by Bryan Way
Whatever. I don’t have any more to say.
Sincerely,
~Jeff Grey
I put my writing supplies away and turn off my flashlight. My eyes have grown weary from the few minutes of writing, a likely side effect of my difficulties sleeping and having gone to bed at 4:00am. I try not to be too hard on myself, since we wake up every day unsure if we’ll have the chance to do so tomorrow. Terrified by this thought, I roll over on my queen mattress and put my arm around Melody before falling back to sleep.
12-19-04, SUNDAY
Moments after consciousness firmly takes hold, I hear someone settling into a cot elsewhere in the room. By their relative position, I assume it’s Althea. I crack my eyes open to confirm this while I spread my arm out and discover that Melody is gone. I nod at Althea as I exit and go to the bathroom for my morning routine; piss, take pills, and brush my teeth before heading for room 212 to get changed. It’s 3:00pm, and more than anything, I’m proud that I managed to stagger out of bed before 4:00. As I finish donning a flannel shirt, I look into the courtyard at our fifteen apple trees and imagine picking them in the spring.
Melody snaps me out of my trance as she jogs past the open door; she’s been running at least twice a day since we’ve settled here as part of her fitness routine. Having been divorced from my farming fantasy, I attend to my next need: food. No matter what time of day it is, my first thought upon waking is breakfast. Mursak, Karen, Elena, Helen, and Anderson are all sitting at one of two cafeteria tables we’ve bothered to assemble. The rest are now overturned, reinforcing entrances in various places around the school.
The ends of the table look toward the kitchen, which remains the same, and a small stage, which features a sparsely decorated fake Christmas tree with several ornamental boxes wrapped in attractive paper. I offer my afternoon salutations before getting myself some cereal and a granola bar. After noticing a pot of boiled water, I pour myself some Earl Grey and join the conversation at the only occupied table.
“For a moment there this almost felt like a high school cafeteria.” I say, setting my tray down.
“…probably because it is a….” Mursak responds.
“Thanks.” I snort, cutting him off. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Talkin’ ‘bout board games.” Karen offers.
“Board games…”
“Yeah… we got a dozen boxes of Scrabble, not much else.”
“Yeah, well, it is a school.”
“Doesn’t matter…” Anderson replies. “I’m sayin’ we should get Warhammer.”
“Don’t know that one.”
“Remember at the mall, when you said you wanted to set up those toy soldiers on that battlefield?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s Warhammer. You specialize, glue, and paint the guys to fit your needs.”
“Sounds… time consuming.”
“Exactly.” Mursak interjects. “It could go on for months.”
“Ooh, I like that… develop complex strategies, give the other side time to counter them…”
“We could fill an entire room with a battlefield…” Anderson suggests. “Instead of treating it like Risk, we play out each skirmish between two soldiers.”
“Develop backstories?” I ask with a smile.
“Why does it matter?” Helen asks.
“Well, wouldn’t you be more invested in a character forced into combat to protect his wife and child?”
“That’s not what I mean… with what’s going on? It’s a stupid game.”
Helen’s comment effectively aborts the conversation. I continue eating while the rest of the group bastes in an awkward silence. A high-pitched scream cuts through the pathos, bringing Anderson, Mursak, Karen and me to our feet. Karen wipes her mouth and waves us down. “It’s Rob…” She says quietly. We watch her exit. In the ensuing calm, I’m glad I have something to eat; I’m the only person at the table doing anything other than waiting for a conversation to happen. Elena remains blissfully unaware, listening to something with massive noise-canceling headphones while she doodles on a sketchpad.
“So, uh…” Mursak starts, buffering the transition. “I miss any broadcasts?”
“Last week.” Anderson says blankly. “They made it as far west as Idaho.”
“Any word on the numbers?”
“Ten million or more… and more runners the further they go west.”
“Damn.” Mursak continues. “You have to think people are getting better at first aid…”
“I, uh… what?” I ask.
“Obviously people are dealing with bites…” Anderson replies defensively. “That means more people survive…”
“The upshot is you get corpses in better condition.” Mursak adds.
“Yeah… I heard Europe is in deep shit.” I offer, glancing at Elena, who doesn’t take notice of my swearing.
“I told you that.” Anderson interrupts. “And they figured out how it spread to France.”
“Oh?” I start.
“Buncha morons got themselves infected and stayed healthy for the trip overseas. When they landed, twenty of them made it through customs… just spread out over Paris.”
“How do they know?”
“The pilot squealed. And it gets worse… they were American.”
“…and?” I ask.
“The French embassy won’t let the pilot leave…” Anderson grunts. “Now it’s this… political fuckhouse.”
“Jesus… the state we’re in, and our government’s making enemies?”
“Do we have to talk about this…?” Helen asks softly.
Anderson rubs her back as her piercing blue eyes emote like some drone programmed to elicit sympathy. In moments like this, I feel as though she exists solely to derail conversation. Something about the contrast of her dark brown hair, pale skin, oval face, and permanently judgmental gaze make me uncomfortable. She returns my glance and I look at the table, feeling the burden of her calculating, sinister glower.
