by Jones, K. J.
“No. Not that specifically. All of them. On all the home-video video sites. All that ‘zombies through the South’ stuff is gone. Pulled. From all the social media sites.”
“Offensive content.”
“People saying government censorship.”
“Of stoned people?”
“Or else something else is going on.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. The conspiracy theories abound.”
“Conspiracy theories are always everywhere,” said Phebe.
“So classes were canceled. We have some time off. But I'm not going one foot out that door until Zombie is gone from our streets, if that’s what’s really going on.”
“That gives you plenty of time to write your dissertation.”
“Nooo.” Syanna whined as she dropped face first into Phebe’s comforter. “Don't make me.”
“It's not me making you. If you want your master’s in science, it's you making you. If you want to go be a science officer in the Navy to pay off your student loans, you gotta do this.”
She rolled over onto her back. “I got everything else done.”
Pookie continued to yap outside. Syanna glared at the window and made a tisk sound with her tongue. “Does he do that all the time?”
“Every time he's out.”
“Too bad Mr. Monroe loves that little shit so much. It's a replacement for his wife. You know that, right?”
“Pookie keeps him company.”
“Who do we know that we can set the new divorcée up with?”
“No. I'm not helping you meddle.”
“I do good works when I meddle,” said Syanna.
“That's what you think.”
Syanna suddenly sat up with excitement. “Oh, but Zombie is all over the place. It's on Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune. We had a big conversation about it in class today. The prof was out sick and somebody forgot to get a replacement. So we had our own class and it was about Zombie. Kids were saying how it's totally everywhere. Some guy's father was on it back home and he was brought to the hospital and they won't even let his mom see him, he's so bad off. Guys were talking about their dealers, which is really stupid to admit you have a drug dealer in a classroom, ya know. Their dealers don't have it. It's like the hardest drug to find. Yet it’s everywhere, ya know? Weird, huh?”
Phebe stared off, thinking this information through. The doubt she felt when talking with Matt the other day crept back.
“Ho-lee shit, girl. My Lord Jesus.” Whenever Syanna Lynn said Lord, her thick drawl sounded like she was saying Lawd. “I'm not going anywhere near campus until they give the all clear. I'm gonna email my professors and express this to them. The risk outweighs everything else. There's talk of closing campus until people stop taking that stupid drug. Or whatever’s going on.”
“Did the Dean say that, about closing campus?”
“Rumor has it. At least for the rest of the week out of respect for the injured students and faculty and the trauma we all endured today.”
“Is everyone being melodramatic?”
“Sure. Like usual, sugar. We're all hysterical. Even people who weren’t there.”
“You really need to work on writing your dissertation.”
“Argh.” She dropped down onto the bed again. “I hate writing.”
“Sorry, but gotta be done. Your mentor has been asking for your rough draft for a while. Your mentor asks me about your rough draft.”
Syanna giggled.
Phebe continued, “By this time, you should be on a second or third draft with your committee's corrections and suggestions.”
“I have my committee.” Her head lifted and she looked at Phebe. “I told you that, right?”
“Yes. You stacked your committee with the easiest profs who adore you and turtles, yes, you told me.”
She blew out air. “Everything else is done. Got my field research done on my babies' babies and my library research.”
Her babies were turtles and their hatchlings. Seagulls liked to swoop down and eat hatchling turtles. Fish liked to gather at the surf to grab them. A baby turtle’s life was perilous from the moment it crawled out of the nest on the beach.
“That leaves the actual write up of the first draft,” said Phebe.
“What can I give you for you to write it for me?”
“You don't have money. You're in debt up to your eyes, like me. We won’t even have paychecks for the first decade of our careers.”
She stood up and stretched her back. “I’ll just steel your thesis and put my name on it.”
Phebe picked up a plastic tape dispenser and threw it at her.
Syanna took off, giggling. “Can't catch me,” she taunted from the hallway and giggled again.
“You’re a nut.”
Her face popped back in. “Love you.” She pulled the door closed.
