Fear of the Dead

by Mortimer Jackson

  And yet in spite of myself I wanted to believe him. I begged him not to come any closer. Then I turned around to open the door. And like the wiser part of me predicted, Tom attacked.

  He threw me on the floor, and his hands clasped around my throat.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  He shouted in my ear, and called me a stupid bitch. His grip tightened. I could feel my color change.

  The pressure rose on my skull. I could feel myself turn red as I looked my husband in the eye.

  He told me he loved me, and tears began to moisten his eyes. I could feel some of it drop on my cheeks. And I started crying too.

  So close to freedom, and yet so hopelessly far.

  32 years of life, and this was how I was going to die.

  I heard knocking on the other side of the door. Tom was surprised, and so was I. Neither of us knew of what to make of it, but I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

  There was someone out there.

  The thought alone was enough to spring me back to life. With my foot right underneath the latch, I started kicking while Tom continued to squeeze my throat. The door loosened, and loosened, and loosened, until the sudden shot of hope gave me the strength I needed to finally undo the door.

  It swung open on its own, and daylight flooded in. For an instant Tom let go and shielded his eyes. It was hard to take in the natural light after all that time, but I tried.

  I couldn’t see straight, but I could see Tom start to shake. He blinked time and time again, and I could have sworn I saw his eyes turn bloodshot red.

  Just like them. The infected.

  That was when I saw two shapes run inside the bunker and tackle him off of me. At first I thought they were people. And in some Freudian sense they were. At one point in their lives anyhow.

  They threw him on the floor and sunk their teeth into his skin. They bit him a few times, then stopped, then turned around to look at me.

  Their eyes were a deep crimson red, their chins coated with blood both old and new.

  I picked up Tom’s pistol and shot them. One I hit on the neck, the other in the mouth. They both fell.

  I stood up, and with the pistol ready to fire, I went up to Tom.

  He was still alive, except now he was just like them. He looked up at me, and any semblance of familiarity was gone. What he saw in me was the exact same thing the others saw in the people they killed.

  I shot him once in the chest. He was still alive. I shot him a second time, and here couldn’t tell where the bullet went. He raised his hands to pick himself up, but I kept on shooting until he fell, and then I shot again.

  My finger kept to the trigger, moving back and forth repeatedly. For every blare of gunfire, I wanted more. I shot him again and again, but it wasn’t enough.

  Tom hadn’t suffered enough.

  Eventually the gun stopped firing. It was out of bullets. No matter how many times I pulled the trigger, all that came out was a thin mechanical click.

  The sound reminded me of Tom’s clacking keyboard, so I stopped. I dropped the gun on the floor, and finally, I stepped outside the basement of my step parents’ home.

  The air was different here. Warmer. It was sunny outside. I peeked through the blinds and what I saw what looked to be a normal day. Green lawn, adjacent houses, pavement, and a shining blue sky.

  There was no one outside. The streets were empty. Sunny Lane was a ghost town.

  I wanted to go outside and check, but a broken window in the kitchen stopped me.

  It dawned on me that with the windows closed and the doors locked, that must have been how the infected got in. Maybe they heard the gunfire. Maybe they heard it when I tried to open the door.

  Either way, the realization hit me all the same.

  It wasn’t, it isn’t safe.

  It’s been four months since the evacuation. Things have only gotten worse. As much as I want to go outside and see the neighborhood, I’ve been too afraid of what I might find. There might be more of them out there, waiting for me to come out.

  Did I want to take that chance? Do I want to now?

  I want to believe the blue sunny skies I see outside my window. I want to believe the rustling trees. I want to believe that everything’s fine. And yet I can’t bring myself to take the first step forward.

  It’s been two hours since I killed my husband. In that time I’ve locked myself upstairs in my step parents’ bedroom, keeping nothing with me but an empty notebook and a pen. I’m writing because it’s all I can think to do. With no one here to talk to, all I can do is jot down my thoughts, and hope that someone reads this. I don’t know if anyone will.

  But that’s what people do I suppose. They share their thoughts with the world. In times good, and in times bad. We like to be remembered. And we don’t care by who.

  Daylight is disappearing fast. The light from the blinds is fading, and the room is getting darker. Once night falls, I’ll have to stay inside where it’s safe. There’s no sense going anywhere else. Not now.

  When it’s time to go outside I’ll pack my things, take the car, and drive as far away from this place as I can.

  Eventually.

  Chapter Two

  Day Two

  Monday

  April 21, 2003

  6:53 AM

  It’s been almost two hours since daylight. The view outside the window hasn’t changed. The streets are just as empty as they were yesterday. Aside from the occasional breeze, not so much as a peep.

  I didn’t sleep last night or the night before. I’ve kept myself from trying, forcing myself to stay awake. It hasn’t been easy, but I guess you could say that the fear of seeing them has only helped.

  What the hell am I saying? It’s only reason I’m even up.

  My mind’s been blank since I locked myself in the bedroom. I haven’t been able to think of anything but the infected. I haven’t said a word to myself or made a noise, not that I’m normally predisposed to talking to myself. Not aloud anyhow.

