by C. Dulaney
My mind kept going back and circling the same thought, the one which had anchored me to the kitchen table until my legs were numb. Just how many ways were there to die now in this new reality? Of course the obvious was death by zombie. The second obvious, at least to me, was suicide. But I hadn’t thought about the other, more devious and underhanded ways, to die. Perhaps it was my scientific nature. Add to that my thick cynicism and thick head, and I realized I was thinking inside the box.
If Jake hadn’t snapped his grandmother out of her self-pitying trance by beating the crap out of the village idiot, I’m sure she would have died. Just sat there and starved to death. Actually she would have died of dehydration first, but I digress. Can someone actually decide to die, and then just kick over? Literally lose the will to live? This was the thought that kept me awake until past midnight, on the first day of the zombie uprising, when I should have been in bed getting some much needed sleep. This was also the same thought that woke me, screaming and soaked with sweat, all through the night.
I kept seeing my co-workers all around me. Some looked almost normal, only a small bite wound on their neck or hand to give them away. Others… well others looked like they had been mauled by bears. I was trapped, had nowhere to run, but they never advanced. They just stood around me, their teeth gnashing together. And the moaning, that guttural moaning. No human (no living human), could possibly make that sound. I screamed at them, ‘Why are you just standing there?! C’mon!’ But they didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge my screams.
Then suddenly I was home again, in bed sleeping, wondering why the bed was shaking and bouncing. I opened my eyes and saw a zombie sitting on my legs, slowly pulling my small intestine out of the gaping, bloody hole that used to be my abdomen. I didn’t scream, didn’t even want to scream. What I felt was relief. Disturbing and all-consuming relief. I lay there, a deadhead chewing on my guts, blood spattering the sheets and my face, tissue popping between its teeth, and simply waited to die.
Then all of a sudden I was awake again, screaming, my hands thrust out and fighting off an attacker that wasn’t there. Gus was beside me in bed alert and whining. Slowly I became more lucid. “Those were dreams, you’re really awake now, this is real, those were dreams,” I said to myself over and over. I reached out and blindly grabbed for Gus; anything to bring me back into this reality. My bedroom was fairly bright, the moon still high in the sky. As my breathing slowed, my gaze shifted around the room, and that sense of Thinness faded. I remembered reading something once, written by my favorite author, which said “reality was thin.” At times like this, I understood how truly thin it was.
* * *
I spent much of the next morning in a depressed stupor, stumbling about the house with Gus hot on my heels. He would whine every now and then but I didn’t really focus on him. My mind was immersed in those dreams and what I was now sure had been a panic attack the previous evening. I questioned everything now; my every action, my every thought. I was slipping into the same hopeless despair Mrs. McKinley seemed to be suffering from. I had always known I wasn’t the most mentally stable person around, but I never saw myself as weak. Kassidy Stratford didn’t quit, she never gave up. But that’s exactly what was happening. My mind kept telling me, ‘What’s the point? It’s the end of the world, and you’re worried about fortifying the house? It’s meaningless, it’s all meaningless. You are going to die.’
Just as this unrelenting darkness threatened to consume me, Gus erupted in a series of bays and barks. My head felt foggy and I had to blink several times to get my bearings. I was standing in the dining room and the beagle was raising hell above my head. Being driven by strength I thought had abandoned me, never mind the instinctual drive to stay alive, I turned and made for the stairs, scanning the windows with eyes now clear and sharp as I ran. His bays led me to the guest room just across the hall from my own. I patted his head as I knelt next to him.
“Good boy, quiet now,” I whispered as I threw open the window. Gus obeyed, his ears perked and nose crinkling as the smell of death drifted in around us. There were four of them, limping and dragging themselves straight for the house. Having Gus with me was a tremendous help, he could smell and sense them much sooner than I could. But his natural reaction was a sure fire way to draw them in. I reached for the .22 rifle I had positioned in this room and rested the barrel on the windowsill. They looked to be about forty yards away, close enough for the small caliber to do its job.
I aimed for the nearest target and my heart sank when I saw who it was. My eyes shifted from one to next as I realized I knew them all. It was Mr. Crousley’s family, or what was left of them. His wife, daughter, and two sons. I started to shake, tears clouding my vision. I squeezed them shut and buried my face against my arm. Gus whined again and snuck closer to me, then nudged me with his nose. I looked at him, he tilted his head in that special way they do, and I suddenly felt anger instead of fear and sadness.
“Alright Gus, let’s do this and stop screwing around.” I gripped the forearm and pulled the butt stock tightly against my shoulder. They were moving slow and had only closed in to roughly thirty-five yards. I felt myself fall back into the old zone, the years of training and shooting taking over. My breathing slowed and hands steadied as I exhaled and squeezed the trigger. In one fluid motion I worked the lever, ejecting the spent cartridge and loading the next, then lined my sights on the next target.
Over and over I did this until nothing was left standing. I didn’t rush, I didn’t hesitate. My head was finally clear and I was feeling like myself again. I sat at that window for a long time, watching the perimeter and listening for any more intruders. When I was sure there were none, I stood, reloaded the gun, and propped it against the wall. I was hungry and in desperate need of coffee.