“Write your dissertation.”
5.
The good thing about winter was no one on the beach. Five o'clock, the sun hung low. Peter Sullivan set out for a jog. He ran from the marina through a grid of neighborhood streets populated by beach houses on stilts. Marshland to his left. Tall grass swaying in the chilly breeze, and marsh birds doing their thing.
Marshland opened to beach. Then the dark waters of the Atlantic with a constant roll of surf. The horizon appeared as a sharp line, as if it was the edge of a flat Earth.
His legs burned with exertion. His sneakers sunk into the sand with each step.
He jogged just shy of the lapping surf. To his other side, sand dunes topped with swaying grass. Under him, tiny crabs hurried into their holes at sensing his foot fall.
A big dog appeared beside a dune. Its muscularity told it was probably a rottweiler.
He slowed his jogging pace, scanning the beach for an owner. Seeing no one, he looked beyond the dog for any faint figure of a person on the boardwalks.
The dog stopped. Its head turned in his general direction.
Peter slowed to a walk. No sign of a person. No voice calling a name.
The dog began to walk. Its head hung low.
Peter stopped. His stomach sent caution alarms. He looked around the sand for a weapon. A stick. Anything.
Something about how the dog moved, he had seen this before.
The breeze in his face brought a sound of growling.
“Aw, shit.”
He stepped back.
A hiccup-choke-bark that reminded him of the sound the creature Gollum made in Lord of the Rings.
Walking backwards, watching the dog, not wanting to make any moves that provoked it.
“Shit.”
The dog looked to be biting at invisible birds flying around its head.
“Motherfu ...” He had seen a lot of rabid dogs in Iraq. They shot those dogs.
The dog ran towards him.
“Fuck!”
Peter turned and ran as fast as his bad leg would go. Arms pumping. Lungs burning. Feet sinking into sand. The hood of his sweatshirt fell backwards.
Hearing the beast behind him, and closing the distance, he veered right. Cold ocean water soaked into his sneakers and socks. Turning to face the dog, he backed up further into the water. The surf hit the back of his legs, threatening to push him forward.
The dog tried to bite the water before leaping back. It tried different sections in search of a dry land path to him.
Foam bubbled from its mouth. Phlegm hung in strings.
“I can’t believe this.”
He scanned up and down the beach for anyone to help. The setting sun flashed against house windows. But no person or vehicles on the beach.
The dog paced, snarling at him, mixed with the weird Gollum barks. With each of those weird barks, its whole body jerked for a second, like a massive full body hiccup. It shook its head, spraying phlegm and foam. It made him think of a slobbery St. Bernard, and that brought the rabid St. Bernard of Cujo to mind.
“For fuck's sake, somebody.”
&nb
sp; The beach darkened. No figures moving in either direction.
He longed for a gun. Jogging on the beach while armed had never occurred to him. The biggest threat normally was getting conscripted into playing with a golden retriever.
He looked out at the water. To the north was the marshes and the marina.
On the beach, the dog wasn't tiring or distracted from him.
“Fuck me.”
His injured leg grew cranky from the cold water.
“Fuck me.”
He pulled off his hoody, then sneakers, socks, and sweatpants, letting them drop into the water.
“Fuck me.”
Wearing only boxer briefs, he braced himself, looking at the dark, cold water.
“Fuck me.”
He inhaled and exhaled rapidly to get his heart rate up and thus increase his body temperature. A final inhale of air, and he dove in.
Peter's injured leg screamed with pain. The knee locked up.
He came up beside the Molly's hull. There was nothing to grab on to. His muscles cramped. He couldn't trust his arms to lift him out of the water by rope alone.
Diving under the dock, he came up and grasped a diving board on a houseboat. The stern read Yankee Rose, Carolina Beach, NC. He lifted his weight by his arms. First attempt failed and he slipped back in the water. He could hear voices on board from the cabin, but couldn't get his teeth to stop chattering enough to call out for help. Again, he pulled himself up, and got high enough to throw his torso forward onto the dive board. He beat his hand against the fiberglass.
