“We can’t do that,” he says with surprising vigor. He doesn’t have bags under his eyes. He sleeps more than all of us put together, more than a narcoleptic old cat.
“What do you mean?” Ted blurts out, sitting up farther to be able to see Phil. Ted has been eating well and he’s starting to put on some weight. It suits him. Unfortunately, his broken glasses and untamable hair still leave him looking like a Boy Scout. “We can’t let it go on like this, man, it’s fucking gross.”
“Ted is right,” I say. “He’s absolutely right.”
“But it’s the store.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Phil, I don’t think we’ll reopen for at least a few months, okay? Don’t worry about it, please. You’re fucking overruled.” I can’t really explain how good it feels to tell him to shove it. He hasn’t made a nuisance of himself but he certainly hasn’t been much help either.
“Just … Just try to throw it close to the doors, okay?” I add, and this seems to calm him down a little. “From now on, we’ll use the bathrooms across the hall. Never go alone, check all the stalls and make sure someone is keeping guard. Every three days we’ll empty them out.”
Matt and Janette amble to the door, looking dour as they prepare to retrieve the bucket from the maintenance closet. This behavior is expected of Matt, but I was hoping Janette would perk up a bit at the thought of helping the group. Phil wanders back into his office and slams the door, making the photos on his wall rattle and dance. Hollianted come to stand by me and I’m glad for their smiles, even if they look exhausted and strained.
“Well, I think that went well, don’t you?” Ted asks, grinning. He’s wound a bit of electrical tape around the joint of his glasses. The effect is charming.
“Swimmingly.”
I take the first Shit Shift, which is what Ted has christened the chore. This is a much worse task than I envisioned and it takes absolutely forever. Let me tell you, when you’ve got a bucket teeming with murky fecal matter, you take very great pains to make damn sure you don’t spill it on yourself, the floor of your living space, or anyone who might get in the way. This means that the going is slow and stressful. All the while you’re gagging and trying your best to breathe through your mouth but even then it’s like you can taste it. Shit particles. Pee vapor.
Christ.
I’m on my last leg of the shift when it happens. Ted has been keeping watch for me while I run my insane little relay, scooping the bucket into the toilet in the break room, carefully walking at top speed through the conference room, out the break-room door and into the store, then across the floor to the broken windows. I’ve been tossing most of the waste out the windows. Phil was kinda right—there’s just something weird about dumping crap on the floor of the store. So to make him and, I think, everyone else happy, I fling the contents of the bucket out the broken windows.
It’s also a chance to get a look at the outside world, which is something you really can’t pass up. The rolling parade of smoke has cleared some and now you can see the building across the street. The windows are broken there too. It’s almost satisfying to see that overpriced, snob-factory of a boutique run-down and gutted. Almost. There are a few zombies wandering the streets but they all seem to be heading in one direction, west toward the university campus. There’s no sign of human life, no trace of other survivors, just overturned cars in heaps, the carnage of a sudden battle, scorch marks and tire treads painted down the streets … It looks exactly like a movie set.
During the relay race Ted and I have begun sharpening a theory. We posit that there are two kinds of zombies: Groaners and Floaters. They’re both dangerous, for obvious reasons, but they’re actually quite different. Groaners are loud, they groan (duh) and moan and squeal as they come for you. They’re faster, more determined, more desperate. Floaters are arguably more dangerous because they’re quiet, weirdly quiet, and they can sneak up on you. But they’re slow and they don’t seem to react very fast. Ted and I think that Groaners are hungry, so they’ve gone a little wild. Floaters are running on a full tank so they don’t care as much about getting their bony claws on your face. During the Shit Shift we have encountered a few of both, but mainly Groaners. I have to say, I prefer Groaners—they let you know they’re coming, they announce their arrival.
I’m feeling tired, so run-down I can hardly focus my eyes, but I’m going to finish this last trip to the windows if it’s the final fucking act of my life. Setting a good example, I’ve come to see, is key to leadership. If I empty the toilet first, then the others will do it without complaint, and if I do a thorough job then I’ll set a good standard.
