Notes From the End of the World

by Donna Burgess

  ***

  ***

  Cindy

  I wonder how many how things Dad can hold inside before he bursts. Just like his reaction when Nick and I tell him about Mom.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” is all I answer. I don’t mention the note. I just can’t. Maybe Mom wasn’t deliberately being hurtful, but still it is. Even if much of what she wrote is true.

  “Did you look for her?” Dad asks.

  “We looked,” Nick tells him. “Every house on the street, Mr. Scott.”

  “We couldn’t decide how long she’d been gone,” I say.

  Dad nods. He sinks down onto the kitchen stool, slumps over the counter, and buries his face into his shaking hands.

  He sobs, a loud, harsh noise.

  It takes me a moment before I realize he’s actually crying. My dad. Crying. I’m so shocked, I don’t know how to react. I touch his shoulder, timid, as if he’s suddenly so fragile that a simple caress might break him.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t notice she was gone!”

  Now, I’m crying, too. Again.

  He gropes blindly at me, and roughly snatches me into his arms. I bury my face against his stubbly jaw, smelling the faint scent of his aftershave or soap—the same comforting scent I remember from days when I had scraped knees and bumps on my noggin. It has always been Dad for those things, never Mom. Mom was for buying the right shoes for the Sadie Hawkins dance and teaching me which fork to use (even when we’re having pizza).

  “It’s okay,” he whispers against my hair. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “It’s not!” I cry. “Things are going to shit and we can’t stop it.” My eyes find Nick standing awkwardly across the kitchen, chewing his bottom lip.

  The panic I felt when I collapsed on the road earlier returns, threefold. Things were never supposed to be like this. When the news reports first started, I never thought our little family would be touched by this thing. Things like this happened to other families, in other cities. Big cities. Not silly little communities of only a few thousand people.

  Once upon a time, I believed we were immune to tragedy.

  Chapter 23

  March 13

  Cindy

  The focus has become getting away from Palm Dale. Dad grieves over Mom just like he grieved over Audrey. Silently. Shielded himself from Nick and me. I’ve gotten very good at things I never thought I’d be good at. Breaking into locked houses. Syphoning gasoline from the abandoned cars left in the driveways and garages all along the avenue.

  We’ll need at least five good canisters of gasoline, Dad says, for travel, and then for the generator once we get into the mountains. We have eight. And food and water? We have dried pasta, bouillon, canned tuna, powdered milk. You name it. We’re not exactly eating like royalty, but we’re not starving. Plus, Dad says we’ll be able to hunt once we get to Dr. Jacob’s cabin.

  Dad looks for Mom every morning and every evening. He says he taking a walk, but I know he’s searching for her body. More for closure than anything else.

  We all could use some sense of closure. Nick feels his own mother is dead, too. I’m not sure what’s worse—knowing your parent took her own life out of weakness, or knowing some slimeball posing as a savior decided your parent was just another causality of war.

  Dad’s printed out a calendar and taped to the microwave door. We’re out of here in a week. On it he’s created a sort of “to-do” list—the important things we need to be sure to tackle in the remaining seven days here in Palm Dale.

  I feel a little sad to leave, but there’s too much hurt around here. It awaits me in every corner and at every turn. It sucks because so many wonderful things happened on the same floors where my feet are now planted, but those things are shut off from me now.

  It’s like watching a movie that you never want to end.

  ***

  March 14

  Dad makes his famous (or is it infamous, by now) tuna casserole for dinner. With it, he opens the last bottle of Mom’s burgundy.

  “Red doesn’t go well with fish,” he says, swirling the dark liquid around in our best crystal, raising his eyebrows in a faux-snooty manner that’s not like him at all. “But what the hell?”

  He then pours up two more glasses for me and Nick. “We’re not driving tonight, are we?”

