Notes From the End of the World (13 page)

I drop the pencil, and do not have enough wits to grab a kitchen knife or any other thing to defend myself. As she takes a clumsy step toward me, I thrust a kitchen chair toward her, making her stumble, and tear out of the kitchen and into Dad’s office.

The gun is in his desk drawer and the thought flashes through my mind. I can’t allow my face to be ripped off, but still, she’s my sister. I leave the gun alone, and crawl under the desk, pulling Dad’s heavy leather chair in behind me.

Shamblers aren’t smart, and they aren’t quick. She may never realize where I am. I just pray Mom’s doesn’t stagger down for a glass of water, or Dad doesn’t walk into the house and into Audrey’s hunger-crazed arms.

I pull my knees up and press my face against the soft flannel of my pajamas, fighting the need to cry, and biting back the scream that’s building in my throat.

How the hell did she get out? Did Mom leave her room unlocked? Maybe she has a reason that’s only evident to people who are drunk and hopeless.

Either way, blaming Mom isn’t helping me right now. Something crashes and shatters on floor. The funk of Audrey’s decaying body grows stronger.

I bite my bottom lips, drawing a thin taste of blood and try to make myself even smaller under the desk. Audrey screams, and the sound is like she’s swallowed broken glass. How has Mom not heard this?

She’s at the desk now—I can make out the shape of her body against the scant light coming in around the windows. She’s become the color of ash, dressed in panties and one of Dad’s Blue Devil t-shirts. Her icy toes brush my toes as she pushes toward the desk, stupid and unaware of the chair that’s between us. I yank my foot away, biting back a cry. I never imagined how cold she’d become.

I’ve heard they can smell the living. I know I can sure as hell smell the dead.

A wheezing sigh and she then tugs at the chair. Maybe she’s not so stupid after all. But I grip it with everything I have to stop her from pulling it away, exposing my safe spot.

She tugs at the chair once again and this time, she almost snatches it from my grasp. Screaming, she begins shoving it hard back toward the desk. Frustrated and angry, she sounds like a wild thing. I can’t say animal because no living animal has ever sounded that way.

“No! Audrey?” Mom’s there. God, I hope she’s not too close.

A door slams. More hard thumps and shuffling, followed by a breath of silence.

Suddenly, I’m staring into the dead eyes of my older sister as she tastes the floor.

***

Weeks ago Dad learned it was best to keep a super-octane sedative in one pocket of his labcoat. In the other pocket, he carries a 9mm in the other. I don’t know where he got it and I don’t care. I’m afraid to think of how many times he has used it lately. Saving people and killing them at the same time, I suppose.

But it was the sedative he used on Audrey because that’s the only way a dad can react.

“Cindy?” Dad calls.

“I’m under the desk.”

He removes the chair and takes my hand and I notice we’re both trembling. I can hear Mom weeping somewhere in the corner, still hidden in the shadows. I fall against his chest, suddenly woozy and exhausted.

“Meg,” Dad says. “Get these lights on. That sedative will wear off soon enough. We need to get Audrey back up to her room.”

***

Back in my bed, I can’t fall asleep. I’m still too jacked up over almost dying only an hour ago. I press my head against the wall, doing what I know I shouldn’t be.

“What the hell happened, Meg?” Dad’s never raised his voice to any of us. Even now, his voice is even, his anger contained.

“I don’t know. I took her a little food, and peeked in at her for a while. I guess I forgot to lock it back. I just forgot, Ben.”

“Well, you’d better get it together. Our other daughter was nearly killed tonight because you cannot go an hour without a drink lately.”

“But everything’s fine, now. We’ll get another lock. A better one.”

“What good does any kind of lock do, if you leave it
unlocked
?” He sighs. “We’ve done all we could. It’s time to make the call.”

“What do you mean?” Mom sobs.

“I mean Audrey is gone. We need to allow her some dignity. We can’t keep her here like she is.

“Although I’d prefer to just put her down, I’ll call The Pastures in the morning.”

