Notes From the End of the World

by Donna Burgess

  She drinks too much wine in the evening—the cases of the expensive red she bought at some auction to bring out only when we have “special” company is nearly gone. The boxes are empty and the few bottles left are tucked into the wine chiller beneath the kitchen counter.

  She’s going to be in a hell of a fix when she runs out completely. Going to supermarket is a bitch already. People are stocking more and more, the supermarkets shipments are irregular, and usually garbage nobody wants to eat. I can tell you I’m sick and tired of Tuna Helper and Ragu Spaghetti. But we have enough of that kind of shit to last at least a year, so there’s no way we’re going to starve—unless it’s by choice.

  With Audrey making an appearance at school at least a couple of times, and popping up on Instagram and Facetime (in low lighting—she still looks less than perfect), rumors are swirling that it’s Tommy Barker who lied.

  We’re both getting more satisfaction from that than we probably should.

  Still, something’s going on with Big Sis. She’s not the same. Dad’s says it probably some sort of side effect—the vaccine is untested, so we really don’t know what to expect. But I’m afraid it’s something worse. Maybe the vaccine just isn’t working. Sure, it’s slowed things down, but something’s still happening.

  I think Audrey is turning.

  I know that same thought is lying at the back of Dad’s mind, too. He’s just too afraid of saying it. Saying it makes it a reality.

  ***

  December 1

  Thanksgiving break came and went without a lot of fanfare. Dad made the trip across town to pick up Grandma. She made her pumpkin pie, but something wasn’t quite right with it this year. Later, she admitted that she resorted to using applesauce instead of fresh eggs, since she couldn’t get her hands on any. Of course, we all ate it, and pretended it was as great as it always was. There was no turkey, but Dad did get his hands on a canned ham, so we ate it, and then the two of us lounged around in the den reading and napping away the afternoon. Mom and Grandma sat at the kitchen table, taking too softly to hear. In the background, a repeat of last year’s Super Bowl played softy, the sounds enough to help us pretend things are normal.

  This year’s NFL season had been suspended indefinitely. In the back of my mind, I wondered how many of those players, announcers, fans were infected? Dead? Somewhere in between?

  Mom drank her wine, and later, Dad took Grandma home (although we all practically begged her to stay with us until this is over). Then he went to the hospital. Audrey stayed in her room testing different kinds of foundation to see which ones would cover up her deteriorating complexion.

  Nick and I Scyped a computerized drawing of a nerdy kid back and forth, each of us adding scrapes, scars, torn clothing, and blood until we had a proper ubergeek Shambler.

  Stupid to make light of such things when Audrey was in the next room, possibly becoming a Shambler herself.

  I’ve never been a big Thanksgiving person, but I missed the cozy blandness of the holiday. I hope by Christmas things are better.

  ***

  Back at school, there’s a lot of talk about canceling classes until the N-Virus is under control. Hearing this, Audrey has developed a renewed desire to go back, to make an appearance. Outwardly, this seems to be a display of determination and strength. Mom and Dad talk of what a great person she is. An inspiration.

  I’m proud of her too, but come on. We’re not allowed speak of the black market supply of Phalanx, so in the eyes of the remaining assholes who crawl the halls of Palm Dale High School, Audrey isn’t sick and Tommy Barker is full of shit.

  I know the real motivation behind Audrey’s desire to go to school one last time before it closes. She’s going to get back at Tommy somehow. She’ll confront him, comment on his tiny penis or his latent preference for members of the varsity football team. Not especially creative, but nonetheless effective. Audrey has a gift of delivery.

  Besides, who the hell knows when they’ll be together again, what’s left of this years graduating class?

  I’m standing in front of my vanity mirror, twisting my hair into a loose ponytail, when I hear a strange noise from Audrey’s bathrooms.

  “Blahh!”

  That doesn’t sound good at all.

  Again, all wet sounding, splashing. I wrinkle my nose on impulse and enter Big Sis’s bedroom, not really wanting to see anything. I step closer to peek into her bathroom. The door is open just enough for me to see her kneeling on the floor in front of the bowl.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  There’s blood staining the rim of the toiler, running down the side like spilled paint, so dark it’s almost black. My own stomach does the funky chicken for a moment, and I breathe deep and long to regain control.

