So on foot, it is for now.
Footfalls, breath, and the occasional rustling of the leaves on the wind. That’s all I have for the company of sound. That and a pop-song I last heard on the radio--artist unknown to me, song title, also unknown. Only the refrain stuck in my head with the tempo. Something about walking in the dirt. Unimportant if I ever knew the artist or the name of the song. The artist was almost assuredly dead or taken over by the virus. It would be nice if the song stopped playing in my head, but going crazy might not be the worst outcome. Listen, I’m not a doctor. I assume it’s a virus. Maybe it’s a bacteria or a super-germ, and I’d have no reliable way to tell anyone. It’s not like I can whip out my phone and look at a newsfeed. It all happened so fast, every last bit of this debacle, that I honestly have no idea what’s going on. Pat and I assumed that it’s some kind of virus. We came to this conclusion over a six-pack of beer he’d been saving in his fridge that last couple of days. We camped in his backyard. He was the one who convinced me not to set out at night. Now I think night might be the best time for travel and day time the best time for sleep. But I don’t know how to gauge it. He isn’t here to shed any ideas. Pat never even told me what his agenda was. So I have no idea why he ditched me.
Time-tracking feels much harder than it used to. No idea when I last ate. Know I'm hungry, but also know I've got some fat stores the body can consume. I was kind of doing intermittent fasting before, but now I'm full-on fasting baby (that's what I tell myself, I'm full while not eating). Don't eat until the sun is right over my head, which I assume is still noontime. On the bright side, I don't have to go back to work or deal with Daylight Savings bullshit.
Half a plastic bag full of trail mix, and half a canister of water is in my backpack, there was more when I set out, but I ate more of it than I should have. Probably my nerves, making me stress-eat.
For light at night, I have a box of matches and a Bic-lighter that I used to burn incense in our house. It’s not much, but when you find something that really burns, it makes all the difference when the sun ducks below the horizon.
I'm gibbering to myself, and my body is giving out on me. So tired. Didn't sleep much last night.
I look around to see if I can rest anywhere, in someone’s yard maybe...there’s a grassy knoll to my left. A house looming over it. I shrug and walk to it, taking off my backpack, and crashing onto the slanted ground. I pulled my hoodie onto my head and lay back on the slanted hill, the grass cold yet somehow soothing against my aching back.
Within minutes or moments, I fell into a fitful sleep.
The sound of a twig snapping had me sit-up straight, eyes peeled, ears at attention. Slowly, I got up and surveyed my surroundings. There were no people or zombies, half zombies, or other beasts of the wild. After a beat, another stick or twig snapped, and I turned in its direction.
It was a tree branch thirty yards away that had followed its brother from a height of forty feet falling to the pavement that made the sound. Curious what would make this happen, I saw no evidence of birds or even squirrels, I walked over to inspect the situation.
As I got closer, I saw this gorgeous maple tree under severe threat from some unknown invasive species. The bark had dark, patchy stains on it. Black and green skeins of material I wasn't familiar with wrapped around the tree. It didn't look at all like ivy or some other natural threat. These gelatinous tendons were glistening, it looked like sweat, as though wrapping around the trunk and limbs of this tree were a cardiovascular workout for an unknown entity.
I leaned in and could see a small pulse under the veins of this shimmering vine. I shuddered and turned from it in revulsion, sure that if I had more food in my belly, I might eject it with force.
Curiosity revisited me. Was this strange phenomenon part of what was happening to the world? Was I immune to it, or was it a threat I should take measures to protect myself from?
No answers.
I reached inside my pocket to grab my phone out of reflex. There was only my leg underneath the fabric of the cotton pocket lining.
I backed away from the tree and turned to walk down the road that might lead me to the loving embrace of my wife.
My skin crawled with the thought that this new problem could have wrapped its slimy self around me while I snoozed on someone’s lawn a few minutes before. Night was coming back around sooner than later, the sun pretended to be shy by hiding behind the clouds and scuttling towards the horizon as if greedy for a better scene than this one. I needed to make some time if I had any hope of getting to my destination.
