by Shana Festa
"Oof," exclaimed Meg when the temperature hit us. "It's definitely starting to feel like winter around here."
"We've got a good supply of jackets and long-sleeved shirts. After the tour, and after you get that tetanus shot, I'll take you to the depot."
"The depot?" asked Jake.
"It just sounds exciting. I assure you, it's not. We've dedicated one of the larger guest quarters to supplies. Someone called it the depot a couple months ago and it stuck," Michele told us.
"How many people live in Asylum?" I asked, noticing about twenty people outside.
Mark answered this time. "At last count there were two-hundred and thirty-two people living behind these walls. So, that puts us at two-hundred and thirty-five now. The first month or so we would get a handful of people every day. That's slowed down a fair bit though, and now we see new arrivals sporadically. You three were the first in over a week."
"Wow," replied Jake. "Really puts things into perspective."
"This place is majestic," I said. The mansion was gigantic. It felt more like a palace with its Spanish-style architecture. The pair took us around back first. A courtyard paced in brick connected the mansion to the water. High-end outdoor furniture decorated the courtyard in seating areas and umbrella tables. Kids sat at the tables, and a woman stood nearby with a rolling whiteboard writing out a vocabulary list. On the loungers, other residents sat chatting or reading quietly to themselves. It felt like I was at a Sandals resort.
"This is the main outdoor area for gathering. As you can see, it serves double duty for relaxing activities like reading or board games, and it is also where the children attend school for three hours every day." Michele shared this information with pride. By all accounts, she had every right to be proud. It was amazing.
Standing there, gazing at the open water, I was reminded of Sanibel Island. It felt like a lifetime ago that we were safe from immediate danger. I knew, though, that safety was nothing more than an illusion perpetuated by a deep-seeded need for stability.
Boats of all sizes occupied the available slips, and several more were anchored nearby. From kayaks to Bayliners, there were more than ten crafts in the water.
Michele smiled warmly at us. "If you're impressed by what's outside, then you're going to love what's inside," she said.
I had to hand it to Michele. She hadn't lied about the interior of the mansion. We entered through the largest and most ornate front door I'd ever seen outside of a movie. Just beyond the entry was a large foyer with marble pillars more than a foot in diameter that provided a point of demarcation between the foyer and grand hall. I followed the columns up to the ceiling, which likely cost more to adorn than my entire house.
A honeycombed pattern, gilded in what looked like gold, spanned the entire area. Each honeycomb framed a portrait depicting various artworks of cherubs, angels, and intricately crafted architecture and landscapes. The height of the ceiling was humbling; my best guess was forty feet high.
Similar marble columns ran along the back of the enormous room and a long row of windows spanned the back wall. One thing I had noticed about the doors and windows was the iron bars that covered the exterior surfaces. While I'm sure the feature was indicative of the period in which the mansion had been constructed, the added layer of security was comforting.
"How many people did you say lived here?" asked Jake.
"Two-hundred and thirty-five," answered Michele.
The great hall had been furnished with long rows of mismatched dining tables and chairs. A quick calculation showed enough seating for more than three-hundred.
"As you've probably guessed," said Mark, slipping into tour-guide mode, "this is the main dining area for residents."
Michele picked up where he left off. "Each day, this room houses every resident of Asylum for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Buffet stations are set along either wall."
The first floor consisted of a variety of service areas. The kitchen, which had been partially converted into a gift shop when the building became a historical landmark, had been repurposed back into a fully functional cooking area once Asylum had been formed. Two large pantries lay beyond the kitchen, and a third pantry had been provisioned out of the breakfast room. The farther in we walked, the darker the rooms became. Long swaths of thick fabric were tacked along the far wall of the breakfast room, effectively blocking out the afternoon sun in an attempt to keep food from spoiling in the heat its rays generated.
"Busy place," observed Meg. The entire first floor was a hustle of activity as more than thirty women prepared the evening meal. School must have let out, because some of the children were stacking plates at the end of the buffet tables and carrying baskets of clean silverware from the kitchen.
"Where are the men?" I asked.
Mark and Michele stole quick glances at each other, and Mark answered my question. "The council believes in old-fashioned values. Women prepare the food and keep the home tidy, and the men keep Asylum safe."
My lack of a verbal filter prevailed, and I blurted the first thing that came to mind. "That's a bit sexist, don't you think?" As I said it, I noticed a man emerge from the kitchen. He was dressed in a white chef's coat and directed the ladies while they brought out steaming chafing dishes and set them on the tables.
"What about him?" asked Jake.
"That's Zack, our head chef," said Michele quickly.
"He's gay," added Mark.
My head snapped around, and I glared intensely at the couple. There was no question that the expression I wore was one of disgust, and I was about to go off on a rant when Jake squeezed my arm and shook his head. I toggled my sights between Jake, our tour guides, and Zack in disbelief, but I held my tongue. My inner dialog, however, was not as silent as my outer words and I screamed inwardly to whomever's ass-backwards way of thinking had come up with this archaic mentality of discrimination.
