by Tim McBain
4 years, 41 days after
Rita,
Where to fucking begin.
You know me. I’m not much for the written word. Never have been. More of a talker. I mean, not to beat myself up about it, but I’m That Guy you used to see at parties windmilling his arms around like crazy while telling a story. Sayin’ it. Sprayin’ it. Loud and obnoxiously proud.
It’s hard to be loud on paper. Harder still to wave your arms around like crazy while writing. I’m trying my best. Believe me.
But what the hell? It’s boring out here. I guess there’s a lot of downtime in the post-apocalypse — lotta time for reflectin’ and what not — and I have to say that I’ve been thinking about you quite a bit.
At the moment I’m just outside of New Bern, North Carolina, living in a little cottage behind the beach house of a family called the Hellicksons. They’re good people. I’ve been helping ‘em fish, clam, and haul lobster pots, plus they’ve got a huge vegetable garden closer to town that needs watered and weeded every morning. It’s hard work, but the labor is how I pay for room and board. Anyway, I’ve always felt that steady work makes a man appreciate his time like nothing else.
Mrs. Hellickson — Linda — did a hell of a job settin’ up her garden. Corn, green beans, peas, radishes, onions. Enough beets, squash, and potatoes to get through the winter, too. Their two kids — Sophie, 8, and Thomas, 6, — help me do the weeding. They take it pretty seriously, too.
The big house — where the family lives — is a goddamn mansion. Marble floors and shit. It’s one of those oceanfront homes that sits up on stilts so the waves can roll right under the house when the weather gets to blowin’. So far I haven’t witnessed this — the tide crashing up under the house, I mean. I guess I have to hope I never do see it out of common decency, although I will feel like I’ve missed something if it plays out that way. What I mean to say is that if it does happen, I’m going to watch the hell out of it.
Me? I live in a little one-room cottage out in the scruff way the hell behind the main house. I’m happy for the privacy, of course. It’s about the same as a studio apartment, albeit without running water and electricity. The little kitchenette is pretty much worthless. Otherwise, it would be nice. Real nice. Sucks, you know? Stupid apocalypse.
The big window over the sink is all busted out. I figure I may as well leave it open for the time being. It’s warm, and I like the sunlight. It can be boarded up once winter comes.
Living by the ocean is wild. I remember how you always said someday you’d live on Lake Michigan. (South Haven, I think?) I didn’t fully grasp the attraction back then, but I get it now.
The air is alive out here. Wind always pushing in off the water. A little rough sometimes, like it’s throwin’ elbows, but it keeps you fresh. And at night, the rhythm of the waves crashing on the beach is like a damn sleeping machine. Knocks me out quick. Even when it’s muggy.
Of course, I have help sleeping lately. The Hellickson’s dog, Meatball, wanders into the cottage most nights to zonk out on the foot of the bed. And no matter how hot it gets, he snuffles at the throw blanket, thrusting his neck until he manages to lift the edge of the covers with his snout. Then he crawls all the way under and curls up. Sometimes he takes a while to get it, snorting out frustrated snarfs. According to Hellickson, it’s because this type of dog was originally bred to protect barns from rats. The dogs used to burrow into the hay to sleep every night. The habit etched itself pretty deeply, and the breed prefers to sleep under the covers to this day.
He’s a little black-and-tan Miniature Pinscher. Looks exactly like a tiny Doberman. Gangly the way they are, you know? Hilariously long legs for how small he is. Little guy can’t weigh even ten pounds, but he walks around all proud like a pit bull. Hunts like one, too. Lives off the slew of rats and rabbits he catches near the garden. I saw him bound after a groundhog once. Caught it and snapped its neck in the blink of an eye. That was big game hunting for such a small pup, and he seemed to know it. He played with the corpse all afternoon rather than eating it, pleased as hell to toss the floppy thing up in the air and try to catch it.
