by Ray Wallace
Go where? he wanted to say but knew there would've been no point in it. He'd been the one who wanted, no, needed to get to Michigan. She'd only been along for the ride. How could he expect her to figure out what they should do next when he had no idea?
I suppose we could always go back to the compound.
He put the truck in gear then pulled through the grassy median, took one last look at the nearest pile of burning bodies, the soldiers standing around it watching the hideous conflagration through the gas masks covering their faces.
He drove south. It wasn't long before he saw a zombie wandering near the side of the road. Without hesitation, he gave the truck a little more gas and ran the creature down. There was a moment’s satisfaction when he saw it lying motionless in the rearview mirror. Then he thought about what the soldier had said—
Tens of thousands...
—and his hands started to shake. He pulled over, put the truck in park, the cab of the vehicle feeling too small all of a sudden, like it was collapsing in around him, might crush him if he stayed inside of it any longer. Opening the door, he got out and walked around back, put his hands on the tailgate then lowered his head and concentrated on his breathing—in and out... in and out... When he looked up, Nadine was standing next to him, watching him.
“You gonna be all right?” she asked him.
“I don't know,” he told her in all honesty.
Her hand went to the back of his neck and they stood there like that until he felt ready to get into the truck once again. This time, he let her drive.
Saturday, September 12th
Susanna couldn't bring herself to stay in the house any longer. Sure, the place still had plenty of food and water. It had electricity. And it kept her safe from the plague and the undead horrors it spawned. But the isolation was getting to her.
She'd never considered herself an overly sociable person, had attended any number of gatherings and benefits over the years only because it had been expected of her. But she'd never experienced loneliness like this before, either. It was a feeling compounded by the sheer size of the house she inhabited like a ghost, cut off from the world of the living—however much of it might still remain. There were so many silent, empty rooms. She felt unsettled by the depth of the quietude pervading them, seemingly deepening with every passing day.
After Ramos had killed Lawrence and Davide and himself, she'd dragged the bodies, one by one, out near the wall behind the house, had dug the graves using a shovel from the greenhouse. By the time she'd finished tossing the dirt back in, she was soaked with sweat, her hands blistered—
Should've worn gloves, she realized afterward.
—and her lower back aching. She'd acquired a pretty good sunburn too.
Back inside the house, she'd found a bottle of vodka among Lawrence's supplies and proceeded to get fall down, blackout drunk. And paid for it dearly the next day. Try as she might, she could not recall ever having experienced a hangover of similar intensity. Back in college maybe? She was too old, she knew, had been sober for too long to escape that sort of poisoning unscathed. And so she'd immediately climbed back onto the wagon she'd ridden ever since Zander's death, had no intention of falling back off any time within the foreseeable future. But as the long, lonely days went by, she'd felt an ever growing need to escape the reality she inhabited.
To distract herself, she spent long stretches of time in Lawrence's control room, watching the few remaining video feeds or surfing the internet for news of events taking place across the country and elsewhere.
Of course, none of the news was good.
It's the end of the world as we know it, she recalled Lawrence telling her.
"More like the end of the world, period," she said, even though there was no one to hear her speak. "Or the end of human civilization, at least."
Ever since the others had died, she'd been talking to herself with increasing regularity. Yes, the isolation was definitely getting to her. She thought about how nice it would be to call someone, to take part in an actual conversation with another human being. Local cell phone service had been sporadic at best when she'd arrived at Lawrence's estate. In the days since she'd dug those graves out by the wall, she'd had no luck at all getting through to anyone.
"I have to leave," she said while sitting in the control room, staring at the rows of monitors, the majority of them offering nothing but blank screens. "And I have to leave today."
So decided, she went about the task of preparing for her departure. Lawrence had kept several vehicles in a garage along the side of the house, one of them a red jeep with enough space in back to hold a rather sizable cache of supplies for a lone traveler. She loaded up on dried and canned goods and plenty of bottled water. In addition to the handgun she'd been using for the past several weeks, she grabbed a shotgun and a semi-automatic rifle along with several boxes of ammunition from the house's arsenal.
In the control room once again, she brought up the feed from the camera mounted atop the wall near the estate's main entrance, saw a couple of slow moving figures wandering around.
Nothing to worry about.
And so, just after eleven in the morning, she started the jeep, pulled out of the garage and followed the paved drive around the house. At the gate, she used a remote to open it before crossing the bridge that spanned the moat. She felt a mounting sense of excitement as she made her way to the main road at the front of the property, wondering what the future might bring, ready to make her way in the world once again, no matter what sort of world awaited her.
Sunday, September 13th
Eric opened his eyes in the darkness, heart thumping in his chest, convinced that a noise had awakened him. Rolling out of bed, he reached for the handgun on the nightstand then turned and faced the open doorway of the room.
Nothing.
