Not Enough to Live By
Gregory M. Thompson
Copyright © 2018 Gregory M. Thompson
All rights reserved.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Cover art © 2018 by Bri Haug
To Nancy – you are everything I live for.
“Know what I miss?” I asked my wife Nadine. “Pizza. And I don't even care what's on it. Anchovies? That's fine. Give it here. I want that anchovy pizza. You'd tell me to deal with it and pick them off, but you know the smell never goes away. I'd still eat it. I miss it that much. How about you?”
As her modus operandi the past two weeks, Nadine remained stoic in the armchair she had scooted to the front door so she could face it. She only rose to use the bathroom and to get drinks of water. And that's if she was really thirsty; otherwise I brought her food, books, and other things, all of which she disregarded for her survival. It's necessary to keep both mind and body sharp.
8:13 a.m., Tuesday, two weeks ago today.
That was when the zombies appeared. Social media went into a rage. Pictures and videos went viral, but you know how your bullshit meter goes from 0 to 100 in seconds? Yeah, that was me. So, what do you do in that situation? I loaded up Snopes.com, the urban legend and scam webpage. Those people were usually on top of things. Some considered the site biased toward liberals. But no matter if you believed the site had hidden agendas, they were not on top of the zombie pictures and videos. The site listed no articles debunking anything. Or proving anything. The stories spread like fanned flames to the radio, then to the TV. Reputable news agencies like Reuters and CNN and MSNBC inundated the ticker and background with reports of damage, death, and attacks.
And you thought to yourself: zombies? No way. Someone's playing a joke on the world. What kind of sadist created an elaborate prank to see the world flip into hysterics? But you couldn't answer that because you're immediately trying to figure out how to survive, even though it's only been a few hours.
So, Nadine. My wife. My gorgeous, endearing wife I fell in love with the moment I first heard her voice. Sleek, black hair to her shoulders; unique amber eyes - not brown or hazel, but amber - and an irresistible rear end. She's quick-witted and intelligent. Nadine loved to get into debates about foreign policy. Loved hamburgers and hated green vegetables. Exercised regularly and went to concerts performed by one-hit wonders from the 80s and 90s.
Not anymore.
The moment she heard the moans and the scraping gaits of the zombies that first day, Nadine said to me, “You know I don't want to stay alive. I can't go on with what's out there. They'll eventually get me. I want them to get me.”
I didn't exactly remember when she shoved the chair in front of the door - it was the same day the reports came out - but I do remember once she sat in it, she disappeared from my life.
I didn't want that for Nadine. I wanted her alive. I needed her. My life without her would be like those zombies out there: alone, empty, purposeless. An existence without Nadine was no existence at all. But Nadine and I differ in what we wanted from life. Especially now. I wanted to survive. I didn't feel I was ready to meet the Big Guy above, assuming that's where I was going (a few choices in my teens might make Him point the other way.) And assuming there's more to the universe after I die.
Nadine was only being selfish, and I realized I was being selfish too. But if I could keep us alive, I had to do it.
Two weeks. Maybe fifteen hours total sleep. When Nadine slept, I slept. And just to be sure she didn't try to escape while I slept, I planted myself in front of the door. I had been doing that since the first night after she told me she wanted to die. I've already secured the windows, so if Nadine tried that way, the noise would wake me.
Fifteen hours. No sane man could function with fifteen hours total sleep in two weeks. But it's what I had to do. In any apocalypse (when I say that term out loud, it makes me sound deranged), you do what you had to do. And my main goal was to keep Nadine alive, so I did what I had to do.
The only problem was we were running low on food, water, and other supplies, and I knew I'd need to go out eventually. Which was something I'd been thinking about for a few days, figuring out how I could manage it without Nadine getting herself killed. Or worse, killing herself by her own choice of death. Tough predicament for me.
This Tuesday morning, I woke, made some breakfast - the last of the shredded wheat cereal and half an apple - and checked the water bucket. We lived in a two-floor townhouse, and on the second floor, I had removed the water heater piping going into the ceiling and bored the rest of the way until I broke through the roof of the building. I had set a bucket under the hole to catch rainwater. Last night it rained for a few hours. Got about an inch of water in the bucket.
After that, I went back downstairs and peeked through the shades to see the zombie situation outside.
I counted twelve zombies milling around the front yard - less than usual - and another half dozen in the street. Often, I wondered if the zombies outside my place were from neighboring apartments and houses. I didn't really pay attention; these could be the same zombies from last week, or the first days after that Tuesday.
From that window, I turned right and looked through the curtain on the other window. Another townhouse, with three residences like mine, was thirty feet away, separated by grass which now grew wildly from lack of care. A few zombies lumbered back and forth, as if trapped between the two buildings. If I angled my body right, I could see part of the baseball field the adjacent middle-grade school used for their Pony League games, and some of the open lot next to that. Not surprisingly, zombies were there also. But they didn't play baseball: they waited for their next human meal.
“Not so many out this morning, Nadine,” I said.
She nodded, which was about all I got recently. The food on the breakfast plate next to her went untouched.
