Notes From the End of the World (2 page)

Chapter 2

Seven months earlier

Cindy

“I saw you checking out his ass,” Melissa says, quickening her pace to keep up with me.

“You’re not supposed to notice,” I tell her.

“Hard not to. You’re practically drooling.” She falls behind again and I slow, allowing her to catch up. For me, running is as easy as breathing. I’ve been on the cross-country team for the past two years, and have played soccer since I was eight. Not so much for Melissa, who looks awkward in her heavy jewelry and overly dressy top that is not made for doing much more than shopping.

I’d assumed morning gym class would be a disaster, but that was until I realized Nick Thatcher was also in the class. Now, having to redo my hair and makeup is a reasonable trade-off.

Nick runs easy, his strides long and sure. The lean muscles in the backs of his legs flex and relax, his auburn hair swings. For gym, he always wears these incredible red shorts that hug his hiney just right. Watching him makes the forty minutes pass by in a blink.

Of course, watching (as discreetly as possible, by the way) is all I can do. He belongs to Audrey. I’m just the kid sister, hanging like a shadow in his peripheral vision. He’s nice to me because he has to be.

The rest of the day is a blur of boredom. It isn’t special, it’s just Tuesday. All through lunch, Melissa chatters about some dumb pop singer I’ve barely heard of. I prefer Indie rock—pop music is just plain dumb. Worse, Melissa’s blonder, tanner clone, Eva Adams, tries to set me up with Jake Wylie, who’s only forty pounds overweight and has a better set of hooters than even Audrey has. This is the second set-up in a month—Mom set me up with a client’s creepy son two weeks ago. She was desperate to get the listing on a big commercial building on the other end of town. The owner’s son, Russell, wasn’t exactly hot and what he lacked in looks he made up in obnoxiousness. To make things worse, I called Mom a pimp, only half-kidding and was grounded from the Internet for two days.

Russell really knew how to make a girl feel good about herself. The first thing he asked, after meeting me and then meeting Audrey was, “How does it feel to be the sister of the hottest chick in your school?”

I should’ve kicked him in the balls, but instead I said nothing and faded into the velvet curtains of the Palm Dale movie house.

The bad experience with Russell aside, hurting someone’s feeling for no better reason than to make a couple of shallow cheerleaders giggle isn’t my style. Screw them.

I still have two years to go before getting out of Palm Dale. Two long, boring years of listening to the same boring blather from the same boring people every day. Worse, in a year, Nick will be gone to a college a thousand miles away, if he’s smart. Seeing Audrey go won’t be nearly as bad.

To round out a perfectly shitty day, Audrey complains about dropping me off at the hospital after school, although it’s only a couple of miles out of the way.

***

The first of the infected bursts through the double doors of the E.R. shortly after four p.m. There’s no soccer practice on Tuesdays, so I volunteer at Mercy General Hospital.

I think I recognize the guy, but there’s no way to be certain. Everything moves too fast—I can’t get a proper look at him. Every time the cluster of bodies around him parts enough for me to see, his face contorts into this enraged snarl. That kind of look isn’t common in Palm Dale. People here don’t become enraged. They get miffed, peeved and occasionally, they get pissed off. But enraged? That’s about as common as a meteor strike. This is fucking scary, tear-your-face-off anger.

The other thing that hits me, aside from the crazy-person expression, is the color, or
lack
of color, in his face. It’s a shade of gray that can only be associated with death. Living people just don’t look like that. Even his eyes hold that same lack of color. They’re as pale as the skin on a fish’s belly.

Maybe he’s a real estate agent or works at the bank. His suit looks expensive despite the condition it’s now in—tattered, wrinkled, the sleeve missing from one arm. He’s also missing a loafer and his long, skinny legs flail wildly on the gurney. Something dark dots his pant legs like spilled paint.

The stink of roadkill rises from him, filling the narrow entrance corridor. I want to gag, but what does that say about a girl who plans to go to med school?

Two nurses--heavy-set and usually talkative Jolee and the smaller, but equally exuberant Sara, struggle with Mr. Grayface’s flying arms. Dr. Jacobs joins the fray and is instantly struck in the side of the head by Grayface’s arm. His glasses clatter to the floor, smashing under the wheels of the gurney.

Jolee cries out as Grayface shoves her to the side. She sags against the wall, her bright red hair coming free of the pretty comb she always wears, hiding her horrified face.

Sara makes a valiant attempt to secure both arms, but it’s useless. He writhes, shaking her this way and that, until she stumbles backward and falls, her head striking the floor with a dull, sickening thud.

