“...Can't find the source of the plague...
...long incubation period...
...swift death...
...predictions of 95-98% succumbing...”
She almost choked on her ice cream at the numbers. She swallowed more than she intended and then squeezed her eyes shut as the brain freeze hit.
I’m finally one of the One Percent. She flipped back to see if Jess had replied.
At the bottom of the article in big bold letters was the same warning she had heard so often in the last few days: “STAY INDOORS. NO CONTACT.” Lot of good that plan was.
Her AC/DC ringtone was barely audible over the stereo. Her phone was charging in Mama’s room. She scrambled out of the chair, knocking it to the floor. Lizzie ran, diving onto Mama's bed. She grabbed the phone, and jammed the answer tab with her thumb.
“Mama?”
“Lizzie,” an unfamiliar voice said, and Lizzie’s heart stopped. “Your mom's here. She's feeling pretty weak.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Sure.” The nurse coughed. She didn’t sound so hot herself. “Here she is.”
“Mama, I love you,” Lizzie blurted.
“Love you, too, honey. I’m doin’ oooo-kay...” Mama drawled out her words and then trailed off; she sounded totally baked. “Nurse is nice. She’s got the good stuff.”
“I'm glad, Mama.”
Silence on the other end. Then: “Sing to me, Lizzie. Sing the songs I used to sing to you.”
“Ok, Mama.” For once Lizzie didn’t refuse the request. The songs that Lizzie liked to sing now were not the ones Mama wanted to hear. She started with Mama’s favorite, “The Rose.” When she was done, she paused. “Mama, can you hear me?”
“Uh huh. Sounds. Lovely. More.”
Lizzie lay down on Mama's bed and sang through her tears.
When she ran out of Mama’s oldies she sang lullabies.
“Hush little… mama, don't say a word, baby's gonna buy you a mockingbird.” She made up lines the way she had heard her father had done, keeping the song going and going. Even when her voice cracked and faded to a hoarse whisper.
“Lizzie?” the nurse again.
Lizzie stopped, swallowing to dampen her dry throat.
“Your mom- she's gone.”
Lizzie knew—had known. “Can you put the phone by her ear? I want to sing to her some more.”
“That was a wonderful thing you did.” The nurse took a ragged breath. “I don't think I'm going to see my daughter again.”
Lizzie didn’t know what to say, so she sang some more. Muffled weeping told her the nurse must be listening. Some countless hours later she realized her phone was dead.
She felt sedated, like her first few days in the psych ward after she’d cut her wrists sophomore year. She stood and tried to shake the cobwebs off. She had to do something. Mama said burn things to kill the germs.
Lizzie grabbed a pile of Jerkwad’s crap, plenty of germs there. She kicked open the back door, and hauled it outside into the gloomy evening. She held her breath to keep from breathing in the foul odor of his alcohol-sweat-stained pillow. She dumped everything into the burn barrel. Jerkwad ignored the law, too cheap to pay for garbage more than once a month. Now she would happily burn his garbage in it.
Barking and howling echoed in the distance. Dogs keened, mourning in a cacophonous chorus. She shivered, tugged her shirt tight, and dumped lighter fluid over everything in the barrel, adding a pile of junk mail and advertising for good measure. Rolling up a Target store flyer, she lit one end with her lighter and then held it over the barrel. She held it until the heat hurt her hand, before dropping it and ducking so she wouldn’t singe her eyebrows.
The fire burst upward as the lighter fluid caught, flames consuming what was left of Jerkwad’s worldly possessions. All except the whiskey she would keep to burn her throat and help her forget. She tossed a few sticks of wood in and thought of getting some marshmallows and toasting them. The thought brought a memory of a blazing beach bonfire, Mama smiling, Jayce making S’mores. It was a bad idea; the marshmallows would taste like Jerkwad’s shit.
Lizzie woke to a dark house. She panicked for a moment, fumbling for her lamp. It turned on. Barely 7 o’clock. The sky was socked in with dark clouds. And she was awake. Weird.
