Notes From the End of the World

by Donna Burgess

  Well, her physical beauty, anyway. A bitch is a bitch , no matter how perfect the wrappings are.

  She pushes the heavy veil of her hair back from her face and moves toward the window.

  “How can you sleep?”

  I shift under the covers, realizing I’m sweating. I was much too warm.

  “I don’t know. I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

  “I guess,” Audrey says. She hugs herself, staring outside.

  “There’s a strange woman out there, you know. I’ve been watching her for an hour now.”

  I throw my covers aside and climb from bed. My skin prickles into gooseflesh at the sudden chill of the air making want to shrug back into the warmth of my bed. I join my sister in front of the window, the sheer curtain like some sort of dumb shield although the woman isn’t looking our way. Audrey’s warm shoulder brushes mine. For the first time, I notice I’m taller than she is. She was always my big sister, but suddenly I’m the taller one.

  “Where?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. All I can see is Mr. Graves putting up Halloween decorations way too early. A few styrofoam gravestones pepper his lawn and a gauzy ghost hangs from his oak tree, dancing lazily in the breeze.

  “There. Just below the basketball hoop.”

  “Do you think she’s a Dead Head?”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you recognize her?” I ask.

  “Can’t tell from here.”

  The woman starts down our driveway, then stops at the mailbox, swaying for a moment like she might fall.

  “I’ve seen Mrs. Akers do that at our barbecues,” Audrey comments lightly.

  It’s true. If anyone loved a margarita, it’s Mrs. Akers. We laugh. At this moment, I truly love my sister. We’re a pair, part of a team. If we gain anything for this N-Virus mess, maybe it’ll be closeness. I’ve only felt that way a handful of times in my live.

  The woman reached out, her gnarled hand shaking, and pulled open the door of the mailbox.

  Audrey pulls back the curtain, pulls open the window and leans out to get a better look. “I didn’t think they could do much, except bite and moan.”

  “Dad thinks they retain some memory. Not much, but a trace of little everyday things—getting the mail, maybe showing up places they loved.”

  “I guess I’d find a way over to the mall” Audrey says.

  “I’d end up on the soccer field at school,” I tell her.

  “God, you’re a nerd,” she whispers. We laugh again, but this time it’s forced, uncomfortable.

  “Should I tell Dad?” I ask.

  “Don’t bother. Someone will discover her soon enough.” I glance at her. She actually looks a little sad. It surprises me. Maybe she does have a heart somewhere behind her “Class-A Tits,” (her words, not mine).

  “Audrey?Are you afraid?”

  “No. I mean Dad and Mom’ll take care of us. As long as we’re careful, we’ll all get through this.”

  “I love you, Audrey,” I say, and immediately feel silly.

  “Love ya, too. Now don’t be such a baby.” She shoves my shoulder playfully and leaves my room.

  ***

  Remember those panic-inducing articles on Yahoo about the avian flu? We're still going to school. My parents still work and go out for cocktails on Thursdays. There'll be a football game on Friday night. A soccer match on Saturday morning. People still act like Halloween monsters aren’t real although we’re seeing on CNN in constant loop. Everyone still plans for dances and dates, vacations and holidays. I saw a Christmas ad for Disney World last week, but Halloween hasn’t even gotten here yet.

  All those things are the same, but there’s a difference. Not the obvious changes like armed guards, and the newly implemented curfew, but something that’s intangible. It’s a sense of desperation, a feeling of time growing short.

  It’s like the world is ending, but maybe if everyone just continues on with life, ignoring it, it won’t happen. The N-Virus is like a gigantic asteroid hurdling toward earth. Maybe it’ll just miss us. It’s not like in the movies—it’s a slow unfolding and everyone’s hands are tied.

  ***

  October 19

  Dad just caught a Shambler going through the trashcans. Garbage pick-up has become irregular and now the trash piles up until Dad drives it over to the recycling center a couple of times a week. He complains how it smells, even bagged up. He says it smells like them, the Shamblers.

  I’d just climbed into bed when I heard a crash outside, just below my bedroom window.

