by Tara Brown
Everything is about speed.
When all the blood and bleach are out on our driveway, I put the hose back and turn it off. When I get inside, I close the door and lock it. My hand shakes slightly as I press it against the cold metal. Everything feels cold, like the sun won’t ever warm us again.
There is no way I can focus on this. I turn and walk to the large garage door, pushing the lock so it can’t be opened manually and go inside, locking the door behind me.
It feels weird.
Like something from a movie.
We live in a safe neighborhood.
Our suburb is safe.
No one locks doors or hides out.
We have block parties and fireworks. We borrow sugar and cream and help each other.
But now I have a feeling it’s every man for himself, and I have no intention of anyone in my house getting sick, not even that kid I don’t know.
The plywood piles are stacked and covered with a tarp. I drag one piece of plywood to the front windows in the dining room.
“Really, Lou? You’re going to drag that filthy wood into my goddamned house? You’ve scratched the floor for Christ’s sake.” My mother’s mocking tone grates on my nerves. The sweat on my brow and the pain in my fingers makes it much worse. I ignore her and wrestle the massive sheet up to the huge window. Sitting on the floor, it covers most of the window. I lean it against the wall and go for my hammer and nails.
“LOU! STOP THIS!”
I turn, ready to spit the nail in my teeth at her. “THIS IS WHAT HE SAID WOULD SAVE US! THIS IS WHAT HE ASKED FOR! NOW EITHER HELP OR FIND SOMETHING ELSE TO DO!”
Her hand flies out, striking my cheek and making me spit my nail across the room. I’ve taken way harder hits in lacrosse, so I stand my ground, waiting for more. But her hand flies to her own mouth, covering it in an attempt to hide her shame.
My look says it all, I am sure, but I still have to add more. “Is that it? Can I get back to work?”
She turns and runs from the room.
I hate her, but I’m tired and I haven’t even covered one window yet, so I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Today is about following my dad’s crazy instructions.
I start hammering the nails in, pressing the board to the wall with my body. It’s exhausting work but on the second window in the front office, the girls come and help me.
“What happened?” My sister runs her hand along my cheek.
“Mom doesn't like holes in her perfect walls.”
“She hit you?” her little voice squeaks.
“It doesn't matter.” I nod at the board in my arms. “Let’s just get this done.”
“I hate her.”
I shake my head. “Don’t. She’s scared.” I can’t believe I’m defending her, but I don’t see any other option. Joey and the girls have to stay strong.
When we finish I grab my cell phone and try sending another message to my dad. My messages aren’t going through at all. The phone is automatically trying to send them via SMS, but they don’t seem to be delivering. I look at my service bars and realize my service isn’t working. I check my Wi-Fi but it isn’t working either.
Lissie sighs. “The Wi-Fi cut out like ten minutes ago. We were playing Minecraft and it died and Netflix won’t work either.”
“Great.” I look up at the ceiling and sigh. “Is this it? Is this the end?”
No cell service feels like the end. It’s eleven in the morning and I haven’t even spoken to any of my friends.
Chapter Two
Lissie dials the number once more and hangs up when she gets voicemail again. “I’ve phoned all their numbers. Even my grandma.”
Julia wraps an arm around her. The three of them are tiny. They are so small that I can hardly comprehend how they are feeling.
I’m scared. I’m terrified.
It’s five at night and we’ve only just finished the windows and outside gates to the backyard. Furgus, our giant wolfhound, is in the house with his tongue out nervously. He’s the most chill dog anyone in the world could ask for, but today he seems on edge. Nothing has happened, beyond the TV cutting out several times and the Wi-Fi ending completely.
The other neighbors have been hammering all day, just like us. Several of them came over and asked what I was doing when I boarded up the front windows. Through the glass I shouted that it was on the news that we should all make our houses as safe as we can in the case of lawlessness. It seemed liked the right answer.
“Where’s Mom? I’m getting hungry, Lou.” Joey rubs her little belly.
