by Morris, Jacy
Later, while he was cleaning his rifle, he heard a pair of gunshots coming from the house next door. The house had been turned into a restaurant by the old lady that owned it. It was a two-story building that dwarfed his own little piece of real estate. Without thinking, he had rushed next door. He figured that anyone who could take a slab of pork and turn it into a saucy piece of heaven deserved his help. Once inside, he found the owner of the house lying dead on the floor, and when he ventured upstairs, he found more of the dead scratching and clawing at the bathroom door. Blake was eager to test his hypothesis about headshots, so he put it to the test. When he was done, the bathroom door opened slowly to reveal a dirty homeless man lying on the floor, pills scattered about him. He had never seen the man before, but leaving him lying on the floor was no way for any man to die, so he had helped the man back to his place and gotten him back on his feet... all because he had heard those gunshots. Now he heard nothing.
Mort held out a candy bar to him, and he took it, muttering the words, "Thank you." He thought the words came out alright, but he couldn't be sure. He wondered what would happen to his speech over time. He already had a bit of a country boy accent. As he tore open the yellow wrapper and took a bite from a Butterfinger, he wondered if he would eventually come to sound like those deaf people he had seen and heard throughout his life, his speech accurate enough to be understood, but a dead giveaway to the entire world that he couldn't hear.
He convulsed with a silent laugh. He supposed there wouldn't be much of an "entire world" left to hear him by the time that happened.
Blake chewed his candy bar, the fake, crispy, peanut butter bits getting crushed into the crowns of his molars. He dug some of the compressed material out with his fingernail, and then proceeded to try and read the lips of the two girls across from him. He might not be able to hear, but he was determined to learn to read lips. He had been practicing for days. It seemed like such an easy thing, but so far, his efforts had been unsuccessful. He thought he was making progress. Given enough time, Blake could do anything.
****
Unaware that they were being spied upon, Joan and Clara continued to talk about random shit. It was all they had. They kept away from topics like family, friends, religion and politics. All these things were dead and gone. Now there was only time and memory. For now, they were comfortable with that.
"Alright," Joan said, snacking on her own candy bar. "We're in a movie theater, so what movie do you wish you could watch right now?"
Clara, the wilder, more demonstrative of the two, leaned back on her elbows, and looked up at the square of light in the ceiling. She thought about it for a while, and then her lips spread in a smile as she said, "SLC Punk!"
"What the hell is that?" Joan said.
"Oh, come on. You've never seen SLC punk?"
"Nope."
"I wish I had a DVD player and some electricity. I'd make you watch it right now."
Joan shrugged her shoulders in an easy way. Though their initial meeting had been somewhat rocky, if not absolutely nightmarish, the two had settled into a comfortable friendship. Clara had gotten used to Joan and her somewhat reserved ways. As the days had wore on, she had found that Joan wasn't actually all that bad of a person, though, in her alone times, her dark times, she still blamed her for what had happened to Courtney, her longtime boyfriend. He was always going to turn into one of the dead, and she knew that, but the grudge would bubble up in her heart whenever she thought about the fact that Joan had essentially robbed her of her last moments with the love of her life.
But it was the end of the world. Friends were few and far between. And to be honest, Clara didn't have a lot to pick from. There was Blake the deaf guy, Mort the homeless dude, Lou the serious black man, Katie the whatever-the-hell-she-was psycho chick, and then a bunch of people that she still thought of as essentially kids in the form of Amanda, Chloe, and Rudy, not to mention the poor little girl curled up in a ball to her left, Jane, the sole-survivor of her family. The pickings were slim for best friends.
"Ok, what about you?" Clara asked.
"Umm... I'd want to see Titanic."
"Titanic? What for?" Clara was incredulous. She couldn't believe Joan's answer. It only served to underscore just how different they were.
"What's wrong with Titanic? Titanic is a great movie. It's the love story of our time," she said, defending her choice.
"Titanic is a pile of crap. Think about it. How would you feel if your grandmother or great-grandmother or whatever died on that boat, and some asshole came along and made a fictional movie out of it, turning one of the biggest disasters of the last century into some cheesy love story to make teenage girls melt in their seats? Doesn't that disgust you?"
"Well, I never thought of it like that."
Clara felt mollified.
"But I don't care. I'd still want to see Titanic."
Clara threw her arms up in the air.
From across the way, Blake said, his voice a little louder than it needed to be, "I'd watch The Grey."
Joan looked shocked. She stood up and walked over to Blake, and knelt down before him. She snapped her fingers next to his ears, but there was no response. "Can you hear us?"
Blake shook his head. "Huh?"
Joan spoke louder and slower this time. "Can you hear us?"
"I can make out some words, but not all."
"That's great," Joan said, clapping Blake on the arm. Clara thought she seemed genuinely happy for him. She knew it still gnawed at her that she hadn't been able to fix the damage that was done to his ears. She had lost count of the times Joan had begun a sentence with the phrase, "If only." If only she had the proper materials. If only she had the proper tools. If only she was still at the hospital.
