by Cross, Amy
Reaching the top of the stairs, I push the door open and I step out onto the observation platform that runs like a ring around the top of the lighthouse.
Damn, it's cold up here, but I don't have a choice. I go over to the railing and I look out across the barren land that surrounds the building. I wait, holding my breath in case I spot any sign of movement, but there's nothing out there. I start to feel a little calmer, and then I make my way around to the other side of the platform and I look out at the sea. I don't know what I'm really expecting to see out there. I'm pretty sure zombies can't swim. Still, I want to be absolutely sure that there won't be any nasty surprises.
What if a zombie got stuck on a raft, and it washes up here? Unlikely, I know, but I need to cover all the bases.
I watch the sea for a moment, and then I blink and in an instant I remember what it felt like to have rats swarming all around me. I let out a gasp and step back, and as I open my eyes I swear I feel small teeth biting into my ankles. I bump against the glass and I take a deep breath, but my heart is racing and I still can't shake a sense of panic.
I should be stronger than this.
My mind should be controlling my body, not the other way round.
Heading back around to the other side of the platform, I look out again at the land. I still can't shake the fear that at any moment I'll see a zombie lumbering this way. I know I'll feel better in the morning, but that doesn't really help me now. I watch for a moment longer, and then I suddenly realized that the barricade might have slipped slightly. Turning, I head back inside and start limping down the stairs, so that I can check that the chairs and tables are all in place.
Every night is like this now. I can't rest, not even for a second.
***
The first rays of morning sunlight begin to break out across the sea, and I feel all the fear and panic start to lift from my shoulders.
I made it through another night.
For a few minutes, I simply watch the light, but I'm already starting to think about all the things I'm going to have to do today. First I have to check the traps, then I should get some sleep during the middle of the day, and then I'll be at my busiest around the end of the afternoon. That's the routine I've settled into these days, and it works for me.
And who knows? Maybe tonight will be the night that I beat my fears and finally manage to stop worrying about zombies.
Heading over to the door, I start dismantling the barricade.
***
A seagull flies high overhead, briefly disappearing behind the lighthouse before emerging around the other side and squawking as it heads out across the sea.
Stopping for a moment, I use one hand to shield my eyes from the sun as I watch the seagull flying away. I don't really know why, but sights like this make me feel as if there might yet be hope for the world. After all, if seagulls are managing to survive, doesn't that mean that the human race has a chance too? Then again, what do I know about the human race? Ever since I escape from New York, I haven't seen another living soul. By my reckoning, that's around four, maybe five months of total solitude, living here at this abandoned lighthouse in Montauk. For all I know, I might be the last person alive on the entire planet. I might be the last human being in all of existence.
I pray every day, but I haven't seen any signs of other life, not since I arrived here all that time ago. No rats, either.
***
I reach out and move the top part of the bush, until its tip scratches against the window. Sure, that seems to be the sound that I heard in the night. I never heard it before, but I guess the bush has been slowly growing a little each day, and finally it was able to touch the glass with the help of a stiff breeze.
I twist the top away, just to make sure that it can't do the same thing tonight.
***
Picking some more berries, I drop them into the pot that I brought from the lighthouse. I've learned through careful testing that these particular berries are perfectly safe to eat, and I've tried my best to cultivate them. It's early days so far, but I don't think I'm doing too badly.
“Damn it!” I hiss, as my wrist catches on a thorn.
Stepping back, I watch as a bead of blood runs from the wound. I lick the blood away, and then I smile as I feel a flicker of pain. I know this might seem crazy, but sometimes pain is good, because pain makes me feel more alive. There's still a tiny part of me that worries I never made it out of the New York subway system. In idle moments, or when I'm struggling to sleep, I wonder whether everything that's happened in the past few months has just been another fevered vision conjured up by my dying brain.
Looking at my wrist again, I see another bead of blood, and somehow I know that I'm alive. A moment later, a gust of wind blows in from the sea, ruffling my hair, and I take a deep breath. I can smell the salt. I'm alive, and I'm here, and somehow – all alone – I'm managing to survive. That might not last forever, of course, but I've got plans and I genuinely think that I at least have a chance.
Toad would be so proud of me. After everything that's happened over the past year, I'm actually managing to survive.
Elizabeth
Standing in the kitchen, I start carefully cutting the peel from one of the apples I picked earlier. There are actual apple trees here, and they've been feeding me well over the past few months. I never used to eat apples in the old days, when I lived with Mom and Dad and Henry in Manhattan, but now it's apples that basically keep me alive. It's hard to exaggerate just how much I look forward to going outside each morning and picking one – just one – and then bringing it inside to prepare. I like to eat all the skin first, crunching it hard, and then I get to work on the rest.
Weird, huh?
