I entered the master bedroom and sat on the bed, releasing the final moments of adrenaline waltzing through my body.
I had done it. The child, the father, and the mother. All three of them completely dead, if zombies could be that way. With the early reports dismal - especially with the mystery of how everything started - I was glad their recommendations of head kills were correct. The heat of the moment brought me to the conclusion in the hallway. I was glad the family came at me immediately. Given time with my thoughts, I probably wouldn't have gone through with it. They still had eyes, and at some point, they had feelings, thoughts, dreams, and goals. They were human.
They weren't human now, I told myself. Not the girl. Not the mother. Not the father.
My hands had zombie gunk on them. I wiped them on the bedspread and stood. I surveyed the room. There it was on top of the nightstand. A revolver. Brown, wooden handle, silver chamber and barrel. The silver shone, as if recently polished. The handle had chips and scrapes and a small chunk missing from the right side.
I picked it up and found the safety switch. It was off, so I flipped it to on. I pushed out the bullet chamber and found that five of the six holes contained a bullet. I took out all five and dropped them in my pocket and stuck the gun in my waistband.
The last time I had fired a gun was when I turned fourteen. I didn't know why turning that age sparked my father's interest in teaching me to shoot, but for a better part of that year, he took me to the gun range to fire pistols, rifles, and shotguns. I learned to aim from a standstill and while strafing and moving forward and backward; I learned to clean them; and I learned to respect them. While I found the education useful, I really wanted more time like this with my father. He was a hard man to get to know, nearly humorless day in and day out. He was a traditional man when it came to work, marriage, and raising kids. My dad provided, don't get me wrong, but with mostly the tangible things in life: shelter, food, clothing. Emotionally, my dad closed himself off to my mother and me. We'd get a happy birthday or Merry Christmas and stuff like that. My mother would get the obligatory happy anniversary with flowers or candies. When I got older and understood was sex was and wasn't, I was sure my parents only had sex on those important days in a marriage - so maybe two to three times a year. Our family considered “I love you” from my father a gold nugget. But during my fourteenth year, he taught me to shoot at the gun range. I considered that time with him the best “I love you.”
I grabbed an empty plastic grocery bag and threw in the few half-empty water bottles from the nightstands. An unwrapped granola bar peeked out from under the bed, and I took that.
In the other bedroom, the child's bedroom, I found nothing that interested me. As I left, a beige teddy bear stared at me from a bookcase. It wants me to take him, I thought. I need a new home, the teddy bear said. In with the bottles it went.
Even though I knew the family was twice dead, as people and zombies, I still didn't want to touch any part of them. I carefully stepped over them to get to the kitchen. I opened and shut drawers - no need for utensils or plasticware or anything like that - and went through the cabinets. They had boxes of cereal, canned beans and other vegetables, rice, more granola bars, a few energy bars, and other packaged non-perishables. All in all, a well-stocked kitchen.
I pulled out a couple of reusable shopping bags I found sticking out from a low drawer and filled them to the top. There was still food left, but I couldn't carry a third bag at this time. When Nadine went to sleep tonight, I could come back and clear out the rest of the food.
I felt like a scale with a bag in each hand. I set them at the front door and noticed the family had two bookcases jammed with books and knick-knacks. I stacked the books on floor and placed the knick-knacks on the couch. I slid the bookcases in front of the two windows to block any potential looters. I wanted to deter anyone from entering this place.
Satisfied the bookcases would helped, I lifted the bags and went outside.
I returned to my townhouse without any problems. Inside, Nadine remained in the chair, unlike last time when she jumped up when I came home.
“I took care of them,” I said, setting the bags on the table. “And they had some things.”
“I still hear them,” Nadine said.
“Impossible. I got them all in the head. I stayed after it was done to make sure. None of them were moving.”
“No, I do. I swear.”
I shook my head. “Go to the wall. Put your ear on it.”
Nadine did as I suggested. She stood there for at least a minute as I shelved the cans and food. “Do you hear them?” I asked.
