Notes From the End of the World (5 page)

“You’re finished volunteering until we get this virus under control,” he says.

The sense of relief that washes over me is overwhelming and surprising. I’ve never quit anything—it’s one of my quirks, I suppose--and I’ve been determined not to quit volunteering, either. But how I want to be away from this hospital. I want to stop pretending I’m afraid of the dying and the undead. Dad is my out and I love him for it.

“Dad, I can’t breathe,” I say after a moment, my words muffled against his chest.

“Sorry.” He lets me go, but not before planting a kiss on top of my head, just like he used to when I was small. I’ll never volunteer again. However, this isn’t the end of my visits to Palm Dale Memorial.

Chapter 6

October 3

Cindy

School’s a mess. For most people, especially people like me, who’s gone to the same schools in the same community, with the same people their entire lives, school can become the only constant, the only comfort. It can be the only connection to a normal world when the world around them goes to hell.

I remember once, when I was in the eight grade, a terrible thunderstorm came up over the school. For a while, it felt as though we were at school at night. There were warnings of tornadoes in the area and the teachers grew as nervous as cats with the shits.

Either way, school was my constant, until now. Now, every day is like that dark day in the eight grade. The school is on continuous lockdown, from the morning bell until dismissal. Armed police officers escort us to and from our cars or the buses. We’re no longer allowed outside for lunch or even gym class. The track team is running laps in the gymnasium. Some of the dads stand guard around the fields during baseball and soccer practice, pacing back and forth like soldiers in golf shirts and boat shoes, armed with expensive hunting rifles and shotguns.

Dad says something terrible will eventually come of that arrangement. Someone is going to be shot and it isn’t going to be a Shambler. It’ll be over football or maybe it will be an accident. Either way, tragedy is so close—from the virus or from our own doing.

Attendance is noticeably down. The hallways are empty. People I used to see every day seem to have vanished. I wonder if they’ve contracted the virus. Did they turn? Most of my best friends are still coming, however, and as annoying as they are, I’m thankful they’re okay.

Still, the notion of girls just like myself wandering around, dead, but not quite dead, hungry for flesh… It’s a horrible thing to think of.

***

The evening unfolds like most other evenings. It’s one of those nights that ends up a “family” night. I sit on the sofa, reading my Kindle one moment and watching the tube the next. Audrey keeps her phone in her fist, texting constantly. There’s something stupid on television about the N-Virus. Mom drinks her glass (or glasses) of wine and Dad pretends he isn’t worried.

The atmosphere is heavy with tension and there’s this unspoken urge to be together. We’ll probably be over it by breakfast, but now it’s there and it’s real. If we we’re all together, we’ll be okay. We’re safe. Nothing, not even a virus, can touch us.

Everyone turns in early. I climb into bed, exhausted, despite the light soccer practice. I feel as if a stone has been placed on my back and the only relief is getting into my bed and pretending everything is normal for a few moments before I drift into sleep.

It’s soothing to hear my parents through the walls of my bedroom while I wait for sleep to come. After what is unfolding, just knowing they’re only feet away is comfort. Just like when I was very small and I fell asleep to the low sound of their voices. Whispers, a laugh. Sure, it’s voyeuristic and probably weird, at my age, but I’m not sure I care now how weird it is.

A person comes to learn what things spell comfort for them—the smell of their grandmother’s house, the sound of rain against the window, sunshine painting a soccer field in light and warmth. Christmas. The voices of your family.

Silence isn’t precious. It’s smothering and troubling.

But back to my parents. Like I said, I’m not a perv, but sometimes I want to know what they’re saying. Both Dad and Mom have a thing where they still want to protect me and Audrey from the truth. Still, it’s easy to regret listening sometimes.

“Everything is moving quickly. The virus is spreading at a faster rate than we anticipated it would here,” Dad says, and follows it with a tired sigh. “The hospital has become overwhelmed. And it’s only going to get worse.”

“How long do we continue to pretend life is normal?” Mom asks.

“As long as we can remain safe while doing it, I suppose.”

I hear the clink of Mom’s bracelets as she undresses for bed. “I doubt that will be very much longer.” A pause. The creak of the bed. “Still. It’s awful, don’t you agree? Especially what Johnson’s is planning to do with that cemetery,” she says.

“The Pastures is nothing out of the ordinary. It’s already happening in other areas. Besides, what would we do, if it were one of us? They’re still walking around. Are they alive? I don’t believe so. But they are not dead as we understand death. The patients I’ve seen were clinically dead, but…” Dad adds something else, but it’s too muffled to hear, and then, “…like another state altogether. Do you want to be the one to ‘pull the plug,’ so to speak?”

“Maybe they’ll find a cure and bring them back,” Mom says, briefly hopeful.

I strain, listening, hoping for the response I want to hear. Instead, I’m rewarded with silence. It hangs for a long moment, like a weight suspended in air.