I run to her and help her to her feet, which is no easy task. Poor Sara has the look of someone who is suffering from a concussion as I pull her away from the melee.

“You’re in no shape to help them now,” I tell her, stating the obvious.

Dr. Jacobs somehow manages to fasten the belts across the man’s thrashing legs. Grayface howls and whips his head violently from side to side, saliva, sweat, and blood misting the air.

“Get him a sedative. Now!” Dr. Jacobs barks.

Jolee vanishes down the hallway. A security guard dashes past us and throws himself across the crazy man’s torso, forcing him back to the gurney. “Christ! Get those cuffs off my belt and hand them to me,” he shouts. He must outweigh Grayface by thirty pounds, but it doesn’t matter. Grayface flings him away like he’s tossing away a rag doll.

Grayface then snatches Dr. Jacobs by the sleeve of his labcoat and it’s all over in an instant. Like a rabid animal, he bites into Dr. Jacobs’ forearm. Shaking his head, the madman tears away cloth and flesh. Dr. Jacobs sinks to the floor, blood shooting from his wounded arm toward the ceiling like water escaping a broken hose. His face matches the color of his white coat as he places his hand over the gash, attempting to slow the flow of blood.

Then Dad’s here. “Get back, Cindy. Don’t come near.” He yanks on a pair of latex gloves and rushes to his friend.

Grayface’s legs escape the belts. He springs from the gurney and starts toward for my dad. Screaming, I rush forward. I don’t know what the hell I think I’m going to do. Looking back on it, I realize how stupid that was. It don’t matter, anyway. The security guard puts a bullet in the man’s forehead before he takes another step.

Everything goes quiet. Shock is as contagious as a virus. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I just stand there, staring like a dumb kid. I want my dad, but he’s already vanished down the hallway with Dr. Jacobs, leaving a wide trail blood on the floor behind them.

Later, as Dad drives home, both of us silent and still a little in shock, that it occurs to be that I watched Dr. Jacobs die today. He isn’t dead yet, but his fate’s sealed. Just like the rest of the world. It’s just a question of time. The N-Virus is no longer news, rumors, and things that happen to other people in other cities. It’s real.

It’s everywhere and there’s no hiding from it anymore.

***

Audrey stands in the doorway of my bedroom as if she’s afraid to come all the way in, brushing her hair so hard that I wince with every stroke. She always brushed like that—as if she was angry with her own hair. Obviously, it doesn’t hurt—her hair’s gorgeous. Thick and dark, a sharp contrast to my own pale blonde locks. My hair’s too fine and straight to keep in a proper ponytail. Of course, Audrey’s opposite of me in most ways. She always looks good—even when she’s ready for bed, dressed Dad’s Duke Blue Devils t-shirt that’s at least three sizes too large and a pair of boy shorts. Without makeup, she’s still hotter than I can ever imagine being. I have to put on makeup just to look like I’m old enough to drive. I’d come to terms with that a couple of years ago. Audrey’s the pretty one and I’m the smart one. At least I have something.

Dad told me once that people lose their looks a lot sooner than they lose their minds. That’s good enough for me.

“So, you didn’t get anything on you, did you?” Audrey raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Blood? Spit? Snot?”

I close my laptop and move it to the desk, then sink down on the bed. “No. I didn’t get anything on me. But Dr. Jacobs was bitten on the arm.”

A flash of sadness crosses Audrey’s face, but it’s gone before I’m sure I’ve really seen it. We’d known Bill Jacobs and his wife Maureen our entire lives. The Jacobs have two sons (who are really cute, by the way) in college. Dr. Jacobs always had grape Dum Dums tucked away in the pocket of his labcoat.

“That’s too bad.” She frowns. “Do you think he’ll turn into one of them?”

“I hope not. But Dad says probably. They have him quarantined.”

“And they shot the guy in the head?”

“Yeah,” I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a time when I wish I could have an instant memory loss button. I’d lose today and never miss it.

“Wow. That was weird.” Audrey’s not very good at compassion. Once, we had a cat named Felix who was killed by a Doberman that had escaped his kennel. She said the same thing then.

“Mom wants you to quit until this N-Virus thing blows over.” She stops brushing her hair, twists it up into a loose bun, then clips it. “I don’t understand why you bother with that volunteering stuff, anyway. Why does it matter so much? Helping people, I mean.”