  “Dad?” I call down the hall. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah.” Mom and Dad pad into my bedroom. They’d already gotten into bed, both of them in their pajamas. Mom looks just Audrey with her face scrubbed free of makeup. Makeup makes the lines under her eyes more pronounced, but I’d never tell her that. The wrath of Mom, and all that.

  Dad takes off his reading glasses and stick them on the top of his head. “I’ll check it out. Maybe it’s just dog. Or a raccoon.” He doesn’t sound sure about either one. He and Mom disappears down the hall.

  Audrey comes in, raking the brush through her hair in that way that always looks positively painful. She’s dressed in a pair of boy shorts and one of Dad’s oversized t-shirts that she manages to make look good.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Heard something,” I tell her. “I wonder if it’s a Shambler.”

  “Maybe. I keep hearing about sightings,” Audrey says. “It’s weird. The news is saying these people are dead. Dead on their feet.” She laughs.

  “Did you go out with Nick?” I ask. Sure it isn’t any of my business, but I still have to know.

  “Nope. Besides, what’s the point? We have to be home like we’re in the third grade because of that stupid curfew.” She switches the brush to her other hand and starts abusing the other side of her head. She doesn’t bother elaborating and really don’t have to. I know.

  “Why would you do that to him?” I want to shove her out the window. So much for that sisterly closeness that I felt a couple of days ago.

  She stops brushing. “Because I can,” then adds, narrowing her eyes, “and why does it matter to you, anyway?”

  “Because he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve that.” I put my Kindle aside and push past her. I can’t stand to be in the same room with her any longer.

  Downstairs, I find Mom in a near-panic, just inside the French doors that open to the back deck. “There’s one of those … things out there.” She has her robe gathered tightly at her neck and I want to tell her it’s only a Shambler, not a vampire.

  I peer around her and out into the night. Maybe what Audrey’s right—maybe the infected are actually dead. It’s cool outside with the first breaths of autumn and steam rises from Dad’s face like funny speech balloons in a comic book. But around the Shambler’s face is nothing. There’s no indication he’s breathing at all.

  This Shambler must have been one of the first infected. He’s rotten, part of his cheeks thin enough to expose white glints of bone in the porch light. He isn’t wearing shoes or socks and his feet are filthy—I’m not sure why I feel like I need to look at this man’s feet. He’s quite tall, but bent like an overworked accountant. Maybe death has beaten him down. A rather expensive-looking tie hangs crooked from his scrawny neck. His white button-down shirt is untucked in the front. Filthy as are his pants and feet.

  He snarls at Dad and Dad raises his three wood, but the Shambler only turns his attention back to the garbage can. Dad glances back at us and shrugs. “Call the police,” he tells Mom.

  Mom rushes past to get her phone and I stay by the door, my heart pounding, afraid the infected man might suddenly lunge at him just as that man had lunged at me at the hospital. The Shambler only removes a Styrofoam meat tray, still coated with dark, running blood from last night’s hamburgers. He brings it to his rancid face, appears to smell it, and then begins licking it rabidly.

  I want
to turn away, but can only watch. Like a train wreck, as they say. You can’t look away, no matter how much you want to.

  “Gross, Dad!” Audrey cries like Dad’s fault. I haven’t noticed she’s crept up. “Kill it!”

  “He’s not an it, Audrey,” Mom says. She pushes past us and opens the door a few inches. The cool air and the stink of the Shambler wafts in and I block my nose with the back of my hand and breathe through my mouth.

  “The police are on the way, Ben,” Mom says. “Now get inside.”

  “In a minute,” Dad says, but he moves closer toward the door. The Shambler continues cleaning the meat tray with his rotting tongue, oblivious to any of us.

  “Mom,” Audrey gripes. “Look at him. He’s putrid. Disgusting. He’s dead, Mom.”

  “Audrey, please!” Mom snaps.

  Audrey sighs, tosses her hair and goes back upstairs.

  Thin red light suddenly floods the side yard and bleeds onto the back patio.

  Mom lets out a long, relieved breath. “They’re here.”

