Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Day Fifteen

The telephone is ringing and it jolts me awake. I’m on the couch, again, and I forgot to set the sleep timer on the TV. The on-screen caller ID flashes Martin Black’s name and number. Martin and his wife Kathryn are neighbors, depending on how you define the word. Their house sits on the front side of our circle. Martin is a tall, thin prick of a man who hasn’t had a job in over two years, lets his aging parents support his family – or he did until the flu – and I don’t respect him a bit for it. Plus, his wife Kathryn is a royal bitch.
“Hello.”
Kathryn’s voice is loud and nasally and it’s the last thing I want to hear first thing in the morning, but it’s her on the other end of the line. She doesn’t bother saying hello to me; she just asks where Amanda is. I tell her that Amanda went to Tennessee to visit her cousins, she tells me not to be an asshole, and I tell her that as far as I know Mandy is asleep, a lot like I was before the phone rang. I ask her what she could possibly want nearly two weeks into the end of the world, and she tells me we’re having a neighborhood meeting to discuss security and home defense. She wants me there. Apparently, word of my little turf waltz with the Walkers has made it around the horn. I ask her why she wanted to ask Amanda to ask me to show up. She tells me the meeting is at seven tonight and hangs up.
I want to see something other than CNN on the tube, so I press the Guide button on the remote. Most of my favorite channels only read “To Be Announced”. I remember reading through the TV Guide as a kid and seeing those words. I thought it was some kind of news show. I select History International and a test pattern fills the screen. National Geographic has one, too, and so does the Science Channel. The test pattern must be a popular show. I’ve been wondering how long the cable channels would continue to broadcast after the meltdown started; I guess thirteen days is my answer. I scroll through the guide to the Disney Channel; there’s a test pattern there, too. Rachel is going to be a mess. She’s been quiet and weepy for the past few days. The Walkers at the window have been a tough thing for her to snap back from. Fuck, it’s been a bitch for me to get over it. I think about the things I’ve seen over the past couple weeks and it makes my head spin and my stomach churn. But I’m also more than satisfied at the fact I haven’t would up in a fetal position somewhere. I’ve often wondered what I’d do in a life or death scenario, and before – this – I would have figured I just didn’t have it, whatever “it” is. But I do.
I reach for the phone and dial my brother. It’s a little after seven here, so it’s after eight on the east coast. He answers on the first ring and I ask him if he was holding the telephone. He doesn’t answer me right away, and I say his name, loudly. “Artie.”
“I’m here”, he answers. “It’s bad here.” He sighs into the phone and pauses before speaking again. “Hal died. “ Hal is Artie’s brother-in-law. “Anna just called, he was outside and some of the infected got hold of him and he’s gone.” His voice breaks and I can tell he’s on the edge of a breakdown. “They tore him up, they just ripped him apart. He couldn’t get away and they pulled him into fucking pieces and I saw one in the woods behind the house and Jesus Christ, it’s still out there, what the fuck am I going to do here?” He’s rambling. I’m trying to calm him down, I tell him that they’re slow and he can drop them if he can take away their sensory abilities, or he can outrun them if he can’t.
“The turkey gun should do it”, I tell him. He’s a sport hunter; he’s got plenty of firepower in the basement, locked inside a Winchester gun safe. “When it’s down, take it apart. Use an axe.” I wish I had an axe. The shovel is getting dull. He tells me he’ll deal with it, and I wish him luck. I tell him I love him, he promises to call me after he deals with his woods walker, and we hang up.
We’re getting low on food. I’ve been putting off making the trip across the street to the Reichert’s to forage, but today’s the day. I pull on a pair of Levis and a Chicago Bears tee shirt and grab the big ski gear bag up from the basement. It should enough for a week or so. I don’t bother with the shovel, but the twelve gauge is going with me for sure. I check the windows and the coast is clear, so I tell Mandy to keep watch and lock the front door behind me.