Behind me, I could hear the tree groaning and creaking under the strain of its assailant. I knew it would fall soon, and that was something I wasn’t about to stick around to watch.
On some instinctive level, I knew this vine was either a cause of the zombies or at the very least, a bizarre symptom of it.
It would get cold tonight, I could feel it in my bones--no weather app required. I picked up my pace and put distance between myself and the tree.
Claire filled my mind's eye like a vision of the future. Sapphire blue eyes, close-cropped blonde hair, slender body, medium-firm breasts, and an ass to pine for. Beyond her good looks, which often turned heads as she entered public spaces even with her scrubs on, was her personality. Her acerbic wit stunned most people to silent awe. When she wanted to, she could be downright hilarious to the point I would beg her to stop, or I'd die of exhaustion or dehydration from the tears running down my cheeks. But what really drew me to her was her undeniably powerful compassion for other people.
My attention to this vision of her, perhaps too generous, or maybe not magnanimous enough, was slowly shoved to the background as I became aware of something both incredibly natural and utterly foreign under the circumstances. A lone butterfly perched on an old wood lattice in someone’s yard was gently flapping its wings.
I stopped mid-stride and gaped in wide-wonder. This was the first natural creature I had seen in two days. What if it was a zombie butterfly? There was no way to tell if that was even possible. So far though, I hadn't seen any ants or other creatures. No squirrels, no birds, no spiders, no mosquitos. I was more alone as I had ever been in my life. From time to time I'd hear that god awful bleating a street or two over. That's how I avoided conflicts on my strange route to the Turnpike. There were only so many bullets I carried with me, and only so much killing I was able to stomach, even if these beings were basically, from what I could tell, dead already.
The butterfly, an oily near-incandescent green, purple and black color, lifted off with a gentle breeze, and after a few active flaps, its left-wing fell off, helicoptering to the ground. It sputtered mid-flight and fell like a strange stone to the ground. After moments, it stopped all movements.
I lowered my head and shook it.
As I kept walking, I rounded a small bend in the road and saw ahead on the right was a Wawa gas station. A man could get beef jerky in such an establishment! Hell, a man could probably get cold sodas in a place like that. Chips and candy still fresh and tasty inside sealed packages; my stomach rumbled.
“Wonder if the proprietor will serve the likes of me,” I said. The sound of my own voice shocked and dismayed me, but the content of my comment tickled me. I chuckled a dry, sandpapery giggle.
“Damn boys, it’s time to eat and stock up.”
Smiling, I picked up my pace. I looked reflexively at my wrist to see how long I'd been walking since I last saw the tree with the creepy pulsing vine around it. I saw it was quarter past a freckle and half past an arm hair, then chuckled some more.
As a rule, whenever I get near a public area, I tend to check my surroundings. This was no different. I gauged that it was late afternoon. The temperature was beginning to drop rapidly, but the sun was still out, though further west than it was over by the dying tree. I guessed at this point I'd been walking for about two hours. And with a backpack laden with guns, ammo, a man gets tired quicker. I pulled out my pistol, held it by my
side, crouched low, and squat-walked towards the Wawa. I suspected that if there were other survivors, they would aim high and wild if they thought I was a zombie. And if they were zombies, they would likewise be caught off-guard with my strange approach. It would make it easier to cut them off at the legs, since they liked to run at their victims.
I guess I was in a fun-loving mood. I swept my arms left to right, then right to left as I crept up to the Wawa entrance. The glass and metal-framed doors were open. This was one of the 24-hour Wawas, lucky me, so no owners had had the time to lock up before leaving.
“Guess I won’t be getting much more than cold coffee from the broken fridges. I bet nobody’s gonna make me a sizzli or hoagie to order.”