  “Dynamite. Can’t you tell?” Audrey creaks, and then heaves again.

  “Should I get Mom? Maybe I can catch Dad—” I place my hand on her back, feeling like a very small child because I can’t help her. Mentally, I can’t stop going over the list of N-Virus symptoms, like a stupid news broadcast in my brain.

  Second stage is followed by severe chills, vomiting of blood or other bodily fluid, extreme lethargy…

  “N-no. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  “Maybe it’s a side effect of the Phalanx,” I offer.

  Audrey finishes barfing and sits back on the floor. She wipes her mouth with a wad of toilet paper, tosses in the pot, and flushes. “Get the hell out, Cindy. And don’t say a word about this to Mom or Dad.”

  I shrug and get the hell out like she asks. Ten minutes later, we drive to school in uneasy silence. Although it’s supposed to be morning rush hour, the roads aren’t crowded, except for olive green military trucks full of soldiers and the two check points with local cops in riot gear between our house and school. Audrey flashes her sexiest smile from behind the wheel and the cops wave us through both times. Most of the restaurants have closed, except for an Italian joint that has steadfastly hung in there for early dinners a few nights a week, turning customers out before curfew.

  The supermarket opens for four hours in the afternoons. Office-based businesses have closed. People (like Mom) can work just as well from home, as long as the Internet stays up, plus there’s no chance of a rabid co-worker tearing out your throat in the break room.

  I have to admit, Audrey looks pretty good. She’s done a remarkable job with her makeup and doesn’t look the least bit dead. Which, of course, she’s not. The rose petal pink blush has given her the necessary glow she needs to appear in good health.

  When we pull up at the school, she gives me her best fake-assed beauty queen smile.

  “Let’s go in and see what these morons have to say,” she says, throwing her too-expensive Alexander McQueen bag over her shoulder.

  I glance around, still not used to the trio of armed security guards flanking the upper portion of the student parking area. It's a cloudy morning, and seeing these guys dressed out in their bulky gear makes the whole scene feel apocalyptic and hopeless. Audrey is ahead of me, walking like she means business. She vanishes behind the glass doors and is already gone by the time I enter.

  The usual hustle and bustle of the morning scramble to homeroom is no longer there. The attendance is sparse—our class sizes have dropped from around twenty on a normal day to about eight or ten. There are others classes that have lost their teachers and are now combined. Science is one of those. Mrs. Lester stopped coming last week, so her class is now sitting in with Mr. Batson during fourth period. That would be okay, except Mrs. Lester’s crowd was full of football dorks doing just enough to get by—something Mr. Batson obviously isn’t used to with his group of over-achievers. Most of the time, it’s a swirling mess of idle chatter and bathroom humor. Mr. Batson blushes a lot lately, his bald head turning an alarming shade of dark crimson.

  Things run smooth for the first part of the day. There’s the on-going talk of martial law being instituted in Palm Dale like it has in the bigger cities. Wors
e, there’s talk that people are being “removed”—uninfected people. I’m not sure it’s true, but there are a lot of people I haven’t seen in quite a while, from school, from town. Teachers, students. Mom mentioned last night she can’t reach three of her most reliable salespeople.

  Somehow, thinking our government might be taking people away is much scarier than thinking they are falling ill.

  I pass Audrey’s locker just before lunch. Someone has written, “Audrey Scott has crotch rote” in huge red letters on the door. Nice. A misspelled insult.

  I stop, fumble through my bag for a pen, and try scribbling over it in black Sharpie. It doesn’t do anything but get me I trouble.

  “Cindy Scott. You’re vandalizing school property!” I look up to see Mr. Warner marching toward me, his face screwed into a stupid scowl.

  “I was just…”

  He snatches the pen from my hand and leans in close enough for me to smell alcohol on his breath. “I’m assigning you detention, Miss Scott. Effective as soon as we get back to a normal school schedule.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Warner. But I didn’t want my sister to have this on her locker.”