  A pair of officers round the side of the house; decked out in riot gear, face smeary behind Plexiglas face guards, chests thick inside the protective vests. Both have their revolvers drawn.

  “Back away from the intruder, Dr. Scott. We’ll handle this now,” comes a muffled voice that I instantly recognize as Andrew Blackmon, who, at twenty-eight, still lives with his mother on the other side of the neighborhood. I can’t determine who the other officer is behind his mask.

  I’m not sure if the Shambler senses something, but he jerks around, dropping the meat tray. Moaning loudly, he steps toward Andrew, his arms outstretched ahead of him, his gnarled fingers pulling into bony claws. He reminds me of a monster in a cheesy old horror movie, but this is no movie. It’s all too real and in moment, it’s all over.

  Without hesitation, the other officer fires, taking off top the Shambler’s head in a rain of dark, chunky brain matter, blood and skull fragments.

  Mom screams and Audrey immediately reappears in the kitchen. “What the hell was that?” she cries. “Is Dad okay?” She races to the window to check for herself.

  I’ll go out the next morning, just after Dad has sprayed away the mess with the hose and see pocks in the wood siding where pieces of bone have embedded. Thankfully, a transport shows up for the body before I wake for school.

  No matter what happens up until that moment is nothing compared to the surreal fear of what comes next. Officer Andrew then turns to my dad, his gun still drawn, but now points right Dad’s chest. Dad’s drops the golf club and raises his hands.

  “What’s he doing, Mom?” Audrey says, her voice little more than a desperate whisper. “What’s he doing?”

  Neither Mom nor I can answer. We only watch helpless.

  “We’re you bitten, Dr. Scott?”

  “No. He never touched me,” Dad answers. He sounds completely calm.

  “Maybe we should take him in,” the other officer barks from behind his mask.

  “Here,” Dad says, stretching his arms out in front of him. “Check, if you want. He never touched me.” He pushes the loose sleeves all the way back to expose his unmarred arms.

  Officer Andrew puts away his gun and steps forward. Quickly, he examines the front and back of Dad’s arms and nods. “He’s good,” he tells his partner.

  “This is our second nuisance call tonight, Dr. Scott.”

  “Nuisance call,” Audrey mutters. “That’s what they’re calling it?”

  Eventually, the cops leave and the four of us sit at the kitchen table for a while, allowing our hearts to slow and our frayed nerves to relax as much as they can. Mom microwaves for mugs of hot cocoa and we drink, not speaking very much. My eyes drift toward the back door, morbidly searching for another stray.

  Nothing else happens that night, but when I climb into bed, I lay quietly, listening for the comforting voices of Mom and Dad drift through the wall of my bedroom. Instead comes the low murmur of a cable news station. I shove my earbuds deep into my ears to block the sound, but don’t bother turning on any music. Eventually I fall into a thin, troubled sleep. I don’t remember any dreams when I wake the next morning.

  ***

  October 24

  Let me tell you about Sunday nights. Sunday nights in the Scott house have become what’s commonly known (between me, Dad and Audrey) as “really bad food night.” This is the one night of the week when all of us are home together for dinner, so it’s Mom’s opportunity to show off her cooking skills. Unfortunately, Mom’s cooking skills are frighteningly limited because Grandma never took the time to show her how to cook. Grandma never cooked, even when Grandpa was alive. They ate out almost every night—Italian on Monday, Chinese on Tuesday, seafood on Wednesday, and so on. So, Mom is determined Audrey and I will learn to cook. Even if it kills us all (bad choice of words, maybe).

  To make matters worse, Mom loves trying new and “exotic” recipes, something that makes Audrey complain even more than usual. “Why don’t we master one the regular dishes before trying these weird ones?” she always suggests.

  In the “Gospel According to Audrey,” “regular dishes” are things like mac and cheese or vegetable lasagna. “Weird” recipes consists of anything not on the menu at P.F. Chang’s or The Cheesecake Factory.

  Mom removes a wooden cutting board from a lower cabinet and then slips a big, scary-looking knife from a butcher block. She inexpertly skins a large white onion and slices it into thin slivers. “You girls need to know how to cook. One day you’ll be out on your own and you can’t eat out every night.”