I shrug. After today’s events, I wonder that myself. “I want to see whether I’m cut out for it. Dad’s happy with being a doctor. I think I would be, too. Besides, helping people is what you’re supposed to do.” Then I smile and add, “If you’re
normal
, that is.”

“Who said? People are shit, little sis. You need to do what makes
you
happy, not what other people expect. Besides, nothing’s important enough to risk your own skin. You know, for a brainiac you can be really dumb sometimes.” One of her backhanded compliments. This is as good as I’ll ever get from my big sister.

“It’s what I want.”

“Okay,” Audrey answers. “You know, being normal is overrated.” That’s it. She’s gone back to her room, across the hall, the door closing behind her.

I sink back down onto the bed, pick up my Kindle from the bedside table and switch it on, staring at the screen, not reading. The image of Dr. Jacobs’ terrified face refuses to leave my mind. What if that had been Dad? Or me? What then? What’ll happen if one of us catches the N-Virus? I’m not sure any of us could function if we lost one. My family is like a car. If we lose a wheel, and all of us will be stuck.

***

Later, Dad pops into my room and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Let’s not tell your mother what happened today, okay?” he says. “You know it’ll scare her.”

I nod. “I know. I’m not sure I would want to, anyway. Talking about it means I have to think about it.” I laugh nervously. “I’m definitely don’t want to think about it.”

“But it’s hard not to, isn’t it?” Dad asks. He strokes my hair just as he used to when I was a little girl.

He always seems to know what’s going on in my head. We’re connected, the two of us. Just like Audrey and Mom are connected.

“I see it every time I close my eyes,” I whisper.

“It gets easier, but you never get used to it,” he tells me, “but that’s part of being a doctor.”

Chapter 3

September 14

Cindy

The next morning Mom opts for NPR instead her usual morning jazz. She’s an odd one sometimes—she has this impression that relaxing music will give us a good start to our school day. She’s done this since Audrey was getting ready for kindergarten, and I was still running around in Pull-Ups. It’s never worked with Audrey, as far as anyone could tell, but Mom will never admit it. At least she doesn’t rub Geranium oil on our foreheads to help keep us “balanced,” like Grandma does when we visit her. Grandma claims to be a practicing witch. Dad tends to agree, but he’s only shared that with me. Audrey would blab and Mom would get pissed if they heard him say it.

I’ve changed my mind. If the four of us are a car, then Dad and I are a bicycle. Does that make any sense?

The rich, smoky scent of coffee fills the air, something I love, although I’m not a big coffee drinker. My friends sip cups of coffee when they hang out at the mall, working so hard to look cool and adult. I just don’t care about that. Give me a chocolate shake any day.

Audrey emerges from upstairs looking more prepared for a photo shoot than a Wednesday at Palm Dale High School. Dressed in a short, expensive plaid skirt and a Hollister t-shirt that’s small enough to fit a toddler, she shoots me a look as she peels a banana. “You’re wearing that?”

I have on a perfectly respectable pair of pink Ralph Lauren Bermuda shorts and a white blouse. Besides my Keds are sparkling white.

“Yeah, I’m wearing this,” I mutter. “National dress-like-a-hooker day isn’t until next week. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“Cindy!” Mom cries.

Dad laughs behind his iPad.

“Dyke,” Audrey retorts. Mom doesn’t say anything to her and I’m not surprised. Mom never calls her out.

I’m terrible at witty comebacks or even the bitchy ones Audrey’s so good at dishing out. I’m good for about one a month, if that. It doesn’t matter. The news starts and Mom turns the radio louder.

“Thompson health officials announced the county is now in a State of Emergency due to the Necro-Mortosis Virus epidemic. Thompson County Director of Health and Human Services, Isaiah Neville, said this week eight more deaths related to the virus has brought the total count inside the county up to eighteen so far.”

Audrey starts to say something else, but Dad stops her. “Shhh. Wait.”

Audrey doesn’t like to be shushed. She pulls a pissed-off face and pours herself a cup of coffee. Smiling, I finish my Honey Bunches.

“The virus has now been reported in all fifty states, resulting in more than 300 confirmed deaths. The number of causalities has reached triple digits in parts of Europe, but those numbers may be higher, given the nature of the disease.

“The risk to both citizens and Healthcare workers is extremely high during an N-Virus outbreak. Apart from Necro-Mortosis contagion from bites, exposure can occur through exposure to bodily fluids such as blood, saliva, mucus, and semen.”

“Eww,” Audrey says. “Who would want to screw a zombie?”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Audrey,” Mom tells her.