Michele looked at me, and her face told me all I needed to know. She was a kindred soul and shared my sentiment. Mark, on the other hand, appeared just fine with the status quo, earning him a big fat zero in the respect department from me. He sneered openly at Zack like he was a cockroach. I could tell Michele was uncomfortable by their differing opinions, and in a rare display of clemency, I let it go, at least outwardly. Inside, I still seethed.
Meanwhile, Meg and Jake remained silent, observing the tense exchange. There was one common personality trait among the Rossi's: tolerance. It was one of the many things I loved about them.
They respected people and their life choices, and never judged someone based on race, religion, or sexual orientation. And I don't mean just my husband and Meg. The entire Rossi clan had been brought up that way. Jake's parents, and his parent's parents, shared the same open acceptance of others. What was wrong with these people?
* * *
By the time the first floor tour had concluded, we'd seen everything the space had to offer. A solarium was home to shelves packed with books. According to our escorts, many were already there, while others were retrieved from the local library on scouting missions. It wasn't difficult to tell the collections apart. The newest looking books were the library transplants and those that looked old and expensive had been here for quite some time.
Situated between the great room and solarium, a large adjoining reception area and ballroom remained untouched by the clutter and modern conveniences that most other rooms now housed.
"This seems like a pretty big waste of space," observed Jake while he stood in the middle of the empty ballroom. "Why aren't you using this as barracks?"
"Mack feels it's important to keep these rooms true to their intended purpose. Once a week, we have a party, and everyone not on guard duty attends. It staves off the boredom and gives us a chance to mix with the other residents. Tomorrow night you'll be able to attend your first mixer."
Mack. There was that name again. I bristled at the mention of this elusive Mack. Striker's parting words of warning not to trust Mack left me apprehensiv
e and on high alert. I still hadn't had time alone with Jake or Meg to share this information with them, and I found myself beginning to feel anxious to get through the rest of the tour and discuss it.
"So, who's this Mack I keep hearing about?" I asked nonchalantly, not wanting to give away my skepticism.
"Oh," said Michele, "didn't I tell you? Mack is the new president."
"President of what?" asked Meg.
"You know," she prompted. "The president."
"Of the United States?" I asked, my voice sounding shrill.
"Well, yes, and no. We aren't really the United States anymore. Not since the former government was lost in the battle of the capitol."
Jake, Meg, and me stared back, dumbfounded, at the woman as she told us our country's government had fallen in one day.
"Just...stop." I clutched the top of my head trying to make sense of the words they spoke. "So you're telling me there is no longer a United States of America?"
"Correct."
"So what the fuck are we then?"
They looked confused, like I had just asked them to solve the Pythagorean theory. "Asylum," answered Michele.
Now it was our turn to look confused. Meg, having listened quietly to the exchange thus far, chimed in. "I thought this house was Asylum? Are you saying that our country has been renamed Asylum?"
"You didn't know?" Mark prodded.
"Uh, no," I said. "How would we? And what idiot came up with that brain-child?" I felt the angry flush creep up my neck and settle into my cheeks.
"What do you know?"
I looked to Jake. He had spent the most time with the leadership of Sanibel, making him the best person to convey our limited information.
He looked thoughtful. "In mid-October, a form of the rabies virus began infecting the population. The mutated strain of the disease caused death, and subsequent reanimation of what we now call zombies. The disease spread like a plague up the Eastern Seaboard and soon there were more undead than living. Back on Sanibel, we were able to communicate with several dwindling pockets of survivors via radio, but eventually they all went dark."
"Rabies? Goodness no," exclaimed Michele, taken aback by our outdated understanding of the events leading to the annihilation of the world's population.
The room began to spin and I had trouble breathing. I was having a panic attack. "I think I need to sit down," I said, clumsily handing Daphne off to Meg and stumbling to the nearest antique chaise in the reception room. Jake rubbed my back, encouraging me to relax in a soothing tone, while I hung my head between my knees and hyperventilated.
"Okay," I said, still breathing heavily. "If not rabies, then what? Government conspiracy? Meteorite? And what qualifies this Mack to declare himself as president?"
"When the president and vice president fell, along with the other cabinet members, the secretary of defense was next in line for the presidency."
"Mack? Do you mean Jeb MacKenzie?" Jake questioned Mark. I knew that name; the Republican was well known and hated by many. More importantly, I was well aware of Jake's very vocal abhorrence toward the man. My husband held him solely responsible for the decisions that led to the many deaths of our men and women in the armed forces. Most recently, a decision to infiltrate a heavily populated area in the Middle East to remove the leader of an insurgent group who had begun stockpiling weaponry and threatened to defend their cause on US soil.
Vinny's platoon had been tasked with the assignment but fate had changed the course of action, and he'd been positioned elsewhere. The enemy combatant was decommissioned—Jake's way of saying assassinated—but not before his cell captured, tortured, and murdered the soldiers sent in to remove him. In my opinion, Mack was a narrow-minded, self-inflated baboon. The fact that he led Asylum with values from decades' past only reinforced my opinion.
"The one and only," Mark confirmed.
