by Dan O'Brien
Before the fall of civilization, Susanna had begun to gain a little weight; the difference now was drastic. Her high cheekbones were prominent and the sallowness of her cheeks from periodic starvation saddened Michael as much as he was capable.
He had not fared much better.
His beard had grown in with dark clumps and gray patches that had no doubt taken residence from the stress that had become everyday life. His neat hair had become bedraggled and curly in places despite its length. Had it been on purpose, he could have imagined Susanna running her long fingers through it and calling it cute.
The store had weathered the apocalypse.
Shelves remained intact for the most part, though they were barren fields. The coolers had been left open and the power had long since faded. Overturned cans, smashed and left for dead, littered the floor.
It had served as a last stand for someone.
The doors and windows were adorned with long wooden planks cast in random patterns. A length of coiled chain looped through the front doors––chime removed. The open register was a dusty beach before the sunglasses tree, broken lenses covering the counter.
Susanna approached slowly.
Clara walked beside her mother in silence.
As they neared Michael, the young girl reached out her arms and wrapped them around her father’s neck. Patting her back, he felt emotion surge in for just a brief moment. He pushed it down and looked at the wide eyes of his wife––the distance there saddened him.
She had been vibrant before the world went to shit.
Susanna had what could modestly be called a sunny disposition. She was always laughing and hugging people, a bright smile painted on her simple features. That beauty made her perfect in a way that Michael could never properly articulate, especially now that such simple joy was gray-washed by despair.
Michael’s voice was a whisper. “Find anything?”
Susanna shook her head, pausing as if to speak.
The moment passed.
Fear of something deeper in the darkness had stolen the chattiness of joyful people. There were times in the very beginning, just after the lights went out and the roads became impossible to travel, that people could still be people. You would meet someone and for a second it was possible that they wouldn’t slit your throat in your sleep.
This, like the many stolen moments of their lives, passed.
Now there was only the Hobbes family against the world.
Standing, Michael adjusted the heavy revolver at his side.
Necessity had been the guiding force for weapon choice. The two machetes with masking tape wrapped around the handles along his back in makeshift sheaths might have been a katana or a chainsaw in a shinier world. The scarf around his neck had become a patchwork of shirts, blankets, and burlap that could now withstand the sharp slap of the winter air.
Producing a crumbled bag, he handed it to Susanna.
“Some of the rabbit.”
The cold seeped in through the bottom of the front door, despite the lattice of uneven boards. It was not the frigid air outside that made Michael tread lightly.
Zombies.
Or at least that is what people expected.
The reality was far more frightening.
The world had grown silent around what remained of humanity: the undead, or groaners, as the Hobbes family called them. They couldn’t bring themselves to refer to them as zombies. It seemed that if they were zombies as they had always conceived of them, then there would be some stability to their behavior.
As Michael looked through the slits of the overlapping planks, he watched the snow-covered road just outside of the store. There were no tracks, no bodies of which to speak. Groaners were far from consistent. Sometimes they would run like creatures drawn from a nightmare with broken backs on all fours, and then there were those that lumbered along like they were drawn from a black-and-white film.
The Hobbes family had not been in contact with many people since their flight from civilization. There had been plenty of conjecture in the beginning.
III
Day Six
I
t would be several days before Susanna could look Michael in the eyes. Thinking about the frightening look upon her husband’s face proved a startling reminder that humans were not far removed from a more primal ancestor. The television did not fade into static as was so often portrayed in apocalyptic moves, but instead progressively haggard-looking folks repeated what was more gossip than news. The infected––no one wanted to call them what they were––were steadily increasing.
Hospitals could not contain the overflow.
Stories of people being attacked in the streets and cannibalism were rampant. Civilization broke not from the undead, but when the power and water stopped flowing. Two days after the faucets and showers no longer worked, people began to panic. Panic became hysteria; hysteria gave way to violence in the streets.
Northern California was not particularly large.
The Sacramento Valley could boast a million bodies if the capitol was lumped in with the small cities nestled behind mangroves and almond groves. San Francisco to the west was the first to disappear from the world; Sacramento did not fare much better. Smaller communities just to the north like Yuba City and Marysville were soon overrun with infected folks who were no more human than the world was flat.
Cities like Chico and Redding walked the fine line between being overrun and acting as potential safe havens. The Hobbes family had lived a quiet life a few miles east on highway 32 toward a little piece of Podunk called Chester. There, just before the bluffs and the Sierra Nevadas, their home had been a part of a tiny development.
Fall was still very much in bloom.
Pastel colors dashed trees.
The beauty of a place like Chico was that the man who had founded the town, Bidwell, had gathered trees from all over the country and lined the streets with them. This gave the small city a sense of wonder at any time of year. You might see palm trees and blue oaks growing across the street from one another––one blooming when the other was fading.
Long before the world was broken down into groaners and the Children, television anchors and “experts” blathered about the possible root cause of the infection. Some cited deregulation of packaged goods, genetic modifications to crops, and even the drinking water.