“You should eat. You need to eat. You haven't eaten anything in two days.” I walked over, picked up the plate, and held it out to her. She pushed it away and leaned to the side to get a better view of the door.
This damn door. Her eyes on it every waking moment.
I'd like to think she's positioned there as a sentry, standing guard over the potential breach by the zombies. I knew this not to be the case. She's planning. Plotting for the perfect moment to spring from the chair and burst through the door, fulfilling her wish to die. Any normal person would stay away from the door, but Nadine relished that spot. When the occasional zombie scratched on the door, their gritty groans filtering into our house, Nadine would perk up. But I was always around, so her thoughts of opening that door are squashed.
I took the plate into the kitchen and placed the food in Ziploc bags. A tiny amount of food, but at some point, we'd need it. The pantry had seven shelves, which were empty except for one. And on that shelf sat nothing spectacular: a few cans of soup, a can of green beans, pasta we couldn't cook, half a box of crackers, and four slices of bread. Electricity was tricky. The fridge remained off most of the time but clicked on intermittently enough to keep some things inside. A one-quarter full carton of orange juice; barely-eaten canister of homemade hummus; six string cheeses; and eggs I dared not crack unless we absolutely had to.
I closed the fridge door. Taking stock of so little took less time each new day.
“Nadine,” I said, returning to my wife. “We need to talk. Are you okay to talk to me?”
She nodded, even though this would be a one-sided conversation anyway.
“We need food and water. And I'd like
to see if I can find any kind of weapons. Guns, knives, whatever.” The only protection you'd find in this house were two butcher knives, regular cutting knives, and an old camping knife with two blades and a can opener. Not exactly top-notch armaments. “So, I have to go out. Will you stay here?”
When she didn't answer, I added, “You can stay right where you are while I'm gone, or you can watch out the window. I won't be long.”
Nadine hunkered down in the chair, which told me she wanted to stay right there in front of the door. That was fine. My plan was to hit some of the apartments directly across the street. That way, I could watch the front door and react swiftly if Nadine decided to betray my trust.
And honestly, I didn't quite trust her to be alone for long periods of time.
I couldn't linger around, debating with myself on staying or going. We needed stuff, and I was the one that had to get that stuff. I put on an old leather jacket - cracked and flaking - a pair of thick socks, and hiking boots. I stuffed my pant legs into the boots. I popped my arms into the straps of my backpack. I added winter gloves to the outfit. I grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen and slipped it into the rear waistband of my jeans and readied an eight-inch cutting knife. I exposed skin only on my neck and face.
With all the information contained in the news reports, none contained the reasons how someone turned into a zombie. Bite? Blood? Scratch? Touch? It seemed experts - if experts could exist on the subject besides fiction writers and actors - vanished into the world with the rest of the survivors. My guess was as good as the kid's down the street. Covering myself from neck down was as good a plan as any.
I patted Nadine's hair as I went by and placed my hand on the doorknob. This would be the first time I'd been outside since 8:13 a.m. that Tuesday. The apartments were right across the street. About thirty feet to the street, forty feet over the street, and another thirty feet or so to the main apartment door. Twenty-five, thirty seconds with an all-out sprint, barring any encounters with those things. Also, I wasn't in the best of shape.
Just as I twisted the knob, I heard behind me, “David...”
Nadine. Her cracked voice calling my name. I turned. “Yes?”
“Be careful.”
I knelt at her feet, took her hand, and kissed her palm. “I'll be back in less than ten minutes.” I reached over for a bottle of water and handed it to her. “Drink some water. I can hear dehydration in your voice.” She took it and held it in her lap.
I cracked the door open enough to peek out. Same amount of those things as earlier. Big gaps between them. If anything, I could easily dodge them. I had noticed a few days ago, when I took some time to watch the zombies, their terrible reaction time and their terrible speed, even when they tried to run. I felt like Jane Goodall studying the gorillas. But in my case, my observations were necessary to prepare to my eventual supply run.
Slowly, I opened the door more until I could slip through. Facing the street, I eased the door shut behind me, cringing when the bolt clicked into place. To me, that sound came through a megaphone connected to an amplifier. Luckily, none of the nearby zombies heard it. I took a red piece of yarn from the jacket pocket, then a roll of Scotch tape. I secured one end of the yarn to the door and the other end to the frame.
I counted to three, and on three, I bolted from the stoop.
My feet slapped against the ground as I sprinted through the yard. A few zombies placed their attention on me, their groans turning to grunts of pleasure as they plodded in my direction.
Thirty feet later, the street.
I tried to remain in a straight line towards the other front door, but I meandered strategically around one, two, three zombies who moved into my path. When I nearly tripped on a gutter, a male zombie reached out for me, nearly grabbing my sleeve. I swiped the knife at him, but both of us missed each other.
I hopped onto the sidewalk, now in the front yard of the apartment building. Ahead, a zombie-free walkway. I stole a glance back at my townhouse. The red yarn was still attached.