It was my turn to stop Jake from saying something we'd all regret, and I gave him a pleading look to bite back whatever scathing remark he was itching to make.
"And the infection?" I prodded.
"Before things got completely out of hand, the CDC released a statement negating their original assumption that the infection was caused by the rabies virus. The outbreak wasn't isolated to Florida. Actually, it's all pretty unbelievable and science fiction if you ask me," said Mark.
I was beginning to lose my patience with his lack of a straightforward answer. "Look, Mark, I'm both emotionally and physically drained. I don't have the capacity to pussyfoot around things right now. Could you please just lose the exposition and tell us what's really going on?"
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I knew he wanted to snap back, but his professional tour guide demeanor won out and he collected himself before providing an answer to my, admittedly very rude, question. "According to the CDC, there was a drastic shift in the tectonic plates at the earth's crust, and they moved apart in most of the major, and minor, locations at the mantle. When this happened, an unidentified gas escaped and rose to the surface. Anywhere humans came into contact with the gas they died within a short period of time and came back. The symptoms were in line with that of the rabies virus, so it was easy to label it as such."
"I remember studying about that in science," said Meg. "The plates could potentially shift in three ways. When rubbed together, earthquakes occur. If they push together, they form mountains. And when they're pulled apart, trenches can form, but also that's how volcanoes are formed."
"Obviously, we missed that bulletin. We were hit by Hurricane Ike right around the same time the shift happened, and we spent the first two months without electricity," I added. "Did they say anything about working on a cure or vaccine?"
Michele opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by Mark's rushed, "No."
She looked like she wanted to say more but instead looked away and kept quiet.
Jake wasn't satisfied with Mark's curt answer, knowing full well there was something they weren't sharing. "When was the last time you received an update from the CDC?"
"News stations stopped broadcasting a week into the outbreak. Phones went down shortly after as well. Mack was in Florida touring army bases when it happened, and he began setting up Asylum as a refugee camp," said Michele. "When DC fell, and we lost contact, the CDCs Atlanta facility had already gone dark. Mack had already put an evacuation plan into place for them to relocate here if it got bad enough."
I caught Mark as he shot his wife a wide-eyed look. Evidently, he hadn't wanted that information shared. Before her loose lips clamped shut, I prodded her for more details. "Did it get bad enough?"
Michele, oblivious to her husband's withering stare, answered, "Oh yes. They showed up here in a helicopter on the tenth day. Only six of them made it out of Atlanta.
"Okay," interrupted Mark. "What's say we finish off that tour now before we miss dinner and find you three a place to call home?"
Curses, foiled again, I thought, and followed the annoyed man as he headed to the grand staircase leading his wife by the arm. I winced in empathy at the grip he had on her. Michele's arm dimpled in where his fingers pressed, and the skin around went white from pressure.
Halfway up the stairs, Jake stopped. "Are these detonation charges?" He asked, fingering a cluster of wires at the landing where the two sets of stairs came together.
"Don't touch those!" shouted Mark, causing the busy room below to fall into silence. His chest heaved and he put his hands out in front of him, bouncing them in the air like he was talking a jumper off the ledge. "They're live. In case the unthinkable happens and we're forced to retreat to higher ground, we can blow the stairs. There's two other sets of stairs leading up from the main floor, and they both have similar charges."
"And whose finger is on the trigger?" I asked, expecting his answer to be our illustrious new president.
"No one," he said. "Anyone."
"Make up your mind," said Meg, finally exasperated. "Is it no one or anyone?"
Mark continued
to the second floor, stopping once we'd all joined him on the marble floor. He pointed to a rudimentary detonator taped to the nearest wall. That button, if pressed, will blow all three sets."
"And won't that just leave everyone stranded up here to starve?" I asked.
"Not for a long time," replied Michele. "We've created a secondary food depot in one of the maid's quarters and were lucky enough to find a water truck, so there's another room packed full of bottled water. It's warm, but it'll keep us going nonetheless if we have to spend any great length of time up here."
I had to admit, it sounded like they'd thought everything through.
Meg tilted her head to the side, deep in thought. "With all the access to the ground floor collapsed, how will we get back down?"
"We have ladders stacked on the master bedroom's balcony. They'll reach the main floor from all the upper floor landings."
The left wing of the second floor was comprised of eight maid's bedrooms each with their own three-piece bathrooms. The right wing had four guest suites, each with their own full bathroom, sitting area, and walk-in closet large enough to be used as an additional room with a full size bed. With each new room we entered, I counted the number of people they accommodated, and before even reaching the two—that's right two— master bedrooms, I'd tallied fifty-six potential people. Each of the eight maid's quarters contained two twin beds, the guest suites had enough beds to sleep eight comfortably, and the four enormous closets could sleep two.
Between the two masters, their sitting areas, and their closets, I counted another fifty available sleeping areas. One-hundred and six people could sleep, very comfortably I might add, on the second floor alone. That didn't even take into consideration the ample floor space in the rooms or common areas on the floor that could likely sleep double that amount.
Nestled into the back corner was a door, currently closed. "What's this room?"