It’s a quick trip across the street; I haven’t seen another humvee since the Army came to visit the Pinarskis. I unlock the patio door with the Reichert’s key, and push it open. The stench of death washes over me. I gag, and pull my shirt over my face. It helps, but only a little. Sandy Reichert is still on the floor beneath the afghan. One of her hands is exposed, and it’s covered in tiny, white larvae. Rot and fluids have seeped through the thin blanket. It looks as though someone has dumped rice over the stain where her blood has pooled, but this rice is moving. I step over Sandy’s body and move into the kitchen, drop the ski bag on the floor and start filling it with canned soup and vegetables, boxes of pasta, jars of applesauce and fruit. A big piece of me is thinking about leaving the box of instant rice, but I tell myself it’s rice, not maggots, so I throw it in the bag. A horde of fruit flies swarms over blackened bananas on the counter. In the refrigerator, I grab cheese and a sleeve of bagels. Bagels never go bad. The freezer is a jackpot of Zip-Locked ground beef, pork chops and chicken breasts, and I take it all, along with some frozen carrots and peas. I stuff a few frozen meals into the side pockets on the gear bag and I’m done.
From upstairs, I hear a soft thumping sound. It’s Bob. I don’t need to see him to be sure. He’s still there, dead but not dead.
The bag weighs heavy on my shoulder. I trip as I step over Sandy’s corpse, my foot catches in the afghan and I’m down, face first, sprawled across her body. A soft rush of air hisses from beneath the blanket and I’m waiting for groping hands and gnashing teeth, but they don’t come. It’s just Sandy’s last breath, making its way from her lungs after all these days. I push to my knees, hoist the bag and I’m out the patio door as fast as I can move. There’s still ammunition in the basement, but it will have to wait for another trip. I can’t take anymore of the smell.
Outside, I fill my lungs with fresh, clean air. The taste of decay is in my mouth; my eyes are stinging and watery. I lock the door, drop the key into my pocket and turn around. I’m standing face to face with face Sanjay Bedi. He’s standing on the patio walk with a blue surgical mask over his mouth, holding an ancient pistol. The gun is squarish and it reminds me of a German World War Two sidearm. A Ruger? That’s probably what it is. His hand is shaking and he tells me to hand over the bag. “Do it, or I shoot you”, he says. I lower the gear bad to the ground but keep the shotgun in my right hand. Sanjay steps forward and reaches for the bag of food, and I raise the shotgun so it’s pointed at his chest. I tell him he’d better fucking hope that gun works and he just looks at me, says fuck, and takes a small step backward, his head lowered in shame. “I do not know if it works, but we are out of food and we are starving. “ I reach out for his pistol, he hands it to me and I check it over. It’s not even loaded. I give it back to him, butt first, and he holds it like it’s something nasty and dead.
“The Pinarskis”, I tell him. “The Pinarskis are gone. We’ll get you some food there.” Sanjay is staring at his feet and I’m feeling bad for yelling at him a few days ago. “Let me get this bag emptied and we’ll make a run for you guys.” I turn and start down the walk and my shoulder jerks hard as Sanjay, his teeth bared, pulls hard on the strap. The butt of his Ruger slams down hard on my forehead and I see a flash of white. A hot, wet flow runs into my left eye and I’m bleeding. Sanjay swings the gun in an arc, trying to make a second contact, but he isn’t letting go of the strap of the gear bag and he comes up short. The momentum turns him away from me and I plant a foot on his ass and shove. He drops to his knees, pulling me down with him, and then we’re on the ground and his fingers are clutching the barrel of the twelve gauge, trying to yank it from my grip. The bag slides off my shoulder and it’s free. Sanjay is on top of me, one hand on the shotgun and the other slapping at my face. The palm of his hand comes away slick and red with blood. The slaps hurt; they sting mostly, but they’re not doing any real damage. I’m getting more and more enraged with each smack of his hand. My left hand is up, trying to deflect the blows Sanjay is raining down on me. The right is still clamped on the butt of the twelve gauge. Sanjay closes his fist and strikes, connecting with the bridge of my nose and I hear a crunch as the entire front of my head explodes with pain. Blood is running down the back of my throat.