“I don’t know how we avoid it.” I say, snapping out of my trance.
“…you brought it up.” Mursak challenges, looking at Helen.
“Well… what’s the point of bringing it in here?” Anderson responds.
Mursak and I look at each other in disbelief, his shaggy locks wavering long after his head freezes.
“So…” Mursak muses. “We don’t want to talk about it… but we don’t want to talk about anything else either?”
“I didn’t bring it up…” Helen answers. “All I’m saying is… who cares about France?” Helen asks.
“Exactly.” Anderson adds forcefully.
“And board games… it’s pointless…”
“But you’d be agreeable if we struck up a conversation about, say, our odds of surviving this?” Mursak asks.
The response is stunned silence. At least I perceive it as stunned; though I’ve discussed the probability that life will never go back to normal, challenging Helen, who refuses to accept this possibility, is akin to telling my best friend I want to sleep with his wife while my girlfriend watches. Elena remains oblivious.
“Well…” Helen clears her throat. “I’m sorry, you don’t think…”
“I get where she’s coming from…” Anderson opens, with no apparent intention to make a point.
“So…”
As soon as Mursak opens his mouth to continue, I realize this masquerading hostility is about to be unmasked. Anderson’s defense of Helen is especially irritating given that he’s been the prime mover of using games as entertaining distractions. Before Mursak can utter the opening of an excoriating diatribe, I seize a moment to railroad the conversation.
“Since we’re talking about it… I have a burning desire for some real-time strategy. Starcraft, Age of Empires…”
“Tiberian Sun.” Anderson adds, warming to the topic.
“I mean, I get where you’re coming from Helen,” I lie. “But we need to do something with our free time… gaming is a gre
at way to switch off.”
“And think of what we could do without time restrictions…” Mursak joins, grinning at me. “Custom maps, specialized units…”
“You think it’s on Kazaa?” Anderson asks.
“No.” Mursak and I reply simultaneously before he continues. “Server’s been down at least a month… I checked. The only way we’re gonna play is with our own computers.”
“That’s crazy.” Helen adds.
“Is it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“No one’s gonna make you play…” Mursak replies.
“Grey… don’t you have the game discs at home?” Anderson asks.
“Nope, left them at school.” I offer.
Anderson sighs through his scraggly beard. “Ambler’s a long way…” Mursak’s eyes light up as he looks at me; we can win this.
“We haven’t been out for weeks… they’ve been spreading out since the October wave…?”
“Yeah…” Anderson grumbles, shifting in his chair.
“And you’ve talked about how we need to be ready to leave on short notice if something happens… what better way to test ourselves? Scout the roads, you know, see what else is out there? Besides, my keyboard’s at school… Mursak’s guitar is at home, and aren’t your drums in Secane?”
“More importantly…” Mursak adds. “Isn’t that guitar your mom gave you at your apartment?”
Anderson looks up. It’s over. “John…” Helen starts, the rest of her statement cut off as she leans over to whisper in his ear, but his scowl is a battlefield in repose. A disconcerting twinge in my brain tells me this is a bad idea, but I dismiss it just as quickly; as much as I enjoy watching Helen suffer, I want my computer and keyboard even more. Anderson looks at me awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with this not-so-private moment. Obligingly, I look over at our third musketeer to see a granite relief of composure carved into his normally rubber face. When Helen finishes a remark, he looks up at me again.
“Where would we put the drums?”
“Band room?” Mursak asks.
“Or…” I start. “We can just put the sound-proof panels in one of the interior rooms.”
“And doesn’t the tech lab have a bunch of digital recording equipment?”
I wonder if we’re pouring it on too thick. Anderson asks Mursak a question to which I don’t listen. Maybe this is a completely terrible idea. On the other hand, it’s a useful distraction from the horde attacking the well-barricaded doors of our makeshift sanctuary. Whether I’m convincing myself that this is the right thing to do or whether it is empirically so, I resign myself to doing it. I manage to tune myself in for the final nail in Helen’s coffin.
“So when do we do it?” Anderson asks.
“Tomorrow.” I blurt out. “What do you always say about plans?”
“A good one today’s better than a perfect one tomorrow.”
“Right… it’s already 3:30, sun sets in an hour… so let’s do it tomorrow.”
“If we’re going to Secane…” Anderson starts. “We should stop at Best Buy.”
“Why?”
“Batteries… back-up surge protectors.”
“I’m game, though I wouldn’t bank on the batteries.” I reply.
“We’ve gotta prep guns and the car.” Mursak adds. “I’ll take the car.”
“Take Jake with you…” Anderson starts. “And Grey… we’ve been putting off the cemetery too long.”
“You wanna hit that today?”
“I could use the air.”
“Sounds good…” I start. “I’ll take care of the guns… meet here in half an hour?”
“You need help?”
