by Max Danzig
“You don’t understand how this feels to me,” Steve said under his breath, interrupting her. “This is killing me.”
“What is?” Peter pressed.
“Every morning I wake up, I wish it was over and that I was dead. Every single day the pain is worse than the last. I still can't accept that everyone I know and love is gone. I...”
“It hurts now but it will get easier,” Peter said, regretting his earlier words. “It has to get easier over time, it must...”
“Does it? Do you know that for a fact?”
“No, but I...”
“Then just shut up,” Steve said his voice calm. “If you don't know what you're talking about, don't say anything. Don’t waste your time trying to make me feel better because you can't. There's nothing you can say or do that will make any of this any easier.”
With that, he got up and walked away from the table without saying another word. For a few seconds, the only sounds were of heavy footsteps as Steve went upstairs and shut himself away in the isolation of his attic room.
A short while later Peter opened another bottle of wine. He didn't ask, he just poured Rachel another glass. She didn't resist.
“I really fucked up there, didn't I?” he said.
She nodded. “We both did. It's obvious he's struggling. I should never have asked him about his family and friends.”
Peter became defensive again.
“Maybe, but I still think he's got to talk it out,” he explained. “We can't move on until we've dealt with everything that's happened. We can't build anything until we've sorted everything out.”
“Have you dealt with everything?” she asked, cutting him off.
He paused for a moment and then shook his head.
“No,” he admitted. “Have you?”
“I haven't even started. To be honest, I don't even know where to start.”
“I think we should all start with what hurts the most. With Steve, it's his family. What about you?”
She drank more wine and considered his question.
“I don't know. Everything hurts.”
“Okay, so when does it get to you the most?”
Again she couldn't answer.
“I was thinking about my sister and her kids yesterday and that really bothered me. I didn't see them that often, but the thought I might never see them again...”
“Where did they live?”
“Overseas. Danielle’s husband’s job moved them to Kuwait for two years. They were due to come back next summer.”
“They still might.”
“How do you figure?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “We still don't know for certain that any other countries or even if the rest of United States was affected by this, do we?”
“Not for sure, but...”
“But what?”
“But I think we would've heard something by now, don't you?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh come on Peter. If there was anyone left, we would have heard something. You said as much back in Derry last week.”
At the mention of the name of the town they'd fled from, Peter thought about the survivors left behind in the shabby surroundings of the Grinnell Community Center. He pictured the faces of Eddie, Jason, Ann and the others. He wondered what had become of them. Before he had time to think too much, Rachel asked another question.
“So what about your family?”
“What about them?”
“Who do you miss the most? Did you have a partner?”
Peter took a deep breath, stretched and yawned and then ran his fingers through his hair.
“I was seeing a girl named Ashley for about six months,” he began, “but I haven't thought about her at all.”
“Why not?”
“We split three weeks ago.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not anymore. I don't miss my best friend who she was screwing either. There are plenty of other people I miss more.”
“Such as?”
“Such as my aunt. My own family was not close at all. We were pretty dysfunctional. But my aunt always made me feel loved, wanted and comfortable. Last night when I was trying to get to sleep I was thinking about her. You know that feeling you get when you're just about to go to sleep and you think you hear a voice or see a face or something?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I thought my aunt spoke to me last night. I can't tell you what it was I thought she said. It was like she was standing next to me.”
“That was me,” Rachel smiled, trying to make light of a conversation that was becoming glum. Peter managed a half smile before returning his attention to his drink. Rachel studied him intently. Peter had been aloof and private from day one, but she was seeing signs that there might be more to him than she first thought. He was blunt, opinionated and occasionally aggressive. But she saw that despite his self-centered emotions he was genuinely concerned about Steve's and her welfare.
Peter and Rachel continued talking until the wine was gone. The longer they talked the more trivial their discussions became.
Rachel and Peter learned about each other's strengths and weaknesses, hobbies and interests, fears and ambitions. They talked about their favorite books and movies, the music they enjoyed, TV shows they watched, musicians and actors they admired, and of course the foods they loved.
When the wine was done, and the conversation over, they made their way up to the bedroom they innocently shared, just before two in the morning.
Chapter 41
Steve spent the following days shut away in the isolation of his attic bedroom. There didn’t seem to be much point in coming out. What was there to do? Sure he could talk to Peter and Rachel, but why bother? Every conversation, no matter how it began, ended with the three of them drowning in negativity. They either ended up talking about what little they had left or how much they had lost. He decided it was easier if he didn't join in the conversation because it was too painful to talk about.
His bedroom was wide and spacious, spanning the entire length of the house. Being high up, it was warm and comfortable but most importantly to Steve, it distanced him from the others. There was no need for anyone to come upstairs for any reason other than to see him, and no one had. That was the way he preferred it.
