by Tara Brown
“When are you leaving?”
“Now,” he mutters as Mitch comes outside wearing the same hesitant expression.
“Hey,” Mitch says when he gets to where we are. “You tell her?” he asks Louis.
“Yeah.” Louis gets up, giving me one last intense stare. “We’ll be back this afternoon, don’t worry.” He walks away and it’s more dramatic than I expected from him.
“I don't know how to read an old map.” I give Mitch a confused look.
“Jeff said it’s easy to find your way out of here. You have the waterfront on the left and you turn right on Sixteenth Ave. Drive until you come to the Fraser Highway. Take that until you get to the Trans-Canada. Drive East on the Trans-Canada. Don't worry about any of the other roads. From there, the signs will get you home.”
“I think you should stay.” I don't know if I’m being selfish or not.
“I’ll be back.” Mitch’s voice is firm and he means it so fiercely that I believe him. He takes my hands in his, creating a weird spark of warmth and connection, and squeezes. “But if we get stuck somewhere or can’t make it back here, leave me a note telling me where you’re going next. Like Hansel and Gretel, okay?” He cracks a grin and something comes over me. I lift my hands to his neck and pull him down, pressing my lips to his. The kiss isn’t even a kiss, it’s more two faces smooshing together.
Then I whisper against his lips, “Please come back.”
He nods and kisses me differently, softer. “I will.”
But it’s a lie.
A lie he doesn't know he’s telling me.
9
Day Six
My fingers tremble as I close the door to the mansion and give Jack one more uncertain glance. He nods once, also visibly brimming with uncertainty. Though we had a small conversation as a group to come to a decision, it still doesn’t feel like we chose the right option.
Through the window I take one last peek at the note on the table in the front entryway. The note telling them where we’ve gone. Just in case.
Please, God, please, let them find their way back here.
Cynthia slips her fingers into mine and squeezes. I squeeze back and we creep to the gate where Naira and the others are waiting. There are fifteen of us left.
The others are gone.
Ms. Mara.
Trevor.
Jeff.
Louis.
Vanessa.
Bev.
And Mitch.
They’re all gone.
Gone or changed, I don't know. Maybe they’re hiding. God, please let them be hiding.
All I know is yesterday when they left, when we watched them drive away, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, the one that currently plagues me. And they never came back.
Mitch lied and somewhere inside me I hate him for that.
But I can’t focus on it. I have to stay alive.
We’re hungry, out of food, tired, scared, and feeling more alone than we ever have.
And leaving the wrought iron gate of the compound feels like the stupidest thing anyone could ever do.
But we do it.
The gate creaks open and we slip out one after the other with Jack leading the way. He does the opposite thing I want to do; he goes up the small hill to the left, away from the beach. Away from the stairs. But we voted and this is the path they chose, the majority. They want to go home. They believe this is over tomorrow on the seventh day.
But I’m scared.
And I miss Mitch.
And Louis.
And Bev, who was really nice.
And Jeff, who I didn't know very well but he kept us alive.
Hell, I even miss Vanessa.
Jack leads and I bring up the rear, with everyone else in a line between us. He pauses, we pause. He runs, we run too.
We make it a block this way, listening and watching and worrying. I’ve never been so quiet in all my life. Inside me isn’t quiet, it’s a storm. My chest is pounding, my breath is ragged, and my skin is dripping clammy sweat from the cold humidity of autumn on the Pacific Northwest Coast.
Jack pauses at the top of the hill, looking both ways as if he’s the teacher and we’re the primary school kids following him. His shoulders lift and lower, suggesting his breathing is also a bit heavy. He points to the right and peers back down the line until his eyes meet mine. I follow his finger to the side road where there are two white luxury minivans parked out front of a nice home.
“Who has matching minivans?” I ask myself.
No one answers but I nod at Jack and he hurries that way, his head moving back and forth as he makes sweeping scans of the yards he crosses in front of. The first van is locked but the second is not. He opens the door for everyone surrounding him to climb in.
“Everyone, cram in the van while we check inside and see if we can find the keys,” Naira says as she hurries to the front door of the fancy suburb house. She listens at the door as Jack and I and Cynthia peek in windows. We all make eye contact and nod at one another before she tries the doorknob. It’s locked.
She knocks softly.
No one moves inside.
Through the window I see cereal spilled on the floor and drawers open. The people who lived here must have left in a hurry.
Jack grabs a rock from the garden that’s painted with a daisy on it and has initials of five people. Not enough kids to explain the two minivans. I’m not sure why but that’s weird for me. Maybe because my dad made such a stink about my mom getting a van.
Mason and I loved the van.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and hold my breath as Jack wraps the rock with his jacket and hits the window softly.
It doesn't break, or even crack. It quivers but nothing. He laughs nervously and hits again, this time harder. The glass cracks but it doesn't break. He hits again and again until pieces of glass fall into the house onto the wooden floor. We all pause and listen, but there’s nothing.
We haven’t seen a single person. I’m scared we won’t see any more people. That we’re it. All that’s left.
Jack reaches in and opens the lock and door, stepping in like this is somehow more dangerous than being out on the street.
