by T. A. Sorsby
If I’d have gone out last night, would they have still done it? Was my indecision, my fear, a factor in their decision? If I’d have showed them that there was still hope out there, hope their kids and grandkids might still be alive, would they have still taken those pills?
I sat myself down on the edge of their bathtub and dropped my face into my hands. I don’t know how long I sat there, the pit of my stomach twisting into knots. After a while, Morgan came in, holding a glass of water out to me. I don’t know why, but I felt better after I passed the empty glass back.
‘Why?’ I asked her, shaking my head and looking at the lino floor.
‘I used to always drink water when I was sad, I thought it gave me more tears to cry.’ she smiled weakly, sitting down next to me on the tub.
I spluttered out a few short bursts or air, too bitter to be called a laugh. ‘I meant…why did they do it?’
‘I knew what you meant, I was just trying to cheerify you with a childhood memory.’ she smiled again, looking at me, taking a shaky breath. Tears still streaked her face, her eyes were red and puffy. Some women could make crying look endearing or dignified, like a classy movie actress. Morgan looked just awful. ‘Kinda stupid, huh?’
It started as another bitter laugh, but before I knew it, I was chuckling, great big bursts of laughter running up from my gut, where I’d felt such pain a moment earlier. Morgan joined me, laughing youthfully, infectious, like she’s just watched the cat do something cute. If you can’t laugh about the bad shit in life, you’ll go mad. That’s the lesson here.
‘No laws against it, and no hospitals to go do it in safely right now. I guess Rosie just couldn’t handle the thought of it,’ she finally said, cutting my laughter dead, ‘I don’t know.’
‘It was selfish,’ I said quietly, that sudden humour gone now, ‘Selfish of them.’
‘In some ways. But in some ways, it was self-less,’ she corrected me. ‘If this really is the apocalypse – and I’m not really saying it is, hells it’s only been a couple of days – but if this is the end of the world, then they just made things easier for us. They were old, they wouldn’t be good on the stairs with Edgar’s knee and they were two more mouths to feed if this doesn’t just “blow over”.’
‘That’s a little cold.’ I muttered, still finding myself nodding, ‘But they were old. Knee. Yeah.’ I said, teeth clenched, eyes still welling up. Maybe she had given me more tears.
‘Come on,’ Morgan said, standing up and offering me a hand, ‘there’s something you should see in the kitchen. I thought I heard the rat come back but I found this.’
‘Found what?’ I asked, taking her hand, following her back into the kitchen. I was glad to be out of that room.
Morgan went behind the breakfast counter and slid a sleek wooden presentation case over to me. Inside was a revolver, set into the felt lining of the box. A plaque in the lid read the date of manufacture, and Edgar’s name was engraved before the words, ‘For honourable service’.
It was and old breech-loader, and heavier than it looked with that short barrel. But there were three newer looking speedloaders in the box too. I put it back inside and closed the lid with a smile. Sly old dog. At least we would have something to remember him by.
I looked back towards the bedroom, and saw Edgar in my mind again, cruel imagination working overtime. He smiled and nodded, sat up in his chair with his drink. I burst into another short laugh, failing to blink back the tears again.
‘They knew what they were doing.’ I sniffed. ‘Taking the burden off us. Giving us something to defend ourselves with.’
‘Wish they hadn’t though.’ Morgan said, folding her arms.
Yeah. Me too.
Now, that feeling, that knot in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t shy away from it. I embraced it, unravelled the tangles and laid it flat. That knot would have been rope enough to hang myself by, but I wouldn’t let it come to that. Not for anyone.
If this was what happens when people lost hope, then I’d never let it happen again. I looked at Morgan, eyes flicking to the bedroom door, and decided I wasn’t going to be a burden either. But unlike Ed and Rosie, I wasn’t going to just check out. I was going to do something…I wasn’t going to sit on my hands, never again.
*
Eight
I knocked on Neville’s door and waited for him to answer, trying to shake the image of Edgar Jameson, glass in hand, out of my head.