“In related news,” the newscaster goes on, sounding strangely cheerful for such a newscast, “Pro-Life advocates have begun protests in several Southern and Mid-Western states arguing the ethical ramifications of putting down infected victims. More and more areas are moving to a stable-system, often adjoining established cemeteries. This system allows the infected victims to remain in safety until their bodies expire naturally.”

Mom sits down at the kitchen table next to Dad. Looking worried, she nibbles an overly-toasted half of English muffin. The sun hits her just right and for a moment, she looks as young as Audrey. Both have that exotic olive skin color and dark hair. I’m fair like Dad, which isn’t such a bad thing, aside of the stigma blondes’ carry. Of course, Mom’s good looks come at the hands of Dr. Warner, his little friend Botox, and an open checkbook. She’s in real estate, after all. Top-sellers can’t go around looking like hags.

“The Wood Lawn Cemetery has just purchased the big piece of land adjoining the back side of the property,” she says. As a commercial broker, she always knows what new businesses are coming to town. “They will be adding those stables. They’re calling it the Pastures. Isn’t that strange? The Pastures.”

“They’re just going to put the dead out in a field to walk around?” I don’t like the sound of that. Something about it just bites at me, no pun intended. The idea of dead loved ones just stumbling around in a cow pasture is well…sickening.

“Sounds homey,” Dad comments brightly. He takes a sip of coffee and glances over his tablet at me. I read his face. He’s thinking about what happened at the hospital yesterday.

“What would you want to do if it were someone you loved?” Mom asks.

“I couldn’t bear ‘putting them down,’ as they call it.” I can tell she’s thinking about Grandma. She mentioned just the other night bringing Grandma to our house until the epidemic is over, but Grandma’s too independent for that.

“We all knew it would come here eventually,” Dad says, putting his iPad down. “We can pretend it won’t, but it’s stupid to fool ourselves. Better to be safe. I want to call a family meeting this evening.”

“A family meeting?” Audrey complains, following that with a sarcastic gagging sound.

Dad ignores her. “Don’t make plans. Be here for dinner. This means you, Audrey.”

“Yippee,” she whispers, picking up her car keys and her book bag. “Get your things, if you want a ride.”

***

Somehow, over the course of the morning’s news and subsequent plans for the dreaded family meeting, I manage to miss the real news of the day. The talk around school was that Sean McKinley, the “super-hot” star of the
Ghost Chronicles
has contracted the N-Virus. His smooth, little teenaged face graces many a locker around Palm Dale High. Frankly, Sean isn’t my type. He’s way too perfect for me. Boys prettier and more delicate than I am don’t interest me very much.

“Did you hear about Sean?” Amy Gerber always calls television stars by their first names as though she knows them personally. Annoying, but I’ve learned to live with it. We all have our silly little quirks, I suppose. Mom calls them “personality traits,” a nicer term for it, I suppose. Either way, later I’ll learn how I miss those little quirks.

“No. What’s up?” I slide into my desk, flip open my notebook and pull out my biology homework. Everyone else files in, laughing and chatting leisurely—Mrs. Bell’s always late to begin first period. Rumor has it she drinks and stays in the girl’s bathroom until everyone has cleared out, sucking down cheap wine. I find that hard to believe. She looks more like a vodka drinker.

Amy wraps the end of her straight brown hair around her pencil like it’s a curling iron, as if it’s going to give her straight hair some bounce. Another funny habit, but she’s done that since first grade. I love Amy, but she’s still such a little kid—she hasn’t changed since middle school. She’s an only child, spoiled, but then again, every kid in Palm Dale is spoiled. Amy hasn’t been out with a boy yet, which is even worse than I am. I’m not exactly Miss Popularity like Audrey, but I’ve been on a couple of (rather awkward) dates. Either way, I’m not desperate enough to go to the mall with Jake Wylie, no matter that Eva and Melissa think.

“Sean has the N-Virus. He’s already turned, according to the E-Network,” Amy whispers.

I feel a little sick to my stomach, but part of me still doesn’t believe it. “I’m sure that’s a mistake.”

“No. They’re planning a telethon to raise awareness. It’s gonna be on TV Saturday night.
Everybody
’s going to be on it.”

“Raise awareness?” That’s stupid. People are dying of this virus, but it suddenly matters just because some silly celebrity has contracted it? I sigh. “If people aren’t aware of the N-Virus by now, then they’re idiots.”

“Why are you mad?” Amy asks, furrowing her brow. “Sean McKinley is hot!”

