by Bryan Way
I wake up with Mel draped over me. I don’t feel like I’ve moved since I passed out, but I don’t remember even touching her. Mel’s mouth is hanging open over a dried puddle of saliva on her pillow. The image is amusing in a decidedly familial way, making me roll over in the sort of warm comfort I could almost describe as pastoral.
Julia had to die for this moment to happen.
What is going on in my head? Julia once regaled me with the plight of Pisceans, detailing that we were prone to emotional peaks and valleys that rival any other sign in the zodiac. I’ve never been beholden to astrological signs, but I feel this predicament acutely as I silently exit the bed and wonder if I’ve done something wrong.
Before I can get much farther, I spot the wallets Anderson procured from the corpses of our victims on my countertop. Feeling as though this is a thankless task, I leaf through and become familiar with names and faces; if the business and union cards are any indication, they were two contractors, two plumbers, an architect, a landscape architect, an electrician, a real estate developer, and an IT professional. The grouping seems related enough to suggest that they were business associates, but I lack the acumen to understand the nature of that association.
Once I’ve returned the identifying materials to the proper wallets, I stuff them in an empty drawer, get dressed, and treat myself to breakfast. Jake, who happens to be eating at the same time, engages me in a desultory conversation about the nature of self. Bored by his puerile stabs at philosophy, I politely escape and visit Karen, whom I suspect will be holed up in the medlab at room 220. Unsurprisingly, I find Rich doting on her. Noticing his surgical mask as he glares at me, I don one myself before approaching. He does his best to ignore me. “Would you mind gettin’ me some more ginger ale?” Karen asks him. He nods in response before excusing himself, leaving me alone with her.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m glad you didn’t ask how ‘we’ were feelin’.” She replies.
“Well… learn from the best.”
“It’s the flu…” She coughs. “No doubt about it.”
“You’ll pull through.”
“I hope so.”
“…what can we do?” I ask, barely recovering from that terrible statement.
“Keep me isolated… I don’t wanna give it to anyone else.”
“I’m immune.”
“Really, doctor?” Karen asks.
“Really… never had it. Not once.”
“Now’s a bad time to start.”
I look out the window while she stares at her blanket. “So what can we do?” I ask again softly, fixating on her. She keeps her eyes trained on her toes as she responds.
“Fluids and rest. Can’t do much more than treat the symptoms.”
“Karen…” I sigh. “I’m not looking at the easy option. Tell me what we can do.”
“Hope it gets better.”
“Karen!”
“I have asthma…” She starts, coughing again. “If you’ve never had the flu, you don’t know… it’s a lot worse. Not sayin’ it’s definite… but I’m at risk for pneumonia. I don’t want anyone goin’ to anymore hospitals… don’t do anythin’ nuts on account’a me. I don’t wanna put anyone else at risk.”
“Easy there, Spock…”
“The needs of the many…” She jokes, stifling a cough. “You gonna call me ‘Bones’ from now on?”
“I might… speaking of which, Ms. Salutatorian… did Rich get that Lowell quote from you?”
Her only response is a smile as Rich comes through the door with the ginger ale.
“Rest easy…” I continue. “We’ll see what we can cook up.”
“Jeff,” Rich starts. “Can I see you in the hall?”
“Sure.”
Karen keeps her eyes on me as I head for the door, which Rich shuts behind us. Silence settles in as he leans against the concrete wall and stares at me. His gaze suggests that he wants some sort of apology, but I’m not prepared to give him the satisfaction. My father once told me that allowing an aggrieved party to speak first and at length would inevitably result in them reversing their opinion through cowardice, so I put the theory to the test.
“Well?” Rich starts. “Is there something you want to say?”
“Is there something you’d like me to say?”
“An apology would be nice.”
“Whatever it is you’re looking for… you’d better just spit it out.”
Rich rolls his eyes, his expression suggesting that he knows he’s acting ridiculous. I wait for him to continue. “Look, I know she wanted to go with you…” And there’s the reversal. I keep my lips pinched shut. “She wanted to prove she was okay… you keep telling me your responsibility is to everyone in the group… your first concern should have been her safety once you knew she was sick.” I wait a few moments to insure that he’s done.
“We didn’t know she was sick. We got her out as quickly and safely as we could. And here we are. I can’t make it any clearer than that.”
“Whenever we leave this place, you have two responsibilities… your safety, and everyone else’s. Everything else comes second. Karen can make her own decisions… but with those responsibilities in mind, was she an asset or a liability when you agreed to have her join you?”
“I don’t know how many times I can tell you she wasn’t symptomatic when we left…”
“Okay…” Rich continues. “I went about it this wrong way… I’m sorry. All the same, I just want to know that… if something like that happens again, you’re not gonna handle it the same way…”
“Then just ask me that… Jesus Christ… my parents used to lecture me like this… stop trying to get me to say what you wanna hear.”
“That’s fair.”
“Okay? We got her out as safely as we could… that being said, we can be more mindful about who we take from now on.”
“…and?” Rich intones.
“You’re doing it again.”
“…sorry.”
