by Jack Wallen
The computer did its usual boot-up dance, and I shuffled over to the kitchen for a cup of green tea. The kitchen was the only room without some kind of metal memorabilia in it, instead favoring a utilitarian motif. No decorations, just business. Food was serious business, after all. Cooking is a big hobby of mine, and I didn’t want to risk splattering one of Trey’s collectibles with apple butter napalm. Yes, that happened. Don’t ask. I’m a physicist, not Martha Stewart.
The water trickled into the stainless steel kettle. A door banged in the hallway. I jumped, sloshing water all over my hand. My heart raced.
I drew in a deep breath, summoning every yoga class I’d ever attended into forcing a semblance of calm. It was just a door. People close them all the time, especially when they live in old apartment buildings with paper-thin walls.
I closed the tap, plugged the kettle into the outlet and opened the fridge. I’d been procrastinating on grocery shopping all week. Hummus and crackers it is. Again.
Another door slammed, this time hard enough to shake the cupboard doors. “Fuck.” I spat the word out. Couldn’t people just telepathically know that I was home alone and easily spooked?
Wait, that would be even worse.
Worse than weird dairy eyes and moaning old perverts?
Signs pointed to yes.
I walked to the front door. I slid the door-chain into place, in one slow motion. The chain hung in place, its links not making a single sound. I peered out the peep-hole. Nothing was out there, just the closed door of the apartment across from ours.
I glanced at the lock one more time before taking my bountiful dinner to my desk, like a real adult.
I loaded up my browser and opened up Facebook. I refused to check it at work, if only because even Facebook was more enjoyable than grading lab reports and midterms. I contemplated my life choices as I skimmed my timeline. A friend request from Anne Morin was waiting for me. I ignored it—no fraternizing with students until after finals was a rule of mine.
Angela Murray: Can anyone see this status?
I rolled my eyes. At least it wasn’t another cat meme.
Jennifer Lemay: Is anyone in Montreal still out there?
There had been no other posts since early afternoon. I raised one eyebrow. My mom should have posted about a billion articles. A quick check of her page showed nothing for the day.
I opened up Twitter. A quick check of #montreal showed some panicked messages in English and French. Photos of bodies with their heads split open. Brains scooped out. Men and women crouching over the bodies of the fallen, drawing mouthfuls of brains! I didn’t know who they were, but probability suggested that they had white eyes and a bad case of the groans. The hunger in my stomach hardened into an icy pit. The snacks sat untouched.
Fuck.
What have we gotten ourselves into?
A scream filtered up from street level. I closed my browser, the mouse cursor trembling on the lit screen.
Trey had to come home. He just had to. I jumped to my feet, my chair spinning across the hardwood floor. I sprinted for my phone.
I had to help him find his path.
I also had to figure out how to get food.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I knew my procrastination would get me in trouble one of these days. I just didn’t think it would get me killed.
five | Trey
Morning. Breakfast. The journey is afoot again.
I hit another climb. I wasn’t in the mood. In fact, at the moment, the whole business of hiking was getting on my last nerve.
“Namaste, mother fucker,” I whispered. It was a joke Erica and I shared with regards to a rather brutal hot yoga class. As the cold wind whipped across my face, I longed for that one hundred and ten degree room and the surrounding sweat-drenched bodies.
For a brief second, my mind shifted and twisted to Erica’s sweaty flesh. At that moment, purpose resurrected in my core and my legs pumped upwards toward the peak of the climb.
I could smell her skin, hear her deep breathing. As I climbed, a memory bubbled to the surface. The first class. She was a graduate assistant, teaching Chemistry 101. The second I laid eyes on all five foot two inches of her, it was over. I bypassed crush and smitten and went straight to love. I was a transplant from the States, she was a native Canadian. I had a thing for the dialect and her quirky, youthful smile. After class, I followed her to a coffee shop, pulled out my guitar, and improvised a song.
It was lame.
It worked.
I got the girl.
And I will have that girl again, if it’s the last thing I do.
Just as I reached the apex of the climb, snow began to fall. Snow falling on the Appalachian Trail was nothing out of the ordinary. What did strike me as odd was that the snow didn’t melt when it touched down on my warm skin.
I stopped, removed a glove, and cupped a hand to catch a few flakes. With a beam of light shining down on the snow, I blew warm breath into the tiny pile.
Nothing.
Or so I thought. I blinked my eyes and held my hand out to catch a few more of the flakes. What should have been virgin white snow was …
“Gray?” I whispered. “What the fuck?”
I pinched a bit of the ash-colored snow between my thumb and forefinger and rubbed. It almost felt like flakes of … skin maybe? Even more disturbing than the idea of catching flesh flakes in my palm was that, after the rubbing, the snow left behind a smear of soot.
“Shit,” I hissed and rubbed my hand on my pants to rid my flesh of the mess. The trail stood before me with a sign that read “Walasi-Yi Center” and an arrow pointing ahead. That meant only one thing ─ the hostel in question was on the trail.
Finally, this nightmare could come to an end. All I had to do was hop onto their WiFi, Skype with Erica, and arrange for a plane trip back into the arms of pure joy.