  “No, sir. Not tonight,” Nick says, taking his glass from the counter. Candles flicker around the room. The electricity is faulty this evening—something that’s happening more and more frequently. It’ll be on for an hour and off for three. Of course, we have the generator, but the weather’s not especially cold tonight, so the gasoline will be saved for later. Besides, it’s already packed into the back of the SUV, along with the fuel canisters, boxes of food and blankets, and other necessities. That’s actually day-four on Dad’s list, buy the way, but it’s done. In fact, everything is done.

  Almost.

  Dad’s iPod is docked in a cheap-assed “boombox,” as he calls it. It looks like something straight out of the 1980s, with a handle and big, thumping speakers. I don’t ask where he found this monstrosity, but it works well enough—despite Dad’s taste in music.

  He’s on a Fleetwood Mac kick tonight. My only knowledge of Fleetwood Mac is Stevie Nicks’ white witch on a couple of episodes of American Horror Story.

  But Nick digs it big time. “My dad loved this,” he says, his face brightening in the dim light. He takes me hand and spins me around the kitchen, oddly jubilant to the haunted strains of “Rhiannon.”

  “You don’t have to try so hard to get on his good side,” I tease, cutting my eyes to Dad. “You’re already in.”

  Nick laughs. “I’m not trying to get on anyone’s good side.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously,” he says, spinning me once again.

  I stumble against a kitchen stool, and Dad grabs my shoulder to steady me. “Careful.”

  We sit down to dinner at the counter. It seems too strange to use the table now that there are two empty spaces there.

  “This isn’t going to be as good as usual. The chips were stale so I substituted saltines,” Dad says, helping a big serving onto a plate. He passes it to me.

  My appetite has been nonexistent lately, but roars back once the smell of the casserole hits me. My stomach rumbles and I take a greedy bite without waiting on Nick or Dad. Frankly, tonight, Emily Post can kiss my ass.

  Once we’re all served, Dad then refills our wine glasses. I’m still surprised by this, but just enjoy it and say nothing. I love the way it makes me feel—so unlike the Jaeger and the rum, which went straight to my head too quickly. The wine is a slow and easy warmth that spreads through my chest and then my brain. It’s rather lovely, I decide, and wish we had another bottle to share.

  “I don’t think we’ll have a lot of trouble getting out of town,” Dad comments between bites.

  “I haven’t heard the choppers in a few days,” Nick says. “Maybe they’ve written Palm Dale off.”

  “Either that or nearly everyone is dead,” I suggest.

  “Maybe,” Dad says. “I’m not sure which is more troubling.”

  “To hell with the military,” Nick snarls. “I hope they’re all dead.”

  Dad pushes his noodles back and forth across his plate, thoughtful.

  “Well, considering how things were going, it wouldn’t be an altogether bad thing. I just never imagined it would be acceptable to murder Americans,” I says.

  “It’s not acceptable,” Dad says quietly. “But the nation we knew is gone. For all we know, there’s no longer a government. There’s just some scared, crazy people out there fighting to survive.”

  “We’re fighting to survive, Dad. But we haven’t killed anyone to do it,” I say.

  “But it doesn’t mean we won’t have to,” Nick whispers. He takes a long sip of his wine, his eyes meeting Dad’s over the edge of his glass.

  “You’re exactly right, Nick.
It’s scary, but it’s something we must be prepared to do.”

  My head’s swirling gently, and I’m enjoying the growing buzz I’m getting, so I really wish we’d move on to a more positive subject. “Well, that’s the reason for getting out of town, isn’t it? To be away from the dangers of not only the Shamblers, but also the dangers of the living.

  “Exactly,” Dad agrees. “So after I make one more visit to the hospital in the morning, we’ll go. You two make sure you take everything you want to take with you. And don’t forget to gather your textbooks. We’re not going on vacation.”

  “Do you really have to go back to the hospital?” I ask.

  “Cindy. We’ve talked about this.”

  “But what are you going to do? With the ones who are left, I mean?” I ask, hating the whining tone my voice is now taking.

  “I’m going to allow them to make their own choices. Plus, Jolee and Sylvia are staying. Along with Dr. Marcus and Dr. Edwards.”

