Notes From the End of the World

by Donna Burgess

  “This sucks,” Nick whispers, like it matters if the Shambler hears him.

  We freeze, watching the spastic movements of the boy as he slams the doors with his open hands. He presses his face to the glass, squashing his nose and mouth, smearing blood and snot, and snaps his jaws open and closed as though he might devour us through the window.

  “Looks familiar,” Audrey says.

  “That because he looks like any of us,” Nick replies.

  The surfer-boy’s eyes holds nothing behind them, his expression totally blank. Audrey places her hand on the glass and he lunges at her, his mouth greedily working.

  She drums her fingers, tap, tap, tap, like she’s teasing a fish inside an aquarium. The boy rams his face against the window, desperate to take a bite of her hand, breaking off one of his perfect front teeth in the process.

  “Ew!” Nick and I cry in unison.

  “Don’t tease them. I ain’t proper to tease the dead,” comes a scolding voice from behind us. This time all three of us jump. A wizened old woman wearing a black beanie cap, a woolen plaid wrap and sporting a couple-days growth of stubble on her chin scowls at us for what seems like an eternity. Then she scuttles away, a heavy-looking reusable shopping bag hanging swinging from the end of each arm.

  “Stupid thing,” Audrey says. I’m not sure if she’s referring to the Shambler or the old woman.

  Nick sighs. Backing the shopping cart up, he turns and heads toward the next exit, only a few stores down. He looks troubled and I know what he’s thinking. It’s the same thing I’m thinking.

  That kid could’ve been any of us.

  Exiting the mall, we scan the parking lot for more infected. There’s nobody out there—dead or alive. We double back to the car and Audrey stands watch, holding the bat as Nick and I load our skimpy loot.

  In silence, we drive back toward our end of town. Audrey, taking advantage of the lack of traffic and cops, keeps the needle hovering at seventy all the way home.

  Chapter 9

  November 10

  Cindy

  The world’s going to shit around us, but our little corner of the apocalypse seems almost immune. We go to school, we date (if we’re lucky), we play soccer. We’re learning to look around the corner of the house and notice how people move as they approach.

  Sure, things have changed and have become altered, but we’re quickly growing used to armed guards and talks of martial law and worse—we’ve grown accustomed to the curfews. In the matter of a couple of months, the N-Virus has become a part of every day life and so have the Shamblers.

  Sometimes when I watch the news or log onto the internet, I catch the headlines and feel sort of guilty. But everything has a way of balancing out.

  I’ve heard Audrey say, “Karma’s a bitch” more times than I can count. It’s her little method of excusing herself for not caring what happens to other people.

  Maybe she’s right for once.

  Sometimes I’m just waiting for our safe little existence to break apart.

  ***

  Some say memories are like ghosts. But maybe they’re like snakes, too. They lay low almost forgotten, and then they strike when you’re least expecting it. Tonight will be the latter. It’ll be a snake coiled in the back of my mind, waiting to sink its fangs in for the rest of my life.

  My phone buzzes and I’m surprised to see it’s Audrey.

  “Listen, need Mom or Dad to come and pick me up,” Audrey says before I can say anything. Her phone keeps going in and out and for a moment, she sounds like she’s calling from the bottom of a bucket.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Dad and Mom are both looking at me. Parents have that exquisite sixth sense when it comes to their kids, I’ve discovered.

  “Just come. I’m fine.”

  The realization dawns on Dad’s face before Mom and I understand. She’s been in an accident, maybe. Bruises. Lacerations. Shit, a missing limb is better than what I know is coming.

  The simple piercing of the skin with a set of infected teeth and our little protected world fell apart. We’ve just lost one of our four wheels.

  She’d been out with Tommy Barker. Tommy is a stupid psudeo-hood with a rich mother, richer grandparents, and a dad who’s famous for some reality show from five years ago. The dad isn’t present and the mom’s only around when it comes to opening her checkbook.

  We rush out of the door, to Mom’s SUV together like a weird three-headed being.