I glance at the window that’s boarded up and sigh. “Mom has been going through the garage to talk to the neighbors. I tried telling her she needs to stay inside but she’s not listening.”
“But we’re hungry.”
“Okay.” I scan the supplies sitting in the middle of the kitchen and step over them to get the frozen pizzas we have. “I’ll make dinner.”
They turn and saunter back to the TV to seek solace. “This is getting boring.” Lissie complains as they sit and turn on a movie.
I could swat at them for complaining, but instead I turn the oven on and read the box.
The TV doesn't play a single show, just the news. Footage of bad things and bad people fills the screen. People talk with images that look like war-torn Third World countries behind them. But it isn’t a Third World country. It’s America. I recognize the White House in the background. It’s surrounded by guards and tanks, and in the distance you can see helicopters landing and taking off.
The three girls don't watch. The TV is no longer a place of solace. Instead, they watch a downloaded movie on Joey’s iPad. But I watch. My eyes are glued to the images that feel like a movie.
The oven beeps, making me jump.
I pull the pizzas from the oven and call to the girls, “Come and eat. Your parents might be stuck in traffic so you should have dinner here.” I plate their food and eat mine from the pizza pan. The hot cheese burns my mouth, but I can’t stop from wolfing it back. All the labor and stress has made me hungry.
I watch the TV from my spot, hovering over the pizza. The girls take theirs and sit on the huge shag rug in front of the TV. Joey turns the volume up and each of us is locked on the screen as a woman with glassy eyes and a lost look shakes her head, holding a microphone. “The last transmission we got out of Europe was a massive distress call from Scotland. A fog had been covering areas as far as we can tell, making it hard to send and receive transmissions. The virus, being labeled a rage flu, has been coursing through cities for as long as a week. Reports were hushed as it was assumed to be viral terrorism at first. Now, as it has spread worldwide, we are assuming it is just not the case. We don't know where the first case of the rabies-like virus was found. Some are saying the Middle East. The CDC is no longer making statements or taking calls. They are standing by the final statement that came from them just ten hours ago. The recommendation is still to stay home, isolate your sick or wounded, and ride it out. Do not leave your homes. The hospitals have closed their doors and the clinics are all shut down. We have reports of mass hysteria in all of the major cities where martial law is now being enforced. If you are in a city, leave. That is the recommendation from the military. People are being permitted to leave during daylight hours only, after they pass through a designated checkpoint. The symptoms of the flu are instant onset. The footage we have seen shows a person contracts the virus within moments of contact with a sick person. The president is scheduled to have a press conference in one hour’s time. Please stay tuned for that. We will have safety tips and advice streaming live over the next hour as we wait for his speech.” She smiles, but I can see she is close to tears. “God bless you all.” The broadcast changes and it’s a streaming list of all the things sitting in my kitchen.
Julia looks at me and then to the items on the floor; each one is on the list of things on the TV screen. “Did you know?”
I shake my head. “No. Dad texted me a list
after we saw the man at the school.”
We stare at the list as it changes to other advice: stay home, fill tubs with water, fill all pots and pans, water is essential, water is life. I remember this from cadets and Girl Scouts.
Water. It is the thing that keeps everyone alive.
The door to the garage opens, startling us all as Mom walks in. She looks funny, distant again. I almost roll my eyes at her dramatics but this time they’re warranted. We are actually in a moment where being dramatic is completely called for.
She climbs the stairs, not saying a word to any of us. I hurry to the garage, closing the door she’s left open like an idiot. The neighborhood is still but the sound of banging is in every corner of the street. People are doing what we have already done. I press the button for the garage door, still noticing the scent of bleach in the air. I close the lock on the garage door so it can’t be opened manually and lock the adjoining door to the house when I go back inside.