“
Was
hot.” I immediately wish I hadn’t said that. It’s cruel—not to Sean, but to Amy. “Sorry, Amy. It’s just…they brought an N-Virus victim into the hospital yesterday, just after I started my shift. It was terrible.”

“W-what happened? What did you do?”

I start to tell her about it, although I know better than to say too much. Dad doesn’t like for me to tell people at school about what I see at the hospital any more than he wants me to tell Mom.

Suddenly, Mrs. Bell’s there at the front of the classroom and I’m off the hook for the time being.

“Now, class. Take out last night’s questions and pass them forward while I take attendance.”

Amy leans closer to me. “What was it like?” she asks again.

“No talking, Amy,” Mrs. Bell snaps.

“At lunch,” I whisper. Lunch is three hours away. I only hope Amy might forget before then.

***

Of course, Amy doesn't forget as quickly as I hope and I try avoiding her as long as I can. I take my bag lunch (turkey, Swiss and broccoli sprouts on rye on Wednesdays—Mom lives by schedules and healthy lunches) from my locker, scrape together enough change from the bottom of my book bag for a Diet Coke, and go out to eat alone on the football field bleachers.

At the far end of the field, a group of boys form pickup game of soccer. Part of me wants to join in, but there aren’t any other girls out there. I’ll feel stupid. Besides, from here, I can watch Nick without anyone giving me the third degree.

Nick isn’t half the soccer player I am, but he’s good enough. And that’s not being braggy, just truthful. Besides, boys with impossible blue eyes, perfect skin, perfect teeth, and better hair than I have don’t have to play like Messi to be interesting.

The sun beats down, warming the top of my head and my back through my thin blouse. The grass on the field below has just been mowed and the remaining morning dew glistens like little diamonds. I breathe in the sweet, green scent and for a moment a small, wondrous tingle of excitement oozes down my spine, just like when I was a little girl. Suddenly, I wish I could just skip the rest of school and just hang out in the sun, daydreaming.

Slowly chewing my sandwich, I create a silly imaginary scenario where Nick and I are all alone. Maybe Audrey has decided to see another guy or maybe she’s joined the circus—I don’t know or care. In that little five minute mind-movie, my sister simply gone.

I sip my Diet Coke, and then wad up the other half of my lunch and cram it back into the bag. Nick jogs by. Glancing my way, he waves, grinning. I wave back, relieved I’m far enough away that he can’t see how I blush. I hope he never learns I’ve been watching him like some lovesick twelve year-old.

Amy appears at the end of the bleachers, followed by Melissa and Eva. Brandi Allen, my one-time best friend, tags along a step behind. I try not to appear as disappointed as I feel.

“Cindy. What are you doing out here? You don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“I know.”

“It’s hot!” Melissa whines.

“I know,” I agree again. Sure, they’re my friends, but they’re really slow to catch on sometimes.

“Amy said you promised to tell us about the N-Virus guy,” Melissa presses.

“You never even mentioned it when I texted you last night,” Brandi says. She draws her phone from her oversized purse and scrolls through the messages as if to prove her point. She and I have played on the same soccer teams since we were in first grade. She’s good when she wants to be, but lately, she’s more worried about meeting new guys than scoring goals. We were nearly like twins for years, but the past year or so, we’ve drifted apart. I guess most people do eventually. I hate it…sort of.

It all started when I had my long hair cut shorter, just so we no longer looked like we were separated at birth. It’s since grown back out, but looking back now, Brandi must have taken that move as a slap in the face. Oh well. We’re all eventually going to go our own ways, anyway. High school is only a moment in the grand scheme of life. I remind herself of that almost every day.

Sometimes you aren’t aware of how much another person holds you back until you’re away from them. That was the way with me and Brandi. Brandi still wants me to wear my hair like hers, buy the same blouses and jeans. Even the same shoes.

Palm Dale High is already filled with clones and I’m not about to jump in and be another one.

Plus, Brandi has become slightly pudgy since summer and I’m not about to chunk up just to be a bestie. She claims she was having issues at home, but the only issue anyone really knows of is her addiction to white chocolate mochas from Starbucks.

“There’s not so much to tell,” I say. “A man came in the E.R. acting all weird.” Understatement of the year! I start down the metal stairs.

“Like in a movie? Was he a zombie, do you think?” Brandi asks, excited.

“He was just some guy.” I learned long ago it’s easy to lie to people who aren’t as intelligent as I am. Again, I’m not being braggy, only truthful. “He looked sick.”