When The Light Goes Out

by Jack Thompson

  "Are you okay, Excel?"

  "Just trying to rationalize the 'if insert person, place or thing here doesn't say it' phrase, in my head." "Well, don't think on it too hard, it could hurt you."

  "I think it already has." "Haha."

  "Cute, I know."

  Most people in a situation such as our own, would probably have found themselves thinking, "Oh, she's making a joke! That's a good sign." But it wasn't a good sign. It wasn't a good sign at all. The dry humor worried me a bit. Her dry humor. My dry humor. All of it. Trying to be funny just to ease tension was never a very successful thing in my experience.

  Just annoying.

  I didn't want funny anyway.

  All I really wanted was the opportunity to lay down and sleep. Lay down, sleep, and wake up in my own bed, with my brother trying to shove ice down my pants because he's a stinky butt face like that. Because I could love him even though he was a stinky butt face.

  So long as he was trying to eat my face.

  I was perfectly alright under those conditions.

  Jesus I wanted to see my brother so badly at that moment. I just wanted him to be there to take care of me like he always did, because he was so damned good at it. He always knew exactly what would be best for me, no matter what it was. Maybe it was the way our parents raised him. I remember, as a child, hearing them nearly order him to "Take care of Excel." Because I was "just a kid." Even though he really wasn't that much older than myself. Maybe that was the reason he always knew what I needed. No matter whether I realized it myself or not. He knew it.

  He always knew it. "And now?"

  "What?"

  "What is it now, Excel?"

  I contemplated ignoring the question altogether, but figured getting it out might help. People were always saying that talking about what's bothering you makes you feel better. I

  was hoping that, for once in my relatively decent life (up to present date that is) such an antic would work for me. Just once. I wanted it to work just once. "My brother."

  "Your brother?" "He's I He"

  "Is one of them?" "Yeah."

  Nope.

  It didn't make me feel better at all. "How long?"

  "Since this whole ordeal started. Let's just say he didn't stay dead." Not even a little.

  "He sort of.. I dunno.. keeled over while we were watching a movie. I don't even remember what. All I know is he stopped breathing, and was gone by the time I'd called the police. He ended up attic I guess he was infected a long time ago or something. But he was never bitten. Trust me, I would have known he was bitten."

  "How?"

  "Because, unless he'd been bitten getting a b.j. or something, than he just wasn't." "Why?"

  "Because he walked around nearly naked often enough. I'm quite sure I would have seen the tell tale signs of skin breakage at one point or another." "He walked around naked?"

  "Well, he wore his boxers." "Big help."

  "Come on, we're related. It's not that bad." "You were related."

  Maybe the words hurt me more than they should have. Way more than they should have. I felt this stinging pain in my heart when Cathy said what I was sure I knew deep down. What I wouldn't admit. What I couldn't bring myself to say. Dead, or alive, or undead he was still my brother. The bastard was still my brother and I

  "I I guess I didn't love him enough to stay with him. I definitely didn't love him enough to kill him, because that's what he would have wanted." I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder in a surprisingly comforting gesture. I understood what she couldn't say. "I mean, the man probably would have preferred to get a vasectomy preformed with a turkey baster than live

  if it can be called living as a zombie."

  "Excel, please don't tell me you're blaming yourself." "Why would I blame myself?"

  "I could ask you the same question." "I'm not blaming myself."

  "Then why do you sound so guilty?" "It's an art form."

  I ignored what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, and just kept moving. I found myself occasionally squinting my eyes to see if Ian was there. With my luck, of course he wasn't. It was just one zombie or another who happened to resemble him from far away. Each and every one of them ducked behind its chosen chunk of shelter once it realized I'd seen it.

  But I couldn't figure out why they were doing that. Even if Cathy sort of explained it.

  I just didn't understand.

  Zombies didn't think, other than to decide which side of the neck was most accessible to them. But then I figured that wasn't really thinking, it was just instinct. So it made absolutely no sense to me. The situation was confusing. Incredibly confusing. And I found myself wanting to clear it up again, even if only a little.

  "So what did you say his name was?" "Criss, or something."

  "Criss or something. Helpful." "I know, I know. Excel"

  "Do you know?"

  "Excel, don't go twisting my words on me, now." "Who said I was twisting your words?"

  "That's what it sounded like."

  "Then your ears must being playing tricks on you."

  Deep down, I hadn't meant to snap at her. But I was a little cranky. Big deal, right? Everyone gets cranky sometimes. Cathy was nice enough to deal with me. She even continued following me when I started mumbling to myself, shaking a fist at the retreating zombies like a loon. I'm not entirely sure what I was mumbling, just that it was kind of mean. And completely uncalled for. And possibly about Cathy. But she still walked beside me.

  What a sport right?