  “Why would they choose to do that?” I ask. The interest I once had in sticking my own neck out to help others is long gone. Now, all I’m concerned with is making the three of us stay alive.

  “None of them have family. It’s their choice to remain there.”

  My stomach does a strange, slow roll. Jolee had a young daughter, I remember. A little doll-faced redhead. A mini version of her mom. “Oh,” is all I say.

  We finish our meal without any more discussion, Stevie Nicks’ sweet, raspy voice filling our lifeless, shadowy kitchen.

  ***

  When we move to the living room, Nick stokes the fire to get it going again, and the room quickly becomes toasty. The wine has won out over my wakefulness, and I’m extremely drowsy and goofy-headed.

  The three of us sleep in there together for the warmth, Dad on the sofa, Nick and I nestled into sleeping bags on the floor on either side of the room. Dad’s pretty liberal-minded but there’s an old-fashioned streak in him that’s a mile wide, and Nick doesn’t dare place his bag near mind. After a quick peck on the lips, we bed down.

  Groggy, I stare up at the ceiling, the dancing flames from fireplace painting the world a soft, warm orange, and fight back another bout of tears. This the only home I’ve ever known, but tomorrow, once we pile into the SUV and pull away, I know I’ll never see it again.

  Chapter 24

  March 15

  Cindy

  Beware the Ides of March.

  I think this when I notice the date, but cannot remember where I first heard it. Then it dawns on me. Julius Caesar in sophomore English. It seems like a thousand years since I stepped foot in school.

  Nick and I were still sleeping when Dad left for the hospital for the final time. When we finally woke, we moved around the house, frightened, anxious and also giddy with excitement over new the new possibilities and new challenges that await the three of us.

  Now, Nick lies back on my bed, attempting to log on to the internet with his iPad, as I go through my drawers and shelves one more time. I don’t want to find out later that I’ve left something important behind.

  We’ve packed the X5 to the gills. The only things I’ve chosen not to take are senseless clothing—uncomfortable shoes, dresses. Fancy-assed blouses. Pantyhose. I find a pair of nude-colored hose—the kind that comes in an egg-shaped box—in the bottom of my underwear drawer and toss them in the general direction of the wastebasket.

  “I won’t be sad if I never have to squeeze myself into another pair of hose,” I tell him.

  “So, you’re seeing some upsides to this end-of-the-world thing, then,” Nick answers.

  I smile. “Maybe a little.”

  Outside, the day is bleak. Clouds moved in overnight, and it’s rained steadily most of the day. We haven’t seen anyone in days. No Shamblers. No survivors. Just nothing.

  I step inside my closet and begin going through what’s left of my clothes again. Nearly everything I feel is worth taking is already packed into an overstuffed garbage bag. We’ve opted not to use the luggage—bags are easier to pack into the tight rear area of the BMW.

  “I’m on,” Nick calls, excited.

  “Really?” It’s been two days since we were last able to find a signal. I pop out of the closet and leap onto the bed next to him.

  He signs onto WeChat. None of his contacts have been active in days. Then Vine. There aren’t very many new videos there, either. The few that are shared are stupid clips of jerks teasing Shambles, enticing them into a chase. There’s a clip of a kid who looks to be about ten years old. He’s following an infected girl, about my age. Her top is off, and she’s just lurching around, her small boobs beginning to show signs of rot. The kid pokes at her nipples with a long twig, once and then again. The end of the twig sinks into her softened, decayed flesh, right through the nipple.

  The unseen camera operator howls with laughter and the little video star cackles and sprints, barely eluding the girls claw-like grasp.

  “Turn it off,” I say, disgusted. I lie back on the bed and sigh. That girl could’ve been Audrey. Or me.

  Nick places the iPad aside. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “It’s the world we live in, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” he agrees. Then he places his fingers under my chin and tilts my face up. He kisses me slowly, his lips brushing mine, his mouth opening, his tongue dancing with my tongue.