  “I thought she was at the library,” Mom says, her voice too shrill. It sounds like an accusation. She goes to the driver’s side door, but Dad takes the keys from her shaking hands.

  “I’d better drive, Meg.”

  We pile in, the tires squealing as Dad tears out of the driveway.

  “I dropped her at the library. I was going back to get her at ten,” Mom jabbers. She’s on the verge of crying, trying to hold it in. “They have armed escorts to and from the building.”

  In the backseat, I want to throw up. I knew what she was up to. And no, she didn’t tell me. I just knew. Maybe it’s that universal part of being a teenager—knowing how to lie. I can see her pointing out Tommy Barker sitting in his stupid raised pickup truck at the far end of the parking area. She’d tell the armed escort that he’s her brother. Maybe the escort won’t buy it, but he also doesn’t care as long as he gets these kids and these old farts in and out of the library without being devoured by some crazed lunatic. Then he can go home at the closing with a clear conscious.

  I wish I could have a clear conscious. I should’ve told. She would’ve hated me a little more intensely than usual for a couple of days, but that would be okay. She’d get over it.

  She isn’t getting over this. Nobody will.

  ***

  I smell death—it permeates the entire E.R. and I try to breathe through my mouth as I make my way past the gurneys of sick patients that line the walls of the corridor. I don’t miss this place at all. Maybe that desire to be a doctor died right along with all those other stupid notions about a normal future.

  Inside the waiting area there are more people—some of whom appear they’re battling the common flu, which is common with the N-Virus, others looking like they’ve come from the losing end of a war zone. A young woman holds a little boy of about six in her lap, his arm wrapped in a blood-soaked t-shirt. Her eyes are wide and dry, and her mouth looks like she’s biting back a scream. Another woman, her mother, I assume—they look very much alike—holds the young mother’s hand. The older woman’s face is so tired. Tired of what life has recently become.

  “... just came up into the backyard, like he always does after school. Robbie let him inside the gate. They always play together. He didn’t look any different, until I saw his eyes...”

  I hear enough. An old man leans against a metal walking cane, blood pooling around his feet. Just below the knee, a wet gash glints through the tatters of his pants leg. He’ll be left to die out here. They’ll take those who have “connections” in first.

  Lucky for Audrey. Not so lucky for some of the others, I suppose. I feel bad about that, but that’s life. I’d mentioned something to that affect a few nights ago, and Dad reminded me that these are different times. We have to take our advantages and use them as best we can.

  Families are dying. We have to make sure it’s other families—not ours.

  “Better them than us.” Audrey’s said that on more than one occasion since the N-Virus became the latest CNN headline.

  I’m allowed to go through—Mom’s already back there, but I stay in the waiting room to phone Grandma. That’s my way of avoiding this. For a few more moments, at least, I want us to not be other families.

  A couple of nurses nod and shoot me this solemn-faced look as I pass. Audrey’s sitting on the gurney looking glassy-eyed and stupid, hair a mess, her designer jeans and blouse a mess of dirt. Dark splotches decorate her pale jeans, but there’s not much blood, no more than what you’d get if you cut yourself shav
ing your legs.

  Mom’s are eyes nearly pinched shut from crying, but she’s just sitting there now, red-faced, red-eyed, makeup like bruises. Her hands twist in her lap like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

  I’m tentative and Dad can tell. “I gave her a sedative. Just in case...” He doesn’t need to finish. We’ve seen victims change, some within a matter of moments. It’s been roughly forty-eight minutes since Audrey’s call. We have no idea how long it’s been since she was bitten.

  Dad’s already cleaned and dressed the wound and is tidying up. “Didn’t need stitches. Wasn’t much of a bite. Maybe the exposure was minimal,” he says, mostly to himself.

  “Not much of a bite?” Audrey asks, her words slurring like Mom’s do after a couple of glasses of wine. “Bastard wrecked my best jeans.” She sticks out her wounded leg and sways on the gurney. I reach out to steady her.

  Mom doesn’t move. She’s suddenly afraid to touch my sister.

