A hesitant tap lets me know that my right arm is still there. Glance down at it. Sure enough, arm is still there, but it isn’t where it’s supposed to be. My shoulder has spun sideways in its socket, so that my entire right arm has turned outwards. It almost looks like I’m doing jazz hands. Start to laugh. A crazy sort of sound, and its echo against the nearby buildings terrifies me.
Slowly, slowly get myself under control. It’s hard to do. The pain and my hysterical laughter fight me tooth and nail.
“I’ve dislocated my shoulder.” As if actually hearing the words will calm me down. Surprisingly, it works. Take deeper breaths as I become more accustomed to the pain.
“All I need to do is pop it back in its socket.”
Saw it on some TV show, one of those wilderness shows. The person whose shoulder had been dislocated on TV had been able to stop screaming in pain almost as soon as it was popped back into place. Feel better about that. It’s a plan. This whole hysterical laughter thing, not so much.
The TV guy had been with a group of people. Two men had popped the TV guy’s arm back into place. I’m fresh out of dudes.
“All I need to do is pop my arm back in its socket.” The words are almost a mantra. It’s something actionable. Exactlyhowthis action was going to occur, that part is still fuzzy.I’mstill fuzzy. The world goes in and out of focus. I’ve never felt pain like this before. I’m nauseous and feel as if I’m being electrified. The cognitive part of my brain, theHannah part of my brain, tells me the dislocation is likely pressing on a nerve. The Hannah part of my brain fights for control. This new part, the white hot pain part, it’s as loud and obnoxious as the disruptive kids in school. And just about as useful.
I’m dizzy. I’m afraid I’m going to fall down, and then realized I’m already sitting. The pain is winning. If I give in to it, I know I’ll pass out. Maybe that isn’t a bad thing. Take a little nap, things will look better in the morning.
No! Hannah brain screams in my ear. Delirious, it sounds like someone else. Look around sharply. A new wallop of pain slams into me.
You stand up, Hannah brain roars. You stand up right now and you find a way to pop your arm back in its socket!
Pop it back. Pop it back. The words are like bee stings in my brain. Slowly, deliberately, I stand up. Use the handrail on the stoop for support.
Pop it back. Pop it back.
Stumble toward the open door of the co-op. Stare at the door frame for a long time. Hannah brain is becoming duller. In a moment, though, it has concocted its plan. Grudgingly shuffle to a position beside the thick, wooden door frame. It’s solid, secure, and I know I have one shot at it before the pain reallydoes take over.
Gently angle my shoulder into the space between the doorframe and the edge of the open door. Even the barest touch of the door against my shoulder is agony. Force myself to look at my dislocation. The weight of my body against the door frame will act in the same way as the two men on the TV show. Probably be better actors, too. That show was entirely unbelievable.
Focus, focus. The pain is insidious. It wants to take me on strange little side trips. Trying to figure out the angle at which my body needs to be in order to pop my shoulder back in its socket.That’s an equation I never learned in math class. Probably would’ve been useful.
I’m fading fast. My vision is narrowing. My peripheral sightline is turning dark gray. Deep breath, and then another. As I exhale the third breath, push against the door frame with all my strength. There’s a moist POP and then, thank God, I pass out.
Gatherer
I notice two things simultaneously. It’s dark, and my shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore. Well, not in the same immediate way.
I use my left arm to pull myself off the floor of the co-op. I fell where I stood, half-in and half-out of the building. It’s dark. Did I already mention that? I can’t remember. There’s a new moon, I’ve been keeping track of the cycle, so there’s no moonlight. The stars above are spectacular. The neighborhood has become foreign in the darkness. The only way I can tell the buildings from the sky is by the artificial absence of stars.
My head is sore, probably from slamming it on the ground when I fell. Reach up into my hair. Nothing wet. Good. I’m not bleeding. My shoulder is no longer screaming, but it’s still really sore. I rotate it slowly. That seems to help a bit.