She rolled out of bed and went through the house turning lights on as she went. It was probably only a matter of time before they stopped working. She found the defrosted ice cream on the desk, poured it into a glass and added a shot of Mama's favorite liqueur—Gran Marnier. She plugged the charger into the cell and huddled on the rolling office chair at the computer. A response from Jess blinked on the screen.
Roll call. Jess. Texas.
"Sounds like a porn star," Lizzie muttered, smiling despite herself.
Then another. Lizzie? Are you there? I'm scared. And lonely.
Lizzie’s hand cradled her drink as she one-finger typed a response. mamas dead. jayces dead. phones dead or id call. She grimaced at her lame joke, sipping the cold concoction. Mama would have liked it. what do i do now?
There was no answer for a long time. Finally: OMG. My family too. So sorry.
Lizzie raised the glass to finish the drink, but it was already gone. me 2. r u alone?
She wished the dinosaur of a computer would work well enough to do video chat, but last time Jayce had tried, it had taken three reboots to start it up again.
Yes. Wish you were here.
me 2. Her phone had enough juice to turn on now. im calling. She left it plugged in as she dialed.
“Jess?”
“Lizzie. Good to hear your voice.”
Lizzie set down the drink, as if she could hold Jess through the phone. “Yeah. What’re you gonna do?”
Jess’ response was a long time coming. “Don’t know. I need to bury them.”
“They’re in the house with you?”
“In their beds. Didn’t know what else to do. They kept getting sicker. And I didn’t get it. One by one, they just…” Jess’ voice faded to silence.
Lizzie whispered into the phone, “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Don’t do anything crazy. Don’t even try.”
“Hey, I’m Crazy Lizzie. Supposed to do crazy, stupid things.”
“LIZ! Don’t! Okay?”
Lizzie swallowed; her throat felt raw. Maybe I’m getting sick. “I can’t promise.”
“Dammit, Lizzie, you’re my best friend since forever. You don’t get to be a cop out. Go outside once it gets light. See if you can find anyone left. Then call me. You hear? If you kill yourself, I’m going to kill myself too.”
They’d had this conversation before. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.” Lizzie sighed. “Not without telling you. But I don’t see much to live for.”
“Free candy? There aren’t any store clerks anymore, right?”
They both laughed and then there was silence.
“I’m exhausted.” Jess yawned. “Call me tomorrow, Lizzie. I love you.”
“Thanks, Jess.”
Lizzie went back to the medicine cabinet and picked through Mama’s collection. She took two Sonata sleeping pills and washed the green capsules down with a glass of water, refilled it and drank another one. Then she put on music from the Mama's Sad Songs playlist. She lay down on the couch and wrapped a blanket from Mama’s bed tight around her. She wanted to keep that scent around as long as possible, even if it meant she might catch this thing and die. She would never burn Mama’s things, even though she had promised.
Breakfast was a bowl of Apple Jacks and the last of the milk. Lizzie mechanically shoveled it into her mouth. Then she drank the pink milk at the bottom of the bowl.
“I go outside, or I never leave, and I die here,” Lizzie said aloud, as if Mama was listening. Seemed like she was always breaking her promises.
She went upstairs to her room to get dressed: jeans, Doc Martens with extra socks, one of Mama's threadbare flannel shirts over a baby blu
e t-shirt with her band logo in permanent marker: Cut Glass. She dumped her school backpack and its contents of done and undone homework. The Dante paperback slid across the floor.
Jerkwad had said she’d never graduate high school. Lizzie was seventeen and still needed almost two years of credits, but she had planned on proving him wrong.
“Fuck you,” she said and kicked the schoolwork away from her.
She opened her shallow sock drawer feeling for the old cigar box Mama hid from Jerkwad. Cash for emergencies. If this wasn't an emergency, Lizzie didn't know what was. She didn’t know if she’d need money, but it would be good to have it. She pulled out the box Mama had disguised with pretty contact paper.
Inside were Mama’s class ring, grandpa’s hankie, baby photos of her and Jayce. One slipped out she didn’t remember: Mama and a very handsome soldier in uniform, and a little baby in a yellow dress with shocking dark hair. Her jaw clamped to keep from crying. She took the photo and all but one of the crisp twenties. She closed the lid and returned it to the drawer.