“But what if there’s not? Do we just allow them to wander around, mad with rage and hunger until they rot away?” Dad’s voice grows more forceful. This is something I’m not used to hearing. The only person around our home who raises her voice is Audrey. I can almost see his face, his brows together, his mouth in a tight line. “You have to understand something, Meg. This isn’t a fucking cold.”

I decide not to hear any more. I’m sick to my stomach. I really should move my bed to the opposite wall, but then I’ll hear Audrey on the phone or Scype with her bitchy girlfriends or sweet-talking Nick because that’s what she does to get her way. Worse, I’ll hear her with Tommy Barker and that makes me sicker than anything else. Maybe I’m just stupid, but how is it so easy for some people to lie? Sure, everyone tells small, harmless lies. But lies like the ones Audrey tells Nick hurt.

Typically, the nights in Palm Dale are insanely quiet. I’ve had people who’ve moved here from other cities comment that the silence is disconcerting and something they have to grow used to. But the past couple of nights have been different. Somewhere close by, a police siren wails. A dog starts up, trying to compete. Before long, it sounds like a dozen dogs chiming in, each one trying to out-do the other.

Tired of the noises and the talk, I grab my Kindle, wedge the earbuds into my ears and listen to an older Muse album I’ve stored in my cloud. I scroll through the newest books I’ve downloaded. I’ve purchased every “realistic” zombie novel I could find, if there’s any such thing. Jonathan Maberry, Courtney Summers, Amanda Hocking. I even have Brooks’
Zombie Survival Guide
. I’m not sure what I stand to gain from these books—these people didn’t write stories anticipating an actual zombie apocalypse—but maybe I can get an idea. I tried video downloads a few nights again, but it was a brief experiment.
The Night of the Living Dead
is slow and cheesy and not especially interesting. Others, like the newer
Dawn of the Dead
and
The Walking Dead
are just so much like the real thing (I can’t believe I’m writing this), that I can’t watch, even though I know it’s a lot of makeup and syrupy blood. All I can think of is how horrible it would be to become one of those “things.”

I close my eyes and let the music fill my head and my mind. Soon, I drift off into a light sleep. I dream.

Nick’s outside, wandering around the front yard.

I tap on the window, excited to see him. He looks up at me.

He’s changed.

I wake, the earbuds tangled in my hair. My face is feverish and wet with slick tears.

Chapter 7

October 11

Cindy

I usually try to sleep late on Saturdays when we don’t have a soccer game, but this morning I wake as soon as the sunshine touches my window. I lie still for a moment, a rail of sunshine warming my face and my arm. The house is still quiet. Mom and Dad are still in bed. For a few moments, I listen to the nothingness that fills the house and pretends things are perfectly normal. Outside, I think I can hear little kids playing.

Audrey trudges in, just out of bed. It’s something she never does and in that moment, when the sun’s too orange through the window and the shadows too heavy to make things pretty, she looks beautiful, anyway. For this instant, I’m in awe of my sister.

Well, her physical beauty, anyway. A bitch is a bitch , no matter how perfect the wrappings are.

She pushes the heavy veil of her hair back from her face and moves toward the window.

“How can you sleep?”

I shift under the covers, realizing I’m sweating. I was much too warm.

“I don’t know. I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“I guess,” Audrey says. She hugs herself, staring outside.

“There’s a strange woman out there, you know. I’ve been watching her for an hour now.”

I throw my covers aside and climb from bed. My skin prickles into gooseflesh at the sudden chill of the air making want to shrug back into the warmth of my bed. I join my sister in front of the window, the sheer curtain like some sort of dumb shield although the woman isn’t looking our way. Audrey’s warm shoulder brushes mine. For the first time, I notice I’m taller than she is. She was always my big sister, but suddenly I’m the taller one.

“Where?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. All I can see is Mr. Graves putting up Halloween decorations way too early. A few styrofoam gravestones pepper his lawn and a gauzy ghost hangs from his oak tree, dancing lazily in the breeze.

“There. Just below the basketball hoop.”

“Do you think she’s a Dead Head?”

“Probably.”

“Do you recognize her?” I ask.

“Can’t tell from here.”

The woman starts down our driveway, then stops at the mailbox, swaying for a moment like she might fall.

“I’ve seen Mrs. Akers do that at our barbecues,” Audrey comments lightly.

It’s true. If anyone loved a margarita, it’s Mrs. Akers. We laugh. At this moment, I truly love my sister. We’re a pair, part of a team. If we gain anything for this N-Virus mess, maybe it’ll be closeness. I’ve only felt that way a handful of times in my live.

The woman reached out, her gnarled hand shaking, and pulled open the door of the mailbox.

Audrey pulls back the curtain, pulls open the window and leans out to get a better look. “I didn’t think they could do much, except bite and moan.”

