by D C P Fox
Oh, god, her mother . . .
You can’t save the world, said a voice.
So, the voices had returned.
Saint Michael is not real, said the second one. He’s all in your mind.
You killed five innocent people, said the third one. You’re evil.
There’s only one way this will end, said the first one. You will die and take a lot of innocent people with you.
The only thing that makes sense, said the fourth one, is to kill yourself.
You’ll spare a lot of innocent people, said the third one.
Go ahead, said the second one. Draw a bath. Take a nice, soothing bath. Bring your knife.
Many times, she resisted the voices, but this time they made so much sense. What could she do in a world like this other than make things so much worse?
She undressed, leaving her clothes on a heap on the stained linoleum floor. The floor was cold as she walked over to the tub. How nice it would be to just sit in the tub and drift off in the warmth. She turned on the water, switched from shower to the tub spigot.
Not too hot, said a fifth voice. Just nice and warm. Soothing.
Suddenly the tub was full. She must have dozed off kneeling down. She shut off the water and put the tip of her index finger in. The temperature was just right. She placed her whole hand in.
Ah. Soothing. This would feel very nice.
A very nice place to die.
Remember, said the first voice. Bring your knife.
She had a knife on her multi-tool in her backpack but she didn’t want to leave; she wanted to keep her hand in the water, wanted to put her whole body into the warm embrace of the water.
But she had one last task.
She brought her hand out of the water and into the unpleasantly cool air. Oh, how she wanted the warmth of the water.
She pulled herself up and walked out of the bathroom and into the living room where her backpack was. Sitting down, she reached into a small front pocket with her wet hand and fumbled around until she found the multi-tool.
Her multi-tool was mind-bogglingly useful. Now she would have one last use for it. She pulled the knife out and locked it open, admiring the blade that would be her final release before she walked back to the bathroom.
She climbed into the tub, wanting nothing more than to immerse herself in the embracing warmth.
It’s time, said the third voice. Put the edge of the knife in the center of the wrist at the base of your hand.
She did as instructed and felt the pressure of the edge. A little blood appeared, but she barely experienced any pain.
Now dig deep and cut straight back up your arm.
She felt a little sting as she slashed open the veins in her wrist. Curlicues of red drifted up from her wrist like the smoke coming out of her incense holder. There was remarkably little pain.
Now for the other wrist.
She switched her knife to the other hand and opened up the veins in the other wrist. The blood diffused and mixed with the water, turning it pink.
She drifted off in bliss.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Zero
“Janice!” It was Jize calling out to her. She turned toward his voice, and he was pointing frantically with his gun.
“Yes?!”
“Check out the crashed patrol car! Emily thinks there’s a body in there!”
What Jize said bewildered Janice, but he seemed so insistent. She picked up a bloody gun and ventured over to the crashed sheriff’s car.
As soon as the body came into view, she started running. He was dressed in a beige police uniform. Is he moving? Is he a zombie?
Yes, he was moving a little, but she kept her distance. She noticed the deflated airbags.
“Are you a zombie?” she called out.
He spoke, but she could barely make it out. “A what?”
A coherent answer. No zombie. He was a survivor!
She approached him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I crashed,” he said weakly. “Then I heard y’all talking.” He winced.
“Are you in pain?”
He winced his eyes. “Yes, my neck and my head.”
“What’s your name?” She walked up close to him.
“Marty.”
“Okay, Marty, what year is it?”
“Twenty twenty-five.”
“Who’s the president?”
“Ah.” He winced again. “I can’t . . . I don’t know . . . Amy . . . Scar-something-or-other . . .” He opened his eyes. “Scarsdale. Amy Scarsdale. Ooh, where am I?”
“You’re in a patrol car. You crashed. You’re in Beaver Park, in the intersection near the gondola, the police station, and the supermarket.”
Slouched a bit, he tried to sit up. He grunted, clearly in pain.
“Hold still. I believe you have a concussion.” She noticed the sheriff’s badge. “Are you the sheriff?”
“Yes.”
“You rest here for a little while.”
Vin spoke from behind her. “It’s too dangerous to stay out here for too long. We have no idea who or what may be lurking about.”
Janice turned around to look at him, several guns stuffed under the top of his jeans beneath his heavy-metal concert t-shirt. Alexander, Jize, and Emily were with him. “Okay, but Alexander and I have to support him as we get him to the market.”
“Okay. I see everybody has a gun.”
“I did not check for ammunition,” Jize said. “I can only use one hand while I hold on to Emily.”
Vin scowled. “I retrieved plenty of ammunition. Let’s get moving.” He flicked his head in the car’s direction. “And I’ll take his shotgun and any shells he has.”
Alexander agreed to guard the group with the sheriff’s shotgun while Vin left to search for a radio at the electronics store nearby. He volunteered his jacket as a pillow for the sheriff, and he thought it a shame to get his jacket bloody—the sheriff was covered in blood from head to toe.