More chuckling, almost delirious laughter now. Watch it, I thought, people might think you’re cracking up. The thought, though ludicrous, sobered me up a little. The chuckles subsided, replaced by heavy breathing from the awkward crouched-style of walking I’d been engaged in. My quads would burn later, heels and feet were already cramping.
Opening the door, I stood upright, much less concerned that an assailant would react fast enough to hurt or kill me as I entered through two sets of double doors.
I was right. Though very dark and difficult to see in, there was enough light coming in from the south-facing windows to guide me through the murky aisles.
No one was here. And if people or zombies were, they did an excellent job of keeping quiet and still.
Two Snickers bars and a perfectly fresh, slightly warm soda later, I belched loudly. Next, I grabbed a few bags of chips, went behind the counter and grabbed a plastic sack, and shoved the items in. Beef jerky was ransacked, and I knew from watching enough movies that soon I'd get a sugar headache if I didn't get my hands on some real protein. Right now, that was future me's problem.
I heard something shuffle, like sandpaper on limestone, and it made me freeze and my skin crawl. It was coming from the public bathroom.
Shit. This wasn't good. I took out my gun, checked it (carefully) for bullets, and cocked it. The light outside was fading faster, and now that I'd dealt with a zombie up close and in person, I knew enough to know it would have no answers for me. Even if it could communicate with others like itself, it wouldn't (or perhaps couldn't) tell me what it knew. It meant more killing, for which I was sad to see I could now perform without an immediate need to puke about it.
I left the bag on the counter. The murk made it difficult for me to see. I put my ear up to it, gun by my shoulder, muzzle facing upward.he
Another shuffle sound.
Something was in there.
My heart began to thud loudly in my ears.
I could leave now and not think about it. But what if there was a person behind this door like me? Thinking I was some mindless zombie, rummaging through stuff, just waiting me out until I left? It could be.
“Hello,” I said and was startled by the sound of my own voice.
Two quick sliding sounds on the floor. This reminded me of the tree-vine thing. Disgusting, my skin crawled some more.
"If you're a normal person and not a zombie thing, I'm not here to hurt you. Just hungry, tired, and trying to get to my wife. Please, if you're scared, just come out, and all will be cool. We could work together," I said.
My heart was now hammering against my ribs so hard I didn’t quite know what to do, the rushing in my ears made it seem difficult to determine whether or not anyone behind the door responded.
“Please don’t be a zombie, or I will shoot.”
Another two quick shuffles.
Damn it.
I moved away from the door, twisting the knob and pushing it open slightly as I did, then kicked outward, my foot connecting solidly with the old brown metal.
The door swung inward, and I couldn’t see anything at all but an outline. A shape in the form of something vaguely human.
My gun cocked, I fired a warning shot at the ground, then took aim at its torso.
“Do you get it? Are you human or not?”
I didn't want to be shouting, but I couldn't help it, now that the report from the gun made my ears hum with a terrible echo.
The thing continued to stand there, then all at once, it lunged. I pulled the hammer back several times in what seemed like a split second.
The thing flew back against the stall of the women’s bathroom and fell down.
I needed light. Fairly sure it was dead, whatever it was, I ran back out to the counter, shrugged off my pack, and took out my lighter. I rolled up an old newspaper conveniently located on a stand and lit it up, repeating shit, shit, shit, under my breath the entire time.
Once it was lit, it cast darker shadows into the distance, and for a brief moment, I was sure there were other zombies in here with me, just waiting for me to notice them so they could pounce on me in retribution for their fallen comrade.
There was nothing and no one.
I made my way quickly back to the woman's bathroom, holding the lit newspaper in my left hand, which was being consumed ever faster now, and my gun in the right.
It was another dead zombie woman.
I felt like crying again, but my nerves were wound too tightly. That could be me on the floor right now.
The thing on the floor moved.
“Fuck,” I said. The light from the rolled newspaper sputtered, casting flickering shadows everywhere.