  The infected have sensitive ears, or so they say. Said. It’s been four months since I’ve seen anything about it on TV. I don’t know if anything’s changed since then. By this point they must have learned more about them. What makes them tick, why they do what they do. Maybe they’ve found a cure. Or maybe they’re working on it.

  Stop. Wandering isn’t going to help. Get back to the matter at hand.

  Earlier I went downstairs to grab some breakfast. I checked the fridge in the kitchen, which reeked of spoiled food. Four months inside a refrigerator with no power.

  Figures.

  The only place I can go for food is back inside the bunker. There’s canned food in the storage. Enough to last me a while. But I can’t go back there. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t set foot down there again. I don’t even want to think about.

  It really is my fault that he’s dead. There’s no denying it, and I don’t even know if I can justify what I’ve done. Yes, he tried to kill me, but only because I put us both at risk.

  Tom was right. You have no idea how much that scares me.

  Am I making any sense? Or is it just common for abused women to feel this way about their husbands?

  The strangest thing in all this, is the fact that even though I’m sorry that Tom is dead, I don’t feel guilty. It’s like when my uncle died back when I was eight. We didn’t know each other very well, but he would always buy me presents whenever he came to visit. He was killed in a car accident. Mom told me all about it after she got off the phone. She cried.

  Two days later, we had the funeral.

  I never shed a tear for my uncle. When I first heard that he’d passed away I couldn’t bring myself to harbor a tenth of what my mother felt about the news.

  I used to worry that maybe I was dead inside. Then saw it in a movie. I can’t remember what it was, but the lesson went that only the good fear their own apathy.

  Tom is dead because of me, and I haven’t been able to muster a word of mourn
ing.

  Does it make me good that I care?

  7:15 AM

  It’s safe outside. At least from what I can tell. It certainly isn’t getting any safer.

  I’ve decided to leave. The car is still parked on the driveway from the day we drove in from San Fran. The keys are on the kitchen counter, where Tom left them before he locked us in. After finding some food outside, I’ll head back to the city. Maybe there I’ll be able to find out where everyone went.

  I’ll be bringing this notebook with me. So far it’s all I’ve had to communicate with, though it hopefully won’t remain the case for long. I’m not one to write in diaries, but at a time like this it helps to maintain some picture of sanity.

  If for whatever reason something happens to me, I think I’d like to leave you with one last parting advice.

  Life is too short to dwell on the past. Never turn back. Keep your eyes forward, always.

  7:20 AM

  Vanessa Lowen dropped her wedding ring on the bedside counter behind the non-functioning alarm clock. She took her notebook, along with a few pens, a flashlight from the garage, and her car key on the kitchen counter. Aside from that, she also brought a fire poker (to be used in cases of self defense), and a magnetic calendar on the fridge so she would always have the date.

  Vanessa tore the first three pages and marked an X on the 21st of April.

  According to the calendar, tomorrow was Earth Day.

  She packed what little she brought with her on the front passenger seat of her Toyota Corolla. Without going back to close the front door, she keyed in the ignition, and drove away.

  It was a strange experience being on a road this empty. Vanessa passed by stop sign after stop sign, neither slowing down nor coming to a complete stop. She eventually let go the idea of streets lanes, veering her car to whichever way she wanted to go. Left lane, middle lane, right lane. None of that mattered now. There were no traffic lights, no cops to pull her over. Of course, at a time like this a cop would have been a good thing to have. But Vanessa only had herself, which, as she drove further along, enjoying the freedom of the empty road, seemed good enough for the time being.

  There was something fantastically liberating about not having to subscribe to the rules of the road. She could go whichever way she pleased, and no one could tell her otherwise.

  She parked beside the first convenient store within her line of sight. An AM-PM. Since the store was covered in glass, she had no problems seeing what was inside. Her only obstacle was the fact that the automatic doors were closed, and the possibility that there were infected hiding inside.

  As far as she could tell there weren’t. But she had been wrong before.

  Regardless, it was nearly an entire day since she ate, and she wasn’t getting any less hungry. If Vanessa was going to survive on her own, she had to learn to take whatever she could get.

  She carried the fire poker in her hand, and made for the door. From time to time she turned every which way she could in order to make sure that there was no one there. The hairs of her skin came alive, then jutted like an army of ants when she nearly tripped on her own leg.

  From the sunlight outside, she could make out a full stock of food on the shelves. Energy bars, chocolate, warm soda, chips, and jerky. Her mouth watered at the imaginary taste of a Snickers bar, and Vanessa knew what she would have to do in order to get it.

  The car was parked close to the shop. Much closer than would have been considered legal on a regular day. In the off-chance that what she was about to do would alert any lingering infected, Vanessa kept the front passenger door open, so that she could hop in at the first sign of trouble and leave. To that effect she also left her keys in the ignition, confident that at a time like this the last thing she had to worry about was theft.

  Clearly, the same would not be said of the store’s owner.