The cause was not what frightened people.
It was the process.
The slow degeneration of person to groaner began with an irregular fever and moved into cluster migraines that often caused blindness. The skin would lose its elasticity and moisture, and soon what had once been human was a snarling scarecrow bent on viciousness and mauling.
Michael loaded a few more items into a large duffel bag as Clara sat cross-legged in front of the television. If Susanna had been quiet and distant, his daughter might as well have been on the moon.
The man delivering the news had once been the weatherman, though the dark beard and bloodshot eyes hid the glamor of a previous time. There was talk that the news studio had fortified itself from the outside world. Iron gates and heavy doors had been knocked on and screamed at to no avail.
The newscaster rasped in an uneven tone: “Residents are being warned against journeying out on to the highways. 99 and 32 are backed up and the Skyway has been blocked off by overturned vehicles.”
Michael paused as he placed a heavy coat and a machete into the brown duffel bag. “Are you packed, baby girl?” he asked.
Clara nodded, but did not take her eyes off the screen.
The grating voice continued: “Martial law has been declared, but this has not stopped residents from fleeing the cities, seeking refuge in the bluffs and the mountains beyond.”
Susanna emerged from the other room, carrying bags in her hands. One of those bags was of particular interest. For the longest time, Michael had complained about his birthdays. He was of the opinion that getting gifts on your birthday was useless since you couldn
’t really get what you wanted. In their fourteen years together, she had only given him something for his birthday once that he felt was practical.
A survival pack prepped for an apocalypse.
It had been a silly gift meant as joke despite its pragmatism. As he looked at the waterproof black bag, he was reminded of the joy he felt and his quick response: “All it needs is a revolver.”
Susanna had laughed.
There was no humor in her face as she extended it to Michael. Holding it for a moment and looking down at the rolled-up top and Velcro straps, he was struck by the frantic pace of the world. It was like one of those commercials that showed time-adjusted photos of a baby growing into a teenager, except it was a series of horrific moments laced together without a cogent narrative––visual chaos.
Taking the few short steps into the living room, he placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and shut off the television. “It is time to go, monkey.”
She looked up at him. For a moment she seemed to consider what he said. Without another word, she disappeared into the next room to retrieve the few belongings a child felt she could not abandon.
The day was slipping away from them, something that Michael did not feel they could afford to lose. Their black Subaru was already running when Clara came bounding out the front door with a wool cap pulled over her head and a pink backpack bouncing against her back.
He watched Susanna lock the door behind them, a strange thing to do considering the state of the world, but a habit nonetheless. Michael thought to joke with her about it, but the quiet demeanor with which she surveyed the interior of the vehicle––boxes and bags stacked to the roof––made him think better of it.
The sun disappeared just behind the clouds to the west. A copse of dull-colored trees obscured the sunset, creating muted shafts of light that reached across the sky.
Michael had decided to head north.
There were a few remote places that he had taken the family on camping outings. Perhaps one of them would serve as a welcome shelter to weather an uncertain future. If the gossip was to be believed, this was the end.
As they drove west, overturned vehicles had become expressionist art. Wary eyes and haunting glances followed the Hobbes family as Michael moved around a scattered pile of moving boxes strewn about in the street. Clara turned and pressed her face against the window as he passed.
An on-ramp had been painted over with long strokes of graffiti, hopefully. A few cars sat off to the side, heavy skid marks from where they had pushed aside from larger vehicles. There was a narrow chute through which a car might fit.
Michael chanced it.
He knew that staying in a city meant certain doom.
Without the amenities, the basics of civilization would soon crumble. This thought worried him deeply. A regression to the mean, to the horror that lay at the depths and darkness of every living being, was something that hid when the beauty of children were introduced into the world.
Being a father had put that darkness at bay.
There was something life-affirming in being the caretaker and guide for a being, to be there in moments of despair and happiness, all the while being at the mercy of chance and probability.
The sun dipped below the horizon.
Michael’s heart dropped.
Turning his lights on would draw attention to them.
Highway 99 was slow going.
A lot of the cars had been abandoned. Looming to the east and west was a silent darkness from which they would not escape until the sun kissed the sky once more. Susanna remained silent, eyes forward as she watched the darkness.
Clara hummed softly. Reflex caused Michael to reach for the radio, but he stopped himself. If he wasn’t willing to turn on the lights, the radio would have to wait until they were out of town. Even though night had arrived, there was enough light to drive slowly through the thickening maze of the mechanical graveyard.
Something bumped into the front of the car, but Michael kept the vehicle going. As they moved on, the whine of fingers on glass as a groaner reached out for the Subaru made Clara scream. Dead eyes and diseased flesh watched the little girl. Head titled and mouth agape, it gnashed angrily as it struggled to get past the window.