And maybe a hot bath.
And some hotter sex.
The Walasi-Yi Center was dark. I pulled out my phone to check the time. Ten fifteen p.m. The hostel was either empty or everyone asleep. I stepped up to the door, turned the handle, and pushed. The door resisted against my weight. I leaned into the door and it finally gave way a few inches.
“Come on,” I whispered and dug my heels in. After another six inches, the door came to a sudden stop …
… and an arm dropped through the opening.
“Shit,” I shouted. My heart raced like I was on stage again. Adrenaline flooded my system and sweat soaked my neck. I shined my light down on the arm. The skin was pale and a thin line of dried blood ran from shoulder to wrist. A spaghetti network of blue veins peeked through the grayish skin.
A soft moan caught my attention. The sound came from within the hostel. Someone was either in pain or pleasure.
“Hello?” I called out.
Another moan answered me.
“Are you okay?”
A second moan cried out.
I kicked caution off the cliff and bore down on the door until it was open wide enough for me to enter. My situation had reached, as Erica would say, Defcon 1. I stepped through the door and was immediately assaulted by the coppery stink of blood. The smell came from every direction, permeated my every pore. Bile splashed against the roof of my mouth.
Thanks to my position as frontman for a metal band, everyone assumed me a total bad ass. Truth is, I wasn’t. Yeah, I was in shape (I had to be to get through shows night after night) … but being fit and being tough were two very distinct things. Erica was more badass than me. If she were here, she’d probably be laughing at me to suck it up. Of course, I knew her truth better than she. She was only badass with me. Outside of my orbit, Erica was a fuzzy kitten that needed protection. Outside of her circle of protection … I was about to puke.
I pressed my lips tight and sucked it all up. With a hard swallow, I lifted the beam of my flashlight until it shined across the room.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
Dead bodies everywhere. The ol
d hardwood floor was riddled with cold gray flesh.
How did I know they were dead? There was nothing else they could be. Necks snapped or missing, arms broken, blood spilled everywhere, unsealed torsos, and eyes ─ those same sour-milk eyes from the blind hiker ─ stared back at me.
My body and mind froze in a synapse-misfire nightmare. It wasn’t until the moan returned that I regained control of my motor skills and thought processes. I shot the beam of my light around the room to locate the source of the sound. I saw nothing but death.
The moan came again. This time, I had the wherewithal to tuck myself behind a door. My eyes peered through the space between door and jamb to watch a young male awkwardly walk through the room. He stopped at one of the bodies, bent down, and sunk his teeth into the flesh of the woman below him. The sound of tearing meat and splattering blood brought the bile soup back to my taste buds. The urge to toss a rainbow was powerful. I managed to hold it back.
The bastard cannibal stood and slowly made his way to the exit of the hostel. I remained tucked away behind the door. After a moment, the source of the second moan made itself known ─ a female. This one didn’t bother to stop for a snack, but continued on through the door.
I exhaled a measured breath. As I continued to drink in the wind of the still living, I listened for more moans. None came. I pulled out my phone and checked for a wireless connection. When Walasi-Yi popped up, I tapped connect. Thankfully there was no password to block me from reaching the outside world.
As soon as my connection was ready, I fired up Skype and placed a call to Erica. She picked up after just two rings.
six | Erica
My stomach churned, bile burning away any trace of hunger still left in me. It was hot and bitter in my throat in contrast to the sweetness of the deep voice in my ears. Trey should bring me peace, but he didn’t. The furtive whispers, breathless description of a hostel holocaust and the sound of tearing flesh all dug into my poor ears.
I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the wall. I bit my lip to keep from crying. I had to stay strong. Trey needed me whole, calm, and in control. If I fell to pieces locked in our apartment, what hope did he have of coming home? Damn it, that man would come home.
We had too much to live for: the cheesy zombie-themed wedding that no longer seemed like a good idea, the world tour, a cross-Canada road trip.
“I gotta run,” he said, jolting me back into the reality of our cold apartment, an empty fridge, and a distinct lack of a fiancé. “But, remember.”
“Remember what?” My voice sounded hollow. It was teacher-Erica. Not lover-Erica; all business. How else could I deal?
“3.14159.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “I love you.”
The call disconnected. I stared at my phone at the call duration. I longed for those minutes to replay themselves. His plan to come home was a risky one, but there wasn’t any other choice.
I rubbed my eyes. My hands were like blocks of ice, but I didn’t care. All I had to do was stay alive. Fight.
My stomach growled. Getting some food was probably a good idea. If those things really were in Montreal, then I should hit the stores before everything was looted.
My eyes wandered back to the front door. I had to go out there.
I found the will to push myself to my feet. Maybe it was my empty stomach. Maybe it was the need to do something. Anything.
I moved to the television, an old tube TV that was hooked up to a basic HD antenna. I powered it on and flipped through the channels.
Snow.
Colored bars.
More snow.
Standby.
I checked the connections, and went through the meager over-the-air offerings again.
There didn’t seem to be anyone out there. Even when the lights were on, nobody was home.
I couldn’t bring Trey home, but I sure as hell could feed myself and Beast.
I could find a solar generator in case the electricity got cut off; maybe even a space heater.
