by Ray Wallace
It was an older vehicle and had been sitting idle for a long time. When she turned the key, there had been a long, heart-stopping moment before the engine turned over. After letting out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, she'd headed toward the parking lot's exit, running over a zombie along the way.
During the journey home, she'd passed a mere handful of cars driving in the opposite direction, saw maybe half a dozen people out on foot. She'd kept her windows up and the doors locked, wanting to avoid any possible interaction with anyone she might encounter. The world had become an inhospitable place, to put it mildly, an apparently lawless place, one in which the living might prove to be as dangerous as the hungry dead.
She'd made it home without incident. Once inside her apartment with the door locked behind her, she thought about the illusion of safety the walls around her represented, the level of danger lurking just beyond them.
Do I really want to go on living in a world like this?
For a moment, she had seriously considered taking her own life. It certainly wasn’t the first time throughout her nearly thirty years of existence such an idea had occurred to her. But as she stood there, she'd told herself she hadn't survived all that time at the hospital just to kill herself after managing to escape. She would go on living—
For now, at least. For now.
—and find out what was taking place in the world at large, decide then if it was a place worth living in anymore.
With no electricity in her apartment, with no television or access to the internet, no working cell phone service, this had proven to be a decidedly difficult task to accomplish. She'd had to fight the fear that had become a constant companion, along with the depression that seemed to whisper in her ear like a psychotic lover: It would be so much easier to just give up, to give in, to end it all…
The days went by. The water stopped working. Her meager supply of food ran out.
As she paced the living room floor—four steps... turn, four steps... turn—she knew she had no choice but to leave the apartment, to face whatever might be waiting for her outside.
To her relief, the car started once again. She drove with no particular destination in mind, hoping to run across a military presence that could offer her protection. She found many of the roads impassable, was forced to back up or turn around on multiple occasions, to find a different route through the city. Eventually, she entered a rundown neighborhood she’d never seen before, came upon a five story apartment building with a crowd of zombies surrounding it and milling about in a mindless fashion. As she watched, three small figures appeared from around the side of the building, moving quickly, evading the grasping hands of the undead. The figures ran out into the road directly in front of her, forcing her to stop the car.
Children, she realized. Two boys and a girl. The eldest about twelve, the youngest maybe six or seven.
"Please, lady, you've got to help us," said the oldest one, approaching the driver side door as she rolled down the window.
"Get in," Irene told him after only a second’s thought, knowing she couldn’t possibly turn them away.
Sunday, August 9th
Trevor sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the platform, his feet just out of reach of the zombies below. He'd found the tree fort along a lonely stretch of mountain road two days after he'd left his father-in-law's house. The house where he'd barely escaped with his life.
The house where my wife died.
The fort consisted of little more than a thick piece of plywood for the floor and a waist high railing made out of two-by-fours. The type of thing constructed by a group of kids with a little help from one of their fathers—somewhere they could go and let their imaginations run free, pretend they were knights defending a medieval castle, or explorers living on an alien world.
There were no kids here now, though. Well, none of the living variety. He did see a few zombie children in the crowd that had gathered beneath the fort during the days he'd been there. It had rained the night before last, allowing him to refill his canteen. Otherwise, he'd have been forced to head off in search of water, which would have been easier said than done, given the group of admirers he'd attracted. He'd gotten used to the constant moaning of the two dozen or so zombies surrounding the base of the tree. Each night, the sound lulled him to sleep when the moon rose high into the sky, and it woke him each morning when the first light of the sun made its way over the horizon.
He laughed as the hands of the dead reached for him, fingers grasping nothing but empty air.
"Pretty tempting, huh?" he said to the gaunt faces and the red eyes staring back at him. "If only you were a little taller. Or if you could jump. Or climb a ladder." He laughed again. "But you're too stupid for that, aren't you? Too uncoordinated. Guess you'll just have to go hungry."
A situation Trevor himself would have to deal with here in the next day or so. The rations he'd brought with him were running low. He looked at the backpack and the gun lying on the platform next to him.
Still plenty of ammunition, though. Enough to shoot every one of these fuckers if I have to.
And, before long, he might have to do just that.
It will be a massacre.
After what had happened to Brenda, the thought had a certain appeal to it.
"Stop," he said out loud. "Just... stop."
But he couldn't stop. How could he? It wasn't as though he had a whole lot else to do but think about what had happened. His wife was dead. Even after he'd been given plenty of warning something bad was going to occur. He should have insisted they leave, should have forced her to go with him.
"But I didn't. And now she's gone."
The only time the guilt and the grief left him was when he drifted off to sleep at night. Dreamless sleep, thankfully. Each morning when he awoke, he'd tell himself he was lucky he hadn't rolled off the platform sometime during the night.
Or maybe I'd be luckier if I did.
He imagined what it would be like: the feeling of falling; the impact with the zombies and the ground below; the hands grabbing him, pulling at him; the teeth tearing into his flesh...
