Undying (4 page)

  "You son of a bitch! I saw you in the window! I know you're in there!" Her fist continues to hit the screen.

  Immense guilt. The pit in my stomach grows a little bigger as I step farther away from the door. I try to tell her I'm sorry. Then I hear her scream. Her blood curdling, nightmare inducing, haunt you for the rest of your life scream. What are they doing to her? I've never heard somebody scream like that in my life. I run to my bedroom. I need to get away from that noise. I close my door and lay in bed. I take Penelope's pillow and cover my face with it. I can still hear the screaming. She chokes and gasps for air. She screams and hits the door for a couple minutes. It feels like forever. Every scream digs into my soul. Every desperate bash against the door gives me chills. She's dying and it is my fault. I'm just letting her. It's terrible. I don't know what's wrong with me but.. I just wish that she would die quicker. I just want it to stop. Finally. I get my silence. Just me and my thoughts, now. Thoughts of the young dead girl at my front doorstep. Thoughts of everything going to hell. I smash the pillow closer on my head. I cry. I yell. I curse. Eventually, I cry myself to sleep.

  I didn't dream all night. Well, maybe I did. I just don't want to remember it. I'm relieved to open my eyes to morning light. I don't have to dream that dream anymore. I dreamt that I was standing in my yard, watching those people eat that girl alive. That can't be what they did. People don't eat each other. They just don't. I'm sure some horrors went on last night but definitely not that. I'm sure they did things worse than that. Why, though? Why the hell is everything getting so crazy out there? Is it some kind of world war or pandemic? Maybe the power plant went nuclear? I'm not even sure that is the kind of energy we use in this town. What then? What could the explanation possibly be? This isn't some media driven race war nonsense, this is serious.

  I check my phone. I'm still wearing all of my clothes and my phone has been in my pocket. It's dead now. It won't even light up when I hold the power button. I plug it into the charger, just in case the power comes back at some point. I go do my bathroom routine. When I flush the toilet, it all goes down, but the bowl does not refill with water. Just what I needed. I check the faucet and it only coughs about a cup of water out. It takes great restraint to not punch the mirror. Wouldn't want to wake the crack heads, if they are still out there. Then it hits me. We have a landline. Now, after years of complaining about paying the bill for it, I am extremely happy we have that phone. It should still work, I think. I run to the kitchen and grab the phone off the hook. Not even a dial tone. I slam the phone down and moan in childish frustration.  

  There has got to be something. Someway to get a hold of her. I rummage through every room in the house looking for anything. A spare battery? I'm not even sure. Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm panicking. I'm hopelessly tearing apart the house as if the answer to all my problems is hidden away in a closet or an old shoebox. I find an old stash of photos. Years worth of them filling this tattered shoebox. Most of them are of her family. Some are of us. One in particular grabs me. We look so happy. Her infectious smile, her eyes that hypnotize, and then there's me. Just some lucky guy. I knew it too. You can tell by how happy I look in this picture. I don't normally smile but I am here. Madly in love with the girl of my dreams. I toss all the pictures to the side as I feel emotion creep in. Something is telling me that I need to accept the fact that she very well may not come back. No, she's coming back. I will see her again. I will. There's that pit in my stomach again. Getting a little bigger.

  I find myself in the kitchen, making a sandwich again. I haven't looked outside. I'm not sure I want to see what is out there. The refrigerator is just a few degrees colder than room temperature. I go for the mustard, instead of mayo. There's no need to risk getting sick. I'm not sure if I would trust a lot of things in the fridge, now. It won't be long before the vegetables start stinking. I find it hard to eat. I stand by the counter, chewing slowly. This doesn't taste good. There could be nothing wrong with it. Honestly, this could be any food in the world and it would suck. I just want my girl back. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder if she made it to her parents house. I wonder if she is just holding up there until the military shows up and fixes all of this. I also wonder if something happened to her like the girl from last night. I throw the remaining half of my sandwich into the trash. How can I eat at a time like this?

