The Dead Are Sleeping

by Paul Westwood

  “I'll be with you soon enough,” I found myself whispering. For what reason did I have to live? A world all by myself was not something I was looking forward to.

  With tears welling in my eyes, I stood and grabbed the shovel. My body was shaking with sorrow, but I still felt disconnected as if this was all just a dream. I began to shovel the dirt over her, working quickly as if to get the deed over with. And then when I was done I let go of the handle and staggered back inside.

  I went to the kitchen, reached into the cupboards, and pulled out the last bottle of gin. I few swallows later and the pain inside became numb. I carried the precious bottle over to the kitchen table and drank until the darkness engulfed me. I hoped that I would never awake again.

  October 17th - morning

  I woke up with a pounding headache. I pulled my head off of the kitchen table and shielded my eyes from the glaring sunlight that was coming through the windows. I knew I had spent the previous day in a continual haze of drunkenness, and for that I had no regrets. What else was someone supposed to do in a new world, one that no longer had the woman that I loved? It made some sense – at least while the booze was available. I had finished the remains of the gin last night and a few cans of beer weren’t going to last long. It was time to do something about that. Against my better judgment I decided to stand.

  My body had an odd swaying motion, but with enough effort I was able to find my way out of the kitchen and into the dining room. To my right I could see the living room and the bed where Anne had died. I ignored it. Or at least I tried to. Going outside through the sliding glass door, I went over to the rain barrel, removed the cover, and dunked my head into the chilly water. The coldness overcame my grogginess and I was soon awake; sputtering and shivering. The land around me stopped moving by itself. After glancing momentarily at my wife's grave, I went back inside and into the bathroom where I toweled myself off. After relieving my bladder, I went to the bedroom and dressed in jeans, wool socks, clean boxers, a t-shirt, and an old green sweater that should have been thrown away a long time ago. I put on a pair of Doc Martens boots, an old steel-toed standby. I had some work to do.

  I left the house and walked wearily over to the neighbors, who lived to the left of us. It was the Dines household. It was an ugly modern mansion style – all tan aluminum siding and a red Italian-style roof that would have looked better in California instead of the dreary climate of Michigan. The front boasted a massive garage that seemed to take up most of the house. Stepping past the newer Toyota truck that was parked outside, I went to the front door and, out of polite habit, knocked. I wasn't exactly surprised when no one answered. I tried the door handle and found it had been locked. It didn't take long to find a rock from the overgrown landscaped yard and smash out one of the windows that framed the doorway. I stuck my hand inside, jiggered the lock, and was soon walking into the interior.

  My steps seemed to echo and then fade into the space inside. The blinds had been drawn and in the gloom I could make out the familiar shapes of the living room sofa, a wide and tall television set, and a leather recliner. I had been here before – had it only been last month? – to watch football with Bill, who had been the usual insufferable ass. I never actively hated the man but preferred to spend my time with people who weren't such blowhards. His wife, April, and their two boys, were, however, pleasant to a fault. I hadn't seen any of them for the past week; maybe sometime in early October. These days people kept to themselves.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs. There was a familiar odor coming from above. It was the stench of sickness. Nothing could be heard up there. They had to be dead. I stayed where I was. I already knew what to expect if went up there. I had enough of corpses. Frowning, I turned my attention elsewhere. In the kitchen were a few jugs of water, and the cupboards were still sparsely stocked with food. I gathered this minor bounty up into some plastic grocery bags. And then I found what I was really looking for: an extra key for the truck outside. The truck has been Bill's pride and joy, but since he had no use for it now, I thought such a vehicle would be needed for the journey I had in mind.

  I ferried the food and water out to the truck, which had a lockable bed cover. I then went back inside the house and into the garage. There was a smell of dust and mustiness here. The sun shone through the brown curtains, giving the atmosphere inside an unreal, almost alien look. I could see April's Honda here along with Bill's tool collection which was apparently more for show than anything else since they were all carefully put away; looking as new as the day they were bought. He was the sort of fellow who liked to talk more than do, a common complaint I have for most people. I packed a few of the more common tools away into a canvas bag, adding an air pump to inflate tires. I also cut a length of garden hose – to be used for siphoning gasoline from other vehicles. There was also a gas can that was half-full. I carried this out with the bag slung over my shoulder.

  Once I was outside I caught a faint smell of burning wood. I stopped and scanned the horizon. Above the line of nearby trees, I could see several black trails of smoke. They hadn’t been there earlier. They were evenly spaced out and not too far away, maybe a quarter mile or less. That would make the fires at the fringe of the housing development. In my hungover state it took a moment of pondering to realize that the houses a few blocks away were on fire. That meant that either someone had set the fires deliberately, or they were caused by an accident. Either way I had to investigate since my own dwelling would soon be in danger.

  After quickly packing the gasoline and tools into the bed of the truck, I ran back to my house. Once I was inside, I went to the bedroom and dug out the little Colt Detective Special that I normally kept under the pillow. I had no real love for guns, nor ever had cause to fire it in anger, but in these uncertain times it was a sort of talisman against the worst of human nature. Like many other people, I had bought it when the troubles had started. I tucked the little pistol into my waistband.