Susanna was in the back seat like a slithering serpent, her feet kicking the rearview mirror as she hugged her daughter, surrounding her completely. Michael swerved a bit, giving the groaner a bump.
It was enough.
The highway was littered with the carcasses of machine and man alike. As they neared the next turn-off, the small family watched a staggering horde move just ahead, waiting for a moment as if expecting the stop light to suddenly come alive and grant them passage.
The mass of groaners was not what made his heart drop.
Heavy floodlights atop the overpass made Susanna squeak. Groaner-fearing folk would never be bold enough to flash about in the darkness; a point made all the more prominent by the sudden but inevitable gravity of attention from the groaners waiting for the turn signal.
The floodlights disappeared for a moment and Michael allowed his quick pulse a reprieve; this, however, did not last. The roar of the diesel engine was accompanied by the bouncing will-o-wisps of electricity as they circled around the off-ramp going south.
Michael turned on the lights to the Subaru and gunned it. The engine ratcheted up, squealing for a moment as the RPMs matched his urgency. The road no longer seemed calm. As the headlights danced over the asphalt mausoleum, heads rose with varying degrees of decay.
Abandoning the slow crawl, Michael veered right, driving right toward the on-ramp and the disabled street lights. The mob of groaners had moved onto the overpass, chasing the floodlights.
For a moment, Michael breathed easy. Maybe the truck hadn’t seen them. Maybe they weren’t Children. As he looked into the rearview mirror, he knew how this would end as he saw the heavy lights of the truck in pursuit.
IV
Day 148
T
he air outside had an ethereal quality, as if there was something waiting to take form just beyond the tree line. Michael had become accustomed to the silence. His wife would often sit quietly with their daughter, smoothing back her hair and humming a nameless tune.
Everyone was a stranger, even to themselves.
Night had settled.
Daylight frightened him the most. Nightmares were meant to be hidden in darkness. In the light of day, groaners were abstract art gone wrong, diseased sculptures fumbling to be real. Simple things were the most difficult to get over. Running water and the ease of electricity, the forgotten wizardry of flipping a switch, made moving from one room to another in the haunting hours after dusk a harrowing ordeal indeed.
The room in which they had barricaded themselves was bathed in slivers of light: a broken board here, a cracked pane there. Michael sat with his back to an overturned refrigerator that acted as a sentinel against the door behind him. Susanna and Clara sat in the center of the room, worn and faded playing cards set between them.
Pink headphones pressed down his daughter’s hair.
Their mute expressions changed little as his daughter placed a card down, and then his wife collected it. They were playing setback, a game Michael’s father had taught him decades ago. Susanna took neither pleasure nor heartbreak from the game. The far side of the room was littered in disheveled piles of food racks and overturned furniture collected from the rest of the convenience store.
The back room served its purpose well.
There was one window to the back that overlooked the forest just beyond. The front door had been boarded up long before the Hobbes family had taken residence. The chain interlocking the door was locked with a series of keyed and combination locks pilfered from what little stock remained.
As Clara won a hand, a brief smile lit up her face. Michael’s stomach sunk and he felt his eyes warm. In the months after the fall, he rarely saw his daughter smile. It was a gross injustice if there was e
ver any stock to be placed in the fairness of the world.
The laughter of children disappeared first.
Civilization was tethered by the stolen moments when death and disorder played no part. A newborn laughing upon seeing her mother’s face, a small boy throwing a ball to his father for the first time: The theft of these was unforgivable.
Standing, Michael walked around his wife and daughter, not wanting to disturb their rhythm. The door leading out into the main area of the convenience store was cast in a shadow. As he took a step closer to the door, the handle moved imperceptibly.
His heart thudded in his chest.
Waiting a moment, a thin whine echoed in his mind.
The handle jiggled again.
Michael took a few steps back toward his family, the back of his leg bumping into his daughter. She turned; her wide eyes were distant. He lifted her up in a smooth movement and touched his wife’s shoulder as he held a single finger to his lips.
The back window that faced the forest was clouded with triangles of dust that made a frightening kaleidoscope of the world outside. Michael approached the glass, tightening his embrace of his daughter.
There in the distance, just at the end of the tree line, stood a solitary figure. Matted hair was pressed against her shoulder. He could not see her eyes.
Michael knew she was of the stumbling variety.
He counted each breath.
The handle continued to shake, the sound like insects crashing into a lamp on a balmy night. The figure in the distance did not move. The dress she wore was torn in places––a Raggedy Ann doll brought to life.
The crashing of an object though the front window of the store drove Michael forward, abandoning his staring contest with the specter in the mist. A small closet just to the side of the back window provided the only clear exit, a diminutive window hidden atop an uneven monolith of artifacts of civilization.
Pushing aside the faded boxes, Michael urged his wife forward and handed his daughter to her for just a moment. With a few quiet grunts, they were out the window and moving around the side of the convenience store. Michael pressed a finger to his lips in warning as he crept close to the edge of the building.