Mom mutters some response, but I cannot make it out. I’ve heard all I needed to hear, anyway.

I pull away from the wall, press my face against my pillow, and wonder why I cannot find any more tears for my sister.

Chapter 18

January 21

Cindy

“Call 1-888-Dignity,” it says on the side of the van, just like Nick had mentioned. It’s a harsh-looking prisoner transport wrapped with too-bright images of rolling hills and a big live oak. So tranquil that you almost forget your family member has become a raging zombie.

The undertaker for The Pastures refers to himself as a “transition director.” His name is Melvin Erwin (“just call me Mel”), and he’s packing heat under his black jacket. Dad makes all the arrangements as Mom sits silently, dry-eyed and out of it. Dad has given her Valium. That scares me a little since she can’t stay out of the wine.

Mel goes over some different packages, all of which are somewhat costly as compared to just putting the infected person down, if you ask me. I don’t mean to sound heartless, just realistic. Dead is dead, and the ability to walk and eat doesn’t make them any less dead. Mel also goes over memorial services, suggesting the home service, considering the dangers of being “out and about at the moment.”

“Thank you, but no. We’ll have a private remembrance here. There’s no need for anything more. There’s so much death. Funerals have become pointless,” Dad tells him. “Just see to our daughter. Make her as comfortable as possible.”

When they wrap things up, Mel takes out his cell. “We’re ready,” he says, the puts the phone back into the breast pocket of his jacket. In seconds, four heavily-armed, heavily-armored, muscle-bound dudes in baseball caps with “The Pastures” logo appear at the front door, ready to escort Audrey to her new home.

Apparently, they are extremely efficient with what they do. Within ten minutes, Audrey emerges down the stairs, strapped to a hospital gurney, dressed in the dark purple frock she loathed but kept because Grandma bought it for her. What irony—Audrey set for the rest of her days in an outfit she hates. She’s barefoot because even the best “transition director” can’t keep shoes on the living dead. Her hair is a mad tangle, and her eyes are as pale as her flesh, staring upward to the ceiling. Her lips have been completely chewed away. She smells so bad that I want to get out of there, but I force myself to stay. She’s shackled at the wrists and ankles, despite being belted to the gurney. She’s been dosed with some sort of tranquilizer, I assume, as she’s quiet and barely moving.

Mom approaches, wearing a loopy, somewhat inappropriate smile, as the men move toward the front door. “Can I say goodbye to her?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Mel answers, “but I must request that you do not touch her.”

“But she’s strapped down. She’s handcuffed,” Mom argues.

“Meg. Please—” Dad begins. He places his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugs them away.

“It’s for your own safety, Mrs. Scott. I realize how difficult this must be, but the tranquilizers have only limited effect on those in this stage of infection. And every case is different. She may wake at any moment.”

Mom gives Mel a look like she’d be just as happy to see his head explode.

“Meg. Say goodbye,” Dad whispers.

I move closer and take Mom’s hand, but Mom pulls away from me just as she did Dad. Maybe this should've hurt my feelings, but it doesn’t. Audrey was always her favorite, anyway. I came to terms with that sometime around my tenth birthday when Audrey told me that Mom had shared that little tidbit with her when they we out shopping together.

Mom then leans close to Audrey and says something I can’t make out, then heads upstairs without another word.

I can’t think of anything profound to say, so “See ya on the other side, Big Sis” pops out of my mouth. My face grows hot even though there’s nobody there for me to feel embarrassed in front of. I then head to the kitchen, leaving Dad to say his own goodbyes.

***

The house becomes like a tomb once Audrey is gone.
Not
hearing her screams isn’t any better than hearing them. I listen to music and try to sketch, but my mind’s everywhere, and nothing I think of is positive. I text Nick about what’s happened, and he responses with a sad face followed in a few minutes with
“OK if I come ovr ltr?”

I need him more than he realizes, and more than I am able to express to him just yet. Sure, society is falling all around us, but I don’t want to come across as needy.