I grab two pieces of pizza and walk to the stairs, contemplating not taking them upstairs, but I know she hasn't eaten and she tends to get meaner without food. When I get to her room, she is curled up on her bed, sleeping. I’m pretty sure she took something, since she only came inside five minutes before and is already out like a light. I wish I could just take something and sleep through all of this.
But one of us has to be responsible for the kids.
Clearly, she has no intention of being that person.
I leave the pizza on the bedside table and sit in the corner, watching her sleep like she is dead. She doesn't move or even inhale loudly. The sun is setting outside, but from her window I can see the entire street. There is no one on the roads. Many houses have no lights on at all, like the people inside are hiding in the dark. My brain whispers that maybe they’ve fled altogether.
The setting sun makes me feel two things—one is uneasy. I don't like the dark, not even on a good day. The other is contradictory to the uneasiness. I’m excited because my dad should be here any minute. He said tonight. It is tonight. The end of the light I so badly need makes me hopeful he will be here soon.
She stirs behind me, making me hate her just a little bit more. She’s sleeping and I get to go watch the president’s statement with the little girls, alone. No adult to tell me that the world will find a way to fix itself.
When I’m halfway down the stairs, I hear something at the front door. It makes me pause, listening as it happens again. It might be a knock but it’s too quiet, like the person knocking is hiding from something. Furgus strolls down the hallway softly. He doesn't growl or make a noise. He tilts his head to the side—confused maybe. My eyes find his glossy-yellow stare in the dim light.
My hair stands on end, but I slowly take a stair at a time, listening for more of a clue as to who it is.
“Julia!” I hear a hoarse whisper through the doorframe, making me instantly freeze. Furgus growls softly, stepping closer to the door. He never growls. I don't think I’ve ever even heard him growl.
We stand in the darkening hallway, both frozen as we lose the light from outside. The twilight outside seems to be fading fast into night.
The knob moves, like in a scary movie, but the whisper comes again, “Julia?”
I hurry to the door, grabbing the bench and dragging it to the front door. There is a small half-moon window in the top of the door. I peer through it, down on the head of Mr. Swanson, Julia’s father. I tap on the window but when he looks up, his eyes seem different. He sees me and smiles, but it’s the creepiest thing I have ever seen. There’s blood on his neck and his eyes are red. “Is Julia here?” Furgus growls again, pushing his massive body into mine.
I shake my head. Something about the state of him, the bloodshot of his eyes, and the way Furgus is growling, tells me to lie.
He scowls. “She left a message saying she was coming here.”
I shout at the window. “She went to Lissie’s. They left here hours ago.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Where’s your mom?”
“Upstairs.”
He’s barely audible to me, making me wonder if he can hear me. He smiles again. “Okay, well . . . night.”
What a freaking odd thing to say.
I watch him stroll down my driveway and out onto the empty street. He sways a little and then stops. Furgus growls, rubbing against me again as if he’s pushing me away from the door.
“Damn, Gus. He’s stopping!” I whisper but don't know why Julia’s dad, Mr. Swanson, makes me scared. It’s something in his stare and the odd way he’s standing at the end of my driveway.
My breath makes a steam mark on the half-moon window as my eyes refuse to leave the spot where his feet are planted. Furgus whines, nudging me harder.
But I can’t look way. Julia’s dad’s right arm twitches. He drops to his knees as his body moves like my cat’s does when he has a hairball. My grip on the windowsill actually hurts my fingers, but I stop noticing the pain when I see something shoot from the front of his body. He convulses as the red liquid leaves him. He shakes like he’s a one-man earthquake and then falls over into the bloody vomit.
My eyes are so wide they’re cramping and my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls. I don’t breathe or move or think a single thing for the several seconds he is on the ground. I watch as his feet twitch a little. His hands do too.
Slowly his fingers tiptoe, up through the bloody vomit and lay their palms on the ground. Like a robot he pushes himself up, jerky and twitchy and stiff. He’s like a tin man, the way he pushes himself up to standing again. His head jerks hard to the left three times, before he stops and stares at the house kitty-corner to mine. He doesn’t move.