“No.”
“You probably hear the ones outside. And I can't take care of all of those.”
“I know.” She went back to the chair. “It's better.”
“I also found this.” I removed the gun from my waistband and showed her the revolver. “Only had five bullets in it, but I think they're common bullets. On my next few runs, I'll try to locate more.”
Nadine's eyes went big. “We don't need that!” She cowered in the chair, pushing herself deeper into the cushions. “Why would you bring that in here!”
“Nadine, it's a gun. It could come in handy.”
“I don't want it near me.”
“Fine, but I'm keeping it. I'll feel better with it when I'm out there.”
“Five bullets isn't going to save you from all of them.”
“No, but one bullet can make the difference.” I opened the bottles of water and smelled them to make sure nothing odd had happened to the liquid. “You haven't left our home. You don't know,” I muttered.
“That's just it. I'm not allowed out there.”
I shrugged. No sense in starting this conversation again. It would quickly turn into an argument. In the past two weeks, Nadine and I had argued more than we had the entire time we'd been together. We've had our minor spats - like why hadn't I washed the two-day old dishes or hadn't looked very hard for something - but we hadn't argued about this zombie world. Not yet at least. That fight was impending, living with us like a roommate.
“I'm going to try the radio again,” I said.
I didn't wait for a response. I went upstairs into what used to be my home office. On the desk, the laptop sat quiet. The battery still had two hours left from what I recalled, so I booted it up and searched for wireless signals - I usually could find eight or nine in the area, but the dialog box came up empty.
I closed the lid. The last time the internet worked was a week and a half ago. News sites posted safety tips and government civilian zones where we could go for shelter and food, but the internet quit without warning. People soon became blind to developments and information around the world. The closest zone to me was about 350 miles northwest near Freeport, Illinois on Route 20. I wondered if that area was still untouched or well-guarded.
Nadine didn't want to travel that far. Anything can go wrong between here and there, she had said. So, we had stayed in our townhouse. She promised if a zone was closer to us - her maximum was 25 miles - then we could go. But with no internet or source of information, we'd never know.
I had a small transistor radio set on the windowsill. An old RadioShack brand just bigger than my hand. My mom purchased the radio for me on ninth birthday, and it had never failed me. I got it out of cellar where Nadine and I kept our pasts the second day after the internet went out. There was even a new pack of dual 9-volt batteries that wouldn't expire for a while in the tote. I didn't remember when I had gotten those batteries, but I sensed they had been waiting for a moment like this, to wake up the radio which had kept me company for so long when I was younger.
Since the first moment I snapped the battery in, nothing had come over the radio. But I still checked it twice a day. Once around noon and once in the evening, when radio waves traveled easier.
I clicked on the radio's power and spun the tuner all the way to the left. As expected, only static. I lifted the window and let the cool, sp
ring air relax me. Propping my elbow on the windowsill, I raised the radio and used my thumb to slowly move the tuner to the right. I started with FM and closed my eyes. Dead air. Static. Radio noise. All the way down the dial.
I flipped the band to AM and repeated the process back to the left. Same thing. No voices, music, or breaks in the static. Another disappointing session. Still, I had hope for next time.
On this side of the building, I counted twenty-seven zombies. The space between the buildings was packed; I wasn't sure how many more zombies could comfortably fit. Because it was all about their comfort, right? I laughed and watched them bump into each other, oblivious to one another's personal space. Eleven women and sixteen men. All dressed in whatever they last had on before they... Before they what? Turned? Changed? Was there an official, scientific term for what happened from human to zombie?
Transitioned. That's what I would call it. The Transition. Simple enough.
Two more zombies joined the twenty-seven and paused for a moment. What motivation caused them to do that? They weren't the first ones I'd seen pause like that. It was as if something suddenly caught their attention. Both stared in the same direction. I followed their eyes and found nothing that could possibly draw their focus. Live flesh would have been my first guess, but it was rare to see anyone out. All I could see were more zombies.