Dad gave Mom another Valium, and she’s sleeping in her black go-to-funerals-and-fancy-party dress, sprawled across her bed, uncovered, still wearing her shiny black pumps. Her normally perfect makeup is smudged, making the little lines around her eyes stand out. She looks old. Old and worn out.

After a moment, I decide to crawl onto the bed next to her, feeling a little strange because we’ve never been that close—it was always Mom and Audrey on one side and Dad and me on the other. I reach out and take her bony, cool hand in mine. I don’t think I’ve held her hand since I was ten, and feel bad for not being a better daughter. She hasn’t been able to speak to Grandma in weeks, but she’s hanging in there. We can’t help but think the worse, so, I’ll hand it to her. Maybe the wine is her way of dealing. Looking at it now, I realize that drinking isn’t any worse than Dad running away to hide at the hospital to escape the hell of watching his family come apart.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to her shallow breathing and my heartbeat in my ears. The winter sun pours in the window, and for once, I wish it was raining. Raining it more fitting for a day like this. Sunshine is too ironic, like nature’s way of reminding me that none of us mean as much as we’d like to believe. When we’re all gone, the sun will still shine, and the birds will still sing.

After a while, I feel Mom stir, and I turn my face to hers. She touches my cheek, and pushes my hair back from my eyes. “I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a mother lately.”

I squeeze her other hand gently before letting it go. “It’s no big deal. I don’t think I’ve been a very good daughter,” I say. “Or sister.”

“You’ve done all you can, Cindy. We’re all just tired.
I’m
tired. Tired and numb and hopeless.” Mom turns her face to the ceiling and sighs. We’re all going to end up like Audrey. Or Grandma.”

“We don’t know that Grandma—”

“We do. Let’s not pretend.”

Now the tears do come. I may have run out of tears for Audrey, but Mom saying this about Grandma makes it real. Of course, we all knew it was the most likely scenario when we could no longer get in touch with her. Her house was empty when Dad and I went over there to check on her. Untouched like she’d just stepped out to the supermarket or the post office.

Dad took what food was left there—he made me promise not to tell Mom. That day, I decided to believe she’d been taken to one of those FEMA camps, and was safe and sound there.

“Your father is playing with fire,” Mom goes on. “If he continues going to the hospital, it’s only a matter of time until he becomes infected, as well.

“I never knew there could be anything worse than death.”

I roll over and hug Mom. The smell of wine is a perpetual cloud around lately. “We have to be strong, Mom. And smart.”

“Audrey was both of those things,” she whispers as I pull away. “It’s only a matter of time for the rest of us.”

I go back to my room, unwilling to hear any more, close the door behind me, and move to the window to look out. I would love go outside and run, or feel the solid impact of a soccer ball against my laces. I would love to feel the sharp chill of the January air in my lungs and the too-bright sun on my face.

I would love to get out there and smell the cleanness of the ocean instead of the stink of death that hangs constantly in the air like a warning.

Everything out there looks …off. The neighborhood is nearly empty—there’s maybe a dozen families left in Sawgrass Flats. The lawns are brown and ignored. The silence is broken at irregular intervals by helicopters beating the air or gunshots.

My God, I’ve become so used to those noises that I barely notice them anymore.

Chapter 19

February 9

Nick

I’m trying to draw because the internet is down again, but my mind is blocked of everything but ugliness and dull, constant dread. Lines bleed from the end of my pen, creating chaotic scenes—a monster with a skull face and the figure of a hot girl. Behind her are swirls of smoke, but nothing definitive or familiar. I tear the page from my tablet, wad it up and toss it onto the floor, then collapse back onto my bed. I consider finishing the last of the weed I have hidden under the paints and brushes in my art bag, but decide I’ll save it for when I sneak over to Cindy’s. She could use it, after everything she’s been through. Besides, why waste it out of boredom? Who knows when I’ll ever get any more?

Mom’s been freaking out because Miles hasn’t been home in three nights. She spoke to him on his cell the first night and he claimed he’d be back the next morning, but nothing. No more calls, texts. I’m torn between thinking he’s dead (or infected) or else, he’s taken off for somewhere safer, leaving Mom and I to take care of his screaming brat, who must be napping because the house is eerily silent.