I start breathing again. “Damn.”
There isn’t even a second to feel anything. The door across the road opens and one of my neighbors comes out into the darkness. I can see him talking to Mr. Swanson who doesn’t move. Mr. Swanson stands perfectly still, cocking his head to the side unnaturally.
The neighbor takes another step, putting a hand out.
I whisper like someone is there with me, watching, “What an idiot.” Furgus whines again, grabbing at my pants and pulling at me gently. I reach one hand down, rubbing his massive face. “Shhhh, Gus. We don't want him to hear us.”
Mr. Swanson’s head does the three jerks again but to the right this time. He looks over at my neighbor who is now backing away. Mr. Swanson leaps into a run. My neighbor turns to run but is tackled to the pavement. Mr. Swanson bites down on the man’s shoulder. His teeth stay there like a pit bull’s would, as his fists fly at the man’s ribs and head. He punches so fast I can’t be sure I see them all. No matter how the neighbor moves, Mr. Swanson’s teeth don’t stop biting down. My shaking hand grips into Furgus’ neck fur.
When my neighbor no longer fights, Mr. Swanson pulls back. Stringing flesh and blood drip from his face. He backs away from the neighbor and falls to the ground.
The neighbor starts to move, almost instantly. He twitches in the feet and hands. His body slowly finds its way, the same as Mr. Swanson’s did—robotically. He wipes his mouth, like he’s a regular man again and the spell has worn off.
He walks to the door to his house, looking around the street for someone to tell about the savage attack on him. He doesn't act like he’s wounded, just looks around like he might be confused.
I know I am.
He wanders around for a few minutes, lost.
My eyes don't want to leave him and the odd behavior but they are desperate to see Mr. Swanson and if he’s moving.
He’s not.
I have a terrible feeling he’s dead. Hot tears are trying to fill my eyes and block out the bad things, but I don't blink and just let my eyes fill up. Furgus backs away from the door, leaving me there. His growl is back.
The neighbor starts to walk. He goes to the exact spot Mr. Swanson was before the door was opened and is suddenly frozen in the trance his vicious attacker had been in.
My stomach is in a ball and I’m not a hundred-percent certain I didn’t pee myself. I force my hand to leave the windowsill when I’m pretty sure I did pee. I slowly lower my hand, scared that my zombie neighbor might sense me moving. When my hand’s between my legs, I sigh in disappointment. It’s wet. I look down. Yup—I did. I peed my pants, right onto my mother’s leather bench. She’s going to murder me. I don't even know how to explain how it happened.
Furgus whines, shaking his head at me and backing away more. He knows, even though he cannot see it, that something terrible just happened. He sensed it.
I look back at my neighbor, ignoring the fact I’m standing in the warm puddle and my dog is desperate for me to leave the door. No matter how hard I try to though, my eyes don’t want to leave him. I don't trust him, even though he was just attacked and Mr. Swanson is dead on the grass, or unconscious. The words of the newscaster ring in my head: the symptoms of the flu are instant onset.
My neighbor stands there, silent and unmoving, like the man at the school. That's exactly what he reminds me of.
“Damn.”
Joey walks to the hallway. “Hey, Lou—”
I press my finger to my lips as if she can see my face. “Shhhhhhh.”
She gets closer, whispering, “What are you doing?” Furgus steps forward, grabbing her sleeve and pulling her back. He’s a hundred and sixty pounds so she doesn't stand a chance at fighting him off. Irish wolfhounds are the largest breed of dog in the world—if he wants something he usually gets his way. “Gus, don’t.” She shoves him but he continues to pull her back into the hallway. His eyes are wild. He knows what’s behind the door.
“It’s okay, Gus. It’s okay, boy. Shhhhhh.” I try to sound soothing but I don't think he’s buying it. He lets go but doesn't back off of Joey at all. They are besties, sleeping together every night. He takes up the entire bed but she doesn't care.