3
OUTSIDE THE SOUNDS OF BIRDS greeted her. Canada geese squawked overhead, drowning out the more melodious calls of the smaller birds. The drizzle had lifted and the clouds had cleared away for one of those frigid, but glorious winter days.
The goose honks faded into the distance and Lizzie realized what was missing—the sound of traffic on I-5 that helped her sleep at night. Now there was nothing. Over the warm flannel she zipped up a winter coat she dug out of a storage bin under Mama’s bed.
She headed down Lincoln Street, putting in her ear buds. The upbeat sound of 4 Non Blondes brought her a bit of a warm glow as she shuffled through the mushy piles of damp leaves blown up on the sidewalk. When the song said “…screamed at the top of my lungs, ‘What’s going on?’” she screamed it, too. Nobody complained.
The air smelled crisp and wintery, but as she crossed under the freeway a repugnant smell invaded her nose—the smell of death. It reminded her of when she’d done community service at the Alternative Humane Society. They had gone to a dog farm accused of abuse and neglect to save the animals still alive. She breathed through her mouth and turned the music up.
Someone, or something, was watching her. Lizzie could feel it. She couldn’t help thinking… —Zombies. She spun around and jerked her ear buds out. She felt stupid, but how many years had her generation waited for zombies?
She spotted something on a porch swing—something slumped over. Her first dead body—an old man, definitely not one of the living dead. His head lolled back at an impossible angle. Lizzie’s stomach churned and her eyes darted, searching for something else to look at. The last few leaves falling from the trees held her attention as she continued walking.
As she passed a cute little cottage, a frantic little head popped up and down in the front window, yipping. Poor puppy. She knocked and tried the front door—locked. The dog had heard her and the yipping increased in frequency and volume. She jogged around to the back of the house. A chain link fence wrapped around to the other side of the yard. She reached across and lifted the latch. She tried the back door. It opened into a kitchen, the stench of death and dog shit hit her nostrils. The pup's nails clicked on the wooden floor. His tail wagged as he brushed past her into the back yard.
Lizzie filled the water bowl and found the food in the cabinet over the dish. She dumped the bag on the floor.
A little red light on the counter caught her eye. A cell-phone charging. What if some cell-phones work while others don’t? Maybe I should get phones from different providers. With a momentary twinge of guilt she grabbed the phone and its charger. As she left the house the pup ran back in and dug into the food. Lizzie shoved the door all the way open and pushed the garbage can against it. She jammed a garden hoe upside down in the dirt to keep the gate from closing.
How many other pets were trapped in the city? And what about the rest of the country? The world? How many people had thought of man’s best friends in the end?
A few hours later Lizzie had gone six more blocks, accumulated a couple more cell phones with chargers, and “saved” six cats and four dogs.
She had gone no further into the pets’ homes than she’d had to. She had seen no more bodies, living or dead, which was fine by her. But the smells in each house told her if she had pushed in much further, she would have. She had to stop. Sooner or later she would come across a house where the former residents were not tucked away in bed, out of sight.
Across from the Fred Meyer Lizzie paused out of habit for the “Don't Walk” sign, glancing both ways. She chuckled. Middle of the day and nothing was moving. The “City of Subdued Excitement” was dead. Lizzie glanced around, nervous. She tried to shake off the scents lingering in her nose and the feeling that someone was watching her.
The doors to Fred Meyer startled her by opening obediently. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the strange silence of the empty store. The deli reeked and the produce swarmed with fruit flies. She found a couple of decent apples, wiping them on her pants. The refrigerators hummed along. Lizzie picked up a frozen pack of burritos and stuffed it in her backpack.
All the good-for-you wheat breads were green and white in their packages. Lizzie selected one of the suspiciously well-preserved loaves of white bread. The milk all expired on the 8th, but she opened one and smelled it. It didn’t stink, so she tipped it back and touched it to her tongue. Not curdled yet. She grabbed some mac and cheese—the spendy Kraft kind—a 2-liter of Coke and some waffles.
She approached the checkout lane, glancing around. She thought about paying, but dismissed the thought with a laugh. Jess was right. Free candy. And nobody to bust her for shoplifting. She shoved handfuls of chocolate bars into her backpack and pockets, then opened a pack of M&M's to munch on as she exited the store.