Better to just stick the gun in my mouth and get it over with.
His survival instinct balked at the idea of self-destruction. Also, some part of him—a small part, to be sure, but there nonetheless—seemed to believe that he'd lived through the attack on his father-in-law's house for a reason, even if he had no idea what that reason might be.
With a sigh, he stood up and wandered back and forth across the platform a few times, aware of the pressure building in his bladder. He stopped at the railing, offered an apology to the undead audience he'd attracted, started to lower his shorts.
“When you gotta go, you gotta go..."
Before he actually did go, however, he heard an unexpected sound: the revving of an automobile engine, growing louder as it drew near. When the vehicle came into view, he saw that it was a black four-by-four pickup with an extended cab and a topper on the back. It stopped at the side of the road fifty feet or so from the tree fort. Doors opened, and two men and a woman climbed out of the cab, rifles in hand, the men tossing beer cans onto the ground as they walked toward Trevor and the group of zombies below him.
After covering less than half the distance to the tree fort, the trio stopped and raised the weapons they carried with them.
"All right, then," said one of the men, the biggest of the bunch. “Let 'er rip.”
What followed was a cacophony of gunfire that had Trevor dropping and lying on the floor of the fort, covering his ears with both hands. It went on for maybe a minute before dying away completely. When it seemed safe enough, Trevor crawled over to the edge of the platform, took in the sight of all the zombies—many of them in pieces—lying across the ground below.
"You up there!” said the man who'd given the order to fire. “Why don't you come on down and let us have a look at you."
Realizing he didn't have much of a choice in the matter, Trevor com
plied.
Monday, August 10th
Dear Diary,
According to Aaron, we're getting out of here tomorrow. He's got a plan. Or so he says. But he doesn't want to tell us what it is in case the people running this place get wind of what we're up to and try to get it out of us.
"We might only get one shot at this," he said just a little while ago in the courtyard, our usual hangout. "So we need to make it count."
Roger shook his head but didn't say anything. Maybe he's grown tired of fighting with Aaron. Or maybe, like me, he's actually a little bit curious to see what Aaron has in mind. I've had enough of being cooped up in here, of being treated like a guinea pig myself. I think we all have. And, yes, I know things are bad outside. Really bad. But I've been thinking, a lot, and I guess I'd rather take my chances out there than spend the rest of my life trapped in here, no matter how much better off we might be. Although, just how much better off we actually are in here has been a topic of debate in recent days.
Aaron: "The place could be under siege at this very moment for all we know. It's not like we have any idea of what's going on out there."
Roger: "You keep talking about leaving. So how is that supposed to happen if the place is surrounded?"
Aaron: "I'm willing to take my chances. Better than sitting around in here waiting for the zombies to break in and slaughter us."
The last time Luke and I were alone, I asked him what he thought about Aaron's supposed plan.
"I don't know what to think," he told me. "The guy's kinda crazy. And I don't like him, not one bit. I guess we'll just have to wait and see what he has in mind. If nothing else, it should be good for a laugh."
Then he kissed me. This one lasted longer than any of the other times. Does this mean we're boyfriend and girlfriend? I don't know and I'm afraid to ask. I don't want to scare him off. Whatever's going on between us, I can only hope it continues. Because whenever we're together, I'm able to forget about all the awful things that have happened. Mom... Dad... The pain goes away for a little while.
It feels so good to have someone to love in the middle of all this. And, yes, I do love him. I'm pretty sure that I have since the moment I first saw him. It's a cliché, I know; the kind of thing you read about in a book or see in a movie. But it's true. I haven't told Luke about my feelings, haven't told anyone. I'm pretty sure I'd die of embarrassment if anyone was to read this. So I'll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen, that it stays our little secret, Diary.
If what Aaron says is true, if he really does have a plan for getting us out of here, there's no telling what sort of situation we might find ourselves in after tomorrow. I'm having a hard time imagining what I might end up writing within these pages over the coming days. Nothing tragic, I hope. I've had enough tragedy for a lifetime. We all have. And even though I'm well aware of the fact that we could be putting ourselves in terrible danger, I can't help but feel strangely hopeful for whatever the next few days have in store for us. Good or bad, we'll be in control of our own lives once again.
That is, if Aaron really can get us out of here.
I guess we'll find out soon enough.
Tuesday, August 11th
Private First Class Deandra Michaels and her fellow soldiers walked in loose formation through a wide section of woods just south of the Michigan-Ohio border. She held her rifle in front of her, right hand close to the trigger, but not close enough that she might accidentally shoot someone if she was startled. And, she had to admit, she felt a bit jumpy out here away from the formidable military presence along the border itself. This was her first "sweep," as it was referred to, her first time sent out to subdue any possible carriers of the plague or put down any of those who'd already succumbed to its ill effects.