I shot three more times and decided this was a place to leave. There would be other Wawa’s after all. Some of them may not even have any zombies.
I ran, stomping on the lit newspaper as I did.
Outside, the sun continued to wester, disappearing in a blaze of pink and orange glory, mocking my puny existence with its fantastic show. I shrugged off my backpack, feeling invisible hands clamping down on my muscles from my pecs to my neck and all the way up in my jaw. Ignoring these sensations, I squatted and unzipped one of the smaller compartments and dug around until I found it. A little Tesla Coil lighter, electric, and before this just a few days ago was fully charged.
I opened the lid, pressed the button, and sighed as no blue electric crackle emitted from its silver body. It should absolutely be working, there was no question in my mind, I kept this thing charged every day. I didn't use it every day, not for smoking or any such habit, but for the cool factor. I thought it could come in handy if I ever needed to go camping. The fact that it refused to turn on and work made me worry. Yet holding this artifact of a twenty-first-century lifestyle was soothing too.
I shoved it back in its zippered home, slung the heavy pack on my shoulder, and patted my right pant leg, feeling the small butane BIC lighters there. All too soon, I would need to use them to start another fire.
As I walked, I noticed my breathing was unsteady, sounding like whimpering, and knew I was losing it again. Every time I had a run-in with a zombie, my nerves frayed that much more.
Something dense and rubbery slid across the road to my right, making me stop.
Did I dare look at it?
Should I start running?
I grabbed the gun and cocked it in front of my eyes.
The killing machine looked tiny and insignificant against the backdrop of that noise.
Fuck.
I turned and nearly laughed. It was an old poster from the Wawa being pushed by the wind against the concrete parking lot. I holstered my gun reluctantly, and resolved to find something that would long be burning. The light was fading so fast that in the next five minutes, I wouldn't be able to see two feet in front of my face.
The problem with no electricity and a New Moon is you can’t see anything without light pollution except the stars.
Stars don’t give you much to see by, even with your eyes all the way dilated.
I miss the modern world.
My camp was near a ditch adjacent to the Wawa parking lot. I dared not go much further, and I was still a little unsure what else might be out there unafraid of fire. Jet planes were still on fire in the distanc
e providing some diffuse lighting to the area around me, and if I really wanted to, I could probably have kept walking all night. The daylight wasn't any safer for my journey than night time.
The strange rope thing slithered in front of my closed eyes, causing me to shiver. Some images can't be readily shaken, no matter how hard you try. I sought the flickering flames and found brief comfort in them before closing my eyes again, the orange afterimages dancing in the lit darkness.
There was a good enough fire going with nearby tree branches and the poster that had slid around the parking lot. The poster advertised coffee at any size for only a buck, and add a Sizli for just a dollar more through November. I listened to the crackle and hiss of fire as it burned, and the act of placing my attention on these natural sounds helped me slide into a light doze.
In my previous life, I was a bit of a philosopher. More recently, I’d say about two years before the darkness and the zombies seemed to invade the world all at once, I thought of myself as secular.
It wasn't truly apparent to me what my wife believed. Sometimes she was an atheist. At other times she openly seemed to believe in a higher power. The whiplash of her claims and assertions were mirrors of my own.
For all we knew as a species, most scientists claim that atoms have no consciousness of their own. Yet when they collect together in specific arrangements, we can't deny consciousness's existence. Whatever compelled the zombies--viral strain, bacterial, or some alien combination of the two—was some form of consciousness unbeknownst to me.
How can the immense, perhaps infinite, vacuum of space/time permit consciousness? What power or force permits the existence of existence?
I’m not the last man on earth, I know there are more men and women like me elsewhere on the planet right now seeking answers, but around here, it sure as hell feels lonely. Where is everyone? If they are all zombies and communicating with each other in their new tongue, what are they discussing? It’s certainly not the Dow Jones, or the weather.
One Way Out: A Zombie Apocalypse Novella Page 2