Like I said, this is when it happens: I raise the bucket, holding my breath as I wind up to toss the waste out the window. Then I hear this sound. It’s one I haven’t heard in a while, a sound that will make any human being with a pulse stand up and take breathless notice.
Woof … Rerr … Woof, Roof!
It’s a dog, a mutt, and it’s staring me down from the middle of the road. Maybe staring isn’t the right word—regarding, lovingly, sweetly, begging with its big chocolate eyes. It’s got dark, pointed ears and one is standing straight up, the other is flopped over. His nose is marbled pink and tan and he’s got a sturdy, if starved, body. There has to be German shepherd in there and maybe some pit bull. He’s mostly black and orange, with the biggest tongue I’ve ever seen hanging out the side of his mouth.
“Come here, little man!” I call.
“What are you doing?” Ted growls.
“I’m calling to the dog, what does it look like?”
“You can’t, Allie, what if he’s infected? And he’s probably hungry. He’ll eat all our food.”
“Don’t be so heartless, asshole. We can’t leave him out there! Come here, we won’t hurt you.”
The dog takes a few slow steps in our direction. I decide then and there that he is a smart and good dog for not charging into the arms of a human with a bucket of shit poised at the ready. I gently slop the waste down the outside of the windows and set the bucket down. This seems to be the signal the dog was waiting for and he pads over, snuffling up my pant leg and licking at my belt buckle.
“I love you too,” I say, patting his broad, matted head. “Come with us, we’ve got yummies.”
Everyone takes part in Shitgate ’09 with unmitigated eagerness after the dog arrives. What the hell is it about a happy mutt that makes humans forget their worries, their massive troubles, and soldier on? He’s done something to Phil, given him new life, new purpose and it’s the same with everyone else too. Holly never struck me as a dog person and I know Janette only had cats, but Dapper (that’s his name) has won them over. Sure he eats, he’s another mouth to feed and water and take out into the store for the bathroom, but he makes us all a little less cranky.
And I’m sleeping again. Dapper sleeps with me, curled up on my feet, his cold nose pressing into my shin. Sometimes he licks my feet. I think he knows we could all use a bath. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t tell me it’s hopeless, that we’re stuck here forever until the food runs outs, until the undead somehow find a way in. He just looks up at me with those huge, accepting eyes.
He’s grateful and he’s gentle and he’s mine.
COMMENTS
Isaac says:
September 25, 2009 at 8:28 pm
Usually a new dog makes you lose sleep with all but whatever works I guess. The Dakotas are a wasteland but I’ll take quiet over those creatures any day. Rural life seems to be the way to go, hardly any creeps around here to kill, just the occasional neighbor that wanders over from the next farm. You might want to start boiling your water if sanitation is bad and if someone is ill keep them away from the rest of you. Glad you’re sleeping again, keep us updated.
Allison says:
September 25, 2009 at 9:51 pm
Yeah, dog as cure for insomniac, who knezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …
September 26, 2009—The Dirty Girls Social Club
“But I’ll look like a boy!”
“You won’t, I promise, and besides, aren’t you sick of smelling like a boy?”
“I don’t care,” Janette says, crossing her arms stubbornly. “You’re not touching my hair.… And I don’t smell.”
“You do smell, dude. Trust me.” She’s not budging. “It’s not a fashion show, Janette.” Oh Jesus, I think my mother used to say the exact same thing to me in high school when I’d wander downstairs in a hideous black mesh T and neon pink high-tops.
I don’t give a shit about Janette’s feelings right now. Something’s got to give and that means one thing: mandatory haircuts today.
I’m not bothered by it. I’ve had short hair for a few years now. I used to rock that long, layered look with a few lowlights and then my mom and I decided to chop it all off for Locks of Love. This was before she got cancer; kind of ironic, I guess. Or is that Alanis Morissette “ironic”—as in, not really ironic but just coincidental? Anyway, we both found out at that point that we liked having short hair, so we just kept it. When Mom was diagnosed I shaved my head in solidarity. It’s grown in again but today we’ll chop it off.