‘Wondered where you’d…’ he said, as he was opening the door, hair mussed up, wearing lounging-about clothes. ‘Ah, Kelly, nevermind. Morgan with you?’ he added, craning his neck to see around me.
‘She’s in the Jamesons’ place.’ I said, rushing into my next words to get them out of the way with. ‘Listen, Neville, I’ve got some bad news.’
‘She’s ticked Rosie off with an innocuous comment?’ Neville asked, eyebrows climbing.
‘Not quite. Edgar and Rosie are dead.’
Neville inhaled deeply, and breathed out a long sigh.
‘Wee-ll…’ he winced, ‘I guess I’ll have to ground her.’
‘I-uh-what?’ I faltered.
‘Joking,’ he sighed again, leaning against his door now. He looked down at his slippers intently. ‘What happened to them? Will they…turn? Is that how it works?’
‘It looks like they overdosed on Ed’s heart medication. I think you have to be bitten or scratched or something to turn into one.’ I added, glancing over my shoulder – just in case.
‘Movies aren’t documentaries,’ Neville shrugged, ‘but I don’t want to take their hearts out, if that is the way you do it. Give me five minutes to get some clothes on, there should be some shovels in Stan’s flat.’
I was glad he was on the same wavelength as me – and taking it better than I was. Damian had said something last night, about the old Island myths of zombies. They rose from the grave, so you had to pin them back to their coffins with a wooden stake, through the heart. I guess that was where the whole thing about staking vampires came from. But this was real life, not old stories. We meant to bury them, but beyond that I’d be uncomfortable doing anything else.
Since Edgar and Rosie didn’t have graves yet, that also posed a problem if these were the kind of zombies from the folklore. Can’t pin them to their grave if they haven’t got one. But if they were the zombies from the movies of today, then they wouldn’t rise up unless they’d become infected. Yeah, in short, we had no clue what we were doing at this point.
Given how the zombies we were dealing with have spread as a pandemic, I’d say we were going with the movie-monster theory; but even if we weren’t, I knew that none of us could leave them to rot in that apartment.
‘We’re probably safe to bury them. I don’t want to, erm, mutilate?’ I half-asked, ‘No, not messing up anyone’s body. Not unless we need to.’
‘I’m right with you there,’ Neville said, ‘don’t set off without me, we should be on the buddy system at all times.’
‘Sure, I’ll be in, uh,’ I struggled, hooking a thumb towards the Jamesons’ old place, ‘yeah, see you in a few.’
I returned to find Morgan sat on one of the kitchen stools, staring at the revolver in the presentation case. Not like she was contemplating using it or anything, she just had a sour look about her.
‘Didn’t want to worry us.’ she said. ‘When men commit suicide, they tend to do it big or noisy, like a gun or jumping into traffic. Statistically, it’s women who take overdoses, or cut themselves. Guess we know whose idea this was.’ She added, her voice turning bitter. I’d seen her muster up teenage hatred for some of the kids in her college, but I’d never heard her this angry.
‘She was never my favourite either.’ I agreed, putting a hand on Morgan’s back and sliding onto the stool next to her. She snorted, and made a whip-crack motion with her hand. ‘But at least Edgar left us this. If it’s still bad out there, we’ll need more firepower than just your dad’s handgun.’
‘Heh,’ Morgan
coughed, a lump still in her throat, ‘maybe it was Ed’s idea not to use the gun, save us the bullets. Zombie movies first came about post-war. A bit of Islander myth plus the creeping threat of new regimes rising out of dead ones. They’re all metaphors really.’
I pulled her in for another hug, and wondered if we’d live to see the all clear. It was a fleeting thought, but still…two of us were down, with five to go. The world had only ended a couple of days back. Neville came in to find Morgan resting her head on my shoulder. I gave her one last squeeze, before we pulled apart.
He whistled through his teeth, and looked down at the presentation case. ‘Old gun. Edgar’s, from the war?’
‘Yeah. Left it surreptitiously on the counter.’ Morgan supplied, ‘Do you think it still works?’
‘Revolver like that? Built to last.’ he said. ‘Do you know how to shoot, Kelly?’ he asked me.