“Dad thinks they retain some memory. Not much, but a trace of little everyday things—getting the mail, maybe showing up places they loved.”

“I guess I’d find a way over to the mall” Audrey says.

“I’d end up on the soccer field at school,” I tell her.

“God, you’re a nerd,” she whispers. We laugh again, but this time it’s forced, uncomfortable.

“Should I tell Dad?” I ask.

“Don’t bother. Someone will discover her soon enough.” I glance at her. She actually looks a little sad. It surprises me. Maybe she does have a heart somewhere behind her “Class-A Tits,” (her words, not mine).

“Audrey?Are you afraid?”

“No. I mean Dad and Mom’ll take care of us. As long as we’re careful, we’ll all get through this.”

“I love you, Audrey,” I say, and immediately feel silly.

“Love ya, too. Now don’t be such a baby.” She shoves my shoulder playfully and leaves my room.

***

Remember those panic-inducing articles on Yahoo about the avian flu? We're still going to school. My parents still work and go out for cocktails on Thursdays. There'll be a football game on Friday night. A soccer match on Saturday morning. People still act like Halloween monsters aren’t real although we’re seeing on CNN in constant loop. Everyone still plans for dances and dates, vacations and holidays. I saw a Christmas ad for Disney World last week, but Halloween hasn’t even gotten here yet.

All those things are the same, but there’s a difference. Not the obvious changes like armed guards, and the newly implemented curfew, but something that’s intangible. It’s a sense of desperation, a feeling of time growing short.

It’s like the world is ending, but maybe if everyone just continues on with life, ignoring it, it won’t happen. The N-Virus is like a gigantic asteroid hurdling toward earth. Maybe it’ll just miss us. It’s not like in the movies—it’s a slow unfolding and everyone’s hands are tied.

***

October 19

Dad just caught a Shambler going through the trashcans. Garbage pick-up has become irregular and now the trash piles up until Dad drives it over to the recycling center a couple of times a week. He complains how it smells, even bagged up. He says it smells like them, the Shamblers.

I’d just climbed into bed when I heard a crash outside, just below my bedroom window.

“Dad?” I call down the hall. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah.” Mom and Dad pad into my bedroom. They’d already gotten into bed, both of them in their pajamas. Mom looks just Audrey with her face scrubbed free of makeup. Makeup makes the lines under her eyes more pronounced, but I’d never tell her that.
The wrath of Mom,
and all that.

Dad takes off his reading glasses and stick them on the top of his head. “I’ll check it out. Maybe it’s just dog. Or a raccoon.” He doesn’t sound sure about either one. He and Mom disappears down the hall.

Audrey comes in, raking the brush through her hair in that way that always looks positively painful. She’s dressed in a pair of boy shorts and one of Dad’s oversized t-shirts that she manages to make look good.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Heard something,” I tell her. “I wonder if it’s a Shambler.”

“Maybe. I keep hearing about sightings,” Audrey says. “It’s weird. The news is saying these people are dead. Dead on their feet.” She laughs.

“Did you go out with Nick?” I ask. Sure it isn’t any of my business, but I still have to know.

“Nope. Besides, what’s the point? We have to be home like we’re in the third grade because of that stupid curfew.” She switches the brush to her other hand and starts abusing the other side of her head. She doesn’t bother elaborating and really don’t have to. I know.

“Why would you do that to him?” I want to shove her out the window. So much for that sisterly closeness that I felt a couple of days ago.

She stops brushing. “Because I can,” then adds, narrowing her eyes, “and why does it matter to you, anyway?”

“Because he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve that.” I put my Kindle aside and push past her. I can’t stand to be in the same room with her any longer.

Downstairs, I find Mom in a near-panic, just inside the French doors that open to the back deck. “There’s one of those … things out there.” She has her robe gathered tightly at her neck and I want to tell her it’s only a Shambler, not a vampire.

I peer around her and out into the night. Maybe what Audrey’s right—maybe the infected are actually dead. It’s cool outside with the first breaths of autumn and steam rises from Dad’s face like funny speech balloons in a comic book. But around the Shambler’s face is nothing. There’s no indication he’s breathing at all.

This Shambler must have been one of the first infected. He’s rotten, part of his cheeks thin enough to expose white glints of bone in the porch light. He isn’t wearing shoes or socks and his feet are filthy—I’m not sure why I feel like I need to look at this man’s feet. He’s quite tall, but bent like an overworked accountant. Maybe death has beaten him down. A rather expensive-looking tie hangs crooked from his scrawny neck. His white button-down shirt is untucked in the front. Filthy as are his pants and feet.

He snarls at Dad and Dad raises his three wood, but the Shambler only turns his attention back to the garbage can. Dad glances back at us and shrugs. “Call the police,” he tells Mom.