I used to joke that maybe the wig my mom got from Locks was made out of her own hair, or mine, or it was some Frankenwig hybrid of both of us. She never wore it much. She looked good with a Q-ball and I think owning it, embracing it, gave her strength.
Anyway, Janette and her insecurities are irrelevant. I’m worried that we’ll get fleas or, worse, lice. Without a functioning shower it’s impossible to stay even moderately clean. I think this is the first step. Holly takes it like a champ and really, she could look worse. Janette’s long, strong-chinned face isn’t exactly flattered by short hair, and she looks like someone, something, I can’t put my finger on it—but she certainly doesn’t look like a boy. Not an ugly one, at any rate.
I can almost feel us bonding, like spending a day at the most backwater, run-down salon imaginable. There’s no exfoliating mask or sea-salt scrub, but we look and feel different—better.
Peter Pan. That’s who Janette reminds me of, that chick who played Peter Pan onstage. I’d tell Janette but I don’t think she’d take it as a compliment. I wish she was Peter Pan. I wish she could fly up and out of here and find us all some help.
COMMENTS
bruce says:
September 26, 2009 at 4:56 pm
Haircuts, that’s a good idea, also one less thing for Them to grab onto. We’ve been trapped in a library for a week now … only three of us left out of the original 37. Mostly ‘Floaters’ in this area, as you call them. Books are the only thing keeping us going. Won’t last much longer, we have no weapons and they are slowly breaking down our defenses. Hope you have better luck than us.
Allison says:
September 26, 2009 at 6:01 pm
Bruce! You’re a genius! I hadn’t thought of the safety benefits. I’ll pass that on to Janette; I’m sure she’ll be jazzed to hear that short hair makes her a zombie-dodging ninja superstar. Good luck in the library. And what’s this about no weapons? Get yourself a solid dictionary and throw that sucker like it’s the motherfucking Olympics.
September 27, 2009—The Bloody Chamber
“Tell them. Go on. Tell them what you told me.”
“Can’t I plead the fifth or something?”
“No, no you can’t, Allison. Tell them now or I’ll do it for you.”
I’ll paint the picture for you: I’m standing in front of the assembled group sweating like a hog, a stinky hog with a string trimmer haircut. They’re glaring at me because they’ve read Ted’s expression and know now that I’ve done something bad, really bad, time-out in the corner bad. It’s elementary school all over again. Show and tell, the mortifying gauntlet of raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Everyone is even grumpier than usual, as if Matt’s sour attitude has spread like its own miniature undead plague. It’s late September now and it’s starting to get cold. It’s creeping through the walls and causing the clammy dampness of our tiny world to change into something more sinister. Holly has a cough. I’ve learned now where Brooks & Peabody’s priorities are at: the security cameras run on the emergency power—but not the much-needed heat.
I don’t know. I fidgeted. I think I cleared my throat.
“I’ve been keeping a blog for a while now. It started out as a cry for help but then I … I don’t know, it felt good to talk about what was happening so I kept going.” I don’t know why it’s hard to say it, but it feels like a betrayal and I can see Holly is on the verge of tears. “There’s good and bad news. The good news is that there are still other people alive. They’re out there, they wrote back to me. The bad news is … They’re just like us, trapped, helpless.”
“I don’t suppose any of them were policemen or EMTs?” Matt asks dryly, rolling his eyes at me.
“I don’t know. But that brings us to another point.” I look at Ted, who nods solemnly. Ted and I have discussed this, convened our own private congress and voted, unanimously, to take action. And we’ve come to a decision; now it’s time to tell the group and I know already it’s not going to go well. At least Dapper was there to sit quietly at my feet like an old wise statue, a talisman against the anxious glares pointed my way. “Ted and I are going up to the apartments today. Food is getting low again and we all need to think about finding something more permanent.”
“More permanent?” Holly echoes. Her face has gone completely white and her fingertips are hanging off the side of her mouth. She’d started chewing her nails a lot lately.
