. I hung up and stood there, wracking my brain for any other numbers I knew. I called my office number, and as the mournful rings dosey-doe’d with the silence, my eyes landed on the big plastic lottery container on top of the counter: it had been broken open and completely emptied of tickets, except for a few that had fallen onto the counter and floor. Win for Life. Take 5. Lucky 7’s. People actually stole all the lottery tickets! Think about that--the ghost of money chased humans right into the apocalypse, still gnawing at their hopes! This boggled me, and then…
“Hello,” my own voice said to me, too nasally to be authoritative. “You’ve reached Sam Bland, professor of psychology at Syracuse University, please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Hi, Sam,” I said. “It’s Sam. I hope we get through this. Things aren’t looking so good now. I’m only calling you because I have no one else to call. I hope I hear this message one day, because it means I will be back at the university, and everything will be fixed. Or maybe I don’t want everything fixed. I can’t really decide. Whatever happens, please don’t go back to Warhammer. Get a wife, get a life…” I paused. “Try harder at life and take risks. Really, go and talk to every girl you like until one of them wants to go out with you. Otherwise, you will spend your life alone and sad and…” I paused, because the words hurt. “…And being afraid,” I finished, calling it like it is. “Good luck, Sam.”
I hung up and stood there feeling as empty as the coolers and racks that used to hold cigarettes, alcohol, and snacks…dirty white sarcophagi lined in rows holding the ghosts of processed salt and sugar monstrosities that once masqueraded as food. There were no more factories to produce potato chips! No more McDonald’s. No more M&M’s!!! All that I’d ever known was gone. I couldn’t even scavenge a pack of M&Ms because every single piece of candy had been taken.
What comfort I’d felt coming in here melted away as I had an existential meltdown realizing how utterly toxic this store was. These convenience stores stood on every corner, innocuous, festering into the late hours like skin cancer nodes. The fluorescent lights and colors which had been designed to hypnotize and lull consumers into mindless purchasing sent me reeling out the door, disgusted.
I had a craving to break into Burger King down the road, fire up the grill, and flame broil some fast food goodness, paying final homage to the end of an era.
Erie Boulevard was ahead somewhere, and the gunfire was coming less frequently now. Presumably, the authorities had killed most of the dead in their vicinity? Or perhaps they dead had killed most of the authorities!
Looking back the way I’d come, the entire horizon was a curtain of fire. Like being on another planet, this wasn’t my city anymore: it was a Martian sunset, or the 9th plane of Hell.
Movement caught my eye up ahead, so I ducked behind a UPS truck near the corner of Park Ave. One of the creatures was gimping along here, and it cut across a yard and continued on Geddes toward the gunfire. Then I saw another of the creatures coming down Park Ave and heading in the same direction. I could’ve been standing in plain sight and the things probably wouldn’t have noticed me, because the guns called to them like hypnotized rednecks.
&n
bsp; A huge brick church loomed on the corner here with sparse windows high off the ground. It looked easily defensible, and I considered going in there. What could be better to defend than a church? Stone walls, tons of pews that could be used to board it up tight, and the power of Jesus holding back the dead! I smirked at that and wondered how many Christians were wandering around trying to eat people now because the power of prayer had been their chosen defense against zombies. This is the last supper, take and eat!
I needed people with guns.
I crossed Park Avenue stealthily, slipping through the shadows from car to car, darting across open spaces of grass. In some places, there were cars on lawns here where people tried to go around the traffic jam and then got stuck in front of a tree, or crashed into by another car that was trying to pull out of the jam.
So many cars had dents and broken corners and scrapes on them, you could almost see the story after it happened--everyone tried to get out at once, and then gridlock and panic. People doing anything they could to survive, crashing into each other, robbing, fighting. Human nature unleashed--that terrible thing we know boils under the polite veneer of our civilization, a cauldron of selfishness and anger and fear. Like crabs in an Earth-sized bucket.
Oops, more zombies. I ducked back into the shadows and watched them heading north on Geddes. A dog lunged against the living room window of the nearby house, barking its territorial boundaries at me. Shit! I scooched out of the dog’s sight, huddling between two cars in a driveway.
One of the creatures turned to look, but the others did not. The dog still barked, although less vigorously. After only a moment, the observant one stumbled after his mates like this was merely a night of heavy drinking. Phew!
Zombie dogs came into my head. What if…? A truly horrifying thought. Then I thought of zombie cats and my poor dear Shakes. I couldn’t forgive myself for that, but going back would be so foolhardy. The front window was smashed and by now Shakes would be chomping families of mice in the woods like her own private Catpocalypse.
Destiny Nowhere Page 14