We all look back at the van crammed to the brim with kids I don't really know. They’re staring at us, each face tight with stress and worry. And as if this were a horror movie, their faces change. Hands move, pointing and waving, eyes widen. Mouths change shape as if they are all screaming in unison. The van is rocking as they hit the windows.
In a sweeping motion we all swing back to stare into the house again, but we see it too late. It’s not in the house. It’s in the side yard and it’s running at top speed from the left side of the house. The whole world slows down.
Screams become those drawn out, dulled roars that happen when you watch something in slow-mo.
The zombie is barely moving.
Cynthia steps inside the house, pushing Jack with her. She slams the door. I’m sure it’s not on purpose, but it’s not how I expected this moment to go.
“Fuck!” Naira screams and grabs my hand and turns, tugging me to the right. We sprint and my legs strain with the exertion I’m putting out, but nothing speeds up.
The zombie, a blonde lady in Lululemon workout clothes and a fancy silver watch, is missing a chunk of her arm where I assume she was bitten. Her skin is grayish and dull and her eyes are bloodshot. She’s so close I smell the rust on her bloody sleeve.
Naira is screaming which is a mistake. She stops when another zombie comes from the house next door. Naira drags me into the side yard under a vine-covered archway and slams the gate shut so hard that as it passes by me the wind from it brushes my arm. The zombies are stuck in front of the gate, bashing their bodies into it, trying to break through.
We hurry for the back door, jumping onto the deck and closing that gate as well. It’s glass and pretty and not likely to be great at keeping out zombies. Naira opens the back door as I keep watch of the yard.
> Cynthia and Jack meet us in what appears to be the nook, but my eyes are drawn to the back. A slapping sound brings my attention from the yard and the zombies, to my friends. Cynthia is holding her cheek and she and Naira are both crying.
Jack appears confused and takes a step back just in case.
I’m huffing my breath and not sure if she slapped Cynthia because she closed the door or if it’s something else.
A noise comes from the back and I spin to see the Lululemon lady. She’s got more cuts and scrapes but she’s in the yard running for the glass gate. I slam the back door and close the drapes, moving as quickly as I can to block out the view of the zombies.
We peer out the side window, my heart pounds but at least I haven’t peed my pants again. Yet.
Jack creeps to the kitchen. He comes back with keys. A few sets. He hurries to the front window and tests the unlock buttons, which fortunately make no noise but the lights on the vans flash.
The people crammed into the front van slip out and split up, some of them getting in the other van.
Jack gives one set of van keys to Naira and keeps the other, placing the rest of the keys he was holding on the counter. “We gotta make a break for it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to get my head into the right place for the moment we’re in. Survival. I need to think survival. “Just like the bus, someone stays behind and makes noise in here, the rest of us get to the front yard and get into the vans. When everyone is in the vans, the person making the noise runs for it. We’ll keep one of the van doors open so they can run in and jump in as we’re driving away.”
The thumping on the house gets louder.
“Who’s the fastest?” Jack asks.
“I am,” Naira says softly.
“I’ll do it.” I ignore her. “My plan. I’ll do it.” I’m not selfless, so my brain is screaming at me to let Naira do this. But I can’t ask someone to do this, in case it’s a bad plan. Which I’m worried it is. The moment those vans start, the zombies will be attracted, and I’ll be running for my life.
“Tan—”
“No.” I grab Naira’s hand. “If I don’t make it, Jeff said you turn right on Sixteenth Ave. Away from the ocean. Drive until you come to some place called the Fraser Highway. Take that until you get to the Trans-Canada. Drive east on the Trans-Canada. Go now!” I squeeze her fingers once then hurry to the back side of the house and begin to move chairs over the hardwood floors, bumping them into each other and making a commotion.
Jack pushes Cynthia and Naira to the front door and opens it slowly, peeking out. He waits a second then sprints, running as hard as he can for the van that was unlocked. He slaps the keys into the hand of the person waiting and rushes to the other van. He and Cynthia get inside the back and Naira jumps in the driver’s seat.
The doors are closed too loudly. The vans start. The banging in the backyard ends.
I bolt for the front door, running hard across the grass and pathways.
I’m halfway when I catch a glimpse of color and blurred faces to the left and right of me. The vans are moving forward, the one in the front of going too fast but the second one is slower, the door is open and Cynthia is screaming at me to hurry. Her hand is out, reaching for me. I just about have her, I’m pushing so hard I can’t breathe. It’s like sucking jam into my lungs.
But I find more. I jump to catch her hand as something hits me on the side. I’m thrown off course. The van slams to a stop which causes the door to shut.
Fingers dig in.
Pain stabs me in multiple places, ripping and tearing.
I’m fighting for my life. Kicking and screaming until sound doesn't come out of my lips.
A face, snarling and angry comes into view. It’s Lululemon lady. Her blonde hair drops into my face as my hands slip around her throat, holding back her face. She pushes down onto me as the other zombies surround the van. The faces of my classmates in the window are there one second and the van is gone the next.
My arms tremble and eventually they lose. She slams her nose into my shoulder and her mouth is open and she’s tearing my arm through my hoodie.