But once he split open the belly, the purple guts spilled out everywhere. Dear God. The smell was pretty well indescribable. I guess it goes without saying that the odor involved some combination of death and feces. Not the best.
Good dog, though.
Just got back from an afternoon of hauling heavy shit. Mr. Hellickson — Dan — and I lugged the washer and dryer out of their basement to free up some storage space. Heavy as hell.
Storage is so key these days, especially as we prep for fall and winter. Of course putting away food is the main thing, but just keeping everything of value dry is no sure thing anymore. A lot of roofs are starting to go. And I swear the rains and storms are worse than before. I learned these things the hard way.
I’ve got all my stuff boxed up and loaded into the Hellickson home for now. A bunch of clothes. Tools. All manner of magazines and entertainment-related stuff I’ve scavenged. It’s a good feeling knowing that all of it is dry and secure.
Anyhow, the prior owners of the Hellickson mansion must have had a dog of their own. This little laundry room was immaculate, right? Every tile spotless white like freshly bleached teeth. But as soon as we slid the washing machine away from the wall, we unearthed matted clumps of black dog hair so thick that it looked like a Labrador had died under the damn thing.
Mr. Hellickson got this sour look on his face, like he was embarrassed or something about the mess. Like I’m judging anyone’s house cleaning.
After we’d moved the appliances out and loaded them in the back of Hellickson’s truck, we ate lobster rolls for lunch. Delish. Mrs. Hellickson bakes all manner of tasty bread in a stone pizza oven. We’re talking a legit, wood burning pizza oven, I should explain. Unbelievable. I don’t know if they picked this mansion over the other seaside homes solely because of said pizza oven, but I would respect the reasoning if so. Anyhow, I must have brought it up, because the topic turned to my home selection.
“Why stay out in that busted up cottage when there are mansions next door on either side?” Linda asked me.
I took a big bite of lobster roll to give myself a second to ponder it.
“Well… I mean, I wouldn’t know what to do in a place so big, I guess. The cottage is more my size and style. It’s, uh, cozy.”
Dan bobbed his head while I spoke.
“It’s a good thing, having someone help us watch the property,” he said. “We’re better off staying close. Working together to stay safe.”
I took this opportunity to pivot the conversation away from my lifestyle and onto zombies. I’m pretty smooth. Anyhow, Dan got all uptight after that. He pressed his lips together.
“The dead don’t wander out this way,” he said.
“They’re everywhere if you look around hard enough,” I said.
“I said they don’t wander out this way.”
His mouth was all tight, lips turning white and stuff, so I dropped it. Weird guy sometimes. And I figured maybe he didn’t like me mentioning that kind of stuff in front of the little ones.
By that time, we’d finished with the meal, so we headed back out to finish the job.
“Where are we taking these?” I asked, flicking my hand toward the washer and dryer.
“We’ve got a storage barn a couple miles out where we’ve stowed some things,” Hellickson said. “I’d be just as happy to dump ‘em in a ditch somewhere, myself, but Linda wants to hang onto them. Just in case.”
My own little storage barn flashed in my head as he spoke. The only possession that means anything to me sits in a barn as well, under a tarp with hay spread across it. I can’t wait to get back to it.
Meatball trotted up just then like some kind of show dog, a dead mole clenched in his jaw. He laid down and went to work ripping the rodent up and eating it in bloody strips, clearly proud as hell of himself. You know how dogs can kind of smile and let their tongues loll out of
their mouths, their eyes all bright? He was doing that between gnaws.
It made me laugh, and then Hellickson gave me what I thought was a dirty look.
“Must be nice having this little guy around,” I said. “Good source of entertainment.”
Dan shrugged.
“’Nother mouth to feed.”
He looked out at the grass field leading back to my cottage. I thought about pointing out that the dog catches enough vermin to feed not only itself but the whole lot of us. Dan had that irritated look etched around his mouth again, though, so I let it go.