  ***

  I haven’t believed in miracles since I was eight. When I was younger, I used to think they happened, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve discovered miracles are exceedingly rare and saved for a privileged few.

  I saw that when Grandpa got sick. I kept believing—praying, he would get better. I just knew he would. But he just got sicker and sicker. Eventually, I convinced myself that my grandpa had run away and had been replaced with a hideous, pitiful skeleton man who lived in a hospital room. When I visited, I acted as if he was a stranger.

  He died without me telling him goodbye.

  But that was then.

  This is now.

  Dad leads us to his office, away from the noise, the chatter, and weeping of the E.R. Mom’s hysteria has become a quiet thing, and Audrey is still loopy from the sedative. I’m in a disconnected sort of stupor, half-expecting to wake at any moment.

  Dad closes the door and locks it. He walks over to his desk without a word, removes his keys from his pants pocket and unlocks one of the drawers.

  Removing a trio of small unlabeled vials, he finally speaks. “I have this experimental vaccine. It’s called Phalanx, and it’s worked in a few cases, so far.” He takes a hypodermic syringe from his lab coat, rips open the wrapper, and fills it with the clear liquid from one of the vials.

  “Where’d you get this?” Mom asks, her voice shaking.

  “I just have it.” He moves over to Audrey, swabs her arm with an alcohol gauze. “No mention of this outside this room.” Audrey doesn’t flinch when Dad jabs the needle into her bicep.

  Dad glances at me and winks. “Now, let’s cross our fingers that this will work.”

  Against everything I’ve learned and know, feel myself starting to believe again. Smiling, I cautiously take Audrey’s hand and squeeze her cool fingers.

  Audrey searches the empty air, before focusing on my face. What a space cadet. “You’re so weird,” she says and giggles softly.

  Chapter 10

  November 13

  Nick

  Sometimes the light doesn’t go on until something hits you dead in the face.

  I’m watching the world change around me and for some reason, I feel nothing. In the corner, Mom and Grandma chat about things that no longer matter—some long out-of-touch cousin, whom they married or divorced or some shit like that—and all I want to do is scream at them, “Why the fuck are you wasting your last few hours like this?”

  Outside, rain patters softly against the windows. The day’s a dreary shade of gray that makes you want to stay in your room and pretend you’re the only one alive.

  I shouldn’t have said that. Soon, I might not have to pretend.

  Grandma was attacked late yesterday, right on her front porch as she stepped out to get the mail. She broke the news to Mom over the phone. I couldn’t tell if Mom wanted to scream or weep or just pass out. Instead, she just sank to kitchen floor. But her voice remained unchanged. She could’ve been discussing a new recipe or something they saw on television. I have to hand it to her—she managed it better than I could’ve imagined. Especially after the shitty way she handled Dad’s death.

  Still, the look on her face is one of those stupid, horrible moments that I’ll always remember. I froze and waited for her to get off the phone, but I already knew what had happened.

  “It was the little girl from next door,” Grandma told her over the phone.

  Mom and Grandma never got along very well—there was always some petty little weight hanging over them, the rope ready to break any moment. Tension, forced pleasantries. Aunt Sara was always Grandma’s favorite—that much was obvious, but Aunt Sara says she can’t come back for this.

  Four hundred miles is a long drive to watch someone die, I suppose. Especially when people are dying all around you. Dying’s not special anymore.

  Grandma’s house is just like is always was. It’s just like you’d think a grandma’s house should be, if you live in the South. Immaculate lawn with a jungle of azaleas, dripping with hot-pink blooms in spring, but rather skeletal now that fall has set in and the lawn maintenance people have stopped coming. Diseased patches of grass, gone brown from lack of care. At the far end of the backyard looms a magnolia, taller than the roof of the two-story house, the gnarled limbs like the arms of an old buddy. I spent many hours in those limbs, nearly cradled, loving the perfume of the white flowers and the feel of the sturdy, waxy leaves in my fingers.