  I draw back and bite his bottom lip playfully. My fingers walk down his chest to his stomach. Lower, over the front of his jeans. His eyes widen and he laughs as he presses upward against my hand.

  “Nick,” I begin. My face grows furiously hot before I even get all the words out. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”

  Nick’s sweet smile dissolves. “What? That’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you know that? There’s something terrible waiting on us around every stinking corner.”

  “That’s why we’re getting out,” he argues.

  “Still. It may be too late.” I lie back onto the bed again and stare at the ceiling.

  “Don’t be like that, Cindy,” he says, leaning over me. His soft hair tickles the side of my face. He really could use a haircut, but honestly, his long hair is incredibly hot. He looks like a guy straight out of Seventeen Magazine, and I wonder suddenly what chance I might’ve had with him had I not been practically the last girl on earth.

  He bends and kisses me again, but this kiss is something more. It’s urgent and forceful, yet tender. He moves onto of me, and I love the warmth of him, the gentle weight of his body on mine. He presses himself against me, his fingers sliding under my shirt, then my bra, awakening my nipples until they harden into little stones.

  I help him tug his own shirt over his head. He’s gorgeous, but he’s lost weight—we all have. And his skin is paler than he’s ever been. We’re children of the sun, but can’t chance being out in the sun very often. Getting away from Palm Dale will change that, hopefully.

  I fumble with the button of his jeans and slip my hand inside, grasping, stroking, until he whispers for me to stop.

  We undress quickly in the shadowy afternoon light.

  I’m not going to die a virgin, after all. At least I’ll have that going for me.

  ***

  Nick

  I jump awake, my mind racing, and grab for the iPad to check the time. It’s nearly three p.m. We’d fallen asleep holding each other, tucked beneath the soft weight of Cindy’s down comforter, naked and looking extremely guilty if Ben were to show back up. Thankfully, the door is closed and locked—another glaring sign of guilt. I get up and dress, careful not to wake Cindy. The daylight coming through the window is dimmer, now, the shadows in the room long and heavy.

  Cindy hears me moving around and wakes. She smiles as she brushes her tangled hair from her face, so beautiful that it makes my heart ache. There’s nothing in her that reminds me of Audrey, with her light hair and eyes, but I still feel a little strange, being with her. I might’ve loved her long
before I realized Audrey wasn’t anything but a pain in the ass, and circumstances just brought us together.

  Deadly epidemics have a funny way of changing a person’s plans for the future, you know.

  She climbs from the bed, naked, but still oddly modest considering the fact we just made love. She dresses quickly, her back turned to me, but I’m not complaining. The view is almost as nice as it is from the front. She’s athletic, small, but firm. She looks strong, which is a very good thing. Ben and I have complained about her running, but honestly, it’s for her to keep fit—and not just for the nice view. She can outrun a Shambler with no problem.

  Shit, cardio is Zombieland rule number one, you know.

  “You think Dad’s back?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” We head downstairs, groping in the darkness. I hate that we’ve had to board up the windows. Like Cindy, I need to see the sunshine, and want to feel it’s warmth pouring through the windows. In the kitchen, Cindy lights the nub of a candle and calls for her father.

  Nothing. And it’s obvious he hasn’t been back yet.

  “I really thought he’d be back by now,” Cindy says, her voice shaking with worry. Our plans are to get out and on the road to the cabin before sunset.

  I step out into the garage where the X5 sits, packed and waiting, and the cold jars me into full wakefulness. I grab a bottle of water from the box next to the door and take a long drink. It’s relatively cold since the garage is so chilly, but tastes metallic and funky. Bottled water is tough to find lately—the supermarkets are picked cleaned, as are the Walmarts and the gas stations—so we’ve taken to refilling bottles with tap water as often as possible. There’s a chance I’ll have an upset stomach later on, but right now, I’m good taking my chances.

  “Maybe he got tied up,” I suggest, but I’m thinking something worse. Lately, you just want help but think something worse. Our entire lives have become a game of Worst Case Scenario.