Although old-fashioned, the bedroom seemed to have been used recently. Steve thought it was used as a guest bedroom for a visiting grandchild sent to the countryside to spend his or her summer holiday on the farm. The furniture was sparse - a single bed, a chest of drawers, two brightly painted stools, a bookcase and a battered but comfortable sofa. On top of the dresser, he found a box containing toys, old books and a pair of binoculars which, once the lenses were cleaned, he could use to watch the world outside rot away.
It was almost three-thirty in the afternoon and he could hear Rachel and Peter working outside in the yard. He felt no guilt at not being out there with them because he saw no point in anything they were doing. It wasn't worth the risk or effort.
Steve wasn't even sure what day it was. He sat on a stool near the window and tried to remember whether it was Friday, Saturday or Sunday. Back when life was "normal" and he'd been at work, each day had its own "feel". The week began with the drudgery of Monday morning and slowly improved as Friday afternoon and the weekend approached. None of that mattered anymore. Each new day was the same as the last. Yesterday was as frustrating, dull, grey and pointless as tomorrow would be.
Steve sat perched on the stool with the binoculars held up to his eyes scanning the rolling fields. The world was so still and free of distractions that he could make out minute details of the tree line in the distance at the far end of the field. As the sun sank below the horizon, he watched the color drain from the landscape and the trees become a dark silhouette against the purples and blues of the early evening sky.
Steve looked out over the peaceful landscape all the while knowing that behind that facade the world was filled with death and
destruction. The stillness of the scene was disrupted when a scrawny dog ran into view from the edge of the forest. The dog slowed down and crept along the field, keeping its nose, tail, and belly low and sniffing as it moved, hunting for food.
As Steve watched, the dog stopped moving. It lifted its muzzle and sniffed the rancid air. It moved its head following some out of view movement then cowered away from something in the shadows. The dog jumped up and started barking furiously and took on a defensive position, clearly in danger. Within seconds of the first sound, the dog attracted the attention of what looked like a dozen corpses. With a vicious intent, they surrounded the helpless creature and attacked it. The corpses tore the animal to pieces as it screamed in agony.
Even after all the destruction and the carnage he'd seen, this sudden and unexpected attack shocked Steve. The ghouls were becoming more deadly with each passing day. They now seemed to be grouping together and moving in packs, an animal instinct driving them on.
Thinking about this made him wonder why Peter and Rachel were even bothering to make such an effort to survive. The odds were stacked against them. What was the point in trying to carve out a future existence when it was so pointless? Everything was ruined. It was over. Why couldn't they just accept it and see the truth like he could? Why put up such a fight and struggle over nothing?
Steve longed to let his guard down for a while and not have to look over his shoulder. But he knew there would be no salvation or escape from this vicious, tortured world. All he wanted to do was stop and let it all end. In the ensuing dark hours he concluded that he'd never find peace until his life was over, but even death was no longer final.
Out in the enclosed area in front of the house, Peter was working on the SUV. He checked the tires, the oil, and the radiator fluid level and just about everything else he could think of checking. The importance of the SUV could not be overstated. Without it, they'd be stranded and trapped at the farm, unable to retrieve supplies. Supplies they needed to get soon. Without it they'd be unable to escape if anything happened to compromise the safety of their home. Their home. In a world full of darkness, they had at last found a little stability within the safe and sturdy walls of the farmhouse.
“Next time we're out, we should get another one of these,” Peter said as he ran his hands along the scratched and dented side of the SUV. He made it sound as if they could just run down to the store when they felt like it. His casual tone belied the reality of their situation.
“Makes sense,” Rachel agreed. She’d been sitting on the wooden steps of the porch watching as Peter worked.
“Perhaps we should try to get something a little less refined,” he continued. “This thing has been fine, but if you think about it, we need something that will get us out of any situation. If we're somewhere and the roads are blocked, chances are we'll need to find another way to escape. We could end up driving through fields or...”
“I don't see us leaving here too much. Only to get food or...”
“But you never know. Anything can happen. The only thing we can be certain about anymore is that we can't be sure of anything.”
Rachel stood up and stretched.
“You’re crazy,” she smiled.
“I know what you're saying,” he continued as he gathered together his tools and packed them away. “If we stay here, we can do pretty much anything. We can build a brick wall around the house if we wanted and keep those bastards out.”
Rachel didn't respond. She stood at the top of the steps and looked down across the yard and out towards the darkening countryside.
“Light's fading,” she mumbled. “It’s best if we get inside soon.”
“It doesn't make much difference anymore,” Peter whispered, climbing the steps to stand next to her. “No matter how dark it gets, those things just keep moving. It might even be safer out here at night. At least they can't see us when it’s dark.”
“They can still hear us. Might even be able to smell us.”
“Doesn't matter,” he said again, looking into her face. “They can't get to us.”
Rachel nodded and turned to walk back into the house. Peter followed.
“Steve's in, isn't he?” he asked as he pushed the door shut.