* * *
After the moment of clarity I had while putting my neighbors out of their misery, the past evening’s events started replaying in my mind. It dawned on me that I had Ben’s story all wrong. Yes, Mr. McKinley had killed himself. Yes, he had swallowed a bottle of Percocet. But Mrs. McKinley hadn’t condemned herself to self-destructive wallowing and eventual death. The more I thought about it, the more details I remembered. I only chose to ignore them the night before because of the panic that had loomed all around me. She had chosen to live. She was supposed to commit suicide with him. Eat the rest of the pills, close her eyes, and die with her husband. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. He was afraid and couldn’t face what was happening. She loved him so much she couldn’t torture him by demanding he stay. So she agreed.
And as he lie there, finally falling asleep and his breathing becoming fainter, she set the pill bottle down and instead held his hand. She had found it within herself to carry on, had found something worth living for. I walked around the house, sipping coffee, as I thought about these things and the lessons I could learn from them. I decided I did want to live, hell I wanted to fight. But first I would have to get back on track and make my home as strong as I could. If I had more nightmares, I would dismiss them as such. Keep my mind on the here and now, that’s what I would do.
My goal for the remainder of the day was to reinforce the lower level windows with plywood on the outside. I would bring some of the canned goods and other dried foods I had tucked away in the basement upstairs and stack them with what I had brought in from the garage if I had time, and get this place prepared for company. Things were happening too fast, and this was no time to screw around. People who did, didn’t live long nowadays. This was the new reality and those who accepted it would survive. There was a lot of work to be done and I finally felt… no, I knew, I could do it.
* * *
It ended up taking the entire day to finish the windows. As it turned out, I severely underestimated the job. That little pep talk I had given myself didn’t help for shit either when I found myself trying to hang a sheet of plywood, while standing on a ladder, and simultaneously attempting to screw the plywood into place. Yeah, it can’t
be done. I knew it wasn’t a one-person job but didn’t actually start having doubts until I had already dragged the ladder outside and was standing there staring at the plywood on the ground, with a battery-powered drill and a box of screws shoved into each armpit. But after dragging all that crap outside, I was going to hang that plywood if it killed me. Lucky for me, good sense put a stop to the foolishness before that happened.
So I ended up reinforcing just the windows on the porch, since those were really the only ones a zombie could reach anyway. That leads me to the other realization I had while standing outside and scratching my chin: none of the first floor windows were accessible from the ground.
Granted, if a burglar wanted to get in, he probably could. But burglars can climb, zombies cannot. The house sits on a basement, which I’ve already mentioned. But the terrain in this area is very rocky, making a subterranean basement extremely difficult to dig and build. Yes, most, if not half, of the basement was underground. But there was just enough above ground that it raised the bottom of the windows slightly out of reach. It’s amazing the details we ignore or take for granted, isn’t it?
I also decided to reinforce the front door while I was at it. I thought I had some solid steel bars in the barn, something I had salvaged from a construction job a few years back when the company decided to remodel my former place of employment. So after double checking the windows yet again and being satisfied the plywood sheets were snug and secured, Gus and I walked to the barn. I should have been relieved, not seeing any trace of zombie activity, but instead I was growing tenser by the minute.
The logical part of my mind understood that my location, while inconvenient in the pre-zombie days, was a prime spot for hunkering down and avoiding the hordes of undead. I was safely nestled in the Appalachian mountains of southern West Virginia, with her steep rocky inclines and sparse population. Unless a mass of deadheads lucked into finding their way out of the nearest town (ten miles away and with a pre-zombie population of around fifty), and onto my road (which only had two residents, me and the late Mr. Crousley), then up and along the cliff-strewn mountain I call home, I wouldn’t have to worry about hordes anytime soon. But expect the unexpected right?
Hence the irrational part of my mind was screaming at me to fortify, fortify, fortify. Couldn’t afford to get lazy or let my attention and alertness go soft. There was always the possibility Ben and his group would get stranded somewhere and I would have to rescue them.
Once we got inside the barn I did a quick check around the lower level. The hayloft above was only accessible by ladder and it was propped against the wall, so I knew the upstairs was secure. I rummaged around for some time before finally finding the steel bars. There were six altogether and just about the right length for what I had in mind. Good thing too because I’m not a welder and had no way of cutting them. So after making two trips, and I suppose half a trip running back out for the ladder I had forgotten beside the house, Gus and I went inside for the night. It was just coming dusk, and fixing the bars to the door would keep me busy until bedtime.
* * *
Ben called to check in just as I was fastening the third bar to the wall. Nothing new to report he had said. They had spent the day much as I had: boarding the windows, gathering all the food in the house and taking inventory, that sort of thing. They weren’t planning on a long term stay at that farm, but they needed to be as secure as possible for the immediate future. Nancy was doing better, which I was very pleased to hear, and they had also buried Bill. Mike had spent the day in bed recuperating. We talked a bit more, ironed out some wrinkles in The Plan, then said our goodbyes. I decided to grab a bite to eat before finishing “the gate,” which turned out quite nicely if I do say so myself.