  Against my better judgment, I go to the window. I need to know what's out there. I bring my finger to the thin plastic of the worn divider of the blinds that I've been ruining the past couple days. I feel just how dry my throat is when I make a sad effort at swallowing. I pull down the blinds. Somebody is out there. I think it's a man. He's walking along the sidewalk, across the street. The smoke isn't so present as yesterday but it is there just enough so that I can't make out any details of the man. He looks like he's just wandering aimlessly. He stumbles into one of the yards and falls over. I watch him curiously. He just lays there. I wonder if he is alright. Wait. I hear a car. From the sounds of it, it is speeding down one of the side streets. It sounds like it is heading this way. The man in the yard hears it too. He stumbles to his feet and makes his way into the road. I see it now, the car. It is some kind of muscle car, I think, and it looks like there is somebody hanging out of it. It's a guy with a bandana on his face. He's holding a large rifle. The man in the street shuffles to the car. The car flies down the road, heading this way. The man with the rifle shoots wildly at the man in the street. The man in the street flies back. As they drive by the house several bullets hit the side of the house. I hit the ground. Oh, God, I'm hit, I think to myself automatically. After a minute goes by, I realize I'm not hit, I just landed uncomfortably on some shoes. I stand back up and take a peek outside. That man is still standing there. Did he not get hit? No, that can't be. I saw him get hit. I saw it but he's standing there. How? I don't know why but I go to the front door. I need to know. I'm not sure what it is that I need to know but I need to know it. I wrap my sweaty fingers around the cold handle. Do I want to know? It doesn't matter. I fling the door open.

  The screen in bent in a couple places. The girl's blood is dried to the screen and front door. So much blood. A dark puddle speckled with meaty chunks sits on the walkway. The welcome mat is hardly visible under the accumulated bodily fluids. The puddle smears forward into the lawn. The trail of innards leads to her. She's kneeling in the grass. How? How can she be alive? I accidently make a girlish squeal. She heard me. She turns her head. Her face. I can't. Oh, my God. I slam the door closed. I lock the handle. I lock the bolt. How can she-

  "Rawwwrg!" A guttural roar unlike any I've ever heard a young girl make in my life.

  She bangs on the screen, just like she did last night. I get the shotgun off the ground and run to my bedroom. I'm done wanting to know. I don't want to know. I want to get the hell out of here. I just want my life back. I lock myself in my room. I lay on the ground in the fetal position, holding the shotgun like it's my last connection to reality. The more I think about things, the less sense it makes. Am I stuck in a dream? That must be it. There's no way this is real. I have to wake up sometime. I close my eyes and let my mind drift. I'm done with the horrors of this place. My life is supposed to be fixed, now. Things are supposed to be better. Things are supposed to be better. I keep telling myself that until I fall asleep.

  When I sleep, I see their faces. When I wake, I hear them outside. Snarling and barking like wild animals. Sometimes I hear them walking around the house. This goes on for days. How many days? I'm not sure. I don't remain conscious for long. Sometimes I get up to go to the bathroom. It's getting gross in there, now. All the waste is just accumulating and stinking up the hallway. I don't care. What's the point? My stomach hurts. I can't remember the last time I ate. I can't imagine how bad the fridge must smell now. I'll eat something. When I wake up next time. Or the time after that. I haven't decided.

  Suddenly, a blue light cuts through the darkness of the room. I get up and walk over to the night stand. It's my phone. She's calling me. My heart flutters as I answer the call. I put the phone to my ear, not sure what to expect.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What?" I don't understand what she means.

  "You do this every time. Every fucking time things get tough, you let it beat you. You just let it defeat you and bring down everyone around you. I can't watch you give up on yourself and pretend I'm happy." Her words cut me in half.

  This isn't a real conversation. This is a dream of a memory. This was the fight that I finally realized what was at stake. Being the man in the relationship, you're not allowed to be weak or defeated. If it hurts, you pretend it doesn't. If you think hope is lost, you pretend things are swell. If you don't, you will end up alone. You end up with nothing and a new understanding of "no hope." That's the lesson she taught me in this fight. You know what?

  "I try a hell of a lot more than you." I'm awake now, looking up at the ceiling and talking to myself.