After making sure I’m not going to fall over, I walk down the co-op steps and onto the street. My eyes are adjusting to the dark. It’s a stellar night. A soft breeze blows warm summer air like a kiss across my cheek. I want to be afraid. I’m actively trying to be scared. It’s dark. I’m alone. But fear just won’t come.
The gun lies where it fell. I’m going to leave it where it is. I have no use for it. Learned a pretty good lesson. My bike is where I left it down the block. I walk it home. I don’t feel steady enough to ride it. Better safe, right? There’s been enough drama for one day.
The world looks different at night. The same landmarks, the same well-traveled route home, but all of it has been transformed. It’s like looking at the same piece of art painted by two different people. And it’s kind of magical. The stars, the shadows, the hypnotic sparkle as the water catches the starlight. The silence, too, is different. Heavier, as if the darkness itself possesses weight.
I sit on the bridge between Charleston and St. John’s Island with my legs dangling over the side. Stare eastward, where the inland waterway empties out into the Atlantic. The gentle swell of the water makes me feel connected. But connected to what? Nature? God? The universe? Yeah, maybe all three. Or maybe all three are the same thing. And maybe I’m a part of it all.
I’m unique. The fact of my survival is testament to that. But circumstantial uniqueness isn’t what I mean. I was unique long before any of this. My thoughts, dreams, feelings, they all exist exclusively within me. All of them are as one-of-a-kind as my DNA strands. I could’ve viewed my uniqueness as isolating, but instead it’s always been mya hidden treasure. And although Grace and her venom hurt and made me want to be something special in my sister’s eyes, that something special is different than the holy shrine that already exists inside me. If I were forced to explain the difference, maybe to you, I’d probably point to the stars’ reflection in the water. Each star is part of a bigger, broader galaxy. Each star’s light has traveled thousands of millions of years to reach this spot. And the water, individual unique drops moving in unison by the pull of the moon’s gravity, they’ve arrived at the single perfect moment to capture the light of those individual stars. Each swell of the water, each tug of the moon’s pull, makes another unique moment. Each moment is a secret one, available only to someone who chooses to look. I’ve always been worth a look. I know that. Maybe that’s why I was able to bury my family, one after the other. Maybe that’s why I was able to leave them behind. I’ve always been aware of my solitary existence.
I’m glad I didn’t killed the deer. Even the horror of my dislocated shoulder is worth that outcome. From the moment I picked up the gun in the sporting goods store, I knew I’d regret it.
Once, when I was staring out the back window of the car while Mom was driving us all home from grocery shopping, I watched two squirrels standing beside the road. One of them stood on its hind legs. They were agitated and were watching the street. The other squirrel started to dart into traffic, but stopped short. I couldn’t figure out why until our car had passed and I got a look at the whole scene. A third squirrel had been hit by another car. It lay motionless in the street. Its friends had been trying to rescue it.
That would have been the deer. If I’d succeeded in shooting the doe, the fawns would have felt the loss. How could they not? And I would’ve caused it. I’ve been spared that responsibility.
“So why don’t I feel the same way about all the dead people I’ve seen?”
Because I’m not responsible for them, that’s why. My actions didn’t cause all those countless deaths. The deer, that would’ve been on me.
As dawn
breaks across the wet horizon, I know for a fact that I’ll never pick up a gun again. That makes me feel well enough to walk the rest of the way home.
Cut across St. John’s Island instead of hugging the coastline this time. It isn’t a conscious decision. Just feel like wandering. My thoughts have left me feeling peaceful, and I want to hold onto that feeling as long as I can. Later I’ll swim and put some food in my belly and probably sleep hard, but I’m in no rush. I’ve already broken curfew.
The inland part of the island is dense with trees. I recognize a few varieties — pine trees, oak, maple — but most of them are foreign. Here and there, skinny palm trees poke out of the soil like uninvited guests.
A driveway appears around a curve in the road. As I round the corner, a sign proclaims “PARSONS ORCHARDS – FRESH FRUIT”. The morning sun is just starting to rise and the heat of the day has yet to build. Figure it’s worth an explore.