Janice reported that the sheriff would probably be all right. Without a hospital, it was uncertain, but his ability to tell his full story was a good sign. Alexander got sick to his stomach as the sheriff recounted how he’d blown his family’s brains to bits, and Alexander thought about his own family, his own parents, his own brother. Were they dead? Were they zombies? Were they alive and in trouble?
He was angry at himself for ever leaving them. A vacation away from his family? How selfish was that?
But would he have survived at home? He doubted it. There, most likely he wouldn’t have been so lucky.
He recalled Amber’s premature birth, how they didn’t know if she would survive her first night.
What would a toddler zombie be like, anyway?
Alexander turned away as the sheriff described his accident. He hoped no one saw him sobbing, as he hoped his own family escaped becoming zombies.
A memory came flooding back—his mother holding him as he watched on TV the first World Trade Center tower collapse into dust in the wee hours of the morning. He wished his parents had just let him sleep.
He also wished they escaped like he did, found a supermarket in Pleasanton like he did. They probably got separated from each other, his father stranded near his work, his mother at home.
Vin opened the double doors, climbing over the tables in front of the door, carrying a portable radio. Their eyes met. Vin saw him crying. Vin frowned and nodded and didn’t say a thing. Instead, he took the radio and placed it on the table, extended the antenna and turned the dial. He tried AM and FM. All static, or, more disconcerting, dead air.
Janice then joined Vin back out to the sporting-goods store to get clothing after collecting everyone’s sizes.
When they got back, Alexander was aghast. Janice carried two big shopping bags, one with underwear and sweatshirts and sweatpants in ugly colors, except for a pair of black ones. Whatever the color, Alexander knew he would hate how he looked in them, but his khakis and collared
shirt were filthy. The other bag contained ski jackets.
Janice and Vin then went back for backpacks, sleeping bags, flashlights, and hiking shoes. They also got a multi-tool for each of them. The ski jackets, at least, were somewhat fashionable, with removable fleece lining.
Emily liked Ms. Fernley. She reminded her of her daycare teacher, Mrs. Dunthorne. Ms. Fernley was so nice to her. Unlike Charming. Emily didn’t understand why her Prince Charming was not being so nice.
But now Ms. Fernley was being not-so-nice. She was asking Emily to take off her dress.
The two of them were in the bathroom alone, and Emily understood that she would not get help from anyone.
No, Ms. Fernley may be like her teacher, but she wasn’t her teacher. She certainly wasn’t her mother. Emily didn’t have to do as Ms. Fernley told her.
“How would Prince Charming know it was me? That I was Snow White?”
Ms. Fernley knelt down. Emily could see her face in front of hers. Ms. Fernley smiled. “Charming will know who you are, honey.”
“Not without my dress on.” Emily felt trapped. The door was locked.
“Honey, your dress is ruined. You can’t wear a ruined dress.”
Emily raised her voice. “It’s not ruined. There are no tears.”
“Honey, you’ve got stains all over it. Stains that will never come out. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to throw it out.”
Throw it out? But she was Snow White! He was Prince Charming! They were supposed to live happily ever after. Changing clothes would change everything. Couldn’t Ms. Fernley see that?
Her mother would let her keep the dress on. “I want my mommy!”
“Honey, your mom is in Heaven, remember?”
Oh, right. Heaven. “Then you take me there.”
Ms. Fernley shook her head. “Your mother is gone, honey. No one can go to Heaven without God’s blessing.”
“Why?”
“Because you can only go to Heaven when you die.”
“Why?”
“No one knows why.”
It was clear Emily could not persuade Ms. Fernley to allow her to wear the dress. The room seemed smaller, but the locked door looked so far away.
She made a break for it. She took some time to unlock the door, and then she burst through into the room where everyone else was. One door was on her left, and one was on her right. Both had tables in front of them. She ran under the table in front of the left door, but there was no knob to turn. She tried pushing on the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
Prince Charming said a word that her daddy had said never to say.
She should have climbed on top of the table. Instead, rough hands grabbed onto her legs. She tried to squirm away, but she couldn’t. Then she saw it was Charming that held her.
“Help, Charming! The Wicked Queen wants to take off my dress! Don’t let her do that!”
“Enough!” Charming said, releasing her. “You’re not Snow White, and I’m not Prince Charming. Your parents and your brother are dead, or zombies, or whatever the
Emily realized he was right. He wasn’t Charming at all. He was the Huntsman, and he wanted to kill her.
“Mr. Chen!” Emily screamed as she ran toward Jize. “The Huntsman and the Wicked Queen are after me! Protect me!”
Startled, Jize just stood where he was while Emily hugged his legs. As luck would have it, Jize had seen Snow White with his grandchildren last Christmas.
Christmas. Though born a Buddhist, Jize’s family had converted to Catholicism when they moved to Manhattan. What will Christmas be like?
“Don’t worry, Emily,” Jize said, “no one will hurt you. I promise.”
“But the Huntsman—”
“Remember the Huntsman doesn’t kill Snow White. He is too kind-hearted to carry it out.”
Emily turned her head in a shocked Vin’s direction. “You’re right. He doesn’t kill her.”