  I decided to stay off the streets as much as possible. Instead I ran through the neighbor's backyard, pulled myself over a fence, and then moved stealthily along the wall of a home. Once I saw the street was clear, I dashed across the asphalt and once again cut across the leaf littered lawns. Moving this way from street to street, I saw the smoke ahead getting thicker and thicker; the smell even more pungent than before. By the time I reached the street where the houses were burning, I was in a sweat. I felt out of shape. It was obvious that my body wasn't ready for this unintended exercise.

  I tucked myself safely behind a row of scraggly brown bushes that were planted in front of a modest home. From there I crawled slowly forward until I could peer through the branches. I saw a row of houses engulfed in orange flames which were greedily consuming the wood, carpeting, and whatever plastic bits were inside. There was also a half-dozen men standing around to watch the inferno. They were wearing tan biohazard suits with gas masks. From their weapons and boots, they looked to be military. A nearby battle tank, which was idling away with a clanking diesel engine, confirmed that. I was surprised to see other people alive, especially the military which had folded so easily.

  One of the men waved his arm and the tank rolled forward, crushing the black asphalt with an unsettling noise that sounded like bones being broken. The hulking machine stopped at the next untouched house and then, from the cannon, let out a jet of flame, probably napalm. The burning liquid stuck the wood sides of the dwelling, splashing angry flame all over the front yard. In seconds the house was on fire.

  I sat there watching, wondering why the army was even bothering to dispose of these dwellings in such a fashion; I mean it was obvious that the homes were tainted with the virus and would have corpses that would rot away, but it seemed more reasonable to send a cleanup crew than to burn everything to the ground. But still, it wouldn’t be long before these troops made it to my house. I couldn’t fight them – not with just a pistol at my disposal and I wasn’t about to go out and talk this matter over with them si
nce, at this point of the game, it was safer to assume they would rather shoot me dead then have to deal with any long dead legal quibbles.

  I began to extricate myself from the bushes when something caught my eye. From out of the front door of the freshly burning house came a shambling figure. It – I couldn’t tell if it was a he or a she – was on fire. The poor thing wasn’t even screaming but was instead moving with outstretched arms toward the soldiers, slowly but surely like a marionette with half of the strings broken. This sight seemed to send the soldiers into a panic. Their rifles were quickly unslung and they began firing with full automatic bursts, into the oncoming flaming horror. The hail of lead seemed to do nothing except tear gaping holes into the blackened flesh. And then, as the creature neared the closest soldier, a bullet pierced the skull. It took one more step and then fell face forward onto the driveway.

  I felt sick. I shook my head at the insanity of it all but decided not to stick around to watch any further. Instead I gently slid out of the bushes and made my way back home, being even more cautious than before. After seeing how quickly those soldiers began firing on such a poor creature I certainly had no urge to talk to them now.

  October 17th – afternoon

  In a panic I began to pack the truck with everything that I could squeeze inside – a sleeping bag, cans of food, the remaining beer, a few gallons of water, and some changes of clothing – along with my tools, a tent, a few books, oil, and other odds and ends. Outside, as I moved the goods, I could see the line of smoke getting denser and nearer. This only made me move faster. As soon as I was finished, I took one long glance at my house, let out a sigh, and climbed inside the truck. I was relieved when the key turned and the engine started. I backed out into the road.

  I felt as if I was letting my wife down; leaving her alone in that makeshift grave. But there was nothing I could so against the soldiers that were coming this way. Anyway, I feared I would wind up a drunk if I just stayed here. There was a need to move on, to escape the coming winter of Michigan, and find a new place to call home. I had nowhere particular in mind but knew that I was heading south – toward warm weather and sandy beaches. My mind was set on the coast of South Carolina for no reason other than I had been there as a child for spring vacation. It was better idea than doing nothing at all. There I could decide if I wanted to live or end my own existence. At least it was something to do.

  I dropped the gear selector into drive and was about to press the gas pedal down when I saw a vehicle moving up ahead. It was a Hummer that was a few hundred feet away, barreling down the street toward me. I’ve already seen what they had done to that burning civilian so I had no intention of sticking around and being target practice. Instead I jammed the transmission back into reverse and hit the gas hard, spinning the truck around with a screech of tires until I was facing the other direction. With the gear back in drive I punched it, letting the torque of the big V8 engine do its thing.

  In the rearview mirror I could see the tan grill of the Humvee getting closer and closer until my speed was enough that the Toyota began to pull away. Lost in the shadow of the windshield was a person whose expression was hidden by a biohazard suit. The military vehicle wasn’t built for straight-out speed and my truck gained a few lengths by the time I had to turn. The rubber of the tires squealed as jammed on the brakes and I cranked the wheel to the right. I was heading toward the burning houses now, away from direction I wanted to go. I had to get where the highway interchange was located but this maze of suburbia only had a few outlets. Luckily I knew the area better than these soldiers.