I walk my bike up the long driveway. On either side, a thick grove of trees forms a leafy wall. Feels like I’m going through a tunnel. The driveway opens up into a wide parking lot. The lot’s empty. A small building almost like a mobile home but wooden sits at the far edge of the parking lot. A sign on the building reads “PARSONS ORCHARD”, and is decorated with colorful graphics of peaches, pears and bananas.
Beyond the Parsons Orchard building and extending left and right are rows of neatly planted trees. I set my bike against the building’s porch and walk toward them.
The symmetry of the plantings, dozens of soldier-straight rows of trees, is decidedly manmade. Nature isn’t a fan of straight lines. The trees themselves look healthy. Not that I’ve ever seen a fruit tree, but the thick leaves and solid trunks make it a pretty sure bet. As I get closer, I see that the trees are thick with fruit.
I walk through a row of thin, tall pear trees. my identification based on the familiar shape and telltale green skin of the fruit hanging from their branches. Reach up, pick a pear from the tree.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything fresh. Longer even than before the General’s arrival. Fruit was a luxury my family couldn’t afford. Even at the discount grocery where we shopped, fruit was expensive. And of questionable moral character most of the time.
The pear is tangy and solid, not quite ripe. I don’t care. The feel of it in my mouth, a real piece of fruit, not from a can, it’s intoxicating. Eat it to the core, using my teeth to extract every bit of the fruit.
The orchard is divided into distinct areas. Pears, peaches, what look like cherries and then huddled together like strangers at a party, banana trees. The banana trees have a tropical look, reminiscent of palm trees but not nearly as dramatic. Most of the fruit has yet to ripen. I help myself to a couple of peaches. The juice drips down my chin, leaving my face sticky.
My body and mind rejoice as the fruit gives up its magic. Fresh fruit, it’s a whole different thing than what comes out of a can. The explosion of nutrients is like a shot of epinephrine. The sensation is warm electricity, high voltage octane coursing through me. I wonder how I can ever eat canned fruit again. Look around the orchard and smile. I won’t have to, at least not for a long, long time.
The Tower
It’s important to have a schedule. It’s easy to let a couple of days pass and not even remember what I did. I guess it’s more about having a purpose. Mom used to say we all have jobs. My job was to go to school. No matter how much I hated doing it, that was my job. Mom said most people hated their jobs. I don’t have a job anymore. I guess surviving could be called my job, but once the immediate danger of dying or starving or finding a place to stay is taken care of, most of survival is just repeating the same thing over and over. Getting through the day. Doing something. Because there’s surprisingly little to do.
It’s hot, and I don’t just mean a little uncomfortable. Move even a little bit inland from the ocean and its amazing breeze, the humidity hits like a bag of wet laundry. So I limit my trips to morning and evening. If I could toss every horror movie I ever saw out of my head, nighttime would be the best time to go out. Whatever. That’s not gonna’ happen, despite my overnight walk after dislocating my shoulder.
The past few days I’ve spent in the church. There are lots of churches here. Dozens of steeples across the skyline. The one I like most is the big one. St. Philip’s. Big tan building that takes up an entire city block. Its tower looks like a cross between something Mayan and medieval. The clock in the tower is how I’ve been keeping track of time. I’m not sure what’ll happen when it stops ticking. Maybe I’ll figure out how to turn the power back on by then. God knows some air conditioning would be nice.
The problem with churches is the fact that they were the places people went when they felt like they had nowhere else to go. So there are bodies. Lots of them.
A ton of places in Charleston still carry the smell of death. For the most part, though, the smell has abated. The blocks around St. Philip’s is not one of those places. As soon as I walk into the French Quarter, where the buildings are old and colorful, the reek of gross becomes almost thick enough to climb over. You get used to it, if you wait a few minutes. It never getsbetter, just stops being quite as worse.
The church is surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The gate was open the first time I visited. Nobody closed it, I guess. The pews inside are packed tightly with row after row of silent, still bodies. The sound of flies makes the floors and the walls vibrate. The first time I walked inside I made the mistake of trying to go up the center aisle. I made it about a quarter of the way to the altar before I doubled over and threw up in the lap of a greasy-looking black body in a floral dress sitting beside me. I don’t know if the woman had always been black or had turned that way in the intervening months since her death.