I scream as she holds herself there, biting down and pausing.
It’s too late.
She pulls back after a minute and then goes limp. She flops on top of me and lies there, mouth parted with a piece of torn gray hoodie in her blood-coated lips.
My arms are so weak I can’t push her off.
I’m bit.
This is it.
I’m gonna wander like one of them.
So much for the seventh day bullshit.
At least I don't have to run around anymore. I don’t have to fear them. They don’t seem to attack each other.
My arm is killing me but I manage to get the lady off me. She’s dead, I think. I must have killed her with the choking, though I swear I stopped choking when she bit me.
The other zombies are gone, they chased the vans.
I struggle to stand and when I do, I don’t move. My eyes are locked on the road where my classmates went, stuck staring at the road for a long time. At first, I wait for the signs of zombification to start. Then I think about how everyone watched me get bit and not one of them jumped out. Mitch would have jumped out. He would have saved me. But maybe he would have been bitten too. Maybe he was already. Maybe I’ll find him and we’ll wander together.
Unsure of where to go next or what to do, I realize I’m starving.
Maybe that’s the first stage.
But I swear everyone said the change was instant.
I’m not sure what’s happening but decide to make my way into the house. This time I don't bother to close the door or lock it. I’m dying, what does it matter if more zombies come?
I make a peanut butter sandwich and struggle through the fact the bread is a bit stale. It’s homemade and not great. My grandmother’s was way better. The natural peanut butter doesn’t help.
The sandwich curbs my hunger but now I’m so thirsty I can barely swallow the last bite.
The fridge smells like death when I open it, but I manage to snag a Diet Coke from the door and close it before I end up getting sick from the stench.
The sound of the can opening is amazing, a miracle. I gulp until it’s all gone.
The moment I’m done, I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion like I’ve never felt before. My legs are heavy and my eyes won’t stay open.
In some twisted version of Goldilocks and the Three Zombies, I make my way upstairs to the bedrooms. I check them all out before settling on the one with the oversized king bed. But I’m coated in blood and sweat, and I am my mother’s daughter. I can’t climb into the bed dirty and gross. I end up snooping in the drawers and closets until I find a Lululemon stash. I pull off my sweaty, bloody hoodie and check out the wound. It’s not even big. I’m going to die because of a smaller bite than the mailman got that time in my neighbor’s yard.
In the bathroom, there’s some weird personal hygiene wipes. Like baby wipes for adults.
“I don’t even want to know,” I mutter as I wash my body with them, face and all, before pulling on the fresh clothes. And I even steal some deodorant from the drawer next to me. If I’m going to be walking dead, I’m going to smell nice and look fresh.
Without giving anything else much thought, I curl up in the bed and my brother is the last face I picture before I drift off to sleep.
I wish I’d seen him one more time.
10
When I wake, my head is throbbing and my neck’s stiff. “Mom?” I say groggily, hoping she’s home. My throat is sore as shit, which means Mason has given me something. Again.
Has he been sick lately? I can’t remember.
“Mom!” I call again but I don’t hear her footsteps in the hall.
Is she working?
What’s that smell? It’s different—perfume or laundry soap I don't recognize.
I feel around in the dark, my fingertips tiptoeing along softness that reminds m
e I’m in bed. But this isn’t my bed. Did I sleep in my mom’s bed?
Where am I?
No, it’s a stranger’s bed. A stranger’s house. I forgot, I’m a zombie.
The bite on my arm hurts when I move it. Surely, the infection is starting to hit now.
I push myself to sitting up and the room spins. This must be the first symptom. Not hunger. That probably comes later.
The night sky is bright outside the window. The moon lights it up enough that when my eyes adjust, I see the bedroom. It triggers all the memories and events leading up to this moment.
Ms. Mara.
Trevor.
Louis.
Bev.
Mitch.
I’m undead. Or rather dying and waiting to wake up undead.
The house is silent, creepy silent, triggering me but I remember I’m dying anyway. So it doesn’t matter if something jumps out of the shadows.
Defeated by the whole outcome, I nearly lie back down but the pain in my throat pushes me to get up, though the process isn’t simple. I slide from the bed, digging my toes into the pile when they meet the rug. It takes a lot of pushing to stand and I realize how weak I am. I must be dehydrated as hell. Or this is the change.
Staggering from the bedroom, my hands find places to grip, a railing, a wall, a picture that's so large I can slide my fingers along the bottom of the frame.
The kitchen isn’t as bright as the bedroom was—we closed all the blinds and curtains—so I open them and let the moonlight flood the expansive rooms.
Light glints off objects as my eyes dart about the space, seeking one thing. Holding my breath, I get the fridge door open again and grab another Diet Coke, closing the door before I exhale with a cough.
Again, the sound of the can opening is something heavenly. The bubbly liquid is rough at first on my throat but eventually becomes something resembling lubricant. The pain begins to ease. When it’s empty, I put the can down and stumble around the kitchen to a doorway that must be the pantry. There’s no light in here but standing in the entrance for a few minutes allows my eyes to adjust enough to make out shapes and logos.