Mom rushes past to get her phone and I stay by the door, my heart pounding, afraid the infected man might suddenly lunge at him just as that man had lunged at me at the hospital. The Shambler only removes a Styrofoam meat tray, still coated with dark, running blood from last night’s hamburgers. He brings it to his rancid face, appears to smell it, and then begins licking it rabidly.

I want to turn away, but can only watch. Like a train wreck, as they say. You can’t look away, no matter how much you want to.

“Gross, Dad!” Audrey cries like Dad’s fault. I haven’t noticed she’s crept up. “Kill it!”

“He’s not an
it
, Audrey,” Mom says. She pushes past us and opens the door a few inches. The cool air and the stink of the Shambler wafts in and I block my nose with the back of my hand and breathe through my mouth.

“The police are on the way, Ben,” Mom says. “Now get inside.”

“In a minute,” Dad says, but he moves closer toward the door. The Shambler continues cleaning the meat tray with his rotting tongue, oblivious to any of us.

“Mom,” Audrey gripes. “Look at him. He’s putrid. Disgusting. He’s dead, Mom.”

“Audrey, please!” Mom snaps.

Audrey sighs, tosses her hair and goes back upstairs.

Thin red light suddenly floods the side yard and bleeds onto the back patio.

Mom lets out a long, relieved breath. “They’re here.”

A pair of officers round the side of the house; decked out in riot gear, face smeary behind Plexiglas face guards, chests thick inside the protective vests. Both have their revolvers drawn.

“Back away from the intruder, Dr. Scott. We’ll handle this now,” comes a muffled voice that I instantly recognize as Andrew Blackmon, who, at twenty-eight, still lives with his mother on the other side of the neighborhood. I can’t determine who the other officer is behind his mask.

I’m not sure if the Shambler senses something, but he jerks around, dropping the meat tray. Moaning loudly, he steps toward Andrew, his arms outstretched ahead of him, his gnarled fingers pulling into bony claws. He reminds me of a monster in a cheesy old horror movie, but this is no movie. It’s all too real and in moment, it’s all over.

Without hesitation, the other officer fires, taking off top the Shambler’s head in a rain of dark, chunky brain matter, blood and skull fragments.

Mom screams and Audrey immediately reappears in the kitchen. “What the hell was that?” she cries. “Is Dad okay?” She races to the window to check for herself.

I’ll go out the next morning, just after Dad has sprayed away the mess with the hose and see pocks in the wood siding where pieces of bone have embedded. Thankfully, a transport shows up for the body before I wake for school.

No matter what happens up until that moment is nothing compared to the surreal fear of what comes next. Officer Andrew then turns to my dad, his gun still drawn, but now points right Dad’s chest. Dad’s drops the golf club and raises his hands.

“What’s he doing, Mom?” Audrey says, her voice little more than a desperate whisper. “What’s he doing?”

Neither Mom nor I can answer. We only watch helpless.

“We’re you bitten, Dr. Scott?”

“No. He never touched me,” Dad answers. He sounds completely calm.

“Maybe we should take him in,” the other officer barks from behind his mask.

“Here,” Dad says, stretching his arms out in front of him. “Check, if you want. He never touched me.” He pushes the loose sleeves all the way back to expose his unmarred arms.

Officer Andrew puts away his gun and steps forward. Quickly, he examines the front and back of Dad’s arms and nods. “He’s good,” he tells his partner.

“This is our second nuisance call tonight, Dr. Scott.”

“Nuisance call,” Audrey mutters. “That’s what they’re calling it?”

Eventually, the cops leave and the four of us sit at the kitchen table for a while, allowing our hearts to slow and our frayed nerves to relax as much as they can. Mom microwaves for mugs of hot cocoa and we drink, not speaking very much. My eyes drift toward the back door, morbidly searching for another stray.

Nothing else happens that night, but when I climb into bed, I lay quietly, listening for the comforting voices of Mom and Dad drift through the wall of my bedroom. Instead comes the low murmur of a cable news station. I shove my earbuds deep into my ears to block the sound, but don’t bother turning on any music. Eventually I fall into a thin, troubled sleep. I don’t remember any dreams when I wake the next morning.

***

October 24

Let me tell you about Sunday nights. Sunday nights in the Scott house have become what’s commonly known (between me, Dad and Audrey) as “really bad food night.” This is the one night of the week when all of us are home together for dinner, so it’s Mom’s opportunity to show off her cooking skills. Unfortunately, Mom’s cooking skills are frighteningly limited because Grandma never took the time to show her how to cook. Grandma never cooked, even when Grandpa was alive. They ate out almost every night—Italian on Monday, Chinese on Tuesday, seafood on Wednesday, and so on. So, Mom is determined Audrey and I will learn to cook. Even if it kills us all (bad choice of words, maybe).