Mom’s screaming now, as well, and my stomach tightens up. I sprint to the hall, but a harsh male voice spewing a stream of curses stops me in my tracks. It’s not Miles, although it sounds like they share a similar vocabulary of four-letter words.
Another voice growls, “Check the rest of the fucking house. There’s more than one kid here.”
I can only assume they noticed a photograph downstairs. More sounds of footsteps on the hardwood, now; there must be three or people soldiers in our house.
“There’s nobody else here,” Mom’s voice is shrill and frantic. “What do you want with us? We’re not infected!”
“Maybe’s the other one’s already dead.”
“Probably, but check, anyway.”
Micah’s blubbering has reached a level even I’ve never heard.
“Shut that little fucker up, Jones.”
“Don’t touch him!” Mom yells, followed by a couple more loud thuds. I want to go to them, to stop whatever terrible thing is happening down there, but I can’t make myself do it. I’m so scared and confused.
I dart back into my room, my heart thudding so hard and fast that I dry heave against the back of my fist. I grab my sketch tablet from the bed and smooth the covers to make it look as though nobody has been there, then slip into my closet.
Stupid. The closet is the first place anyone with half a brain will look. But there’s nowhere else. I slide the double doors closed behind me and look around, my eyes straining against the darkness.
Up above my head, there’s an access to the attic that I’d nearly forgotten about. When I was about six, I went through an entire summer terrified of that hole. My cousin, who was an asshole, by the way, convinced me that a little troll lived in the attic and climbed through that access in the middle of the night to watch me sleep. Finally, Dad got enough of my sleeping at the foot of his and Mom’s bed. He brought in a ladder and took my up to the attic through that access to show me that the scariest thing up there was the air handler and a few cobwebs.
I plant one foot on a low shelf and the other on the opposite wall and heave myself upward, careful not to make any more noise than I have to. I carefully lift the plywood access panel and push it aside, leaving just enough space for me to shimmy through. Then try to heave myself up.
It’s a struggle and I’m afraid I might not be able to do it. I’ve lost some of the strength I had when I was running and playing soccer. I haven’t eaten since last night—I want to conserve what food we have left, just like I want to save my pot.
I hang there for a moment, my socked feet slipping against the wall without any traction. The footstep grow louder, echoing down the hallway outside my bedroom. I take a deep breath and tug myself upward, the muscles in my shoulders and arms screaming.
Then I’m up. I hear my bedroom door open just as I replace the access panel.
I squat there in the low side of the attic, afraid to move, sucking in cold, stale air. My thighs shake, and I want to change positions, but I don’t dare move yet. Below, I can hear the soldier stalking around my bedroom, shuffling through my things.
The closet door opens, and hangers slide across the bars, scraping, metal on metal. My breath catches in my throat, and I wait for that panel to be thrown back, exposing my cowardly, trembling ass.
I feel something crawl across the back of my hand, and I cringe, but leave it. I hate spiders, but I’m not risking any movement.
Then heavy footsteps again, but now the sound is moving away from me.
“Anything?”
“Nothing. Nobody else here.”
***
I remain inside the attic, shivering, for a while after the house becomes silent again. Then slowly, I open the access panel and ease myself back down into my closet. Cautiously, I step out into my bedroom, then to the hallway.
I go into Mom and Miles’s bedroom across the hall. Crouching, I move to the window that overlooks the front lawn and the street below. The house opposite ours belong to the Smiths, a middle-aged couple who seems much younger than their ages. Evelyn Smith is a sharp-tongued artist who is (or was) constantly jogging along the streets in our neighborhood. She even challenged me to a race last summer. She kept up pretty well, but I ended up outrunning her. Had to—pride wouldn’t let me lose to a sixty-year old woman, no matter what kind of shape she’s in.
Steve Smith is muscular and blond. He’s a pediatrician who spends more time at the golf course than examining little kids. They have money and don’t mind showing it off.
But it doesn’t look like money matters anymore.