  For the first time in days I wander the house. I feel uncomfortably unhygienic and I can smell myself. I don't give a shit enough to look outside of the front window. I just walk through the living room with my head down. They're out there. I'm sure of it. I open a cupboard in the kitchen and pull out a pack of ramen noodles. I rip the package off and toss it onto the floor. I'll clean it when you come home, I think to myself with an odd bitterness. I crunch on the dry noodles and shuffle to the back door. It doesn't get much worse than this. Wallowing in my own filth. The back door has a little window it in. The window is covered by a cute little pink curtain Penelope picked out just this spring. I pull back the curtain and look outside. I don't believe it. In the middle of the yard, sitting majestically with his back towards me, is my kitty. My little buddy. What's he doing out there? His door has been open for days. I bet he's hungry. I open the door as quietly as possible. I tip toe my way outside. I look around carefully. I don't see anybody. It should be safe enough to grab my little buddy really quick. I walk towards him. A cat is a simple creature but seeing him, at a time like this, is just as good seeing a human friend. The way he's sitting reminds me of when I first found him in a parking lot many years ago. He was so skinny and pitiful. I didn't stand a chance. He was depleting our tuna supply in no time. I'm really glad he's alright. I notice something on his side. Something is wrong with his fur. Hopefully he's just dirty and not injured. I call out to him and his response is heart breaking. That weird deep growl that feral cats do. Only when they feel in danger. I stop in my tracks. His head twitches and twists. His growling is only interrupted by a choking cough he lets out every few breaths. He turns around and I step back. I trip over my own feet and fall. I can't take my eyes off of him. That's not my buddy anymore. That's something else. The skin has been peeled back from his face to his stomach on one side, leaving nothing to the imagination. I can see it all. He's crawling towards me with animalistic hate in his eyes. He's going to attack me. I scoot back. I come up to the patio and force myself to stand. My legs are weak. I get inside and slam the door. Sometimes, if you slam the door to hard it will just open back up. I run into the living room. My heart is pounding. Tears run down my face. This has to be a nightmare. There's no way any of this is-

  "
Murrrrrrooww!"
Please, no.

  He's in the kitchen. His muddy paws slipping across the floor. Every time I see the wound on his side, I just want to hold him. My poor little guy. What could I possibly do for you? Well, there is one thing. There is one thing I can do, buddy. He hisses at me then charges me. I sprint for the bedroom. I can hear him right behind me. All things considered, he's pretty quick. Each leap he takes he makes a nauseating crunching sound. I see the shotgun on the floor. I slide across the carpet and grab the gun. Damn it! Please, don't make me do this! Before he gets a chance to jump on my face, I line the barrel up with him. I pull the hammer back on both barrels. I pull both triggers. I am not ready for the force. I feel my shoulder pop and the gun slips out from under me. The cat vaporizes besides his lower half which is now somewhere in the hallway. I grab the gun and use it to help me stand. I break the barrels open. The smoking shells fly back into my face. I'm too in shock to care. I load in two more shells and walk into the hall. I look on the ground and see his little back paw kicking. Really? Because this isn't hard enough. I want to just fall over and give up. I want to blink myself awake like you would from a bad dream. Stop it. Just stop it! Stop moving like that! Stop fucking moving like that!

  "Die, damn you!"

  I only pull one trigger this time. It's powerful enough to break his legs into pieces so small that they won't be moving around anytime soon. I want to take a second to mourn but there is no time. At the end of the hall is my worst nightmare. A man, twice my size, with a large portion of his neck missing is staring me down. His lower lip is torn open and quivers as he groans at me. Blood as thick as syrup drips down his shirt. I aim the shotgun at him. He charges me. He wins, I run back into my room. He is already in the doorway. I aim and shoot him in the stomach. Some holes appear but he is not amused. He's coming for me. I open the gun and fumble to reload it. I jam two shells into the weapon and click it closed. I shoot one shell into his shin. It blows the lower part of his leg out from under him. He topples over with a confused expression. I put the next round in his head. The top left half of his head blows off into several gushing pieces. The inside looks rotten. I'm no doctor, but the inside of your head isn't supposed to be purple with patches of black. This guy isn't alive. None of them are. They are dead. Even if they are moving around, they are dead. They look dead, they smell dead, and they keep coming, no matter how many times you shoot them. I open the gun and load the last shell. He's looking at me with his one eye. He opens his mouth and hisses at me. Multicolored, but primarily brown, liquid sprays from the gaping wound onto my bookshelf. I aim my grandfather's shotgun at his head, or what's left of his head. The shell roars and the gun falls apart in my hands. The crack in the stock finally gave way. It lasted just long enough. I drop the pieces. Without a head, he just flops around uselessly on the floor. I hesitate before jumping over him, afraid he'll somehow sense me enough to snatch up my leg. I leave my room and make my way to the living room. I need to close the back door before more of them get in here. Too late. One is standing at the end of the hall. He's a teenage boy with a big bite taken out of his cheek. He is short and skinny. I got this. I run at him head on and he does the same. Right before he gets close enough to lunge at me, I juke left and push him into the wall. As angry as he is, the poor little guy goes toppling to the ground. I make it into the living room and grab the backpack. The little guy is back up and heading towards me. I look to the other side of the living room and see the door to the garage. That's my chance. I take it. The little guy is fast. I feel him right behind me, clawing at my shirt. I have an idea, but there is no way I am lucky enough for it to work. I guess, we will find out.