That silence is quickly broken with a crash. I jump, my heart pounding, and sit upright on my bed, looking around. Micah is shrieking at the top of his lungs now—Mom’s break from his wailing is over.

But what the hell was that sound? I go to the window, but there’s nothing to see out there but weeds taking over the back lawn and our pool that’s turned green with algae and ridden with dead leaves.

Mom’s screaming now, as well, and my stomach tightens up. I sprint to the hall, but a harsh male voice spewing a stream of curses stops me in my tracks. It’s not Miles, although it sounds like they share a similar vocabulary of four-letter words.

Another voice growls, “Check the rest of the fucking house. There’s more than one kid here.”

I can only assume they noticed a photograph downstairs. More sounds of footsteps on the hardwood, now; there must be three or people soldiers in our house.

“There’s nobody else here,” Mom’s voice is shrill and frantic. “What do you want with us? We’re not infected!”

“Maybe’s the other one’s already dead.”

“Probably, but check, anyway.”

Micah’s blubbering has reached a level even I’ve never heard.

“Shut that little fucker up, Jones.”

“Don’t touch him!” Mom yells, followed by a couple more loud thuds. I want to go to them, to stop whatever terrible thing is happening down there, but I can’t make myself do it. I’m so scared and confused.

I dart back into my room, my heart thudding so hard and fast that I dry heave against the back of my fist. I grab my sketch tablet from the bed and smooth the covers to make it look as though nobody has been there, then slip into my closet.

Stupid. The closet is the first place anyone with half a brain will look. But there’s nowhere else. I slide the double doors closed behind me and look around, my eyes straining against the darkness.

Up above my head, there’s an access to the attic that I’d nearly forgotten about. When I was about six, I went through an entire summer terrified of that hole. My cousin, who was an asshole, by the way, convinced me that a little troll lived in the attic and climbed through that access in the middle of the night to watch me sleep. Finally, Dad got enough of my sleeping at the foot of his and Mom’s bed. He brought in a ladder and took my up to the attic through that access to show me that the scariest thing up there was the air handler and a few cobwebs.

I plant one foot on a low shelf and the other on the opposite wall and heave myself upward, careful not to make any more noise than I have to. I carefully lift the plywood access panel and push it aside, leaving just enough space for me to shimmy through. Then try to heave myself up.

It’s a struggle and I’m afraid I might not be able to do it. I’ve lost some of the strength I had when I was running and playing soccer. I haven’t eaten since last night—I want to conserve what food we have left, just like I want to save my pot.

I hang there for a moment, my socked feet slipping against the wall without any traction. The footstep grow louder, echoing down the hallway outside my bedroom. I take a deep breath and tug myself upward, the muscles in my shoulders and arms screaming.

Then I’m up. I hear my bedroom door open just as I replace the access panel.

I squat there in the low side of the attic, afraid to move, sucking in cold, stale air. My thighs shake, and I want to change positions, but I don’t dare move yet. Below, I can hear the soldier stalking around my bedroom, shuffling through my things.

The closet door opens, and hangers slide across the bars, scraping, metal on metal. My breath catches in my throat, and I wait for that panel to be thrown back, exposing my cowardly, trembling ass.

I feel something crawl across the back of my hand, and I cringe, but leave it. I hate spiders, but I’m not risking any movement.

Then heavy footsteps again, but now the sound is moving away from me.

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Nobody else here.”

***

I remain inside the attic, shivering, for a while after the house becomes silent again. Then slowly, I open the access panel and ease myself back down into my closet. Cautiously, I step out into my bedroom, then to the hallway.

I go into Mom and Miles’s bedroom across the hall. Crouching, I move to the window that overlooks the front lawn and the street below. The house opposite ours belong to the Smiths, a middle-aged couple who seems much younger than their ages. Evelyn Smith is a sharp-tongued artist who is (or was) constantly jogging along the streets in our neighborhood. She even challenged me to a race last summer. She kept up pretty well, but I ended up outrunning her. Had to—pride wouldn’t let me lose to a sixty-year old woman, no matter what kind of shape she’s in.