“You don’t think we should’ve gone.” I guess. He nods vigorously. “Well… I disagree… fundamentally and completely. Next time, we need to be better at expressing our needs. Can we leave it at that?”
“Yeah, man… I’m sorry, it’s just… we can’t lose her.”
“Rich… I know the feeling.”
“I can’t lose her.”
Rich purses his lips as he fights back tears. Though I can sense how awkward it will be, I hug him. Rich gives me an easy smile, pats my back, and walks off. With last night’s bounty now fresh on my mind, I realize it might be worthwhile to catalog and sort our new supplies. I wake Anderson from either sleep or an extended nap to assist me.
We now have five M-16A4s total with eight magazines between them, only one of which needs reloading. Our crate of 5.56 ammo includes two M2A1 cans totaling 1,680 rounds. The new hunting rifle, a Jarrett, only has four bullets in the proper .300 caliber; as such, it can only be used to fire off such rounds. Anderson puts the weapons in their proper places, musing about an ‘execution’ tactic that would perfectly befit the amount of automatics and our wealth of ammunition. Once he’s finished describing it, I don’t disagree.
I run into Rob in the hallway on the way out and we share a halfhearted conversation on the events of my previous evening. The whole time I’m speaking to him, I consider that Mursak, Anderson, Rich and I have all discussed the merits of killing him, so throughout our talk, I wonder if I’m letting this show on my face, and if trying to hide it only reveals me more. He seems cordial throughout, betraying no hints of my indifference in regards to his life. This observation will only serve to make any decision to kill him more difficult.
Helen announces another small throng of the undead over the loudspeakers, followed by the edict that Beta team take up arms against them since Alpha was in action as recently as last night. The radio chatter indicates that the dispatch goes well, but Rich muses that the overall undead volume has increased considerably
in the last week. I agree that it’s something we should keep an eye on, asserting that there’s little we can do to change it.
Once the battle is over, I join Mursak and Ally as they play with our toddlers, though I do much more watching than participating. As I do, I wonder what’s happening in their heads. Clearly, they must know that something is going on, but as a child, I recall blindly following whichever instructions my parents gave me with the unacknowledged presumption that I would be safe. Afterward, when Mursak catalogs some the other supplies we retrieved at the community college, I try to be mindful of his technique, staying aware of potential tactics to take more than a fair share, but I end up either not noticing or not caring, particularly after Rich joins him.
Shortly thereafter, I take lunch on my own. Abiding by our schedule of eating the foods that will go bad, I defrost a bagel and accent it with grape jelly and cream cheese. Karen suggested we eat the latter since leaving it in the freezer too much longer would only render it fit for baking, so the rest of the group will have to partake of the cream cheese for the next week or so. After ten minutes of slow and silent eating, Mel joins me at the table. Once she asks what I’m eating and why, she goes to prepare herself the same thing. Even though I’m finished when she returns, I choose to stick around.
“How is it?” I ask.
“It’s alright.”
“Just alright?”
“Yeah… if I had a choice I wouldn’t eat it… but it’s not bad.”
The pointless rush of anger I get from this is disquieting, aided by the lingering possibility that she’s seeking an opportunity to abandon our group. My irritation boils over, leading me to raise the most pessimistic subject I can fathom. “You know this isn’t going to end… right?” Mel takes a deep breath and puts her food down. She keeps her eyes trained on her tray as she responds: “Yeah.” The anger rushes out like air from a balloon.
“How long?” I ask.
“Since Julia.”
“Wow… why didn’t you say anything?”
“I dunno…”
I can’t muster a response.
“What?” She asks.
“I guess… I was worried you didn’t…”
“…does anyone?”
“Ally for sure. The kids. Jake. Maybe Helen.”
“…yeah. So… you’re glad ?” She asks.
“Well… relieved. The quicker we realize the better.”
“…what are we doing?”
This question freezes me.
“What… do you mean?” I ask.
“You and me. I’m sleeping in your bed…”
“…I don’t know what to say.”
“Because of Julia?” Mel asks.
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
I seriously have to consider this question.
“There were… ways to cope with death before this… a method. You mourned… and eventually went back to your routine. But now there’s nothing to go back to. The pain just... consumes you… you wallow in it. And you do whatever you can to make it stop. Having someone around… it just… feels… better.”
“Better how?” Mel asks after a moment.
“Less lonely.”
“…is that it?”
I pause for a moment and look in her eyes.
“Is that it? We just agreed this isn’t gonna end… and right now… you’re the only one who makes it bearable. Maybe that’s not good enough, I haven’t bothered to think it through. I just want you to understand…”
“I… I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t expect you to say anything. But I think you understand.”
The silence that follows confirms that this scene has run its course, so I take my leave and return to my room, where I lay in bed, occasionally ice my back, and try to think through the resurgence of Julia in my thoughts, vacillating between different levels of guilt, anger, or some mixture between the two that I don’t understand. I can’t tell if I’ve dozed off at some point, but when I look at the clock and find that it’s 10:51pm, an emotional swell reminds me that I only have an hour until we celebrate the first New Year since the dead returned to life.