  Vanessa raised the poker above her head, then threw it hard against the glass frame. It shattered after a few blows, and with less noise than she’d expected. Still, Vanessa cupped her ear against the air, doing her best to catch even the slightest hint of a response. She waited for five solitary seconds, her knees bent and ready to hop back inside the Corolla.

  Nothing.

  Feeling confident that there was no one outside, Vanessa turned her attention inwards, to the store that she could see well enough from all the sunlight sifting in.

  Vanessa scanned the aisles and checked the doors. There was no one around. The maintenance closet, the office, the bathrooms, all locked. An indication that someone had closed shop right before the infected hit.

  Comforted by the absence of infected, she unpeeled a Snickers bar and bit down as fast as she could. The sudden influx of sweetness pinched her mouth, but she adjusted to the taste. Caramel, nuts, and chocolate nougat salivated on her tongue, and she continued chewing to savor the essence.

  Vanessa used to avoid chocolate. Not because of the taste, but because of what it did to the body. Woman’s Health Magazine once described chocolate as the grim specter of dietary death. A viewpoint that she herself subscribed to, but only in the days when appearances mattered. Right now, the last worry on Vanessa’s mind was the size of her ass. The world was ending. What better time than to say fuck you to the rules, and for once enjoy chocolate?

  Vanessa packed the backseat of her car with junk food and several bottles of water. Enough stock to last her a while. Certainly more than enough to take her back to San Fran.

  On any regular day it was an hour’s drive from Fremont to San Francisco. How long now, if one didn’t have to worry about traffic?

  Once she had the chance, Vanessa hit I-880 due straight to I-80 on the Golden Gate Bridge. She was ready to bite down on the pedal when the sudden influx of cars flooded her view. Vanessa slowed until she stopped, her front standing directly behind an abandoned taxi cab. She looked for a way to pass the car, only to find that every conceivable lane was blocked. Cars littered the highway, and there was little order to the way they were arranged before her eyes. Some had bumped into others, some tilted so as to occupy two lanes. There were doors open, and windows smashed.

  Vanessa got out to see how far the occupation went. Longer than she would have hoped it seemed. The highway descended into rows of parked car, going so far and wide that the further down she looked, the less the highway seemed to be made of gravel, and more an amalgamation of trucks and sedans.

  “Fuck me,” she cursed underneath her breath.

  There was no way she was getting past the traffic. Not with her car anyhow. Vanessa imagined that at one point in time, there had to have been evacuees here. Maybe they left their vehicles behind because of all the congestion.

  Or maybe they were infected.

  Every so often Vanessa would catch blood on some of the broken windows, trailing about from car to car.

  There was no way of driving into the city save for the highway. At least, as far as Vanessa knew. If it remained packed all throughout though, then there was no way of getting to the city at all.

  What now?

  She downed a Snickers bar as she mulled it over in her head. If there was an answer to the problem, she couldn’t figure it out.

  Vanessa made a U-turn back to Fremont, where at least she knew she could use the back roads to get to Oakland. Once there, it would just be a matter of passing the Bay Bridge to get to the city.

  The clock on her car said it was 6:20 PM. She checked it only when she realized it was getting darker. Vanessa didn’t want to be caught driving at night. Not only was she deathly tired, but there was the matter of safety to consider as well. Once she started using her headlights, it would only be easier to be spotted by an infected. All the while she herself would only be able to make out what was immediately in front of her.

  When she reached Parkinson Avenue, she began setting her sights on finding a suitable place to crash. A Motel 6 sign caught her eye. She headed in and found the front desk. To no surprise, there was no one there. 12 room keys
hung on a pin board, none missing. She grabbed the one that said number 9, which was on the second floor, and right above where she parked her Corolla.

  Common sense might have told her that the best place to bunk would have been in the room closest to the car. But for reasons unknown to her, she felt safer being one floor up. Like birds, and how they slept on the highest perches they could find.

  For dinner, Vanessa ate a box of Pringles. Sour cream and onion. She took it all in with her water. She wanted to sit down and write about everything she’d seen and done. But by then it was dark, and the will to sleep had finally caught up. She climbed beneath the covers, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  Day Three

  Tuesday

  April 22, 2003

  6:03 AM

  There might not be anyone left. It’s an idea I’ve been carrying with me since yesterday, and in truth one that’s been getting easier to believe with everything I’ve seen so far. The highways are jam-packed with empty cars, and yet there’s no one around. I’m beginning to wonder if the evacuees even had the chance to escape. If not, then everyone I know might already be gone. Dead. Infected. Any attempt to reach them might be pointless.

  I don’t know what to make of it. It scares me to death thinking that of all the people that could have survived, I’m the only one that did.

  6:08 AM

  Vanessa dropped the notebook and wiped her eyes. The air in the motel turned warm and stuffy. She had to leave.

  For the sake of clearing her head and reverting to the comforts of what had once been routine, Vanessa left her room and jogged. Not a bright idea she was sure to remind herself. But the dead weight of survival had been on her shoulders for long enough. Just once, Vanessa wanted to let it go.