Steve Smith is muscular and blond. He’s a pediatrician who spends more time at the golf course than examining little kids. They have money and don’t mind showing it off.

But it doesn’t look like money matters anymore.

A soldier dressed in black riot gear kicks in the Smith’s front door and four more follow him inside, rifles raised and ready.

In a moment, Steve and Evelyn are forced out onto their brown, overgrown lawn, guns shoved in their faces. Both are dressed as though they are heading to the country club, Steve’s hair perfect, Evelyn’s makeup perfect. Her diamond earrings glint in the sunlight.

Evelyn is shouting something, but I can’t make it out. One of the soldiers slams the butt of his rifle against the side of Steve’s head, sending him to his knees.

There’s more shouting, but I still can’t understand what’s happening. One thing is obvious—one soldier is getting extremely agitated. He thrusts his rifle in Evelyn’s face. Steve must say something else and another soldier kicks him in the ribs.

What the hell’s happening? All those stories about martial law and government sanctioned murders are true. The Shamblers are the least of our worries.

A soldier grabs a fistful of Evelyn’s hair and forces her to her knees next to her husband. Both of them place their hands behind their heads. Something in my heart or in my brain knows what’s about to happen. I need to look away but can’t.

The shots are dull and decisive as Steve Smith’s brains are blown all over Bending Reed Avenue.

The world gets black and splotchy in front of my eyes and I slide down the wall, on the verge of passing out. I bite the inside of my lip, hoping the pain might jar me back into awareness. I take several deep breaths and then move back to the window in time to see the Smith’s limp bodies being loaded into the back of some sort of military transporter.

***

I run back to my room and pack some jeans, underwear, warm shirts and socks into a backpack. I throw my sketch tablet and pencils in on top of that, followed by the scant remains of my pot. I then take my iPad and finally the small stack of photos I have of Dad, Mom, and me before Dad died and Miles moved in. Today, that life seem like something I dreamed.

I pull on my sneakers, grab my favorite black Northface jacket and the backpack, and head downstairs.

Since Micah came here, the only time I can remember the house being this quiet is when the kid’s asleep at night. As I enter the kitchen, the heating unit kicks on and I nearly shit myself. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I take the few cans of food left in the cupboards and throw them into the backpack. There’s also a box of angel hair, a jar of Newman’s Own vodka sauce. In the fridge, I find a bottle of Dasani and a half block of cheddar cheese that’s almost too dried out to eat.

I step into the foyer and what I see stops me dead in my tracks. There’s fresh blood all over the floor and splattered on the wall just inside the front door. The dizziness hits me again, and I sink to my knees, fighting to stay conscious.

Is this Mom’s blood? Is she dead like the Smiths?

Tears blur my vision as the reality dawns on me. I know I’ll never see her again.

My stomach seizes up suddenly, and my body is wracked with dry heaves, unable to vomit anything up.

When that passes, I get back to my feet, my knees shaking, my nose and eyes running like crazy.

I open the front door and glance up and down the street. The military vehicle is down at the far end of the street. The soldiers have moved on to wreck what little remains of another family’s lives. I step outside and look back at my house—the only place I’ve ever lived.

There’s a red “X” sprayed painted and running on our front door, followed by the word “Cleared.” Every other house on our street bears the small legend.

I sprint away, staying against the sides of the houses, near wildly-growing plant beds and behind the thick bases of live oaks until I’m out of the neighborhood. Once out, I keep to the woods along the sides of the nearly deserted roads. I’m still crying softly, my tears growing cold on my cheeks and the sides of my neck in the winter air.

I’ve lost everyone now. Dad, Mom, Grandma. Even idiot Miles, and Micah, who was only five, for Christ’s sake. All that’s left is Cindy. I have to get to her before these crazy fucking soldiers.