Other than an impending countdown, I quickly realize I have no plans. This thought fills me with the banality of the holiday at hand; Mel was correct when she suggested that these celebrations give us something to look forward to, but how can we look forward to another year of this? The notion makes the entire affair seem meaningless. However, when I connect this to an earlier discussion on the subject of meaninglessness with Mel, I consider that my consciousness remains a thumb in the eye of that void. I’m alive, and I feel based on my perception. So what if I’m rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic? It’s just as useful as worrying about freezing to death.
With that in mind, I find the strength to motivate myself toward room 218, where I find Rich, Karen, Anderson, Helen, Mel, Jake, Elena, Jimmy, and Rob enjoying each other’s company as Mursak scans the channels for a broadcast that might extend the light of the forthcoming New Year. After Karen endures a brief coughing fit into her surgical mask, Anderson disappears with Helen in an obvious attempt to consummate their relationship. Rich breaks out a bottle of champagne a few minutes before the New Year is upon us, and despite my reservations, I find myself only too willing to join.
Mursak settles on a channel that is rather unbelievably broadcasting the New Year’s celebration in the New York citadel. Times Square is filled with ebullient spectators, shepherded by both Ryan Seacrest and Regis Philbin, apparently filling in for Dick Clark, who has, they claim, recently suffered a stroke. Music acts follow, and eventually they cut away to a pre-recorded segment of David Gilmour, Roger Waters, Nick Mason, and Rick Wright of Pink Floyd performing an acoustic version of Wish You Were Here to commemorate the tsunami victims, Syd Barrett, and ‘the honored dead’ of the world.
Rich and I watch intently, and the din of the group dies out quickly as they vicariously benefit from our reverence. To my knowledge, this is the first time the quartet has taken the stage together since the early eighties. I imagine the worldwide crisis has put their personal problems in perspective, and though this feeling might not be shared, their cooperation gives me hope for our communal unrest.
Once the performance ends, we find ourselves with a minute remaining until midnight. Rich and I shake hands as the champagne continues to flow. I only take a sip, confirming that the bubbly liquid disagrees with me. With the materials at the ready, I mix myself a white Russian and take a sip as the clock descends from thirty. The group, minus Anderson and Helen, clusters around the TV as the seconds tick down, and the dispirited hollowness I felt earlier digs into the pit of my stomach. The undead have created a new standard of possibility that seems to slip away no matter how much we attempt to tighten our collective grip. If they exist, what other impossibilities have joined them in the realm of the possible? Could the world end at midnight?
The countdown commences. I take another sip, awaiting a new level of apocalypse. I half expect the ground to open and drop us to a hell without food, water, supplies, or weapons. I imagine hope as a tangible object that withers and crumbles into dust at the mad grasping doubtless to ensue. I see the dozen of us fighting over drops of water, killing one another until only one person stands naked at the edge of the abyss, waiting to be claimed as well.
Three, two, one. “Fuck it.” I hear an instant before Mel wraps her arms around my shoulders and kisses me as though she’d been suffocating without my lips. I wince in resistance before I surrender. Like siphoning poison from a wound, her embrace separates me from my anxieties, and for the first time in months, I sense an opportunity to heal.
My eyes water up and I don’t feel the need to analyze the sensation that conquers my mordancy, if only for a moment. When Mel lets go, we hug. I become aware of the jubilant commotion surrounding us, and after another moment, we are embraced by a half-dozen sets of arms. The collective aff
ection radiates like a long-awaited vaccination, an affirmation that our ability to hope has seen us survive our ordeal to the point that we can revel in a victory.
We all proceed to get drunker, and in time both Anderson and Helen rejoin us. They’re happy. The children eventually pass out and Mursak sees them to bed. Karen exiles herself to the medab, and Rich sees to her. Anderson and Helen eventually depart again. Jake, Ally, and Rob remain immersed in conversation as Mel drags me away from the group. We repair to my room, where she proceeds to disrobe completely without a word of caution, keeping her shapely back to me throughout.
When the fringe lace of her nightshirt dances across her thighs, she turns to reveal the limitations of the sheer fabric, exciting reveries that would leave fantasy aching with desire. Once the light goes out, I climb in bed and face the door while listening to her hot breath behind me. I sink into my pillow and feel enveloped by the warmth and comfort of my sheets, trying to avoid the apocalyptic associations that force their way back into my thoughts. Though I can’t shake the display of flesh I just witnessed, its impact is weathered by the notion that each of us will die, and choosing the time and place is a luxury we can’t entertain. If my paranoia about the end of the world was correct, I could ask for no better denouement.
01-01-05, SATURDAY
I wake up naturally, comfortably, and alone, all three of which are welcome surprises. I take a few moments to adjust my position in bed and go back to sleep, realizing that my back isn’t bothering me for the first time in a week.
When I wake again, I smile; whether or not I slept any longer is immaterial. I tend to my morning necessities, shower, get dressed, and join the rest of the group in a brunch that nearly rivals Christmas. Mel’s wide grin at me from across the table is enough to make my morning. As Rich serves us, I can’t stop myself from prompting what I feel to be a pertinent conversation.