I dashed to the desk, leaving the TV to display static, and grabbed one of my patented red pens of doom. After skimming the desk for a paper, I had another idea.
I pulled up the sleeve of my comfy fleece sweater, exposing my Canadian-pale skin to the air. Goosebumps materialized.
I put my pen to my flesh, and began writing. I wasn’t about to lose this shopping list, or drop it in enemy territory. From experience, I knew these pens took forever to wash off of skin. Beast wandered back in the room. He chirped at me, squawking his approval, or disapproval. I never know with him.
Solar Generator
Food
Cat litter
More food
Space heater
Door security
Cheese
Weapons
Yeah, that should just about do it. Maybe I didn’t list enough food, but it was a start. I could always revise the list later. Right now I wanted a locked door, a full belly, and some heat. Both the temperature and the personal weaponry varieties of heat; I was not about to become a treat for cannibals.
I rushed to the closet. I pulled out an old pair of sneakers, well-worn from many months of running. I dug to the back, past the winter coats and black leather trench coats; badass, but impractical. This wasn’t The Matrix, nor was I trying to intimidate old ladies at a church bazaar. I smiled as my fingers wrapped around my prize. I tugged it free, knocking over my old pair of bitch boots which would not be joining me on this mission.
The gold club came free, its well-worn handle pressing against the palm of my hand. It gleamed in the light, unperturbed at its decades-long exile in a closet. It was either an iron or a wedge—I didn’t know how to tell the difference, and I didn’t care.
It would break some skulls. That’s all that mattered.
I pulled out a short leather jacket and wrapped it around my small frame like a suit of armor. I pulled the belt free, leaving it to drop onto the floor of the closet. I tucked my ponytail back into a toque. I was a very Canadian looter.
Looter. The word sounded so ugly, but to me it was noble. It’s what I needed to do so I could be here, waiting for him.
In that case, it was the most noble profession of all, screw teaching. Fuck marking midterms. I was going to raid myself to security and safety.
The closet disgorged one last bounty—a black hiking backpack. It would hold all the food I needed. I could figure out the rest later. Right now, I needed a meal. Everything else was a bonus.
seven | Trey
“Fuck,” I shouted to the empty, blood-stained rafters. I wanted my Erica back now. I needed her. I didn’t have it in me to convey my current weakness over the phone, didn’t want to send her into a black spiral of worry. She did that enough while I was on tour. This time, I needed her to think everything was fine on my end.
It wasn’t. It most certainly the fuck wasn’t.
The hostel was an open grave of horror. Somehow I managed to walk into a Rob Zombie gore fest without the metal or seventies-throwback score. I glanced back down at my phone. I had about thirty percent of my battery left. I had a choice, I could venture out and chance running down my only means of communicating with Erica or make use of the four walls and the working electricity to charge my phone. Opting for the safer option meant I had to spend the night with death.
Across the field of flesh was another room ─ one with a door. Seeing that door sealed the deal. I shined my light to the floor and carefully stepped through the minefield of unsealed bodies until I reached the threshold.
The room was empty. Out of habit, I punched the air with my fist and unleashed a devil horn salute to thank whatever was looking out for me. I stepped into the room and pulled the door shut. With a nervous index finger, I flipped the light switch and was greeted by glorious, soul swelling light.
“Sweet,” I whispered, thankful for small victories.
The first order of business was to retrieve my phone charger and get the juices flowing. T
his was one of the many moments I was glad to be an experienced hiker. I knew precisely the location of every item in my pack. That was actually all Erica’s doing. Every time I took one of these trips, she’d go through my pack like an overprotective mother, to ensure I had everything and that everything was in its place.
That woman … that beautiful, brilliant woman. The only woman I’ve ever known that could make science sexy and keep me grounded. Sometimes I wonder if I were even alive pre-Erica.
With the phone plugged in and charging, I opened the texting app and typed, Staying in hostel to charge phone. Going to try and sleep so I can dream of being in your arms. It’s the only thing that’ll get me through the night. 3.14159265359. I did my best to recall Pi to the farthest digit my memory would allow. Erica always said she would never marry a man unless he could recite Pi to ten digits. One of my goals for this hike was to take it one extra digit to make sure she knew just how serious I was. I only wished I could be a fly on the wall when she read off that eleventh digit.
She’d probably shit dark matter.
And still be sexy.
I pulled out my sleeping bag and unrolled it on top of what appeared to be a bed. I slipped inside and snatched up my phone. With everything going on here and in Montreal, I was almost afraid to glance at the news. Had mankind finally managed to pull the trigger of the fuck you gun and blow off the face of humanity? It wouldn’t surprise me. The Earth was run by fear-mongering, genocidal, cock suckers who were always nothing more than a finger twitch away from dropping tons of nuclear waste and bio-weapons on one another.
“How have we made it this far?” I asked nothing and no one. Before opening up Chrome to browse some news, I opted to write down that question in my song ideas file. If I didn’t come out of this fuck fest with a few pieces of inspiration, what kind of artist could I call myself?
Tragedy had inspired greatness throughout history. There was no shame in finding some new truth in this festering heap of lies.