Eventually, they resumed their blind movements.
I shut the radio off and set it aside.
I rested my chin on the windowsill and became mesmerized with the listless walking before me. The zombies were like swinging medallions, lulling me into a sleeping consciousness. I didn't recall the last time I slept well or had a rejuvenating nap.
On the thoughts of sleep and naps my eyes fluttered and my body quaked. The yearning for sleep overcame me.
Nadine in her wedding dress. White, of course, even though we'd had sex many times before The Big Day. I stood at the altar, my pits drenched in sweat; little drops fell on my skin inside my shirt. Was a man more nervous than on his wedding day? My best man put a hand on my shoulder, and I calmed. Everyone I loved was there. My mother, brother, and sister. Friends and other family. The Wedding March started, and everyone rose as the rear church doors opened with a flourish. Nadine's father held Nadine's arm in his.
Beautiful Nadine, with pure, smooth skin and the most perfect face anyone could ever have on a day like today. Usually perfect, but angelic-perfect today. I couldn't imagine a woman more fitting to walk down the aisle; I couldn't imagine any other woman in her position right now. The life we were about to undertake was the reason I was put on this Earth, the reason I wanted to live, the reason to be happy.
She walked with unequaled grace down the middle aisles, through the admiring eyes, and up to the first step to the altar. Her father pecked her forehead and took his seat in the first pew next to Nadine's mother and my family. I held out my hand and she took it, sending nervous tingles through my body like the first moment I saw her. A bridesmaid guided the dress's train behind Nadine as she took her spot next to me.
My eyes locked onto hers. The preacher said a bunch of words, but if asked, I couldn't recall them. When I needed to respond, I did. When I needed to say, “I do,” I did. When I needed to kiss my lovely bride, I did.
When “David and Nadine Wilcox” echoed through the church, my heart leapt, dancing like never before. We walked out of that church proud, the momentous occasion filling our world with love. We walked out invincible. We walked -
I sucked in a huge amount of air as my brain jolted my body awake. My chin, still on the hard windowsill, complained. I rubbed the pain away as I wished the dream would come back.
The number of zombies decreased during my little nap, but I wasn't concerned with them now.
Standing below me, right under the window, facing those few zombies, was Nadine.
“Dammit!” I yelled. I scrambled out of the room and bounded down the stairs, pulling the gun from my jeans. I skipped the last three steps, took a sharp left, and sprinted for the door. I whipped open the door and leapt through. Ten feet off to the right, Nadine strolled along as if taking a serene walk to enjoy the fresh air. Surprisingly, the zombies hadn't noticed her.
Until I burst through the front door.
The six nearby zombies slowly turned and made their way over to us. Nadine saw them and stopped. Completely stopped as if she weighed twenty thousand pounds and couldn't move.
“Nadine,” I whispered loudly, “get back inside!”
She ignored me. Twenty-five feet or so between her and zombies. I aimed the gun at one of the zombie's heads and pulled the trigger. Click! The chamber rotated to the next hole. Click! Another hole. I had forgotten to load the gun.
There was no time to go back in and grab the bullets. I jumped off the stoop and planted myself behind Nadine. I grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. She fought me, but just as she wanted to give up to the zombies, she gave up with me. I pushed her towards the door as the zombies moved within fifteen feet. Nadine resisted when she saw them so close, but I vowed to win this battle.
Behind me, more zombies gathered, curious about the events taking place between the buildings.
“Come on, Nadine. Inside.”
She begrudgingly stepped up and entered the house. I shoved her forward enough so I could dart in and slam the door behind me. Seconds after I locked it, the zombies pounded against the door and the frame. Then, hands slid on both windows, squeaking incessantly, giving me the abhorrent feeling of watching someone's teeth scrap on concrete.
The door gave a little, and I set my back against it and braced myself. I wasn't afraid the door would cave, but the way it buckled near the hinges, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned.