A soldier dressed in black riot gear kicks in the Smith’s front door and four more follow him inside, rifles raised and ready.
In a moment, Steve and Evelyn are forced out onto their brown, overgrown lawn, guns shoved in their faces. Both are dressed as though they are heading to the country club, Steve’s hair perfect, Evelyn’s makeup perfect. Her diamond earrings glint in the sunlight.
Evelyn is shouting something, but I can’t make it out. One of the soldiers slams the butt of his rifle against the side of Steve’s head, sending him to his knees.
There’s more shouting, but I still can’t understand what’s happening. One thing is obvious—one soldier is getting extremely agitated. He thrusts his rifle in Evelyn’s face. Steve must say something else and another soldier kicks him in the ribs.
What the hell’s happening? All those stories about martial law and government sanctioned murders are true. The Shamblers are the least of our worries.
A soldier grabs a fistful of Evelyn’s hair and forces her to her knees next to her husband. Both of them place their hands behind their heads. Something in my heart or in my brain knows what’s about to happen. I need to look away but can’t.
The shots are dull and decisive as Steve Smith’s brains are blown all over Bending Reed Avenue.
The world gets black and splotchy in front of my eyes and I slide down the wall, on the verge of passing out. I bite the inside of my lip, hoping the pain might jar me back into awareness. I take several deep breaths and then move back to the window in time to see the Smith’s limp bodies being loaded into the back of some sort of military transporter.
***
I run back to my room and pack some jeans, underwear, warm shirts and socks into a backpack. I throw my sketch tablet and pencils in on top of that, followed by the scant remains of my pot. I then take my iPad and finally the small stack of photos I have of Dad, Mom, and me before Dad died and Miles moved in. Today, that life seem like something I dreamed.
I pull on my sneakers, grab my favorite black Northface jacket and the backpack, and head downstairs.
Since Micah came here, the only time I can remember the house being this quiet is when the kid’s asleep at night. As I enter the kitchen, the heating unit kicks on and I nearly shit myself. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I take the few cans of food left in the cupboards and throw them into the backpack. There’s also a box of angel hair, a jar of Newman’s Own vodka sauce. In the fridge, I find a bottle of Dasani and a half block of cheddar cheese that’s almost too dried out to eat.
I step into the foyer and what I see stops me dead in my tracks. There’s fresh blood all over the floor and splattered on the wall just inside the front door. The dizziness hits me again, and I sink to my knees, fighting to stay conscious.
Is this Mom’s blood? Is she dead like the Smiths?
Tears blur my vision as the reality dawns on me. I know I’ll never see her again.
My stomach seizes up suddenly, and my body is wracked with dry heaves, unable to vomit anything up.
When that passes, I get back to my feet, my knees shaking, my nose and eyes running like crazy.
I open the front door and glance up and down the street. The military vehicle is down at the far end of the street. The soldiers have moved on to wreck what little remains of another family’s lives. I step outside and look back at my house—the only place I’ve ever lived.
&n
bsp; There’s a red “X” sprayed painted and running on our front door, followed by the word “Cleared.” Every other house on our street bears the small legend.
I sprint away, staying against the sides of the houses, near wildly-growing plant beds and behind the thick bases of live oaks until I’m out of the neighborhood. Once out, I keep to the woods along the sides of the nearly deserted roads. I’m still crying softly, my tears growing cold on my cheeks and the sides of my neck in the winter air.
I’ve lost everyone now. Dad, Mom, Grandma. Even idiot Miles, and Micah, who was only five, for Christ’s sake. All that’s left is Cindy. I have to get to her before these crazy fucking soldiers.
Chapter 20
Cindy
February 15
So, Nick’s mother is gone. My sister is gone. We’ve lost grandparents and stepparents and friends. Teachers we’ve loved are missing. Our lives have gone from planning our goals and dreaming about our futures to just trying to make through the next day.