  “Adding to the defacement doesn’t help,” he snaps. He starts away without looking back.

  Down the hall, Tommy Barker and his little group low-I.Q. jocks laugh, obviously proud of both their clever wit and lack of spelling skills.

  I flip them off, which makes them laugh even more, and head to next period. It’s Mr. Carlton’s literature class, the highlight of the day. Well, that and catching a peek of Nick’s perfect little hiney in those well-worn A.E. jeans as he rushes past. He glances back at me and flashes a tight smile. I wave like a silly little girl and he vanishes through the doors of his next class.

  At lunch, I find Brandi and we sit together in the cafeteria. The air is heavy with burned cooking oil. No more eating at the fields, administration has decided. It’s too dangerous with the stray Shamblers wandering Palm Dale. So much for fresh air and sunshine. I decide to splurge and buy a sugary Coke and an order of fries, despite the tuna salad Mom packed for me. An unhealthy dose of grease, salt, and sugar can make even the zombie apocalypse almost tolerable. Brandi and I have little to talk about, but it was better than being alone. I can’t help but believe every time I see some of these people might be the last time. Morbid, I know.

  I notice Audrey’s bitch-posse has grown thin. She’s sitting with Haley Matthews and Madison Throne, but Brittany Pope hasn’t been to school in at least a week. Today was the first time I’ve noticed her absence. It’s terrible to say, but school is actually more pleasant without some people.

  ***

  December 3

  A rare evening with Dad at home. Things feel normal—almost. He cooks for us—tuna casserole. Jesus, I’m sick of canned tuna, canned chicken, deviled ham. Yuck! Still, somehow, Dad manages to make even tuna casserole taste pretty good—fat egg noodles cooked al dente (Mom always cooks the pasta to mush—sorry, Mom!), cheddar cheese, garlic bread crumbs toasted on top. Maybe he’s a magician, because it smells good enough to make my stomach rumble like crazy.

  We eat in front of the television—something that is usually saved for Friday nights, if we’re all at home together. Needless to say, it’s been a while since we noshed in style on the sofa and at the coffee table, in front of the tube.

  Mom takes the bottle of wine into the family room with her. “White, my dear, to go with the fish,” she jokes, making those annoying finger quotations in the air when she says fish. She’s been hitting the wine hard since Audrey became ill. Dad plays along with his patented Dad-smile, but when Mom’s isn’t paying attention, he looks at her with so much sadness in his eyes that I want to run to my bedroom and hide my head under the covers.

  He feels like a failure because he couldn’t protect Audrey. I want to tell him that he can’t protect us from ourselves, but tonight I just pretend we’re happy and the world is normal.

  We watch reruns of The Big Bang Theory and Audrey complains.

  “These people are so geeky and lame,” she says. “Let’s watch Vampire Diaries.”

  “You can watch Vampire Diaries when your mother and I go to bed,” Dad tells her. “Now eat all of your food. You need the calories to battle the virus.”

  “We have the vaccine, don’t we? Why do I need to ruin my bod with this…stuff?” She shovels a gob of casserole on her fork and lets it drop back into her plate. Splat.

  “Audrey, please. Just do what he says,” I say.

  “Just because it doesn’t matter how you look, Cindy, doesn’t mean I need to stop caring.”

  “Enough,” Mom says, her words slow and lazy.

  Canned laughter erupts from the television but none of us crack a smile. We missed the joke, but Sheldon is looking fairly smug over something.

  “Why don’t we put in Dawn of the Dead? Cindy has the DVD in her room,” Audrey says, thinking she’s being clever.

  “Shut up,” I hiss through my clenched teeth. My face feels hot. I’m not up for a lecture from Mom over what movies I shouldn’t be watching. Unlike her, I can’t hide behind a bottle of wine and pretend things are completely normal.

  A barrage of commercials start up, always much louder than the actual programs—McDonalds, Walmart, iPod. I’m not sure why they still play these stupid ads. Nobody is eating at McDonalds, and Walmart has sold out of nearly everything anyone might need during a zombie apocalypse. Unless you can stop zombies with cheap makeup or knock-off jewelry—they have plenty of those things left.