‘Face your opponent on a dusty street, eye them up dramatically, and when the clock strikes noon you hold it at your waist and pull the trigger as fast as possible.’
He smirked, and picked up the case, reading the little info card. ‘It’s a Tetley Mark Four,’ – I could pretty much hear him pronouncing the four as ‘IV’ – ‘uses thirty-eight rounds. After the war it became the staple police sidearm until only a few years ago. I had one, back then, modernised version. But like I said, these things were made to last. Built to withstand the trenches.’ He repeated, examining the gun closely.
‘Didn’t realise you were a gun nut.’ I said, impressed by his knowledge. Of course, knowing nothing about guns besides what I’d seen in films or games, that wouldn’t take much.
‘I don’t like having them around the house,’ he said, glancing at Morgan, ‘But I used to read magazines. Still have a few back issues on the coffee table, gave them a thumbing last night. If the Territorials or the CDC’s mercs can’t put this thing down, if life doesn’t return to normal…might be useful to know your guns. Do you know how to use those speedloaders?’ he asked.
‘Seen them before, yeah, but I’ve never fired a gun. Much less an antique.’ I shrugged.
‘Thought you’d done your NS?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m on my last year to defer, got to sign up in six months or so. Katy…she’s one of the reasons I put it off, and with it looming, it’s one of the reasons I proposed.’
‘Makes sense to me,’ he nodded, passing me the gun. I hesitated, hand halfway out to it. ‘Would feel much better if you’d been trained, but you just put the bullets in the chambers, twist the knob on the loader, and then put it in your pocket so you can use it again later.’
‘I’m not too comfortable with a weapon myself,’ I told him, taking the offered weapon, ‘it won’t leave my pocket unless its needed.’
‘Good plan,’ Morgan said, ‘Plus, ten silver says the deadites will be attracted to the sound.’
‘That’s why we’ll be taking Damian’s tank instead of your dad’s car,’ I replied, picking up the gun, ‘We should be able to outrun any of them, or just ram into them if it gets too hairy. Do these things have safeties?’ I asked Neville, carefully examining the old pistol.
‘No, you’ll have to cock the hammer,’ – Morgan stifled a snigger – ‘when you fire, so it’s a good gun for you to learn with, forces you to pace your shots. I’d take you and Morgan on the range, but I don’t think we can afford the ammo.’
‘No prob. Thanks Neville. Could you do me a favour?’ I added.
‘What do you need?’
‘Wrap Ed and Rosie up in some bed sheets or something. I’ll fill Damian and Lucile in on what’s happened; maybe they can help us with the burial.’
‘I’ll help, but fair warning,’ Morgan scrunched her face, ‘the sheets are soiled.’
Neville nodded, understanding. If the bodies were wrapped up they wouldn’t just be easier to carry and easier to look at, but it’d be harder for them to move if they had the inclination to. Neville either didn’t mind being around dead folk and urine, or he didn’t want to break the bad news to the guys downstairs. So I went to take care of that, while Morgan helped Neville with the task of handling the deceased. I didn’t envy them.
I could still see Edgar when I blinked, even hear him talking at the back of my head, little whisps of memories from helping him move furniture, or eating with them last night.
Last thing I heard before leaving the Jamesons’ place was Neville, complaining about the stairs. Of course. No power, no elevator. I guess his light-hearted look at the situation would probably help. I leaned against the stairway door, silently agreeing with him. Fourteen floors up…I hope you’ve got sympathy for how many times we’d have to do that hike.
The stairs were a boring, typical tower block affair. Plain concrete, red safety rail; but with windows all the way down, overlooking the city. It was pretty much the same view as ever, except for everything having gone to hell.
Streamers of smoke were still rising from a dozen places, most of them looking like the city centre, or out in the industrial districts. Some were new, but some of those blazes had been going for a while now. The smoke was rolling across the city, probably giving everything a nice coating of apocalyptic grime like every B-movie horror ever made. Why are there always random sheets of paper littering the streets in those things anyway?
I could make out just one vehicle moving along the roads, too far away to see what it was, just a moving spec in the distance. The city looked like it was in its death throes, but with so few signs of life out there, I hoped that meant a lot of people made it out, or were holding up like us, staying behind barricaded doors, rationing their food.