Maybe I should consider myself lucky—my parents are still here with me. Every morning I wake, stare up at the ceiling over my bed and say a stupid little thanks to who ever or what ever is in control of things. Things have been strange since Audrey left us. Even worse once Nick arrived. We avoid her room. Dad cleaned it well enough to removed most of the odor, then closed it up, locking it and then hiding the key from me and Mom (like we’d ever want to go in there now).
Nick spends most of his time sitting on the floor, his back against the end of my bed, sketching. He hasn’t said very much about losing his mother, and I’m not ready to push it. Instead, we listen to whatever comes on shuffle on my iPOD, and he shows me how to draw things—monsters, fairies, animals. I could draw for one hundred years and never get much better than I am right now, I’m afraid. Nick’s patient with my lack of artistic talent, but he’s also extremely distracted. Even when we start making out, he stops before we get very far. He’s being careful, but there’s a part of me that feels a little hurt. That’s the silly teenaged girl in me who refuses to mature. You’d think witness society crumble would make me grow up a little quicker.
The house stays dim, although the day is bright and crisp. We’ve boarded up all the windows since he fled his neighborhood and told us about the soldiers. Then, we spray-painted the “CLEARED” symbol on our front door to make them think our place has been searched and emptied of survivors.
Two night ago, we also moved in the cover of shadow and painted that same symbol on the rest of the front doors along our street—both those belonging to abandoned homes as well as those that are still inhabited. Maybe the soldiers will bypass our neighborhood, at least for a while.
Mom is like a ghost, passing from room to room. She appears for our scraped-together meals, and rations her remaining booze. She says little, and her eyes wear the permanent brownish bruises of a woman who will never recover from what she’s lost. I feel as though she’s already gone, just like Audrey was during her final days in the house. Dad is holding together as best as he can. He’s given me a gun to keep near me at all times—his paranoia over the government has become as bad as his fear of the infected.
And much to my mortification, he’s also presented Nick and me with condoms.
“I remember what it was like to young,” he says, shoving the box at Nick, whose face turns as red as a stop sign. “Don’t be embarrassed. Be careful. But don’t take this as a blessing to start screwing every chance you have.”
“You sound like a PSA, Dad,” I mutter, hoping to alleviate the shame. It doesn’t.
***
February 18
Nick
I never dream about Mom, Miles or Micah. When I dream, it’s about Dad, and he’s here now, and he knows what to do about surviving this epidemic. He’s there like he’s never left, level-headed, unafraid.
“I’ve seen the worst there is, Nicky. I’ve seen death. It’s not as bad as people claim. You get through it,” he says, his dream-voice lilting and worry-free. “Some things are worse than death.”
When I wake, I’m alone, unsure of where I am, darkness as thick as a blanket. I sit up and remember where I am—the sofa in the home of my former girlfriend/current Shambler and current girlfriend/possibly last girl on Earth.
I want to go upstairs and crawl into the bed with Cindy, but don’t get any ideas. I just need to be near someone. When I’m down here, and everyone else is upstairs asleep, I feel I’m the only one left. Deep in the middle of the night, I believe I hear the moaning and screaming of the Shamblers. I hope I’m just imagining things, otherwise, they’re coming up to the house at night. Like they smell the living inside.
***
February 22
Cindy
“So, do you think anyone will actually eat this?” I say, holding up a tiny can of potted meat. We’re inside Mr. Howard and Mr. David’s kitchen. Amazingly, most of the abandoned houses in Sawgrass Flats haven’t yet been looted. Maybe there’s a sense of community left inside the few of those who remain. But you’ve got to be realistic. I hate doing this, but these people are gone—they’ve fled or become infected. Either way, they’ve left behind the things they don’t want or need.
Nick peeks around an open cabinet door. “I think it’ll taste like caviar if we get hungry enough.”
“I hate caviar.” I wrinkle my nose and toss it into my backpack. Nick turns and kisses me.
“You’ve never had caviar,” he says, smoothing my hair back from my face.