Since the day she enlisted, Deandra had never opened fire on another person, living or undead. And although she would never admit it to anyone, the very thought of it made her a little queasy. She was no killer. Hell, at this point she had no idea if she was even much of a soldier. After bouncing around her share of foster homes as a youth, then spending a couple of years as an "adult entertainer" after she turned eighteen, she decided on a whim to join the military, hoping it would lead to a legitimate career at some point, instill some much needed discipline and a sense of direction in her life. Now here she was less than a year later, wandering through the woods, rifle in hand, under orders to shoot any of the deadheads they might happen to encounter.
I'm no killer.
She figured that most of her fellow soldiers could have said the same thing before the onset of the plague. Many of those accompanying her on this patrol, she knew, had racked up any number of kills in recent weeks. And from what she'd been told, the odds were good she'd be joining their ranks sooner rather than later.
They were nearly a mile from the drop point where they'd set out on foot, leaving behind the vehicles that had brought them there. The sun had started its slow but steady descent toward the horizon. They'd have to turn back within the hour. Hunting zombies after dark was no one's idea of a good time.
"Over here, Sarge."
The voice came from her left, the speaker hidden among the trees. Deandra turned her head and watched as the sergeant passed by behind her. Then:
"What have we got, private?"
"A deadhead, judging by the way he's moving."
Deandra's pulse beat heavily in her neck during the silence following this exchange.
"PFC Michaels!"
Shit.
Moments later, she found herself standing next to the sergeant, a wiry man with a thick mustache and an intense, penetrating gaze.
"Do you see that, private first class?"
Oh, she saw it all right.
A man wandered among the trees less than fifty feet away, walked with a strange, limping motion, like maybe a tendon or two had been severed somewhere in his right leg.
He's not a man. Not anymore.
"Do you have any kills, PFC Michaels?"
"Uh... No, sir. I don't."
"Well, I think it's high time we did something about that, don't you?"
"Yes, sir."
The Sarge gave her a look as if sizing her up, like maybe he wondered if she could do what he was asking of her.
"Okay, then,” he said with a decisive nod of the head. “Go ahead and take it down."
She moved several steps forward, made sure her fellow soldiers were out of the line of fire. Then she brought her rifle up, squinted her eyes ever so slightly as she aimed at the target. She was a good shot, had always scored well on the range. This wasn't the range, though.
I'm no killer. And this isn't going to change that. Not really.
She inhaled deeply, let it out slow. Then she pulled the trigger.
The zombie's head snapped back as it fell to the ground. The crack! of the rifle shot faded almost immediately, swallowed by the trees.
"Well, done, private first class," said the sergeant, walking up and giving her a pat on the shoulder. "How does it feel to get your first kill?"
She wasn't sure. Not yet. At the moment, she felt...
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
I'm no killer, she told herself once again. And, technically speaking, she supposed it was still true. She only hoped that she believed it later on when the emptiness inside of her went away. Because, undoubtedly, this would not be the last time she'd be called upon to put down one of the deadheads. At some point, instead of a zombie, it might be one of the infected, a living, breathing person who'd not yet fully succumbed to the effects of the plague. And how would that make her feel? Empty? Something worse? Did she really want to find out?
I'm no killer.
She could only wonder how much longer she could go on telling herself that, how much longer it would remain true.
"PFC Michaels?"
"It feels... It feels great, sir."
A laugh. "That's what I like to hear! Maybe we'll let you take the next one, too. Hell, maybe we'll let
you have them all."
With that, they started to move once again, continuing the sweep while the daylight let them.
Wednesday, August 12th
Eric and Amanda sat at opposite ends of the couch, sipping warm Gatorade and vodka from plastic cups. Earlier in the day, they'd forced their way into the house, wanting to get out of the storm that had swept in like the wrath of some enraged deity. They found the alcohol in the kitchen, decided to imbibe a little once night had fallen, the rain continuing to tap at the windows as the storm lingered on. Mitchell had fallen asleep, lay wrapped in a blanket on the floor next to the coffee table where he and Eric had played Go Fish for an hour or so. The deck of cards was also from the kitchen; it had been crammed into a drawer filled with all manner of odds and ends next to the stove. Eric had let the kid win the first couple of games but soon found himself losing fair and square.
"You've got a quick learner here," he'd said and exchanged smiles with Amanda while Simon, sitting in a recliner near the entertainment center, had watched with that strange, expressionless look that adorned his features more often than not. When he did display some form of emotion—smiling or frowning or raising his eyebrows inquisitively—Eric always got the impression there was something forced about it, something affected, like the guy was trying on different masks in the hopes they would put the people around him at ease.
At one point, Simon had gotten up from the chair, and said he wanted to "check the perimeter, make sure there's nothing in the area that might surprise us." He'd found a sheet of plastic in the garage, draped it over his shoulders to protect him from the rain.
Eric was glad to see him go, could only hope the guy spent the whole night out there.
"I don't know, there's just something about him... something not right..."
"Like what, exactly?" Amanda asked in a low tone so as not to wake Mitchell. She sipped her drink and stared at Eric in the candlelight filling the room with a soft glow.