In his too loud voice, Blake looked up at her and said, "Titanic sucked."
They all had a laugh, except for poor little Jane, curled in a ball and squeezing her eyes shut and wishing she could do the same to her ears.
Chapter 2: The Tale of Little Jane
Little Jane, that's what she had been called since before she could even remember. For the first thirteen years of her existence, her family had lived a charmed life in Portland's Pearl District. They lived in a penthouse at the top of a twenty-story building.
The walls were plain white, jutting up out of bright hardwood floors that shone in the sunlight that poured into the east-facing apartment in the morning. The apartment consisted of three large rooms, one for her parents Brian and Sarah, one for her sister Ruby, and one for herself. The furniture was all high-end, modern stuff, chosen for its uniqueness. Each piece was a one of a kind inspiration from local artisans.
Her room was a fifteen-by-twenty foot palace filled with everything that she could ever want. Little Jane's bed was massive, soft as puppy fur, and had more pillows than an entire family would need. Her desk was an ornate antique that her mom said, "Cost a lot of money." Its ancient wood surface was covered in scars and scratches, some of which she had done herself when she wasn't paying attention. On it sat her laptop, her cell phone on its charger, and her iPad. The walls were covered with posters of singers and pop stars that her dad claimed would never last as long as the Beatles had, but she didn't care. She loved them now, and she would always love them she swore to herself.
Scattered amidst the posters were pictures of her own art. She had been painting since she was little. One of her first memories was of her mom guiding her hand around the canvas with her own soft hands. They had seemed so big when she was little. Little Jane had grown up drawing. She could draw anything, and her walls proved it. Here was a picture of Sir Furgus, her mom's elderly cat that had passed away a couple of years ago. She still smiled at the picture. It was almost perfect, except for the eyes. Over here was a painting of her sister when she was five and smearing her birthday cake on her own face. She had recreated it faithfully from a photo. Here was a picture of Lloyd Andrew, the dreamiest member of the boy band N2U. She had recreated his hair just
right, the little spikes jagging this way and that. His chipmunk cheeks and upturned nose were perfectly formed, but still, there was something about the eyes that she just hadn't gotten right.
On her 14th birthday, she had invited her friends over to hang out in her room. School had just gotten out, so she was only able to have a handful of friends over, as many of them had already taken off on vacations to various locations around the world, like Miami, Paris, and Tokyo. Hannah had even gone to Africa to go on a safari, although that didn't sound like much fun to Little Jane. She didn't like the thought of anyone shooting animals.
The excitement of that morning was still fresh in her mind, as her mother buzzed around getting everything just right, inflating balloons, hanging streamers, and putting together colorful gift bags. Her father had taken her out on the town to do some clothes shopping on one of his rare days off. He was a partner in a fancy design company. She didn't know much about it, but she knew he got paid well enough that the thousand-dollar bill they racked up in Pioneer Place didn't even put a dent in his wallet.
When they had come back, Little Jane dropped her bags on the floor and put her hands up to her face in mock surprise. They were all there. Grace, Caitlyn, and Jude yelling "Happy brithday!" in a tone that made her parents plug their ears with their fingers. It was going to be the best birthday party ever, or at least that's what she'd thought before the trouble began.
After devouring a couple of pizzas, showing off her clothes to her friends, and squealing so much that her father's face began to turn red, they were all sent up to the roof of The Encore, as their building was called. It was a modern structure, twenty floors that curved and gave a great view of the river and the East side of the city, the side that her father called the "dirty side," but from this distance it looked clean enough. It was like her own personal ant farm, except instead of ants, it was filled with people and cars zipping about. After Little Jane and her friends had changed into their bathing suits, they were ready to go.
"Bye, Dad," she had said as he sat on the black leather couch watching the news. He didn't even say goodbye to her. He was too absorbed by the images on the television. Her father turned towards the kitchen, where her mother was cleaning up their mess, and asked, "Honey, have you seen this?" Her mother was too busy to reply, and her father turned back around, glued to the TV.
Little Jane shrugged her shoulders, and with her cadre of friends all dressed in their swimsuits, they rode the elevator up to the roof of The Encore. The water in the pool was blue as blue could be, and despite the fact that they weren't supposed to go up on the roof without adults, and they weren't supposed to run around the pool, they did it anyway. What the heck? she thought. It was her birthday, her very own special day.
Being rich and living in one of the most expensive buildings in Portland, on the top floor no less, meant that you could basically do whatever you wanted to whenever you wanted to. The signs on the pool that included sayings like "No running" and "Adult must be present at all times" meant nothing to them. That sign was for other people. Who those other people were didn't necessarily matter to Little Jane.