I glance over at Helen before responding. “No, I’ve got it.” I realize the moment I’ve spoken that I’m damning Anderson to an argument, but he’s gotten himself involved with this woman; who am I to come between them? “Alright, half an hour…” Anderson mumbles, pushing his fists off the table as Helen stands. I let them clear out and excitedly finish my breakfast before heading up to the weapons closet in 218.
Anderson and Rich were tasked with clearing this room, so they organized the firearms by person and the bullets by type. After locating a dozen sets of keys, we arranged ownership such that only the big three can unlock this door, allowing us a Brady Bill for the building; by the time anyone gets to their firearm, they’re sure of whether or not they need it. The policy is more for ammo conservation than responsibility’s sake, although it does make me feel more comfortable that Rob won’t be able to get a gun without our approval.
I grab the three rifles that belong to Mursak, Anderson and me, knowing that each survival pack has the requisite ammunition for each one. Moving Anderson’s pack unveils a helmet he found while they were at the mall and two unused bullet proof vests that he apparently took the first time we went to Gordon’s in October. The fact that I didn’t realize this until months later was ultimately explained by my inability to hear him telling me he was taking them, thanks to the gunshot that deafened me for nearly a day.
Though I’m not sure when we’ll use the vests, it’s a good thing he took them; we’ve gone back to Gordon’s twice to look for non-essential supplies and found the store emptier than the previous time on both occasions. This has led to a myth that we’re not alone in Newtown Square and that the unseen thieves are taking precautions to remain concealed. Anderson laughed this off, suggesting that the idiots we encountered at DC cubed were the most likely culprits, but the notion that there are more people in the surrounding area makes all of us uncomfortable, including him.
As I carry the guns and munitions to the empty cafeteria, I recall that it’s been a while since I’ve used my rifle, so once I set them all down on one of the cafeteria tables I go back upstairs to retrieve our cleaning kits. After unloading the weapons and restocking the bandoliers, I begin cleaning the barrel of my rifle first. In the midst of this work, Rich flubs an attempted casual entrance, power-walking through the door and sitting directly across from me at the table.
“Hey.” I offer.
“Hey. What’s this?” He asks.
“…goin’ out tomorrow.” I reply, barely looking up.
“We are?”
“Me… Anderson… Mursak.”
“Yeah? Says who?”
“Hmm… well, two of the three people I mentioned are in charge…”
“Well well well…” He mocks. “I wasn’t aware we were doing things without each other’s consent…”
“Jesus…”
“Hey… I’ve asked you not to go over my head…”
“Like when we brought Helen in?”
“You don’t think that was the right choice?” He asks, stunned.
“Doesn’t matter… you went over my head.”
“Jeff… you can’t afford to be this petty…”
“Sure, it’s petty when I do it, but it’s the right choice when you do… ever heard of pretzel logic?”
“Yeah, I love Steely Dan…” I don’t get to ask him what the hell that means before he continues. “We didn’t have time to discuss Helen’s situation… but if we did and you got outvoted, maybe you could’ve changed my mind.”
“I see. Well, you can’t change my mind on this.”
“Oh.”
I wait for his inevitable retort. “I guess it’s one of those things the bum can’t understand…” I bang my bore light into the table top.
“That has nothing to do with it. Do you even know why we’re going out?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“We’re getting our computers.”
“Oh, so it’s something important.” He blasts in an expectedly flamboyant tone.
“We haven’t gone out in a while, Rich… we’ll look things over, and yes, we’re getting our computers… y’know… I don’t expect you to get it.”
“Oh, I get it. Dumb ol’ Rich…”
“Don’t start…”
“No, no… it’s all Greek to m
e… maybe if I was a spoiled rich kid I could understand… what I say doesn’t matter ‘cause I don’t have a v-mail.”
“E-mail.”
“Cocky little shit, you can’t even imagine…”
“Eating out of the trash? Using a fire blanket to stay warm? Sleeping with some psychotic witch out of boredom? I could replace you with a tape recorder and no one would know the difference… you can’t blame me for screwing up your life because you don’t know how to compromise.”
“That’s what you think?”
“No, Rich, that’s what I know… you didn’t want to take a job that was beneath you… you blame your ex, you blame your mom… I may not know which meat’s too old to eat when I’m staring down a dumpster, but unlike that dumpster, I know you’re full of shit.”
“Still better than you.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Maybe no one ever charged you with statch rape… ”
“…where’s that coming from?!”
“Can I talk ten seconds without you interrupting? Julia was a kid… you were in college…”
He stares at me until I respond.
“…were you just waiting for the moment to bring that up? Because you picked the wrong one, my friend…”
“Why, got nothin’ to say?” Rich mocks. “That’s a first…”
“It has nothing to do with this!”
“Alright, try this on for size…you’re the one who kept us here when Don, Ava, and John died… then you took us to the mall, where Julia died…”
“You watch your mouth…”
“Watch yours… coward…” Rich mutters.
I slap the rifle on the table and stand up.
