The Survivor Journals Omnibus

by Sean Patrick Little

  There was still a lot of daylight left, so I thought I would begin my preparations. I went out and reorganized the Greyhawk to support two passengers and an elderly dog. I would put Rowdy’s bed right behind the driver’s seat so he could rest comfortably. I knew he would want to ride shotgun, as he always had, but I didn’t know if he would be able to stay awake for the long-distance hauls we would have to do. I found more storage space for the clothes and medicines and other odds and ends that I’d been storing in the overhead bunk, and I got rid of some of the less necessary items. I could always scavenge for more when I got to wherever I was going to end up being.

  I felt the need to gather more weapons, too. The thought of being pursued by a geared-up doomsday prepper was not an appealing one. It reminded me of playing World of Warcraft online. I’d be a level 36 character, roam into a new zone, and some level 85 douchebag with no life would drop out of the sky on his fancy mount, the kind you can only get if you grind battlegrounds for six months straight, and one-hit me into oblivion. If it came down to having to stand ground against some north woods assclown with a private arsenal, I wanted better weapons. There was no police to help me, no restraining orders. It was survival.

  I went back to Cabela’s and got a semi-auto rifle and a pile of ammo, but then I had a bright idea: there was a U.S. Army Reserve base not too far from Sun Prairie. I could go there and get some real hardware, I thought. They had to have some sort of weapons on base. I kicked myself for not having thought of that before.

  I drove out to Madison’s East side and turned down the country lanes that would take me to the Reserve buildings, a trio of low, newer-construction, tan buildings, each unassuming, and pulled into the parking lot of the Army Reserve Center. There was a building for the Navy and the Marines, too. The Air Force had one closer to Truax Field. Behind the Army Reserve Center, there were a half-dozen APCs and couple of Humvees, all desert-camo. There were a few cars in the parking lot that were sitting on flat tires and covered with a layer of time and dust. I expected to find skeletons inside the center.

  The locks on the exterior of the building were no more difficult to drill out and get through than the ones on any other building. Given what the base might possess, I thought it a little strange. It took me only a few minutes’ worth of drilling and finagling to get myself through the doors.

  The smell of cleaner was still present in the air. There was a faint scent of death too, but it was overridden by the generic chemical smell of floor wax mingling with the scent of stale air. The building was spartan in design and decor, as I expected it to be. There were some pictures on the walls of different units, and some Army recruiting posters. There was an American flag on the wall, as well as an Army flag. There was a central desk and some offices behind it. A hallway diverted to either side of the entry. I could see some classrooms or meeting rooms down each. At the end of the one on the left, I could see a sign for the motor pool and supply, so I headed down that corridor with my trust battery-powered drill.

  I found the central supply room and drilled the locks, quickly gaining access. There, I found a few racks of weapons, mostly sidearms and some M-4s, and a store of ammo, but that was about it. I was hoping for some shoulder-mounted missiles or some grenades, but there just wasn’t. Apparently, the reserve centers are not equipped for major war. Who would have thunk it? I took one of the M-4s and a few boxes of ammo. That would have to do. After a few moments of searching, I found a packet that explained how to take apart the gun, and which pieces would need oiling. I avoided looking in the classrooms. I knew that at least one of them contained a decomposed corpse or three. Maybe more, judging from the cars that were also decomposing in the parking lot.

  I went back to my car and drove it to the grocery stores and the department stores around Madison’s east side. I just wanted to make sure I had my bases covered. I looked for anything else I might need for the journey, now that I was going to have to bring the dog and Meri with me. I even remembered to get a store of feminine supplies, because I’m forward-thinking like that.

  Once, back when I was dating Emily, she made me go into a Walgreens with her because she needed some pads. I made the mistake of doing a typical, knee-jerk, misogynistic guy quip about it being icky, and that night, instead of watching movies and making out in her basement, she lectured me about how her period was no different than any other bodily function, and if I wasn’t squeamish about buying zit cream or deodorant, I shouldn’t have an issue with pads and tampons, either. I was a little grossed-out at first. Being an only child, and being that my mom did her best to disguise the fact that she ever had periods, menstrual cycles were never a big topic of discussion around my house, but after it was over, I realized that she did me a big favor. Even if she and I didn’t stay together forever, she had effectively prepared me for potential future girlfriends and women in my life. Looking back, I’m grateful she did that. Thanks for that, Em.

  I returned to the library with my new weapon and my supplies. I moved the supplies into the RV and brought the gun into the library. The dog greeted me at the door, tail a-wagging. I’m sure he heard the Cruze as it came into the parking lot of the library and eased himself to standing so that he could be there. I paused at the door to give him a few moments to take care of what he needed to outside, and then we walked back to the annex.

  Meri was sitting up in the bed. She looked sweaty and green. The bucket I’d put by the side of the bed was situated between her legs. She had a lack of fluids in her though, so she could only dry-heave. Each retch seemed to take a lot out of her. The contortion of her still-seriously-injured abdominal muscles was extremely painful. When the convulsion stopped, Meri could only collapse backward and moan through gritted teeth.