My mood was dipping as I crossed the length of the corridor to Damian’s place. I knocked politely. Another flash of memory struck me; standing outside the Jamesons’, knocking on their door, finding them dead. I really, really hoped Damian would answer. Just before I knocked again, the door opened.
Damian stood there, bright eyed and bushy haired – if dreadlocks had another state of being, I didn’t know it. Sockless, shirtless, wearing old jeans, a pleasant smile and dual-wielding a cup of tea and a rollup; I’ve never seen a man looking more relaxed, before or since. Just the sight of him took the edge of my own anxiety. I realised I’d been balling my fists, ready to fight, and slowly unclenched them at my sides.
I eyed his tea for a second, wondering how he got it. He must have noticed.
‘Hey man,’ he said, ‘have a camp stove, to boil de water. Fancy a brew? I got loads more gas for it.’
‘No thanks. Got some news that might ruin your morning though.’ I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
‘What’s going an?’ he asked, taking a distracting sip of tea. Hot food and drink. I was used to eggs, toast or bacon for breakfast. Having only had yoghurt and already fought off the urge to vomit, my body was giving me displeased signals. Hope he was right about having plenty of camping gas.
‘Edgar…Rosie. They overdosed last night, heart medication. Couldn’t have been accidental.’ I said, rushing my words again, like I couldn’t face them. ‘They killed themselves.’ I added, fighting back against that fear.
‘Aww…’ he tried, his bottom lip tensing up. He shook his head, looking at the doorframe like it’d made a foul smell. When he spoke again, his teeth were almost clenched. ‘Why man?’
‘Way I see it…they didn’t want to be a burden. Or at least Rosie didn’t, and she talked Ed around to it.’
‘I can see why they’d think that. Old, none too spry witch Ed’s knee, but…I can’t believe it, you know? Shouldn’t have…’ he trailed off, shaking his head. ‘What we going to do with de bodies? Are they…moving?’
‘No, or, not yet at least. Neville’s getting them ready now. We’ll carry them downstairs and bury them in the park.’
‘What if they come back?’ he asked, pursing his lips.
‘We’ll deal with that if it happens. These are our neighbours, friends…I can’t just…not them. Not unless we ne
ed to.’
‘Right man.’ Damian nodded, ‘Respect for de dead, so long as they stay that way.’ He put his rollup in his mouth, and I bumped the offered fist. His expression was tense, brow furrowed, eyebrows together. Pretty much a mirror of my own. I guess we were bonding.
‘I’ll go tell Lucile.’ I said, ‘See you in a little while.’
‘Nah man,’ Damian said, ‘don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.’
I saw movement behind him in the dim apartment, a form under a blanket on his sofa, a glimpse of blonde hair. Naturally I jumped to a conclusion.
‘Heh,’ I said, managing to turn it into a cough in case she was listening, ‘well thanks Damian. See you in a few.’
‘Yeah man,’ he smiled, ‘we…I be up in a bit. If you can carry one down, we’ll get de other.’
I left Damian and Lucile to their devices. I guess people have different ways to deal with the bad. Neville and me had tried to laugh off Edgar and Rosie’s deaths. Damian and Lucile had comforted each other about the state of the epidemic. “If tomorrow was your last day” must be a hell of a pick-up line when it can actually be true.
As Neville had accurately predicted, the stairs were a bitch. Fourteen floors and its hard not to count the steps. Seven down, then a landing, seven more down and that’s one floor done; all the while trying not to bump Rosie’s body against the rail or the walls. It was easier with her wrapped up – in clean sheets too, so the smell wasn’t so unpleasant. I could almost imagine I was carrying a rolled up carpet or something. Almost.
‘So how’d D take it?’ Neville asked.
‘He looked like the king of cool before I told him. Seemed more angry than upset, think I took it the same way. He was just standing there with tea and a smoke. Got to see if we can talk him into sharing that camping stove. We’ll need a brew-up after this.’
‘Or something stronger. What label was on that whisky?’