  Inside the house, floral-patterned drapes create splashes of color that’s offset by an elegant beige sofa that children under the age of fifteen aren’t allowed to sit on. Dark wood tables polished to a high shine. On a shelf, there’s a framed photo of a grandfather I never knew, but everyone says I resemble. Not a speck of dirt anywhere; shoes are left at the door. Never a pet to leave its mark or shed its fur.

  Music plays softly, some classical piano stuff I can’t identify. It all sounds the same to me. The air smells of Lysol and potpourri, both serving to disguise something bad.

  The bad smell is Grandma. It hit me hard enough to make my throat close up when we first got here and I went to kiss her.

  Earlier, Mom and Grandma baked some cookies and then made a pan of Baklava— the old family came from Greece and recipes are all that’s left to prove it. Then they looked through boxes of old jewelry, Grandma passing along little stories about where this pair of earrings came from or what year Granddad gave her that ring or necklace. After the jewelry, came the books of photos.

  “Look at you, Nicky,” Grandma said, her sweet voice growing creakier by the moment. “I used to hold you for hours.” With a trembling hand, she touches my hair. I almost flinch away, but catch myself. No matter what, she’s Grandma until the end.

  Until her eyes grow white and her face grows angry.

  We go into Grandma’s bedroom.

  “Get that box down from that shelf, Nicky,” she says, motioning toward her closet. I do and it’s actually several shoeboxes stacked inside a larger file box. Mom and Grandma sit on the bed and begin going through them, removing envelopes, folded papers that look important or at least official, clippings from newspapers.

  “I always wanted to get around to organizing these things. I was too busy keeping the part of the house that everyone sees tidy. I never worried about old papers.”

  I sit on the floor next to the bed and remember crawling up under the bed and hiding from my cousin, Joe. It feels like a hundred years ago. Mom says Joe, a month younger than me, was bitten a couple of weeks ago, but she doesn't know anything more.

  I haven’t seen Joe since we were twelve and now I imagine him still as twelve, lumbering around, drooling, bloody and snarling.

  Miles did take a moment to console Mom and make arrangements. Everything is ready for the “big moment.”

  There are armed “transition directors” outside the house. At the end of the driveway is a van that looks like a prisoner transport, but instead of “police” the sides are emblazoned with “The Pastures,” in fancy gold letters, hovering a
bove rolling hills that are so bright green it makes my eyes ache.

  The number is 1-888-DIGNITY.

  Everything is a commercial. Even the end of the world.

  ***

  ***

  November 14

  Cindy

  I decide to take a run, against Mom’s wishes. If she has it her way, I doubt I’ll be allowed to leave the house at all, except to go to school. Especially after Audrey’s deal. I tell myself that she’s just gone to a friend’s home; that she’s fine.

  It’s better to think that way than to allow the bad thoughts in.

  So, I plug my iPod into my ears, my heart thudding like a bass drum in my head just before I press play. I miss the four-times-a-week soccer practices, and cross country isn’t happening due to the danger, but I need running for release. Even more, I need the time to just allow my mind to go blank.

  There are three boys, maybe ten years old, teasing a Shambler at the lesser-used entrance of our neighborhood. I recognize one—it’s Noel Freeman, a chunky little piece of work whose dad is a county councilman. His sister, Jenna, is in Audrey’s class, but, believe it or not, she’s actually too bitchy and snooty for Audrey. Mrs. Freeman is one of those moms who always wear an expression that can make you feel like you’ve done something wrong even if you haven’t.

  Either way, county councilman is the smallest amount of power I’ve ever seen go to anyone’s head.

  The Shambler’s wearing tan coveralls with the legend “Palm Dale Water and Sewer” emblazoned on the back. When he turns around, his front a bloody mess where something has gotten at him and relieved him of most of his vital organs. His formerly dark complexion has gone the color of modeling clay. Noel and one other kid are whacking at this man with golf clubs, and I’m happy that all I can hear is the thin, mechanical sound of Blondefire and their shallow but mesmerizing music. I keep on running. I don’t care about those kids any more than I do the Shambler. If he takes a chunk out of one of them, so be it. They’re asking for it, anyway.