“Still. Fish eggs? Come on.”
Mr. Howard and Mr. David’s place is immaculate and the scent of the expensive aftershave Mr. Howard always wore still lingers. Daylight pours through the sheer drapes, making the home warm and inviting. On the refrigerator, there’s photos of them at Niagara Falls, and on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. There’s also a note, a reminder of a doctor’s appointment, and a big, flowery greeting card that says, “To my best friend and lover. Together always.” They were happy, and now they’re both gone.
Most of us are doomed the same fate. Life is so quickly summed up with a few photos, notes and keepsakes. I’m staring too long at those things, and Nick snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“Don’t do that, Cindy,” he says, reading my mind. He opens the fridge, and the stink wafts out. Apparently, the electricity has been shut off in this house for weeks.
“Shit! Close it,” I cry.
“Wait,” Nick says. “Check this out.” He holds out a can of Coke. “There’s a six-pack in here.” I hold open my backpack, and he places five inside. The other one, he opens, and takes a long, greedy drink.
“Here.” He holds out the rather warm red can. I take a long gulp, savoring the sweetness. It feels like it’s been a year since I had anything so sugary and wonderful.
“There’s some things, too.” I lean in next to him to take a look, shining my light in for a better look. In the little shelves on the inside of the door are Hershey Bars—six of them, three with almonds and three without. There’s also pudding snacks in vanilla and butterscotch flavors.
“No wonder Mr. David was so chunky,” I say.
“I guess,” Nick agrees. Then he pulls out a large can of Redi Whip. “I wonder what they did with this?” He raises his eyebrows and leers at me, but even when he leers, he looks kinda hot.
“Let’s not think about it.” I push the fridge door closed.
We search through the rest of the kitchen, and then move from room to room, looking for anything we might be able to use in some way. We take batteries from remotes, just in case they might have a little juice left and candles—these guys must’ve loved scented candles.
But when Nick gets to the master bedroom, I stop him. “Let’s just leave that room, okay?”
“How come?”
“Just a little act of respect, I suppose. It’s none of our business.”
Nick shrugs and moves away. “Okay.”
We hit three more houses on the street be
fore dark starts to fall. Of course, daylight or darkness makes no difference to Shamblers—they’re not vampires. But darkness definitely makes it tougher on the living. Get a Shambler on your trail, fall over a lawn chair or sprinkler head, and that’s that. They’ll have their rotting teeth into your throat before you can say, “Oh, shit.” Worse, using a flashlight is a dead giveaway to the living.
The take from the other homes is scant. More candles, a can of tuna in oil (yuck!), two packs of ramen noodles, a box of microwave popcorn (only good when there’s electricity), a couple of envelopes of Kool-Aid—cherry and grape. Cheese with a skin of mold that can be cut away, and saltines that are only a little stale. And the best find of all—a big bottle of Jaegermeister, still three-quarters full.
“I think we should keep that one to ourselves,” Nick suggests.
I agree. If Mom gets a hold of it, it’ll be gone in a night.
***
February 25
Cindy
After a funky dinner of Ramen noodles and canned tuna, and canned pineapple for dessert, Dad calls us into the den. Mom’s moping around because her wine supply is getting low, and maybe I should offer her the Jaeger, but decide against it. Not so much out of selfishness, but out of concern. She’s drunk round the clock, lately. Running out of booze might do her some good.
After weeks of not noticing him, I realize Dad’s looking so weary that my heart breaks. The circles under his eyes are deep and he’s lost a lot of weight. He stands in front of a dark television, and the room is lit with the candles we scrounged from the other houses on the street.
So, it’s the dreaded family meeting. I imagine Audrey there, smelling of pot and Blue Light perfume—too heavy—Mom and Dad pretending not to notice, hair a mess, me hating her because she got out for a few hours and lived without being someone’s daughter and someone’s sister. I’ve never had that, and I guess when I do, it’s not going to be so pretty.
Notes From the End of the World Page 13