Because of Little Jane's belief that she could do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted, she didn't care that there was an old man lying on a lounge chair completely clothed, his arm hanging down onto the smooth concrete below him. They only spared him a glance, and then proceeded to break every rule on the tiny placard attached to the wall. Grace charged down the pale concrete, launched herself into the air with a squeal and landed in the deep water at the north end of the pool. Little Jane did the same, bringing her knees up to her chest in perfect cannonball form. Despite the name Little Jane, the splash she made was large, loud, and utterly satisfying.
As she kicked up to the surface of the pool, she noticed that the man was no longer there. Good, she thought. Old guys were creepy anyway. Now they had the place completely to themselves. Her thoughts floated away as Caitlyn swam over to her and attempted to dunk her head underneath the water. She fought valiantly, her legs kicking, their squeals ricocheting off the rooftop and into the city sky where they disappeared. Their faces shone in the sun, wet and sparkly like jewels.
Jude and Grace joined in the fun, and soon they were all alternating between coughing and sputtering as they attempted to playfully drown each other. Little Jane was having a great time, and then she felt something odd. Despite the fact that she could see her friends in front of her, she had felt something brush her leg. It had felt like a hand.
"Stop, you guys," she said, trying to calm her friends down so that she could figure out what had just brushed against her. But it was too late. While they were still splashing around, she felt pain as a hand wrapped around her ankle and pulled her under the water. Her nose, mouth, and lungs filled up with water. She kicked and screamed, her voice coming out as nothing but bubbles, and then she was free.
She struck out for the edge of the pool, away from her friends. She hauled herself up onto the smooth tiled edge of the pool, the water sliding off her skin to be replaced by the heat of the sun. On the edge of the pool, she coughed and gasped, trying to tell her friends something, something important. But she couldn't get the words out. All she could do was point, but they were all too busy dunking each other. She gagged as water, escaped from her lungs and filled her throat, and then she saw Caitlyn dunk Grace... and Grace didn't come back up.
"He's in the water!" she wheezed. Her friends didn't hear.
She heard Caitlyn and Jude giggle, as if Grace were playing some sort of joke. The water became still, and then it happened. A slow bloom of red appeared in the sparkling blue water, spreading out from two dark shadows in the deep end of the pool.
"Get out of the pool!" she yelled. Caitlyn and Jude swam to the sides of the pool, arms flailing in panic, and crawled out.
"What the fuck is going on?" Jude said. No one responded to her profanity. It seemed appropriate at the time, as they stood on the edge of the pool, watching the crimson cloud grow in the pool.
"There's something in the pool," Little Jane said.
Caitlyn began to panic. "What do we do?"
Before they could answer, a shape appeared in the shallow end of the water. Grace's body popped up, floating facedown, her black hair splayed around her head. Little Jane and the others moved to fish her out of the pool, but before they could, another shape appeared. A low dome of gray hair jutted from the water, and then a forehead, and then two bloodshot eyes, then a nose, and then a mouth, a chewing mouth, with a chunk of pink flesh hanging out of it.
It was the old man, and he was coming for them. He moved towards them, his eyes drawn by their screams. They forgot about Grace, floating in the pool like a neglected pool toy. They ran through the gate, their wet feet slapping against the concrete, water dripping from their bodies. They slammed to a stop at the elevator, throwing glances over their shoulders as the man emerged from the water, still chewing.
Little Jane pounded on the call button, but the doors didn't open.
"Press the button," Caitlyn yelled.
"Oh, God. Oh, God," Jude repeated over and over.
Little Jane had no words. She continued to press the button.
The man was out of the pool now. Only ten feet separated them from the shambling form. Each step the man took produced a squishing noise, and water oozed out of his waterlogged shoes, his pants clinging to his legs like wrapping paper around a present.
"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God," Jude chanted, her hands balled into fists and placed against her mouth. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the man.
Caitlyn pressed herself into a corner, as far away from the man as she could get. Little Jane muttered curses under her breath as if they had the power to deliver the elevator quicker.
Then the man was there, his prunish hands reaching for Jude, who kept muttering "Oh, God," even as his hands grabbed her throat. The man bent down to Jude's face, and she closed her eyes, as if that would make the man go away.
&nbs
p; "Leave her alone," Little Jane yelled, but it didn't matter. The old man opened his mouth, and took a bite out of Jude's cheek. Her chanting was replaced by screaming, and then Little Jane sprung into action. She pushed the man backwards, and Caitlyn, inspired by Little Jane's actions joined her. Together, they fought the old man, his fumbling hands always reaching out to them. They succeeded in pushing him away from Jude, who slunk to the ground like a sandbag, her hand to her face, and blood spurting through her fingers.
Behind them, they heard the ding of the elevator.
"As hard as you can," Little Jane yelled, as they pushed the old man backwards. He stumbled over his squishy shoes and tumbled to the concrete. Without speaking, Caitlyn and Little Jane picked Jude up off the ground and carried her into the elevator. Jude slumped to the ground again, as Little Jane let her go and pounded on the button to close the door. The old man was getting to his feet again, and then he was gone as the doors closed.