And this was what occurred to me the moment I made my way up the walk: I had no idea if the door was locked or not. I prayed it wasn't (assuming Someone was up there answering prayers today), but I supposed no harm if it was; I could high-tail it back to my place. Or even risk maneuvering to the back door.
With nervous trepidation, I pulled on the brass handle. The door opened without protest. I slipped inside, my heart thumping in my chest from the run and entry into the building.
The front foyer was dark, as expected. Two doors led to apartments on my left and right. two more doors on this floor were at the end of the hall. A staircase rose to the second and third floors. Not concerned with those yet. Through the thin window next to the main door, I checked the red yarn. Still good.
I started with the apartment on my left. This blue door was unlocked. I slowly pushed it open, listening for any strange sounds. Nothing. I went completely inside and turned on my flashlight.
A minimally-decorated apartment. Couch, wall-mounted LCD TV, a chair, and coffee table in the small living room. A tiny hall led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. The dining table was the plastic outdoor kind with matching plastic chairs. A bachelor or newly-married couple lived here. Or used to.
“Hello,” I whispered loudly.
I moved into the kitchen and began flipping open cabinet doors. With the door being unlocked, I expected this place already ransacked. I managed to find a can of tuna, one package of cheese and crackers, and a half box of Fruit Loops. In the fridge, besides spoiled milk, I found a full loaf of bread. A few of the visible pieces had mold on them, but they'd do. After I stuffed these into my backpack, I hurried to the window.
Red yarn still there.
Down the hall I went. I pulled the linen closet open, found nothing of interest in there (I still snatched a couple towels), and rifled through the bathroom cabinet. Aspirin, a used bar of soap, some toothpaste, and travel-size hand lotion. I took it all. Who knows what Nadine and I might need as the days go on.
The bedrooms had nothing but unmade beds and clothes strewn all over the floor. Whoever lived here moved on to a better place, whether that was death or a location.
Before I left the room, I listened at the door. I still didn't know if any tenants had remained behind. Chances were slim at first and continued to dwindle the longer I stayed here. I hadn't heard footsteps from the apartment above me or from curious people wondering who the hell was in this apartment.
It was still silent in this building.
I returned to the foyer and started across to the other apartment. The door was already ajar, and the wood frame was splintered where the deadbolt went into the frame. Not sure about this place. But what I gathered from the apartment behind me wasn't enough to what I already had at the house. Would help for a couple of days, but beyond that...
The door creaked open and spoiled meat smells hit me. Bookcases had toppled over, spilling paperbacks everywhere. Paper plates littered the floor like large snowflakes. Bundles of clothes and blankets lined the far wall, as well as backpacks, which looked empty from the way they slumped over. I expected to find much less here.
I plucked the yellow curtain back and breathe another sigh of relief. The red yard hadn't moved. By now, I figured the yarn would be missing or detached from the door. When your wife said she didn't want to live, you already placed it in your head you would find her gone or past any barrier you created to stop her. If I didn't plan for that, I'd go crazy every minute of the day.
From somewhere deeper in the apartment, something rattled.
I spun, raising the knife, but saw nothing. Then another rattle. It came from down the hall. This apartment was laid out like the other one, and I moved down the hall and stood between the two bedrooms. The quiet drove spikes into my skin.
And it happened again. The bedroom on the right.
As I entered the room, I heard muffled moans coming from behind the closet door. Then it shook. Someone had jammed a
folding chair under the handle, angled outward to stunt the door's movement - meaning the door couldn't open. The closet door was a regular hinged door and not a panel type that opened like an accordion on a track. If it had been the latter, whatever was behind the door - assuming zombies, of course - would easily bust through.
The sounds increased in volume. They had to be zombies. No doubt the smell of live, human flesh excited them.
I wanted no part of this place. I could only assume there was nothing left to scavenge. But what about the zombies left behind? How did they get left behind, and who put them in the closet? Had they turned and been subsequently found and jailed in the closet to spend the rest of their lives there? However long that was.
I wondered, as I made my way back to the building's foyer, if the closet zombies lived in that apartment and met an untimely and gruesome death. Living just across the way, I had never seen most of my neighbors, nor cared to. I really only knew my neighbors in my building - okay, knew was a strong word. I introduced myself to them when they each first moved in, exchanged a few minutes of pleasantries, got their names, and said the occasional hello when crossing paths in our driveway. The neighbors I encountered the most were the Harrisons, since they lived next door to me. Mr. Harrison and I would meet in the community drive way and exchange pleasantries before moving on. That was about it. I could recognize the others, but only knew they lived in my building, but I couldn't do the same to anyone else on the block. And that's rather sad, wasn't it? Maybe I was the micro-world sample of the human race: how many other people knew their neighbors any more than I did?
A peek through the foyer window: almost a straight shot to my place with minimal zombies to stop me. I made it here fine, and I could do it again. Twenty-five, thirty seconds. Maybe two dozen zombies. A few more than the trip over, but manageable.
Two of them were on each side of the walk. I sprinted from the stoop and passed between them. They followed, as did most of them in the road. Their slow reaction time gave me the distance I needed to reach my door. I ripped off the yarn and went inside.
Not Enough To Live By Page 1