Each individual bar was fastened on the left-hand side of the door in the wall studs by a heavy-duty hinge, same as the ones I had used long ago to hang the gate at the pasture field entrance. Lucky for me I had some extra in the barn leftover from that task. I also found the leftover latches and these were fastened to the wall on the right-hand side of the door. Once it was completed each steel rod could be unfastened and swung back, allowing the front door to be opened. Then, once the door was closed, it was as simple as swinging the rods shut and latching them in place. I stood back and studied the work I had completed, checking for anything I might have overlooked.
I tested the bars over and over to make sure they swung smoothly and noise-free. I jerked as hard as I could once they were latched and they didn’t give or budge. Seemed secure.
“Yes,” I said to Gus, “this will do nicely. If only we had more bars to secure the back door. But at least one entrance has a backup now in case a zombie horde happens to find us and breaks the door to pieces.”
I looked down at Gus, who was staring up at me from my feet. When I realized he wasn’t going to answer I started upstairs for a shower and then to bed. Turns out I was fortunate that night; sleep came to me dreamless and silent.
Chapter Six
October 3rd: Ben’s side
The next morning Ben woke to the sounds and smells of breakfast. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and noticed the sheets were a mess. One corner of the fitted sheet was completely pulled off the mattress and he was nearly tangled in it. It took several minutes for him to remember where he was, and that this was no ordinary morning. Reality hit him like a ton of bricks. He groaned and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His stomach was growling and he had to piss like a racehorse.
He could hear the women downstairs talking and occasionally laughing, but he didn’t hear the guys. He jumped up, dragged his jeans on, and snuck out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face after relieving himself, then stared at his reflection. His brown hair was a mess and there were dark circles under his eyes. He rubbed his hands over his cheeks and decided he’d better shave sometime today. His stomach growled again sharply, so he sighed and went downstairs.
“You’ve really never made scrambled eggs before?” Nancy was asking Kyra just as Ben turned the corner into the kitchen. She had a bowl in the crook of her arm and was furiously whipping eggs as she stared at Kyra.
“No, I’ve never made scrambled eggs before. I haven’t made much of anything really, I’m not a cook. I’m just too busy with school and stuff. I make a mean margarita, though, if you’re ever interested,” Kyra said, grinning at the older woman.
“Alright then, I’d say it’s about time you learn.” Nancy shoved the bowl into Kyra’s hands and pointed the whisk at her. “Well, go on. They’re just eggs, dear. Beat the hell out of them.”
Kyra took the whisk and smirked, but did as she was told. Ben smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee while listening to the friendly banter. Nancy busied herself with frying bacon and buttering toast while directing Kyra on the finer points of egg scrambling. Ben leaned against the sink and watched the two women, reminded of his own grandmother and how she used to smack his knuckles with a spatula when they would fry eggs together on Sunday mornings. She had died many years ago.
“Good morning, Ben, how did you sleep?” Nancy asked, snapping Ben from his reminiscing.
“Alright thanks. Where are the guys?”
“Oh, they went outside. Said something about patrolling,” Kyra answered over her shoulder.
“Did Mike go with them?” Ben asked. Nancy simply nodded affirmatively with her mouth set in a deep frown. She was still disappointed at Jake for the beating he had given Mike almost a day and half earlier. Nancy was a retired nurse and had tended to both their injuries after the fight. Ben was still amazed at how quickly she was recovering. She had even made it through the burial without a hitch. He was beginning to see where Jake got his personality from.
“Ok, I better get out there and make sure they’re playing nicely.” He set his coffee cup in the sink and was headed for the door.
“Yes, Ben, thank you. And tell them breakfast is ready. By the time you get back, it’ll be on the table,” N
ancy said. She turned to Kyra as Ben shut the door. “I’ll make a cook out of you yet, girl.” She grinned and patted Kyra on the shoulder as the younger woman dumped the eggs into the skillet.
“Oh, you will try,” Kyra grinned back and bumped Nancy with her hip. The kitchen filled with laughter as the two carried on, shoving their fear to the back burner.
* * *
Ben stood in the front yard trying to see through the thick fog that blanketed the valley. The grass was wet from the early morning dew and the temperature had dropped sharply. He thought about going back inside for a jacket, and then decided against it. He wanted to find the others. He glanced at Bill’s truck as he passed by, chuckling at the way the tarp resembled a giant blue marshmallow. Before calling Kasey the night before, he had helped the others load everything they might need for the road trip into the back of the truck, then helped cover it with a tarp and secure it with bungee cords.
He strained his eyes trying to find the guys through the dense mist. He knew he couldn’t call out to them (any sound might alert any nasties nearby), so he walked on. He didn’t like not being able to see, but he could hear just fine. And what he heard was nothing. He stopped at the bottom of the sloping bank behind the house. He guessed the guys would have gone this way since it led to the closest neighbor. He tilted his head and listened again. No birds, but in the distance there was what he thought sounded like a low humming.