  “Of course we can,” Audrey says.

  Dad sits on a high stool at the counter, pretending to read the news from his iPad, but really watching his girls at work.

  “You’ll never catch a man, if’n you cain’t cook,” he says, pulling an exaggerated Southern drawl. He sips a beer and Mom moves over to sneak a drink every now and again. It’s odd, watching Mom drink from a squat brown bottle. She usually prefers wine—a lady’s drink, she’s said more than once—but tonight is light and playful, despite the deadhead sightings and the added security at this weekend’s soccer match.

  For this evening, we’re four people, safe in our home as the rain pelts the windows and the roof and squalls blow in off the ocean. The N-Virus, the death, and the uncertainty are forgotten for a while.

  “I like learning how to cook,” I say, meaning it. I actually do enjoy the notion of sitting down to a dinner that I’ve made. Provided it’s edible. What we’re trying to make this night is Tandoori Chicken. Mom even went to Crate and Barrel for a clay cooker, which is a much prettier pot than the regular old stainless, copper-bottoms we normally use.

  I glance down at the recipe sheet Mom printed from the internet, then take the plain yogurt from the refrigerator.

  “You’d say that,” Audrey snaps, nudging me aside with her elbow. She takes the yogurt from me and pops the lid. Dipping her finger in, she tastes the smooth cream and pulls a disgusted face. “Yuck! I hope the end result is better than this!”

  “We could just have collard greens and pork chops,” Dad offers, knowing how Audrey detests “hillbilly food,” as she calls it. I giggle and rummage the spice rack for cardamom and ground cloves, doubting we have either.

  Things go pretty much great, until the clay pot becomes too hot. As the pungent smoke overtakes the kitchen, Dad flips on the exhaust fan and grabs a pair of pot holders. He moves the pot to the sink while Mom fans the smoke around with a dish towel. Audrey bitches about the smell wrecking her hair while I open the windows in the kitchen and the dining room, but only a few inches. I don’t want to take a chance on an unwanted visitor.

  Dad removes the lid and we all peer down at the charred remains of our special chicken dinner. “I guess the chicken’s off the menu,” he announces, not sounding very disappointed.

  We end up having Hamburger Helper and a bag of frozen Shoepeg corn.

  One of the last somewhat normal nigh
ts we’ll ever have will always be marked by the memories of burned chicken and laughing over a dinner of salty pasta and cheese.

  Chapter 8

  November 6

  Cindy

  Audrey and I seldom do anything together. Most of the time, I’m happy enough to pass her in the hallway at school or at home without a word. Some sisters just aren’t close and that’s just the way it is, until Mom and Dad started “forcing us” on these weekly excursions for supplies. Today is Home Depot, which looks like a real chore at first. That is until Audrey announces she’s going to pick up Nick on the way.

  “Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” she says, easing the BMW to a stop in front of Nick’s big, ultra-modern house. He mother and late father had money—maybe even more than our parents—but he makes no show of it. Still, I’m pretty sure that was the main reason Audrey chose him in the first place.

  The SUV’s reflection is super-long and narrow like a funhouse mirror in the all-glass facade that surrounds the front entrance. The shrubs and decorative grasses have gone wild as a jungle—lawn maintenance is no longer on anyone’s priority list. As we wait, I wonder what would happen if the Shamblers came in numbers like they did in those movies?

  I shiver at the thought, but push it away as soon as Nick emerges, jogging toward us.

  “Climb into the backseat, numbskull,” Audrey tells me, not too unkindly, and then adds “and try not to drool.”

  My face gets hot and I shift to the middle and then slide between the seats into the back. Nick hops in, gives Audrey a perfunctory kiss and closes the door.

  “Hey, Cindy,” he says.

  “Hi,” I mumble. Boy, he smells so nice. Unlike most of the immature jerks at school, Nick knows how to properly wear cologne. He doesn’t drown himself in it, he puts just enough on for anyone who’s lucky enough to be close to him to notice.