  “Would you like some more Vicodin?”

  “Can’t keep it down. Can’t keep anything down, really.” Meri sounded exhausted. I put a hand on her forehead. It was clammy, sweaty, and hot all at the same time. I found some more cold packs and popped them. I put the cold bags around her neck and on her forehead. She sighed. “That’s nice.”

  “We need to get some fluids into you.” I knew we needed some sort of IV saline or something like that, but I didn’t know where to find it. Hospital, most likely. I didn’t know if those things had a storage limit. What if they went bad? Could they go bad? Did I even have a choice at this point? I thought I might be able to find some at the clinic in town.

  “Maybe we don’t.” She rested her head on the edge of the Rubbermaid tub. Her eyes closed slowly and her breath rasped in her throat. “Maybe this is the end for me.”

  “Don’t say that. You survived the Flu! You were meant to live.”

  Meri opened one eye. “You really believe that?”

  “It gets me through the days. Why else am I still here if I wasn’t meant to live?” I told her the story of the gun and the tornado, and how I almost checked out of the world a year ago. I told her about finding the man in his house, the survivor who lasted a few months before calling it quits. “I’m living for them. I’m living for Emily, and my parents, and everyone else who didn’t get to live. That’s what I tell myself. We’re still here. We’re still breathing. Maybe we were meant to be here. Maybe we weren’t. I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever know. But here we are, nonetheless.”

  “You ever use glitter?”

  I stared at her quizzically. “Like the craft supply glitter?”

  “Yeah. Ever do a project where you needed glitter?”

  “When I was little, I guess I might have. I don’t really remember.”

  “My kid loved glitter. Wanted to put it on all his artwork. No matter how much we’d try to be careful, or try to clean it up, there would always be a few flecks of glitter that got away. They’d be on the table, or on his clothes, or on the floor. You can wipe all you want with cloths or sponges, you can wash the clothes multiple times, but I would always seem to find little specks of glitter. That’s what we are; we’re glitter. The Earth tried to
clean us off the face of itself, and we managed to stay behind for who-knows-why.”

  “Then that’s the point--we’re glitter. We stay because we can. And because we sparkle.”

  “Ever know what happens to glitter that stays behind? If I saw it, I would pick it off the table or floor and throw it away. If I didn’t, it still went away. It might take a few weeks, but eventually I wouldn’t notice the glitter anymore. Maybe it fell into a crack in the floor. Maybe it got swiped off the table and fell down an air vent. Who knows? Point is, it’s gone. It doesn’t matter how long it got gone, it just goes. That’s going to be us. We can stick around like glitter, but we’re going away, Kid. We’re all going to die sometime, maybe not from the Flu, but an accident, an infection, old age, slipping in the shower and hitting our heads--who knows? But we’re all going to die. All we’re doing now is counting the days until it happens.” Meri flopped back onto the pillow and closed her eyes. Until then, all we have is loneliness and waiting.

  “You could say that about life before the Flu, too.”

  “Glitter. Annoying as hell and hard to clean up. That’s what we are. Little bits of planetary glitter.” In seconds, Meri was asleep. Her breath was heavy.

  I felt her forehead with the back of my hand. It was alarming how warm she was. The infection was worse. I was impressed that she was even able to talk to me. I found some liquid aspirin in one of the medicine tubs I’d looted from the pharmacy and used the dropper to put a few drops under her tongue. I don’t know that they would do much good, but it made me feel better than not doing anything.

  I left the library again and drove to the UW Clinic I’d visited when I needed sutures after cutting my hand. The clinic was still in the condition it had been in when I’d left it, but the corpses were moldering and the smell was greatly lessened. It was still hideous, but it was a mere shadow of the hideousness it had been last summer.

  I found some IV solution in a cabinet in the back. I packed them into a bag with some needles and tubing, and I took them to the Cruze along with a bag stand. When I got back to the annex, I looked through medical journals and books to see if I could still use the solution, or if it had an expiration date. As far as I could tell, the material should be good for two or three years provided it was stored correctly, but the winter had been cold. I didn’t know what the weather had done to the medicines that might have frozen. In the bed, Miri was barely sweating, not because she was getting better, but from dehydration. I knew I needed to do something or the fever would kill her. I hooked up the line and bag, and then connected a needle to it. After a few tries, I successfully tapped into one of her veins, and I taped the needle in place.

  I sat back and waited. I had no idea what was going to happen. I didn’t even know if I’d placed the IV correctly. I was prepared for Meri to die at any moment. I just hoped she would go without pain.

  In the meantime, I sat and thought about her calling us glitter. We were an aberration, no doubt. Why were we still here? What was the point to going on if we were only counting minutes until death. She had a point. It wasn’t like I was going to have a normal life. The great philosophical quandaries about life were difficult enough to comprehend when you could have a nice life with all the amenities. I was Henry David Thoreau-ing it, not by choice, but because Walden was more or less dropped squarely on my back.