“Be quiet,” I said to Nadine. “Just sit in the chair or on the stairs and plug your ears.”
I checked the peephole. Seven zombies attacked the door. If any one of them had coherent thoughts, they could rally the others and bust this door down. Lucky for me they were as smart as rocks.
Nadine took my advice and choose to park herself on the stairs. She palmed her ears and placed her head in her lap as if staving off dizziness. She cried, but kept her mouth closed. I barely heard a blubber.
I slid to the floor, keeping my back pressed against the door. The zombies continued to pound the door and paw the windows, but over the next hour or so, the skirmish lessened. Even when they moved away, I stayed at the door and Nadine kept to the stairs. The trust I had gained earlier was completely gone. I couldn't even give her automatic points for being my wife; the trust disappeared the moment she went outside.
And now, this silence built a thicker wall between us. A tall, dense wall with no way up and over it.
What could I do but guard the door twenty-four hours a day? Impossible. I may as well join Nadine in her wishes and go out there with her. I couldn’t stay at the door day after day, hour after hour. Anything that needed done would have to be completed when Nadine slept, and it wasn't guaranteed she'd stay sleeping for any length of time to get anything done.
Nadine stood and trudged up the stairs.
I hadn't felt more frustration in my entire life than right now. My mind was lost. Adrift in a sea of black. No shoreline. No horizon. No sun, no moon, no stars. I was lost. I didn't know what to do. In life, options always present themselves. Could be as simple as yes or no. Sometimes there are three or four options. In rare cases more than that. But in most instances, the path was not made obvious. Like this moment.
The option off the table was giving in to Nadine. Not that I ever considered it, but I had to tell myself no way in case my mind had other intentions. I needed to find a way to keep Nadine inside the house while I was away. I couldn't risk leaving and the discovering Nadine outside. I couldn't risk grabbing a few moments of sleep and waking up to the same situation as a few minutes ago.
In the downstairs bathroom, I looked through the medicine cabinet. Mostly basic stuff, really: aspirin, Neosp
orin, ibuprofen, Nyquil. But on the top shelf I found Vicodin. Six months ago, I had a kidney stone that needed blasted out since it was too large to pass normally. After they used sonic waves to break the stone into smaller pieces, the doctor prescribed Vicodin in case I had any pain in passing them. I had pain, but the Vicodin did nothing for me. Didn't quell the pain or knock me out at all. I do remember Nadine taking one because she wanted to get a good night's sleep and mentioned Vicodin does knock her out. She took one that night, and it knocked her out for nine hours straight.
Nyquil usually knocked her out too, but it wasn't 100% effective, 100% of the time. When it did, Nadine complained of terrible nightmares. I didn't want to cause a worse nightmare than the one she was already living, but I didn't particularly want her to go out into the live nightmare.
And so, there were two options. Nyquil first, and if that didn't work, Vicodin.
Now I was getting somewhere. What about non-medicated options?
I opened the door to the storage closet under the stairs and moved a few things to lift the cellar cover. After lowing myself in, I turned on the flashlight to see if any other possibilities presented themselves.
Most of the storage down here was holiday decorations. One of the totes was labeled TOOLS, and I popped the lid off. Screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, wire cutters: nothing useful for my purpose. Moving the tools around, I found rope and duct tape. And the immediate thought that surfaced in my brain scared me.
What was I thinking? Tying up my wife? But...
No! While it would keep her here, I also considered it unsafe. What if she had to get away from zombies breaking in? Or looters? It seemed wrong to bind her. Using Nyquil or Vicodin was more humane.
I slapped my cheeks. When you hear the word humane, you typically think about pets or other animals. And my wife was not an animal.
Still, I took the rope and duct tape and tossed them through the cellar hole. I waved the flashlight around in case I needed something else down there. The beam crossed over a tote with PHOTOS written on masking tape. I lifted the lid and stuck my other hand inside, picking the first album it touched.
Not Enough To Live By Page 3