Glancing out the window, I see flowers dancing in the breeze. This really is the most beautiful part of the world that I've ever visited, and sometimes I think I wouldn't want to leave even if the whole rest of the world magically came back. Sure, I might be romanticizing my situation here just a little, and I desperately miss everyone else, but riding out the apocalypse at an abandoned lighthouse isn't the worst thing in the world. At least there are no buildings collapsing down on me, and no missiles streaking across the sky, and most importantly I haven't seen a zombie since I escape from that subway station.
I haven't heard any voices, either. Not Henry. Not Mom. Not Dad. Not Bob. Sometimes I think I'd like to hear one of them, or that maybe Toad could natter away to me for a few minutes, but I guess it's good that my head is mostly silent. If I'd kept on hearing voices, I probably would have gone completely round the twist by now, I might even be hallucinating that people are with me. And the truth is, for the first time in my life, even though I worry about the rest of the world, I have to admit...
I don't mind being alone.
***
Heading through to the lighthouse's kitchen, I reach out to grab the cracked cup that I always use for water, only to find that it's missing. I look around, and I quickly spot the cup over on the far side of the counter. I must be getting really used to my routine here, because as I grab the cup I start trying to figure out why I would have left it over there. I always leave this particular cup in the exact same place, every day.
Man, I think I really am losing my mind.
***
Sitting on a rock outside, I very carefully start removing the makeshift specially-fitted right shoe that's been just about keeping me going over the past few months. Again, I was kind of expecting some kind of infection, but the wound seems to be healing pretty well. Since I arrived at the lighthouse, I've been using salt water to clean the damaged section; the salt stings, of course, but I figure that's a small price to pay.
For a moment, I can't help but shudder as I think back to the few days when I had someone else's foot attached to the bottom of my right leg. Now that was gross.
I wipe away a few pieces of grit, and then I start fixing the shoe back into place. This always takes a while, partly because it's a little painful but
also because I find it difficult maneuvering the shoe so that it's firmly attached to my leg. This whole set-up was arranged pretty quickly, without proper resources, but I figure I should be grateful that I can at least hobble around.
Damn, I'm tired. I think it's time to sleep.
***
Stopping suddenly, I realize I can hear a loud squeaking sound ahead. At first I tell myself that it's just a rat, but deep down I already know that it's more than that. It's hundreds of rats, maybe even thousands, and they sound furious. Or maybe panicked. I force myself to start walking again, but the sound is getting closer now and every inch of my body is telling me to stop and turn around. Before I can do that, however, the rats crash against me, and I feel thousands of sharp, tiny teeth slicing through my skin, cutting me to the bone.
“No!” I gasp, sitting up and finding that I'm no longer in the tunnel.
I look around, but it's already clear that I was having another nightmare. I'm soaked in sweat and my heart is racing, but I can't shake a profound sense of relief at the thought that at least I'm not in the subway system. Afternoon light is streaming through the nearby window, and a moment later I hear a distant squawking sound. Getting to my feet, I wander over to take a look outside, and I can't help but smile as I see sunlight glittering against the waves.
Heading to the mirror in the corner, I take a look at my face. It's pretty clear by now that my earlier exposure to the zombie virus meant that I was immune when I was attacked in the subway. So far, so good. What's harder to understand is the fact that I never got sick after eating all those rats, and after getting attacked so many times down in the subway, but I'm starting to think that my zombie immunity might actually have a few other benefits. Sure, I still have quite a few little scars from where rats attacked me, but all things considered I'm doing remarkably well.
I'm okay. I've slept enough. It's time to get on with my day again.
***
Once you've eaten raw, live rats, your standards are never the same again. I guess that's why I don't feel too grossed out as I finish preparing another seagull for the barbecue.
No two seagulls taste quite the same. I figure that's got something to do with their diet, and with the fact that some of the ones I catch are local while others have perhaps flown in from further away. A seagull that eats fish tastes very different to a seagull that eats out of the trash, and I find that generally it's the larger seagulls that taste worse. This one, which I caught in one of my home-made traps, is medium-sized, so I don't really know what to expect. Still, even the worst-tasting seagull is better than a rat.
Carrying the carcass outside, I head to the makeshift fire pit that I use for all my cooking. The crazy thing is, I'm actually looking forward to this meal. There's something strangely comforting about the fact that I seem to be having no trouble catching these birds. I never go more than two days without a good meal, and I only hope that nothing happens to make the seagull population drop off. For now, at least, I'm pretty well fed, although -
Stopping suddenly, I realize I can hear a voice in the distance.
I freeze, telling myself that I must be wrong, but sure enough there's a man shouting somewhere nearby. I stand completely still for a few seconds, hoping against hope that I'm wrong, and then I limp over to the far end of the rocks. Looking down toward the shore, I feel a thud of fear in my chest as I see where the voice came from.
A small boat is down at the water's edge, and several people are already climbing off. Even from up here, I can just about make out a man and a woman, and a girl too. They're struggling slightly to get ashore, but finally they make it and I duck down just as they all look up here.