Dead bodies don’t bother me much anymore. Ceiling Fan Man helped me get over it. I guess I should thank him. Maybe I will someday. Head back to Atlantic Acres and cut him down from his ceiling fan. Who knows? If I do, though, he’ll no longer be Ceiling Fan Man. I don’t know how I feel about that. I like knowing where the dead bodies are. Grace would hate that. But I don’t care. Grace is dead. And I know exactly where she is.
I’m keeping track of the bodies I find. It’s a big list, and I have no idea what purpose it serves. But I keep adding to it. So far none of the bodies I’ve documented have moved. So I guess that’s sort of the reason why I’m keeping it.
My footsteps on the stairs leading up to the spire echo through the silent church. The first couple of trips I made freaked me out. I swore someone was walking through the church with me. When I started running up the stairs, the footsteps got faster. It took me a full half hour to figure out it was my echo.
The sun’s coming up over the ocean, just past where St. John’s Island curves and meets up with my beach house. The breeze this high up gives me brief breaks from the smell below. I can almost imagine what this place must’ve been like. The ocean waves pull and stretch and bend the sunlight into rippling strips of color. Yellow, orange, red, green, like a shimmering reflection of autumn. The breeze also keeps me cool.
I take a bite out of one of the peaches I’ve brought with me. Fresh fruit has made me feel lighter. I didn’t realize how gummy my insides had become. Prepackaged food left me with a weight I hadn’t been able to shed until fresh fruit.
I can see the entire city from up here. But that’s not what I’m looking for. It’s been more than a week since I saw the lights. I’m past the point of doubting it. Ididdoubt it. But I know that I saw them. I just don’t knowwhat I saw.
After doing some comparison shopping, I stumbled across a small boat supply store that had a surprisingly robust selection of binoculars. I read the descriptions on the boxes, quickly realizing that the differences came from both magnification and a whole bunch of other crap like “exit pupil diameter” and “multicoating”. I chose an expensive pair that fit my hands comfortably. I guess I chose the right ones because, wow, do these things ever work. Problem is, the
re’s not much to see. Well, there’slots to see, dolphins and seabirds and even some buoys bobbing in the water, but nothing that would explain the lights.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. A rescue boat? A military ship? Maybe a shipping freighter with a crew that never got infected because they were out at sea? A part of medoesexpect that. Abigpart. It just seems logical. Whywouldn’t a ship be the perfect place to find other survivors?
I’m tired of death. The stench snaking up from below me is making my eyes water. Been thinking a lot about what I can do about them. Burn them? That makes me sick to think about. I imagine dragging body after body into a giant heap, dousing it with gasoline and lighting the whole thing on fire. Not the wholething. They’re notthings. They’re people. Or they were. They had families. Parents. Friends. They had jobs and hobbies and dreams and ambitions and… no, that’s dangerous thinking. That’s how I’ll go crazy. I can’t picture what they used to be. That’s too much to think about. Because then all I’ll think about is that everybody lying inside every house on every block had all the same things I had. I can see most of the city from here. Most of the places where the bodies are. Row after row of people who used to be. And what was the point? All that useless, useless living, mile after mile after completely wasted mile. If I think about that, I have to think about every other town and village and city I walked through to get here. All of it purposeless. I’d have to think about why. But thereis no why. They’re all just dead. Every single person in every single place I’ve ever heard about.
I need to stop keeping my list of bodies. That’s a stupid thing to do. I don’t care. There’s nothing I can do for them. Knowing where they are doesn’t matter. There’s no such thing as a zombie. If there was, that’d at least be something to keep me company.
Yeah, it really is about having a schedule. I need something to do. If it wasn’t so damned hot maybe it’d be easier to figure out. Maybe I’ll get some puzzles or LEGO. Learn how to knit. Or crochet. Definitely not shoot guns.
The First Year Page 11