Enough moonlight crept in through the windows to let him see the shape of the bed and Amanda's slumbering form, along with the nightstand, the dresser, and the nearly black rectangle of the doorway which stood empty, devoid of any potential threat. Had the sound he heard been a figment of his imagination? The remnant of a dream? God knew, he'd had his share of nightmares lately. Within them, he'd find himself trapped or chased, imbued with feelings of helplessness and fear that would often follow him into the waking world.
Dressed in the pair of shorts he'd worn to bed, he went to check on Mitchell who had his own room across from the one Eric and Amanda shared. It took only a moment to ascertain that the boy was fine, that—like his mother—he lay sleeping, safe and sound.
Eric followed the hallway to the stairs leading down to the house's lower level. Possessed with a sudden restlessness, he felt a need to make sure that everything was, in fact, all right, that nothing dangerous had found its way into the house. Grabbing a flashlight from one of the kitchen countertops, he performed a search of the main floor, checking the garage before he allowed himself to relax, to accept that nothing was amiss. No intruders had entered the premises. None of the monsters from his dreams waited in hiding anywhere, ready to grab him.
Not surprisingly, the undead had invaded and populated his nightmares much as they had the waking world. And, of course, there was his old pal Simon. More than once, Eric had dreamed of that knife pressing against his neck, his subconscious mind seeming to recall the exact way the blade had felt as it touched his skin. In the dream, Simon would whisper into his ear, telling him all the things he wanted to do with the knife, the same types of things Eric knew he'd done to those zombies in that garage.
He's somewhere far away now, so you need to stop thinking about him.
If only it was that easy.
He wandered through the living room and approached the sliding glass doors, took in the view of the ocean through the glass, the way the moon was reflected upon the surface of all that dark, rolling water.
I should have killed the sonofabitch when I had the chance. Walked right up to him and put a bullet between his eyes.
But he hadn't.
And, really, would he have been able to anyway? Murder a man in cold blood, even if Mitchell and Amanda hadn't been there?
Probably not.
The realization didn't stop him from fantasizing about it, though.
Clicking off the flashlight, he opened one of the glass doors and stepped out onto the patio. A cool, comfortable breeze greeted him as did the rushing sound of the waves rolling onto the shore. He approached the railing and stared down at the beach maybe thirty feet away.
They'd encountered no trouble since making the decision to stay at this place. The houses for a block in either direction stood empty. At times, though, they'd hear gunshots and see smoke rising in the distance, reminders that trouble was never far away these days. So he was only caught a little bit off guard when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. Ducking down, he scurried back inside, slid the door closed and went back upstairs.
In the bedroom once again, he approached the window offering the best view of the beach, moving carefully so as not to wake Amanda. As he watched, a pair of zombies appeared, followed by several more. Soon, a veritable parade of the undead half walked, half stumbled across the sand as they passed between the house and the ocean, their forms disturbing and grotesque in the dim light of the moon.
By the time Amanda awoke, Eric couldn't have said for sure how long he'd been standing there. Long enough for the sun to come up. Long enough for the last of the hundreds of zombies he'd seen to wander away to the north and out of sight.
“What are you looking at?”
Turning away from the window, he saw Amanda sitting up in the bed, rubbing her eyes.
"The sunrise." He smiled. "It looks like it's going to be another beautiful day."
Monday, September 14th
Dear Diary,
I know I've neglected you again but the past couple of days have been somewhat of a whirlwind, to put it mildly. Three days ago, I found out about the zombie attack (or invasion or whatever it was, exactly). There was a knock at the door of the apartment where they'd been keeping me. When it opened, Roger was there with one of the guards.
“Come on,” said Roger. “We're getting out of here.”
I didn't find out about the attack until our entire group was back together, until we were in the SUV driving away from that place, south and away from the zone.
“I think it's best if we leave for now,” Roger had said to us. “Find somewhere else to stay.”
No one had disagreed with him. It wasn't long before we found out a lot of other people had the same idea.
Leaving the zone, we encountered plenty of traffic. It was a good thing we'd been kept near the border. It allowed us to make a quick getaway. We'd been housed far enough away from any of the Great Lakes that we were never in any real danger during the attack. The military had been able to put a stop to it before the zombies had gotten close to us. From what I've heard, thousands of others weren't so lucky. I guess you have to count your blessings whenever you can.
A few miles past the border, we saw a group of people standing at the turnoff to a side road, waving for cars to pull over.
"Ah, what the hell," said Roger. "It's not like we have anywhere else to be."
He slowed down, turned, and followed the road back to a park that had a baseball field, a couple of basketball courts, and a bunch of picnic tables. The whole area was surrounded by trees. Dozens of people were hanging out, most of them carrying guns out in the open as if they were expecting trouble. It made me a little nervous but I couldn't blame them, not with everything going on. Luke and I kept to ourselves for the most part. Roger, Gina, and Mandy made a point of mingling, trying to gather any information they could. Every once in a while I'd hear gunshots, most of them sounding far away, a few of them too close for my liking. At one point, an older lady I didn't know came over and told me not to worry. She pointed toward the trees.
"We've got people out there hunting zombies."
When we were all back in the SUV again, Mandy said that she and Roger had talked to a guy who knew of a place where it was safe, where we'd be welcome.