  The truck zoomed past parked cars, swirling trash, and overgrown lawns. A few turns later and I was in the midst of a wave of heat and smoke. I choked and sputtered as I tried to breathe. With watering eyes I fought to keep the wheel straight. And then I saw a figure in the middle of the road. It was a soldier. The assault rifle in his hands was pointed toward me. He opened up. The windshield became holed with spider web fractures. I buried the pedal to the floor and ducked down as far as I could while still peering over the dash. The truck bumper brushed against the man, sending him flying off to the side. I didn’t have to time to check to see if he was still alive.

  I peered through the cracked windshield and this time I wanted to scream since right in front of me was the tank. The metal hulk had the barrel of the main gun pointed at me. It belched out a stream of napalm. Without even thinking I jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The jetting flames went to my left. The truck was now bumping roughly through a yard, then over a driveway, and past a parked car. I fought the rising panic constricting my heart. I managed to steer a course toward the road again. Looking in the rearview mirror, the tank was soon lost in the dense smoke of the burning homes.

  My heard thudded in my chest. I wanted to laugh as I felt the adrenaline course through my body. I felt invincible. I felt as if nothing could stop me. I kept my eyes open for more danger but I didn’t see anything. A few miles later I was driving down one of the main roads heading toward the highway. But I didn’t take the onramp. Instead I pulled into a gas station and parked the truck behind the low building. Once the engine was shut off, I opened the door and rolled out of the seat. I sat on the ground. I felt waves of nausea roll through my stomach and a sweat broke out on my brow even with the chill of the air. It had been a near thing. I was lucky to be alive. It was a few moments later before I could take in my surroundings.

  The back door of the gas station was open. The black asphalt was littered with paper, smashed glass, and food wrappers. There was an older model Chevy sedan here with soft-looking tires. Beyond was a ribbon of highway, weeds, and leafless trees. The sky above was turning gray and looked to be threatening rain. Pulling myself up off the ground, I dizzily staggered into the building to see if there was anything worth taking.

  When the plague first broke out there wasn’t any place to hide. It would hit cities both big and small, and even the little pockets of the countryside. This randomness, however, did not deter the panicked population from picking up and moving to new locations that were deemed safe. This only caused more chaos as the both the sick and the healthy took to the roads. Soon chaos broke out – fighting and looting – as the travelers ran out of food and fuel. I had watched all of this unravel on the new channels. We – my wife and I – were spared from this violence by hunkering down in our home and taping up the windows with plastic film with some silly idea of blocking the airborne disease. In the end it was all for nothing, except I was still alive. Now such a pardon seemed more like a curse.

  The gas station had been ransacked many times before. The floor was littered with trash – empty bottles and candy wrappers – and even crushed packs of cigarettes that had been taken from behind the counter. I kicked my foot through the trash, hoping that something of interest had been missed, but the looters had been thorough. Even though I had enough supplies in the truck I wondered how long they would last – a few weeks at most. Perhaps it would have been better to die from the sickness instead of having to starve to death.

  In the remaining days of television, the pundits – the few that still remained – talked endlessly of why a select few seemed to be immune. Experts were brought in and the theory was that some minor mutation – a genetic defect – made some people resistant to the virus. Research was done to try and isolate this DNA difference and find a cure but I never heard if anything was ever found. The plague just burned through the population too quickly, killing indiscriminately. It didn’t matter if one was rich or poor, from a large country or a small one, or where you lived – people just died.

  I went back outside. My head felt clearer and my hands were no longer shaking. I took a quick walk around the truck, looking for damage from the barrage of bullets, the man I had most likely killed, and the near miss from the tank. The windshield was peppered with holes but luckily the safety glass had stopped the whole thing from shattering. One of the headlights was neatly drilled with a bullet and the plas
tic bumper had been holed but there weren’t any precious liquids dripping from under the engine. There was a splash of blood on the bumper that I ignored. I liked to believe that the soldier I had hit was still alive.

  A drop of water splashed against my cheek. I got inside the truck just as the rain began to sluice down. Starting the engine up, I turned onto the road and then took the highway heading south.

  October 18th – morning

  Except for some abandoned cars on the shoulder, the highway heading south was empty. I drove until I could go further. When I could no longer keeps my eyes opened I pulled off at a small town somewhere past the Ohio border. It was just after midnight. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was. I drove aimlessly through the littered streets but did not see anyone or any signs of life. The virus not only killed people, but any mammal it came in contact with. It was a strange world without dogs and cats, not to mention the cows and pigs that kept us fed. After going down a small dirt road, I backed the truck into a group of pine trees, using the single remaining headlight to guide me. After shutting of the engine I sat and listened to the rain pelting the top of the roof where it made a metallic thrumming noise. Water dripped through the holes of the windshield, making it feel as if I was sitting inside of a damp cave.

  I was so tired that it would seem that sleep should instantly carry me away. Instead I thought of what had happened today, remembering the fear with stabs of anxiety that once again got my stomach churning. It was some time later – hours? minutes? – that I passed out from pure exhaustion. I don’t remember a gentle easing into a slumber, but more of a sudden darkness. I dreamt of nothing and felt nothing.