I woke this morning to the children staring at me. What the hell? Pretty weird.
They stood in the kitchenette, maybe 8 or 12 feet from my bed. With the way the light streamed in through the broken window behind them, I couldn’t read their faces very well. I could tell that Sophie was blinking, but that was about it.
It was real eerie, I guess I’d say.
I think I was pretty taken aback, so I just lay there for a long time, watching them watching me, and then it dawned on me at last that something must be wrong.
I sat up, blankets and sheets rolling back from my shoulders.
My rapid movement excited Meatball, so he jumped off the bed as though to spring into action, barked twice.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
They were quiet for a beat.
“What?” Thomas said.
Hm…
“I mean, like, is something the matter?”
“No,” Sophie said. I thought she was smiling now, but it was hard to tell with that shadow falling over her face.
“So why are you guys out here? You need something?”
“You were sleeping,” Thomas said, shrugging.
Now I was the one who was quiet for a beat.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was sleeping.”
“We like watching you sleep.”
He said this in a matter of fact tone that only a six-year-old can use in a totally sincere way.
“Oh, OK.”
I didn’t know what the hell else to say.
They wandered off after that, and I thought a while about how creepy that is. To watch a guy sleep? But then I remember being fascinated by some pretty mundane stuff as a kid, and I guess there’s no cartoons or internet these days. Maybe an idiot snoring and slobbering is about as novel as it gets.
Erin
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
6 days after
Kel-
You know the song “What I Like About You” by The Romantics? I’ve had it stuck in my head all day.
I was whistling it while I helped my mom hang our sleeping bags on the clothesline next to our tent to air them out. Whistling is one of my mom’s pet peeves, but sometimes I can’t help it.
“Erin, enough with the whistling,” she said.
She didn’t say it that mean, really. But I couldn’t resist. I guess I was still mad about the lie she told me about the refrigeration trucks. So I kept doing it.
I felt her gaze on me like a laser beam.
“Are you just trying to be obnoxious now?” she asked.
“You’re obnoxious,” I muttered.
I know. It’s the kind of retort I’d expect from Izzy. Actually, that’s probably an insult to Izzy. But I was grasping at anything, at that point. Clinging to the anger I felt.
“What did you say?”
I spun around abruptly and stared her in the eyes.
“I said you’re obnoxious. And a liar.”
I was on the verge of tears then, and I stormed away. She didn’t come after me.
I wandered through camp, staying to the outer edge of the tents to minimize the number of people that might see me crying. When I got myself under control, I headed for the mess tent.
Breanne was sitting with Collette (aka, the horse girl) and another girl Collette is almost always with. Her name is Ginny. (Or it might be Jenny. They both smear the vowel sound in a way that makes it so I can’t distinguish between the two.)
The four of us made unmemorable small talk for a few minutes and then Collette and Gee-inny bid us farewell and left.
Breanne was tracing invisible shapes on the tabletop with her index finger and being uncharacteristically quiet.
“What’s wrong?”
She kept swirling her finger over the table, not looking up.
“What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.”
“You just don’t seem very… chatty,” I said, realizing that she’d actually been plenty chatty when Collette and Ginny were there. It was only after they’d left that she’d clammed up.
I didn’t know what that meant. After an agonizingly silent stretch of time, Breanne spoke up.
“What did Bennett want?”
“Huh?”
“Bennett was looking for you yesterday.”
“Oh. Max wasn’t feeling well. They’ve got that stupid contest, and Bennett wanted him to get back to working on it.”
“Is Max sick?” she asked.
“Sick of this camp, maybe,” I said, deciding it was best to leave out the details.
It wasn’t really my story to tell, and I figured Breanne wouldn’t want to hear the specifics of Max’s grisly task. Plus there’s the fact that she probably wouldn’t take kindly to me laying out what an awful shithead Bennett is.
“Oh,” Breanne said, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “So that was all he wanted?”