“Somebody there?” a male voice asked.
Peter slapped his hand against the bulkhead.
Retired Baby Boomer Hank Sawatsky peered down. “Holy crap. Sullivan.” He yelled over his shoulder. “Get blankets, Helen. It's Sullivan.”
Mr. Sawatsky helped him over the side.
Helen Sawatsky hurried out of the sliding glass doors, carrying a blanket.
“My God, Pete.” She wrapped the blanket around him. “Did you fall overboard?”
He shivered too much to speak.
The retired couple from New Hampshire helped him into the warm cabin and laid him on the couch. Mrs. Sawatsky wrapped him in more blankets and rubbed his arms as a mother would to a chilled child.
“Put the kettle on,” she told her husband.
6.
Syanna Lynn Claiborne needed to work on her dissertation. This was Phebe’s order to her before she left the house to go do whatever Madam PhD did. With Phebe out, Rebecca sick in bed, and Matt working ridiculous amounts of double shifts, there should be no distraction. So down to work.
Instead, Syanna wanted to make a grocery store run. To relieve her guilt, she decided it was for Rebecca's sake.
She looked in Rebecca's cupboard to see what she had. Soups bought earlier, among earth-crunchy granola cereals and painfully healthy snacks. She lifted on her tiptoes to see the next shelf, where Rebecca kept her herbal teas. She expected the teas to be running low. Rebecca always hit those hard whenever she felt sick. Looking through them, Syanna felt clueless on which ones would be best to buy. She texted Phebe, who was useless on that intel. Maybe Rebecca was awake enough to answer about that. Phebe texted to not bother Rebecca.
Syanna poured a glass of filtered water and headed up the stairs, wondering if Rebecca would like more tea right now. She'd have to get an answer on which one of the twenty thousand of them she wanted this time. Some had names of fruits from South America and tree bark from Africa.
At the top of the stairs, she turned down the hallway. Gently knocking on Rebecca's door, “Sugar? You awake?” She pressed her ear to it and couldn't tell if she was hearing anything or imagining it. “Coming in.” Her mother said those same things, and in the same sing-songy voice, whenever she was sick in bed.
I sound like Mother, she texted to her social media.
Inside the awfully cheerfully decorated room, Rebecca was in a comforter burrito. Syanna went to the nightstand, expecting to replace empty cups and glasses. To her surprise, everything was still full. Rebecca hadn't even taken a sip of her orange juice. Her tea sat untouched. That didn't seem good. She made a mental note to call her mother to talk about this. She put down the fresh water and took away the hot orange juice and cold tea. Then leaned over Rebecca to make sure she was still breathing. It was raspy breath, but she was breathing. There was drool all over the pillow.
She droolin like a Marine on leave jus back from war lol, her thumbs typed out on her smart phone.
Back out in the hall, gently closing the bedroom door, she went to her bedroom. She decorated in regal red and brown. Chocolate-covered cherries inspired her color scheme. Grabbing her laptop, she juggled the glass and mug and went downstairs. In the kitchen, she threw a Hot Pocket into the microwave for dinner and poured a cup of coffee with toffee-flavored creamer.
Yum hot pocket n toffee flav coffee. Good din-din.
Calling her mother, they talked about Rebecca's illness - no, not drinking liquids was bad, she needed to hydrate with the flu. Then about her father and the crazy things going on in Savannah that had Daddy going ballistic. Mother thought he was completely overacting, which he had a tendency of doing about home security. Mother declared all the trouble was the fault of the Mexicans and dark-skinned black people. Light skinned black Southerners were the worst with that. They got away with their lack of PC since it confused white people.
Mama’s usual lineup for anything having to do w/violence or drugs. Yikes! ROFL.