  In her position I probably would have Falcon punched the insolent child mumbling mean things about me. But she quietly bore the frustration, and even smiled when I looked at her. She smiled when I looked at her. Instead of attempting to tear my eyeballs out. I mean, come on, I wanted to tear my own eyeballs out.

  I really was mumbling some nasty things about her.

  I wasn't entirely sure why I was angry. But I was. It was that bubbly kind of anger that starts in your throat, and gives you this barely controllable longing to scream as loudly as you possibly can and throw shit around. Particularly something heavy, and or pointy. Maybe a little sharp around the edges. Yeah, that's about right. The kind of anger that makes you want to throw sharp, heavy, pointy things. I really just wanted to scream, and break something. Anything. But I didn't. I tried to calm myself down.

  I failed, sure enough. But I tried.

  I couldn't figure why I was so damned angry. It made no sense.

  "If there was ever a moment I needed a happy pill.." "Pardon?"

  "Smile and nod, Cathy. Smile and nod." "Excel"

  "I really don't want to talk about it." "You never want to talk about it." "So?"

  And then I was beginning to sound like a child on the verge of a temper tantrum. The "Mommy won't buy me the double ice cream float that'll rot my teeth!" kind of tantrum. Not

  the "Daddy took away my computer privileges because I snuck a dwarf into my bedroom!" tantrum. I figure the former is always always just a little more violent than the latter. Mostly because the former is normally thrown by the younger children, and the younger children are the ones who don't realize what violence is quite well enough yet.

  "Stop acting like such a child, Excel." "I am not acting like a child."

  "Yes you are." "No I'm not." "Yes you are." "No I'm not." "God!"

  I grinned in satisfaction when the woman threw her arms in the air and groaned. She was quite obviously frustrated with the way I was acting, and I was way too proud about it. Common sense said I should apologize, because she was helping me so kindly. But pride just made me smile and want to do it all over again.

  Suppose I did have a bit of an attitude.

  "What makes you think I'm acting like a child, Cathy? Honestly. A child wouldn't be traveling around, looking for one of her friends, ready to kill zombies." "More like ready to be killed by zombies."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I don't see you so capable of taking down too many of the suckers." "Bitch."


  "That's me." "God!"

  It was my turn to throw my arms up in the air and groan. She'd done it on purpose, I could tell. Glancing over showed that she had the very same grin I'd worn moments before. She was giving me a taste of my own medicine one could say.

  Not that I liked it.

  It was very true though. "I"

  "Listen."

  The woman cut me off, finally beginning to sound annoyed with me. And that actually seemed to alter my mood a bit. It seemed to ground me. It got my mind more fully connected with the real world, and I couldn't figure out why. I should have been even more angry, or upset. I should have been ashamed. But it calmed me down, and cheered me up, and I felt like a reject.

  A trueblue reject. "But I"

  "Listen!"

  I was surprised by the vehemence with which the word came out, so I responded the only way I could think of. "I'm listening."

  "Listen harder." "What?"

  "Shut the hell up, get your head out of your ass, and listen."

  Jesus, that was angry. Okay, so maybe the lady was trying to tell me something. Something just a little deeper than just "listen." How was I suppose to realize that right off the bat though? Normally when people tell you to listen, it means they want to say something. So naturally I figured that was exactly what she was doing. I figured she was trying to make me shut the hell up, and consider the things she said to me.

  No.

  She was actually trying to get me to listen. So I did.

  I shut up, and really tried to listen.

  There was the shuffling of (presumably) zombie feet. The dripping of one water source or another. There were birds chirping, and a harsh wind blowing papers down the street. But there was also.. no. It was my imagination. It absolutely had to be my imagination.

  There was whistling. Somewhere.

  The whistling was specific come to think of it. I was able to quite easily recognize the tune when I paid attention to it for a moment. Maybe a moment more than that actually, as the whistling halted every once in a while. It faltered, as if unsure of the noise that should come next. Occasionally it fell to a volume too low to hear, but ended up loud enough for me to hear again. But even with that I definitely recognized the song.

  There was someone whistling the tune to The Muffin Man.

  It couldn't have been my imagination, because I couldn't figure why I would imagine such a thing. There was actually someone, somewhere, whistling. And I simply couldn't halt the hope that it just might have been Ian. Sure, it didn't seem very likely, but it was possible. So, of course, at that very moment, I chose to continue my screaming from earlier.

  "Ian?!"

  But this time my shouting was different. Not by much. Given my head wasn't throbbing so bad, and there were no zombies sitting on my back. I was perhaps more panicked now, because the whistling just didn't sound very steady. But I wasn't talking about differences in any of those aspects. This time was different because this time Cathy was helping.

  "Ian, sweetie, you there?"

  She called out when I paused after yelling his name myself. It seemed like a pretty good method. I scream. She screams. I scream again, which I promptly did. The only true flaw I

  could see was the fact that we may not have been able to hear him if he decided to respond to us. If it was him, that is. "Ian?!"