“You mean Bennett? Yeah.”
Something was going on, but I still hadn’t put my finger on it. I watched her for a few seconds.
“What did you think he wanted?”
She shrugged, and then it hit me. She’d been jealous.
“Jesus, Breanne! You thought…” I couldn’t even say it.
Ick. Me and Bennett? Double ick.
“Never! I would never!”
“I didn’t really think that, I just… you know. He was all shady when I asked what he wanted you for.”
“He probably did it on purpose just to drive you crazy.”
“You think?” she asked, and she actually sounded pleased at the notion.
I’d only be trying to subtly point out yet another way that Bennett sucks. But she is so beyond hope at this point. I told her that, and she laughed.
“Man, I miss hanging out with you all the time,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“What are you talking about? We still hang out.”
“Yeah, but you always have to work in the plague tent now. The other night, I had nothing to do except play Go Fish with Collette and Ginny. It was so boring. They are so boring.”
She was clinging to me in mock desperation now.
“If you miss me so much, you could always come along. To volunteer in the quarantine tent, I mean. It’s not so bad.”
“No way,” she said. “I’m not stepping foot in there.”
I shrugged.
“You know what we should do?” she asked, bumping me with her elbow. “We should have another midnight rendezvous in the woods. You and Max and me and Bennett.”
“Oh, yes. That worked out so well last time.”
“It’s not like we broke the world by swimming naked in the river.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m hot,” she said. “But not that hot.”
We laughed, and everything felt normal again between us.
I still can’t believe she thought I’d have any interest in Bennett. I’d rather lick a cow’s ass.
Your extremely nauseated BFF,
Erin
Delfino
New Bern, North Carolina
4 years, 43 days after
I believe I made mention of it before, but I’ve got a real bad tooth. Fucked up molar or something. Lower right quadrant. Hurts like a bitch most of the day lately. A wave of ache that spreads and spreads. Overtakes my jaw, my face, my head, my thoughts.
Mrs. Hellickson gave me some ibuprofen. It helps and all, but only a little and only for a whil
e. I’ve been thinking about what to do about it, just in terms of short-term relief. There aren’t a lot of options, but I do have one idea.
I just looked back at what I’ve written, and I guess I didn’t mention the tooth yet. Well, whatever. My tooth hurts. You get the gist.
The real reason I’m working out here is gasoline. The Hellicksons managed to stockpile quite a bit, the way Dan tells it. He says he’ll give me 500 gallons if I help them prepare for and make it through the winter, so that’s what I’ll do.
With that amount of gas, I can get the Delta 88 out of storage for good next spring. I’ll trade some of the fuel to help whip it back into shape a little, and I can get back to doing runs for money, which I consider my calling in this life.
It kills me to keep the 88 cooped up in some barn even for a little while, but what are you going to do? I ride a bike out there every couple weeks to drive it around in the field a little to keep the seals from drying out or anything nightmarish like that.
I swear it hurts worse to see the car so frequently, to feel the rumble of the engine vibrate through the steering wheel and into the meat at the heels of my hands. If I didn’t keep experiencing it, I suspect the pain would grow distant and dull, but no. I have to keep opening the wound back up and poking at it.
And though I have a sentimental attachment to this car in particular, I know way down deep that it’s not this particular metal or engine or tires that mean so much to me. It’s what the car symbolizes.
Freedom.
Hellickson had me mow part of the yard today — a big clear patch of flat sod so he and the kids have a little place to play badminton. I guess he was big into that when he was young. Anyway, he had me gas up the riding mower they’d found in the shed on the west side of the estate, and sure enough, it worked. Waste of gas, if you ask me, but it’s his to do what he likes with, I suppose.
When I was halfway done, he brought out a six pack of beer for us to split. Tallboys of Coors Banquet. Big yellow cans. I couldn’t believe it.
He had the biggest grin on his face as he snapped one out of its plastic ring and handed it over.