"It's a bit of a drive...”
But like Roger had said, it's not like we had anywhere else to be. So we headed east, following two other vehicles, and made our way into Pennsylvania, ended up in a little town called Red Oak. From what I've been told, it's about a half hour drive (pre-plague) south of Pittsburgh. Everyone parked at the local elementary school. We got out, and walked across the lawn behind the building toward the woods at the far side.
“Oak trees,” said one of the women with us. (Her name's Vicky I found out later on.) “Come fall, you'll see where the town got its name.”
Luke and I exchanged a look, wondering what was going on. Were they taking us into the woods? Were we supposed to live there?
When we reached the nearest trees we stopped. Vicky cupped her hands around her mouth and made what sounded like a bird call. Then something fell out of the branches above us. A rope ladder. And that's when I saw it, the house up there. A tree house. A really nice tree house, big enough to fit several rooms inside. There were rope bridges leading away from it, connecting it to other houses in other trees.
“How many?” I heard Gina say.
“Eighteen at the moment. But we're building more.”
“A tree house city,” Luke said. I could hear the amazement in his voice.
“Perfect,” said Roger.
And it is, Diary. It is perfect.
Me and Mandy and Gina share a room. It's cramped, but comfortable. Luke and Roger have one next door.
“As long as you pitch in and pull your weight, you can stay as long as you want,” we were told that first day.
I've been helping with the cooking and the cleaning. Vicky's started teaching me how to sew.
Everyone's just been so nice. I can't put into words how good it's been to have somewhere to call home again. I know I've only been here a few days but that's what it's already starting to feel like around here. Home.
Another reason to count my blessings.
Tuesday, September 15th
A low growl had him grabbing the axe handle from the floor next to the mattress, within arm's reach should he ever need it.
"Goldie, quiet," he whispered as he got to his feet and moved toward the window. The barest strands of moonlight filtered down through the trees surrounding the old house.
He'd found the place quite by accident, had stumbled upon it the day he'd abandoned his home, as he wandered through the woods with no discernible destination in mind. Goldie had walked beside him, giving him a dopey, tongue-wagging look, like they were on some sort of fun little adventure together. Overwhelmed with anger, fear, and loss, he'd staggered his way through the woods, moving like a drunk—or one of the awful creatures that had so thoroughly destroyed the life he'd known—occasionally jarring a shoulder or an elbow off an unforgiving tree trunk, twigs snapping and dead leaves crackling underfoot.
Making enough noise to raise the dead.
The thought had forced a laugh out of him—a half strangled sound he could not ever recall making before, could only hope he’d never make again.
On and on he'd pushed his way through that stretch of forest, certain he'd walked for hours at one point, that he'd chanced upon some section of long forgotten, uncharted territory. Later, he'd realize that he'd traveled less than half a mile from the neighborhood where he and his wife had been living. The only reason he hadn't kept going, hadn't kept right on walking until he'd fallen over from exhaustion was the sudden appearance of the house among the trees. At first, he thought it was a figment of his imagination but it turned out to be real enough.
The house was small, could have fit at least three times over inside the one he and his wife had shared. When he got close enough, he saw that most of the windows had been broken, the front door left hanging wide open. Inside, he found a tiny living area, an even tinier kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms—each with enough room for a bed and
a dresser and not much else. Graffiti covered the walls and beer bottles lay scattered across the floors. Even though he'd never been aware of the house's existence, it seemed obvious the local teens had known all about it.
"What do you think, Goldie?" The dog had stood next to him in the living room, panting and wagging its tail. "Looks good to me."
Over the days and weeks that followed, he'd cleaned and fixed up the place as well as he could, raided nearby housing developments for the supplies he needed, the closest one about a ten minute walk away. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find a well behind the house half filled with potable water. Along with boarding over windows and painting the walls, he'd used a handcart to wheel a twin-sized mattress out to his new home, had stockpiled as much non-perishable food as he could get his hands on. Then he'd settled into his new life, one well removed from the horrors that had claimed the rest of the world.
Or so he'd thought.
As he stood at the window, the dog growling at his feet, he realized that those seemingly distant horrors could find him whenever they wanted.
Outside the house, maybe ten feet away, a lone figure walked by, stooped and stumbling, a black silhouette limned in moonlight. The figure was followed by another. Then another. And that was only the beginning.
After ten minutes or so, he got tired of watching them, sat down on the mattress, set the axe handle back down on the floor. Leaning over, he grabbed another item he usually kept nearby: a bottle of whiskey. As he unscrewed the cap and took a long pull of the fiery liquid, Goldie came over, making a low whimpering sound.
“Don't worry, girl,” he whispered, giving her a pat on the head. “As long as we keep quiet and stay out of sight, we'll be fine.”
He could only hope this was true. If some of the zombies decided to investigate the house—to see if it held anything interesting, anything worth eating—he had a few other weapons besides the axe handle he could use to defend himself and the dog. A scenario he'd rather avoid, if he could help it.