  Maybe Meri had a point. What the hell were we doing? Why was I still living? What was the point of all this?

  I ate slowly and alone that night. Even Rowdy, who normally would have liked to have been outside, chose to stay on his bed. It was easier for him to just sleep. I had the semi-auto strapped to my hip, just in case, but the night was quiet and calm. I ate my Ramen in silence and listened to the night bugs chirp.

  I played Meri’s story back in my mind and wondered what kind of person could do what that Adam did to her. What kind of person could do that to any human being? I had to come to terms with the fact that this is what the world was now. It was a brave new world with different rules.

  After I finished eating, I finished preparations on the RV and called it a night. I slept in my bunk for the first time, the small one situated over the driver and passenger seats in the Greyhawk. It was comfortable, albeit a tad bit on the claustrophobic side, as I wasn’t used to having a ceiling that close over my face. I opened all the windows in the RV. It was terrifically warm, and I wanted to be able to hear any vehicle approaching in the night. The night sounds were so absolute after a year, that the throaty hum of an engine would have been like hearing a 747 fire up in the middle of a church.

  I woke up twice during the night, venturing in to check on Meri and the dog. The cold packs helped with her fever slightly, but she was still pale and looked like death warmed over on a cracker. I changed her bandages at least three times a day, but the wound was still weeping and it looked ugly. It didn’t smell horribly, so I counted that as a good sign. I changed the IV bags when they emptied, too.

  The next morning, I finalized my plans to go south. I finished packing the RV, I used maps to plan my route, including places where I could stop to refuel and/or sleep. The sooner we were on the road, the better. I just needed Meri to get well enough to travel. I just wanted to do one last thing: I needed to see my parents’ graves one last time.

  Going back to my old neighborhood felt strange. I had purposely avoided that neighborhood for a year. I didn’t want to see the wreckage. I didn’t want to be reminded of what I’d lost. I just didn’t want to see it. Now, as I was preparing to leave forever, I felt a strong pull to at least say goodbye.

  I took my Cannondale off the back of the RV and rode that through town because it felt right. I headed north from the library to Windsor Street, then to Bird Street, and north to the neighborhood.

  It was something of a shock to see it again. The houses that were destroyed were still destroyed. The houses that stood were still standing, but they looked much, much older. The siding that had been damaged by the winds were damaged much further by a year of weather. The houses that had been exposed to the elements were already in a state of decay that I had not reckoned. The neighborhood looked like a bomb had fallen there, but it still held the faint notion that this was my home.

  My parents’ house was still standing, for the most part. The garage had been damaged, and what was left of the roof of the garage had caved in during the winter. My mother’s car was trapped there. My parents’ bikes were starting to show rust and the tires were flat.

  I let myself into the house through the front door and froze. The interior was as I had left it. (Who was going to root through it and change stuff, right?) It seemed wildly different, though. It was like another world to me at that point. I guess I had gotten used to the open space of the library and the annex. The high ceilings of the library were quite different from the relatively low-hanging ceilings of my house. The rooms felt tiny and suffocating.

  I walked through my house like it was a holy place. I touched nothing, just drifting from room to room. When I stepped into the kitchen, the Glock that I had taken from the neighbors, the one I had almost used to end myself, still sat where I’d left it on the kitchen table that horrible night. It was covered with a fine layer of dust. The moment I spotted it, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Time might have stopped. It was just me and that gun.

  It was a reminder of how close I was to no longer being on the planet. The idea of no longer being alive was suddenly abhorrent to me. I had to be alive. I don’t know why I had to be alive, but I could seriously consider no other alternative. If you held me underwater, I would fight. My body needed to be alive, and my consciousness, my spirit, my soul--whatever you wanted to call it--needed to be alive with my body. I didn’t need a reason to be alive. The mere fact that I was alive was reason enough to continue to be alive. That, my dear Merriweather, was the point. I live, so I can keep living.

  I picked up the gun. It felt different in my hand now that I’d actually handled guns for a while.
It felt lighter than I remembered. It was sleek and charming, in its own way. I gripped it, pointed it at the patio door, and fired. The gun barked loudly as the bullet discharged. The glass of the door shattered and warm breeze flooded in disturbing the settled dust. I laid the gun back on the table. In the dust that remained, I wrote “Twist was here” with my finger, and then left my house for the last time.

  In the backyard, my parents’ graves were beginning to sprout grass. I’d never spread grass seed, so it was only a few blades here and there. In time, they would merge with the overgrowth around them and be lost to time. I think my parents would have wanted it that way. Their hippie past made them very Earth-conscious. They had been returned to the Earth and their dust commingled now with the Earth forever.

  I knelt by their graves. In movies, whenever the main character visited the graves of his parents, he always had some sort of soliloquy to say. It was usually profound and important. He vowed revenge, or he let them know he got revenge on the enemy who had killed his parents. I had no way to get revenge on a virus. I was still alive, despite the virus’s best efforts. That was as much revenge as I could ever get on it. I did feel compelled to say something, though.