Outside, she decided to take a different way home. The fading daylight made her quicken her steps; dark rain clouds gathered on the horizon. On the other side of the empty overpass she hurried past the old St. Luke’s branch of the hospital, an outpatient drug rehab and nutrition clinic that had been converted into a makeshift triage hospital. The sign out front said, “Danger! Quarantine! Do NOT enter!”
Lizzie thought she saw movement down Holly Street. Probably another dog. She passed through downtown. Am I really alone? Bellingham was a medium-sized city, half an hour from the Canadian border. She tried to recall how many people lived in the city—100,000 sounded right. But there was no sign of them.
Most of the lights still advertised empty storefronts. Nothing looked disturbed. Just empty.
Jess had told her to find someone, all she had found were pets—how typically “Lizzie.” Animals were easier to deal with than people. She wasn't even sure what she'd do if she did see someone. Run, probably.
The second body she found was at a small mom and pop store. It lay face down. A dark raincoat covered the corpse, but a pool of dark blood-saturated water lay around it. The store window had been smashed. A bat lay amongst the chunks of glass. Lizzie backed away. That one hadn’t died of the plague. She started running, but stopped at the end of the block. Was there anyone alive to chase her?
Lizzie walked to Bellingham High School on the off chance that someone she knew was there. One of the clear-windowed, garage-style roll down doors was open. She walked into the building. A few birds circled inside. Lizzie yelled, “HELLO?”
A white board had the words “School Closed” written across it, along with various locations for hospitals and triage centers and the ever-present “Stay inside” warning. She erased it and wrote a new note: “If you can read this and you’re not infected, come visit me. Lizzie G. 2224 Lincoln St.” The address didn’t exist, except somewhere under the freeway, but she could see anyone looking for it from her house.
She left out the back door onto Kentucky Street. A shape shambled in the distance, odd but unmistakably human. Her brain told her to run, but she told herself there was no such thing as zombies and shouted
: “Hello?”
It turned and moved toward her—a man in his mid to late-thirties. He had a patchy beard with a few white hairs, a leather jacket set off with studs, and a spiked dog collar around his neck. His eyes looked wild as he drew nearer.
“Hi.” It was all she could think of. Lizzie could see his mouth working, but no sound came out. She thought maybe he was drunk or stoned, or both.
“Are you infected?”
Nothing registered in his eyes.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. “Wait! Please, stay there.” She warded him off with her hands.
He looked confused, but he did stop, staring at her as she stared back at him.
“Are you hungry?”
That got a response. He lurched forward. His eyes were alive and his mouth looked like he was salivating. She pulled out a Snickers bar and tore it open with her teeth. He ran toward her. Lizzie screamed and backed away. He stopped again. She tossed the candy bar at his feet. He collapsed cross-legged and wolfed it down—she was pretty sure with the wrapper.
She continued to back away. She pulled the candy bars out of her pockets and dropped them in the path. As soon as she was around the building she broke into a run. She ran all the way home—the milk and 2-liter bouncing painfully against her back.
Inside, Lizzie locked the deadbolt behind her and slid to the floor. How long had it been since she'd run that far that fast? Years. But her little feet had carried her quick and sure. Her little feet. Mama’s joke about boobs and Dolly Parton’s feet came back to her. ‘Things don’t grow well in the shade.’ Nothing but shade in Bellingham.
When her heart stopped racing, she noticed it had gotten dark. She flipped the light switch on and opened the closet, reaching back to where Jerkwad’s shotgun lived. She pulled it out and spun the numbers on the trigger lock. Her hiking pack leaned against the back wall. She pulled it out, too. The first aid kit, freeze-dried food and warm clothes might come in handy.
Lizzie checked that the shotgun was loaded and set it on the kitchen table. She slipped off the backpack and put away her haul, adding it to the minimal contents of the fridge: Jerkwad's cheap beer, a bit of lunch meat, salsa and salad dressings. She grabbed one of the beers, popped it open and took a swig. It tasted like carbonated piss. She set it back on the shelf and shut the door.
ALL IS SILENCE Page 2