I hear a shriek and Sanjay is yelling “Do it, do it!” I turn my head and see Emily crossing her front yard, and I think she has a large carving knife in her hand. Blood is filling my eyes. I reach up and squeeze Sanjay’s neck in my fist and his screams ratchet up several octaves as I clamp down on his throat. The shotgun slips from my grasp and I’m thinking this is it, I’m fucking dead, but Sanjay drops it and starts flailing wildly at my head and face with his fists. His face is turning purple. I reach forward with my right hand and grab the front of Sanjay’s khakis, squeezing a fistful of his cock and balls as tight as I can, twisting at the same time.
Emily is standing over me with the knife and I hear a pop and she takes one step backwards, then another. A second pop and she’s sitting down, hard, on the Reichert’s walk. The knife clatters to the cement. Sanjay’s dark face is almost black and he rolls off me, onto the grass and curls into a fetal position, one hand to his throat and the other cupping his wounded johnson.
Mandy is next to me, holding Bob’s nine millimeter Glock. I sit up, my head spins and I turn to see Emily Bedi as she slumps forward, a pool of blood spreading from between her doughy thighs. Sanjay is crawling across the front lawn, dragging himself toward his open door. Fucking bastard, he doesn’t even turn to see if there’s any life left in his wife. There is none; she’s sitting spread-eagled on the sidewalk, folded in two at the waist so that her head is almost touching the ground. Blood has flowed out of Emily’s wounds, over clothes and onto the ground. She’s sitting there, dead, soaking in a four foot wide semi-circle of crimson.
I’m bleeding, too. Blood is running like water from my scalp and from my nose. I look down at the front of my shirt, it looks like someone has slit my fucking throat, I’m drenched from my collar down to my waist. From behind me, I hear the sound of Mandy as she drags the gear bag filled with food down the sidewalk towards home, a strap in one hand and a black handgun in the other.
I don’t think I’ll be in good shape for the neighborhood fun festival this evening. I’m a little dizzy and in a lot of pain, but fuck it. With the shotgun under my arm, I make the short walk around the circle to the Black’s house. After five minutes of knocking on the door, Kathryn Black finally peeks out through the blinds on the sidelights. She won’t open the door. I tell her we’ll meet tomorrow, we’ll meet outside and we’ll meet at noon. Her face puckers, she doesn’t like someone other than herself making the rules, but it is what it is. If I’m going to be tapped to lead the resistance, I guess it’s going to be on my terms.
I just need to figure out what those terms are. 
The walk back around the block seems like it takes hours. I’m wiped out. My arms are sore from trying to block Sanjay’s fists and my nose and scalp hurt like crazy. I know for sure that my nose is broken.
Back inside the house, I head down to the basement, strip off my bloody clothing and throw it in the wash. At the utility sink, I rinse my face and forehead with warm water. My nose is swollen and I can’t breathe through it. My eyes are like slits. Holding a hand towel to my face, I take a deep breath, and then blow the air out through my mouth. I’m thinking what I’m about to do will hurt like a motherfucker, and I’m not wrong. I suck in another breath, brace myself and blow out hard through my nose. Ohjesusfuckmotherchrist. An angry jet of thick, coagulated blood and mucous shoots from my nostrils, filling the towel. My head, from my teeth all the way back to the base of my skull, erupts in a fresh maelstrom of pain and a sheet of brilliant white light blasts my eyes. It feels like my brain is going to explode, and I wonder for a second if some of the shit that I just blew into the towel was part of my cerebrum. Apparently, my body feels like I’m not suffering enough; on top of the slicing ache in my head, my stomach begins to contract and suddenly I’m retching into the wash basin, a torrent of bile and blood and partially digested canned beans pouring from my mouth. Perfect. I’m reeling, salty drops of sweat are running into my half-closed eyes, adding the sensation of acid behind my eyelids to the pounding ache that’s hammering my face.
Back upstairs, the bedroom door is closed. Rachel and Amanda are on the other side of it, and I can hear soft crying. I reach for the doorknob. It’s locked. I’m on the wrong side of it. Or maybe not. In Rachel’s bathroom, I pour a half dozen Advil tablets into my palm and wash them down with water that I drink straight from the faucet. It’s only a few steps to Rachel’s bedroom, and it takes me what feels like an hour to take them. I lower myself into Rachel’s unmade bed, pull the covers over myself and I’m asleep in seconds.

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