The lighthouse must have attracted their attention.
They're talking now, but I can't make out any of the words. I'm certain that they're going to come up here, however, and there's no way I want to come face to face with anyone. Maybe I'm being paranoid, maybe I'm letting my past experiences get to me, but after several months of solitude I suddenly find myself filled with panic at the thought of human contact. Even if these people are the nicest, friendliest folk in the whole world, I don't want to meet them. I don't want to meet anyone ever again.
“Go away,” I whisper, hoping that maybe these people will just get back onto their boat, but they must have spotted the lighthouse. At the very least, they'll want to look around and check whether there's anything they can take. That's natural, it's normal, it's what I'd do.
I just have to hope that, once they've found that there's nothing here, they'll leave.
Elizabeth
“I don't think there's anyone here,” the woman says as she makes her way along the path that leads toward the lighthouse's front door. “Whoever occupied this thing, they probably left a long time ago.”
“What about this?” the girl asks. “I think someone killed this seagull on purpose.”
As I continue to hide behind one of the small wooden outhouses, I listen to the sound of more footsteps crunching across shingle.
“It might just have died of natural causes,” the woman says after a moment, although I can hear the curiosity in her voice. “Let me see it.”
“I think someone's living here,” the girl continues. “Mom, we should leave. I don't like this. For all we know, the people who live in this place are dangerous.”
“You're jumping the gun a little,” the woman replies. “We don't even know for sure that anyone does live here.”
“We do now,” the man's voice calls out, and I hear him walking out of the lighthouse. I know that's what he's doing, because I recognize the sound of the stone steps bumping slightly. “I've been taking a look inside. There's no-one there right now, but it's obvious that someone's been using the place. Not a big group, either. I've found what looks like a makeshift bed in the downstairs section, but it's only big enough for one person.”
“So is there anything here we can use?” the girl asks. “Is there food?”
“There are a few things,” the man tells her, “but we can't just take stuff that we need. Everything here belongs to someone.”
“I don't see anyone,” the girl replies. “Finders keepers. We've been on that boat so long, I was starting to think we'd starve out there, and I'm so sick of fish. Whoever lived here, they're probably long gone and they'd want us to take their shit. I mean, that's how I'd feel if I died.”
“Sammy, we're not stealing,” the woman says firmly. “Patrick, I think we should stick around and wait for the people here to come back. I know it's a risk, but Sammy's right, we've been at sea for too long. We need to set up somewhere, and this looks like a good a place as any. And besides, we can always get back to the boat and leave if necessary.”
“We don't know what we're dealing with here,” the man tells her. “For all we know, someone's watching us right now.”
“If we assume the worst of everyone,” she replies, “then we're never going to get anywhere. And if there's really only one person living here, then we outnumber them three to one. I'm so tired of constantly being on the boat, Patrick. Can't we at least wait a few hours? Call me crazy, but I don't get a bad vibe from this place. I get a calm, peaceful vibe, the kind of vibe that makes me want to stick around and see what happens.”
“You and your vibes are going to get us killed one day.”
“They haven't failed us yet,” she tells him. “Let's just stick around for a while. Who knows? We might even learn something useful.”
***
Great.
Still sitting behind the outhouse, wedged between two large crates, I wait for the family to leave. It must be at least a couple of hours since they showed up, and they're showing no sign so far that they're going anywhere. I've considered going out and introducing myself, but I really don't want to talk to anyone. It's not as if there are any real resources here at the lighthouse, so I figure these people should get the message and leave soon. So far, however, they're being remarkably persistent.
“Hey,
Sammy,” the mother calls out, “where are you going?”
“Up to the top,” the girl replies. “I've never been in a lighthouse before, I figure I might as well look around.”
I glance up, but fortunately there's no way she'll be able to see me, even from the observation deck. I'm pretty confident that my hiding place isn't going to get uncovered any time soon, but I'm still bored and tired and hungry. I'm also worried that the family might decide to stay for the night, in which case I might have to seriously consider making my presence known.
Suddenly hearing footsteps coming this way, I squeeze down a little further between the crates. Just in case.
“Now's not the time,” I hear the man, Patrick, saying, and it's noticeable that he's lowered his voice. “Wendy, please, she doesn't need to know.”
“You've been saying that for too long now!” the woman hisses. “Sammy's sixteen years old, she's not a child anymore, she deserves to hear the truth!”
“We don't even -”
“Three hundred and fifty-one days,” the woman continues. “That's how long this has been going on for, it's almost a year. And yes, I have been keeping a record. Patrick, Sammy's not an idiot, she's probably already starting to figure things out for herself. I know you had the best intentions at the start, but this whole situation is getting out of control.”
“Let's just wait a little while longer,” the man replies, and now he sounds irritated. “What's one more day?”