Ted and I exchange a look.
“The thing is, the news coming in from outside isn’t good. Chicago is under attack too, and—”
“Under attack?” Janette asks, her hand clutching Matt’s knee. I start to wish they would stop repeating everything I say and contribute, but that’s asking too much. It’s my fault—I should’ve phrased that better, I shouldn’t have given her hope. I mean, I suppose an attack could imply a resistance, I know that’s where her mind went. It’s where mine would go too.
“Overrun.”
There’s a long pause after that. I watch tiny particles of the full truth settling down on their faces, melting over them in a horrifying fog, putting creases in their foreheads and then drawing their mouths down in fear. Holly covers her mouth and makes a raspy, strangled sound.
I should be angry. This is really all your fault—Isaac, and you, Mel, and you, you, anonymous and you, Bruce. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. When I saw someone else was out there, I almost spat out my Sierra Mist all over the keyboard. And then, in my exuberance, I told Ted about you and subsequently outed my sad little secret Internet life. Ted, understandably, was not pleased.
“What were you thinking? Using your fucking laptop! You’re wasting energy,” he snapped, scowling at me. He had refused a haircut and now his fringe was starting to overtake his glasses. He pushed it out of his view with an angry little huff. “I can’t believe you. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“This is a good thing, Ted, I can feel it. Look, if there’s still wireless then there are still people doing things, right? Normal things! Or at least, not everything is fucked, you know? I mean … Right?”
“You have to tell the others,” he whispered, frowning and shaking his dark, moppy head. “They deserve to know. I deserved to know. I wish you had told me what you were up to.”
“Well, now you know. It wasn’t … intentional, I just didn’t think anything would come of it, you know? It felt more like therapy than an S.O.S. No more secrets from now on, Ted, I promise.”
That seemed to calm him down a bit so our congress of two moved on to a new topic: Dapper. Dapper doesn’t bark. He hasn’t barked at any of us for any reason. Maybe he’s intuited the danger we’re all in; maybe he’s just trying to fit in and be as likable as possible (which has worked, by the way). But last night after haircuts, we started to notice noises up above us, loud, scraping noises like furniture being moved aroun
d. At first we didn’t think much of it but then Dapper started barking his head off, jumping up and flashing his teeth at the ceiling.
Ted and I have determined that this is significant. The barking coupled with the noises … We think there might be survivors up there. It’s entirely possible too, considering they’re on the second floor. I have no idea how agile those undead things are. They might not be able to handle stairs very well and if stairs slowed them down then maybe the tenants upstairs managed to hold them off. We wonder if maybe Dapper came from one of the apartments upstairs and this is his way of telling us to go up.
And that brings us to the unpleasant task of asking, yet again, for volunteers. Ted and I are less certain that we can safely get through the store, out the back and up the fire escape with just the two of us. A third person would be nice, someone to keep watch in the back, just one more pair of eyes on the lookout. I can see Matt is rousing himself for an argument and he’s shifted forward a little, as if putting himself between us and Janette. Matt has taken the long, thoughtful pause to organize his thoughts and prepare for the inevitable showdown, his death glare booted up and set to disintegrate.
“No,” he finally says, predictably. “No way. It’s suicide.”
“It’s not suicide, Matt. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“You have no idea what’s up there, how many of them are up there.”
“But what if it’s not so bad? What if we can clear it out? We might actually be able to live like real human beings with couches and countertops and beds!” I say. This is getting bad—if he keeps the doom and gloom going then no one will volunteer to help us.
Then Janette, wonderful, gorgeous, Peter Pan Janette, murmurs very quietly, “A bed would be nice.”
Matt balks at her, appalled and utterly betrayed, and then sits back hard against the cupboards. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks in the other direction. I’m hoping this means Janette will join us, but she’s silent again. Ted and I glance at each other and I shift awkwardly from foot to foot. I can feel the frustration building. I want to shout: Don’t you get it? Don’t you see what’s happened? We just have to get along! That’s all we have to do, just fucking get along!
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped Page 4