  I really wasn't shocked, not even a little, that there was no response. That Ian didn't round the corner screaming, "Here I am guys! Here I am! I'm safe, I'm okay!"I simply wasn't shocked in the least because, not only that was action unlikely in and of its self. But it also wasn't a very Ian thing to do in the first place. Or maybe it was an Ian thing to do, but I didn't realize it. Which was possibly even more likely than what I chose to believe.

  And I never stopped yelling.

  "Ian! If you hear me, can you please say something?!" "Anything!"

  "Ian?!" "Ian?!"

  Damn but, with the whistling, I'd just never wanted to see the boy so much in my life. Never wanted to know he was safe as badly as my stomach was clenching right then. Because there was whistling, and it meant someone was there. We just didn't know who quite yet. Common sense, the meanspirited poobrain that it is, told me that it could be anyone. It could be a total stranger, or a best friend. A family member even. Maybe some of the possibilities weren't very likely, but it literally could have been anyone. I just really wanted it to be Ian.

  Please, I found myself thinking. Please, if there's a God out there somewhere, let the whistler be Ian. Please. I guess I'd been thinking things along that strain quite often over the past few hours. Days. However long I'd been stuck in such a dreadful situation. It was a bit distressing if one honestly thought about it.

  I shouldn't have to think such things.

  Shouldn't have to make such pleas. I just shouldn't.

  No one should.

  God dammit if the man in the sky wasn't just a spiteful bastard. Given he wasn't a figment of the average populaces imagination that is. Because it was totally possible. I can see it now; one religious figure or another dies, after spending their whole life devoted to the great Lord, and all they get is a little note that says, "Haha, fooled you!" Well, not really a note, of course. There being a note would mean there was someone there to write it. But still, the point is there. And boy if that just wouldn't be the bitch of living.

  Why did I choose such moment to contemplate useless shit? Really.

  I must've been dropped on my head as a child. Multiple times.

  Into a pool.

  Without my water-wingies. Yes, oh yes.

  That would explain everything.

  "Ian?!"

  Things would have been surprisingly simple if the bastard would just open his mouth, and speak. Or if he hadn't run away. Oh yes. That would have been very nice. I'm pretty sure everyone would have appreciated it if he hadn't run away. But he had, and I just needed to get over it. I needed to get over it, and find him damn quick, because as far as I knew his time was running out.

  He could have been dying at that very moment. Breathing his last breath.

  Crying his last tear.

  One supposes that counts as melodrama.

  Regardless one of my only allies in the damned mess I found myself in could easily be table scraps for one zombie dog or another at the moment of my thoughts, and what was I

  doing? I was walking around thinking. Really, as if that would do any good.

  It wouldn't, really, I knew. Thinking never does the heroes any good. You see it in all the movies. The heroes almost always run head first into the danger without a glance back, or thought of the future. They barrel in, grab the damsel in distress, however many there may be, and barrel right back out. Bingbangboom. Done. Finished. Mission accomplished, break out the champagne (regardless of the fact that it tastes little bubbly piss.)

  Sure there was the puzzle solving, brainiac hero or two. They were the ones who rushed around like idiots considering their options. But they were also the ones who always got caught in the end (even if they do get forgiven every single damned time. Really, I'd like to see just one of them die for having the gall to think about which stupid act is the less stupid one. Rambling. Rambling.)

  I guess I didn't really fall into either category.

  I wasn't a hero at all. I never really had been, not even as a child. I was more like the twobit sidekick who got stuck in drainage pipes by habit, and ran to the nearest Starbucks to pick up coffee for the underground insert name of chosen animal here cave.

  And the whistling was indeed getting louder and louder by the minute. "Ian?!"

  Maybe it was a good time to wonder, "Why The Muffin Man?" It really was a good time to wonder it. It was a good question. What was so special about that stupid song? At least one could have chosen a more tasteful childhood rhyme. Ha. This coming from the one who sings "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad wolf?" in times of great distress.

  Don't you love the hypocrisy of it?

  I sure don't.


  But I always figured Ian for a more, "It's Raining, It's Pouring," kind of guy. Don't ask. Please don't ask.

  I wouldn't know how to explain. That's just how I happened to see him in my minds eyes for one exceedingly stupid reason or another. Sometimes, even I had to admit that the workings of my inner most thoughts made absolutely no fucking sense. Not even a little. Not even a little on occasion.

  But as the whistling got louder, I started to sing the lyrics to the song under my breath. And before I knew it, I had a little singalong going, with Cathy's voice right next to mine. And boy, if we weren't just a sound for sore ears.

  "Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man, oh, do you know the muffin man" "Does he make cookies?"

  And I couldn't help but laugh. "Cathy?!"

  "Couldn't help it." "Wow."

  "Ian?!"

  If it was him whistling, I didn't know why he wasn't responding. "Ian?!"