The kitchen clock ticked loudly as Syanna set up her laptop and books and notes at the kitchen table. She had her phone playing soothing jazz, hoping that would help her concentrate. She sat and was ready to go, when Mr. Monroe's yappy dog started barking his fool head off outside. Turning up the volume on the phone a bit more, she readied to start some typing. Looking from notes to the computer screen, she wrote one sentence, when a car alarm went off. She looked up at the ceiling and let loose a frustrated growl.
“Spencer,” she yelled. “Turn off your damn car alarm!” It had to be Spencer, who lived a couple of houses down with his big chocolate lab Glitzy. He was the only one who set his car alarm in the driveway. He was a nice enough guy - thirty-two, owned the house, worked for a bank - but he was uptight.
His house alarm suddenly blared. Now both alarms were going with two different clamoring wails.
“What in the hell!” She banged her palms down on the table and shoved the chair back as she got up. Crossing the living room, she went to the front door, unlocked the bolt and opened it. The chilly night air caused her to shiver. She pulled her sweater cuffs down over her hands and rubbed her arms.
The old man across the street came out of his house after turning on every exterior light. He stared diagonally across the street at Spencer's house, scratching his head on what was going on. Syanna stepped out to look across the yards and saw Spencer's car flashing its lights as the visual aspect of the alarm. She began to step across the sandy yard to check on things, when the old man signaled for her to stay. She watched him, trying not to laugh. The octogenarian walked on his spindly old legs across the street. He was playing big man. Not that she objected to a man doing what the Good Lord put them on Earth to do. But it was just funny, since Pookie could knock him over.
With that, she wondered why she didn't hear Glitzy. The big dog should be barking with all this commotion, as all the other dogs in the neighborhood were doing. Maybe Spencer and Glitzy went on a trip. But what she last heard from Rebecca, who visited him but never admitted to why she visited him, he had the flu. Indeed, he probably gave it to her. That was just Saturday. He recovered from the flu and went on a trip with his dog already? Today was only Wednesday. And he didn't take his car? That didn't add up at all.
The old man was at Spencer's car. She stepped out across the lawn towards the street to see better. Spencer's front door was wide open. The old man looked down at something in the driveway on the other side of the car. He suddenly
turned, almost throwing himself off kilter, and hurried across Spencer's lawn, off the curb and into the street towards his own house. He turned and signaled for Syanna to get into the house. Her brows raised. He continued to his house and rushed inside. She looked back at Spencer's place, wondering what that was all about. The old man stepped out of his front door with a wireless phone to his ear. He gestured to Spencer's house as he talked. Once the callc concluded, he dramatically waved for her to get back inside.
“Fine. Whatever.” She didn't really want to be involved. Normally, nosiness propelled her into everyone's lives. But with everything being so weird lately, best to leave things alone and tend to one's own business. She closed and locked the front door. And glanced at the metal baseball bat that leaned in the corner — the home security weapon.
The alarms kept going and she could hear dogs now howling. Chills rushed up her arms and she shuttered. Only an odd feeling. A feeling that compelled her to pick up the bat and carry it with her to the kitchen. She thought about going upstairs and getting her pistol out of its little safe under her bed. But there was no just cause for that. And what if Rebecca got up and saw the gun? She was very opposed to guns.
Back in the kitchen, she laid the bat on top of her notebooks, then went to her cupboard and brought out vodka. Seltzer water added and she strolled to the table sipping her vodka tonic. Phebe had an unopened Captain Morgan spiced dark rum in her cabinet, and that sounded really good. But taking alcohol from roommates without permission was high up on the roommate foul list. She could text Phebe and ask permission, but then the Dissertation Dictator would know she was drinking and not writing. She sat with her drink, baseball bat close by, and tried to reread the one line she had written.
Through all the sounds, somehow Pookie still managed to be loud and annoying. Syanna leaned back in the wooden chair and groaned. It was impossible to get anything done. Writing obviously was not meant to be this evening. Her mind went to what would be good to stream on the living room TV. Or she could mess around on the Internet. Do some window-shopping. Her twenty-fourth birthday was at the end of February and her parents would need help to buy the right things. She clicked the icon for the Internet.