“That’s right. He doesn’t kill her. You’re not really Snow White, are you?”
Emily stood there for a few seconds, eyeing Vin, and then Janice. Jize could not recall seeing a person as sad as Janice looked right now. Emily turned her head and looked up at him.
“I . . . I don’t know.” She clung to him tight and sobbed.
“Yes, you do. You know you are not Snow White. Mr. Scoggins is not Prince Charming. He is not the Huntsman, either. And Ms. Fernley is not the Wicked Queen.”
She continued to cry, but Jize felt her grip on him loosen.
“We need help,” Jize said to them all. “We need help with Emily. We should canvass the town and search for survivors.”
Vin shook his head. “Not a good idea, Chen. We don’t want to advertise our location and lack of defenses.”
“Lack of defenses?” Janice said. “We have two shotguns and several handguns.”
“We are only five adults and a child. Two of us are injured. It’s bad enough taking care of a little girl. Whoever we find is likely to either rob us or be a burden.”
“I don’t know how to use this gun,” Janice countered. “Am I a burden, too?”
Vin scowled. “Right now, yes. Hopefully, I can train you to use the gun.”
“Y’all are forgetting the county jail across the street.” The sheriff’s voice was weak, yet he still spoke with an air of authority. “We do not know what happened to those inmates. I, for one, don’t want to find out. Best we stay put for now.”
“Isn’t this kind of talk going to frighten the girl more?” Vin asked.
“Vin is right,” Jize said. “We should all give Emily a hug.”
“Someone ate my brother’s head,” Emily said.
Chapter Nineteen
Day One
Throughout the night, Marty and the others left the doors to the supermarket unlocked to keep looters from breaking the glass. Better to lose some supplies, and feed someone desperate, than to expose everyone to a snowstorm.
Marty knew they were in a vulnerable situation. It was odd hoping few survived—less chance of attack for such a rich target as a whole grocery store worth of food. No one heard a word from any loved ones—further evidence of few survivors.
They each took a turn on watch during the night. Marty lent Alexander his watch because Alexander’s smart watch had already lost its charge.
Emily seemed to have come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t Snow White. She now wore pink sweats. Every once in a while, she still called Vin “Charming.” But sometimes she referred to him as “Mr. Scoggins.” That night, Emily woke everyone up with a nightmare, though with no recollection of it.
Lucky for them, the store had stocked up on snow shovels and a sand/salt mix, to prepare for the freak late-August storm.
Marty grew up in the county, and he couldn’t recall one time it snowed in August. Maybe the forecast might be a false alarm. Weather in the Colorado Rockies was hard to predict.
But the wet snow started falling in mid-afternoon with the bulk of the precipitation occurring after nightfall.
Without a wink of sleep throughout the night, Vin lay there awake in the dark. At one time, the sheriff got up and walked over to the barricade. Vin sat up.
“What’s wrong?” Vin asked, barely loud enough for the sheriff to hear. But Vin could already see that the light through the windows of the swinging doors was dimmer.
“Either someone turned out the lights and then turned on the emergency lights, or the power went out.”
“The microwave is out. So either someone cut power in prep to attack or—”
“—Or it’s the heavy, wet snow.”
Vin listened for the air blowing through the vents. Nothing. But off in the distance, an engine hummed. The sound of the supermarket’s backup generator.
Shit. It was only a matter of time before lack of maintenance shut down the power grid, but the storm must have sped up that occurrence.
And he was sure the generator’s gas wouldn’t last the week.
Day
Two
Shotgun in his hand, Vin stood outside the market under the overhang of the front entrance. Several inches of snow that still fell in large flakes covered the cars in the parking lot. There was little wind, and he guessed the temperature was right around freezing.
With the heat and the microwave out, a fire would be needed to keep warm and cook food. And that required firewood, something the market didn’t carry. Usually, markets like this had some firewood available, but not until winter.
He gazed at the landscape, disbelieving it was still summer.
A freak snowstorm a day after a zombie apocalypse. What were the odds?
Vin saw no sense in bringing anyone along while he quested for a source of firewood. Although an extra person could carry an initial batch back, it also meant slowing him down. The sheriff might keep up, but guarding the rest of the group was more important. Once he found the firewood, the others could help retrieve it.
Happy with his waterproof boots, Vin ventured out into the slush—it must have rained some overnight. Since it had turned back to snow, he knew the back side of the storm had arrived, and it would end soon. Vin guessed it would be a few more hours.
Near the gondola that took skiers up the mountain, the real estate in this section of town was prohibitively expensive. As an engineer, he could afford to live here, but he preferred the more provincial Ella, where his small house was north up the road.
Fewer liberals. Fewer snowflakes.
But the pricier neighborhood meant small condos with little prospects of firewood, so he had to travel a bit up north to reach a neighborhood with houses likely to have firewood.
After a few minutes of walking, he heard a distant growl behind him. He spun around, shotgun at the ready, to see a pack of German Shepherds snarling and approaching him slowly. Tame or not, he couldn’t afford to deal with any dogs—they were on their own.