  Finally, a overly-happy pop tune starts playing, overlaid with vocals of a female who sounds like she’s about twelve years old. “Don’t you forget about me,” she sings and I recognize the song from one of those 1980s teen flicks I watched with Mom last summer. A montage of children playing, a smiling mother, an active grandfatherly type, flickers across the screen.

  “Remember, your loved ones retain their uniqueness, that thing made them “them” even after the transformation,” a jovial announcer chimes in over the music. “At The Pastures, the transformation process is made easy for everyone. At The Pastures, you never have to say good-bye—until you’re ready.”

  We all fall into a morbid, uncomfortable silence. Mom refills her glass. I glance at Audrey who shovels a heavy forkful of casserole into her blush mouth.

  “The Pastures is the only long-term care facility of it’s kind in the area. Plus, some insurance plans are now being accepted. Just call 1-888-D-I-G-N-I-T-Y. The Pastures is safe for all concerned.”

  The squeaky-hipster chick vocals start up again.

  I frown and look at Dad. He’s thinking the same thing I am: “Do we really need a sales pitch?”

  “That song reeks,” Audrey says. “It’s as lame as these dumb shows.” Then she looks at me. “You going to finish that?” She nods toward my plate where a few bites of casserole remain.

  “Go ahead.” I shove the plate across the coffee table.

  “Maybe I’ll purge later,” she whispers.

  “You’re a regular Lifetime movie,” I say.

  “Bitch,” my sis counters.

  “Dead bitch,” I respond. That’s one I’ll regret. I know it.

  Chapter 14

  December 9

  Cindy

  I’m heading out to the car to wait for Audrey when the screaming starts. I just make back into the main entrance of the school as the droves reach the front stairs.

  Mr. Carlton and Mrs. Belle are waiting at the entrance.

  A drove of Shamblers swarm the parking lot just as school is being dismissed. Nobody knows where they came from or why there are so many, but they just keep coming—people of all ages, all colors. Children. The elderly. Most of them are dressed rather formally—the ladies in smart, modest dresses, the men in trousers, dress shirts, ties. Like church clothes. Or funeral clothes.

  But the one that will stick in my mind when I close my eyes tonight is the little boy. Dark-haired, sweet-faced, in a short-pant
s suit. His tie has come loose.

  Blood stains his mouth like chocolate syrup and paints his tiny square teeth when he snarls.

  A girl, whose name I never learned, is attacked as she gets into her car. An old man pulls her head back by the hair and tears into her throat, her shrill screaming dissolving into a wet gurgle. Her blonde hair goes rust-colored in a matter of seconds. Her ultra-cool hippie blouse changes to a hideous mess of splotchy red.

  It’s terrible to die that way.

  She has a brand new leafy green Beetle. Her parents love her.

  Love doesn’t help anymore. My parents love me just like they love Audrey, but that’s not enough.

  In a moment, she’s gone, vanished beneath a mass of writhing bodies.

  These are our neighbors.

  Those who are outside, flee to get back in. Some make it. There are others stuck inside their cars while the Shamblers pound stupidly on the windshield and the windows. Thank goodness their brain capacity has diminished so much that they no longer understand tools.

  Melissa trips on the stairs, coming out of her silly high heels (who the hell wears heels to school during a zombie outbreak anyway?) and Mr. Carlton bursts through the doors. He snatches her up the stairs just before a girl of about six clamps down on her ankle with a set of decidedly Jack o’ Lantern teeth.

  “Get the door! Now!” he shouts, getting Melissa, and himself, through just in time.

  Hands press the cool metal, and the thick glass and the heavy doors weigh nothing. Maybe a dozen of us shove those double doors closed, catching the little girl zombie halfway in.

  Her head pops like an overripe melon (geez, what a cliche!).

  Someone screams. Crying builds and echoes in the hallway.

  “We killed her,” Emma Sanford howls. She does some kind of weirdo dance around what’s left of the kid.

  I looked across to the other door. Nick stares back, his beautiful face strangely blank. Then his eyes touch mine for an electric moment.