Rachel looked puzzled.
“Of course he's in. He hasn't been out of his room for days. Where else do you think he'll be?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. He might have gone out back. Just thought I’d check.”
She shook her head and leaned against the doorway. The house was dark. The generator hadn't been started yet. “Take it from me,” she said, her voice tired and low, “he's upstairs. I saw him earlier. He was there again at the window with those binoculars pressed against the glass.”
“Do you think he's all right?”
Rachel sighed at Peter’s question. "Hell no, it's pretty obvious he's far from all right," she said. "Besides being depressed, I think he's becoming unstable. I don't know how to help him."
Peter sensed her frustration. “He'll come through this,” he said. “Give him time and he'll get over everything that's happened.”
“Do you really think so?” Rachel asked.
Peter thought for a moment. “Yes... why, don't you?”
She shrugged her shoulders and disappeared into the kitchen. “I don’t know. He talks about death and dying a lot.” Rachel said.
“We've all suffered.”
“I know that. Hell, we've had this conversation again and again. He lost more than we did. You and I lived on our own. He shared every second of every day with his family.”
“I know, but...”
“I'm not sure that you do know. I'm not sure you fully understand how much he's hurting, and I don't think you ever will.”
Peter was getting annoyed. Okay so Steve was hurting, but no amount of hoping, praying and crying would bring back anything. Hard as it sounded, he knew the three of them could only survive by looking forward and forgetting about everything and everyone that was gone.
He watched as Rachel took off her coat, hung it up in the hallway and then lit a candle and walked upstairs. Left alone in the darkness, Peter listened to the sounds of the creaking old house. A strong wind began to blow outside, and he could hear the first few drops of rain hitting the kitchen window. In cold isolation he thought about Steve, and as he did, his frustrations and concerns increased.
It wasn't just about Steve. The well-being of each of them was of paramount importance to all of them. Life was becoming increasingly dangerous by the day and they couldn't afford to take any chances. They all needed to be pulling in the same direction in order to continue to survive. For the first time since this all began, he felt they were fraying at the edges. It was beginning to feel like he was with Rachel, and Steve was just there, distant and unnecessary.
Peter knew they needed to pull Steve into line. He was their weak link, and every time they left the safety of the house they were dangerously exposed.
Chapter 42
The rain turned into a howling storm. Throughout the night gusting winds battered the farmhouse, and threatened to topple the surrounding trees, and rattled the constructed barrier around the property. Torrents of driving rain turned the once trickling stream beside the road, into a wild torrent of white water.
For the first time in several days, Peter started up the generator. He hoped the sound of the raging storm would drown out the mechanical droning of the generator. He was sick of sitting in darkness and decided it was worth taking the risk for a little comfort.
As the storm raged outside Peter, Rachel and Steve sat in the living room watching a DVD in front of an open fire. Peter grew tired of the movie, a lame action adventure film he'd seen several times. Although bored he was pleased to be sitting there in the company of friends warm, dry and well fed. Even Steve had come down from the attic. Their evening together provided a brief but much-needed break from the pressure and boredom they had experienced.
Rache
l found it hard to watch the film. Not just because it was one of the worst films she'd ever had the misfortune to see, but also because it aroused unexpected emotions within her. Even though it was doing a good job of distracting her from everything happening, the film also reminded her of the life she used to have. It wasn’t that she could identify with the characters, the locations, the plot or the music, because it all seemed foreign, but at the same time it felt familiar and safe.
In a car chase scene through busy New York streets, Rachel watched the people in the background going about their everyday business. Instead of the action taking place in the foreground, she watched the everyday people with envy. How novel and unexpected it was to see a bustling city and people moving around with reason and purpose, and how they interacted with each other.
She couldn't help but look at the faces of the actors and think about what might have happened to them in the years since the film had been made. She saw hundreds of different people each one with their own identities, families, and lives and she knew they were all dead now.
As the movie neared the climax, there was the expected big battle finale between the hero and the villain. The filmmakers were less than original as the main character drove into a vast warehouse and found himself alone against all the bad guys. The lighting was sparse and moody and the dramatic soundtrack was building to a crescendo. Then the music cut off and, as the hero of the film waited for his opponent to appear, the house became silent.
Rachel jumped out of her seat.
“What's the matter?” Peter asked, concerned.
For a few long seconds, she didn't answer. She stood still in the middle of the room, her face set in concentration.
“Rachel...” Peter pressed.
“Shhh...” she hissed.
Disinterested, Steve cocked his head to the right so he could see past Rachel who was standing in the way of the television. She looked frightened, which worried Peter.
“What is it?” he asked again.
“I heard something...” she replied, her voice low.
“It was probably just the movie or the storm,” he said, trying to placate her, but his own mouth was dry. He felt nervous. Rachel wasn't the type to make a fuss for no reason.
