The October Light of August

by Robert John Jenson

  “You should be paying attention,” Pink stated bluntly. Jordan nodded his head solemnly and helped me to my feet.

  Pink turned to me. “You okay?”

  I managed a wan smile and a thumbs-up, which earned me a smile full of even white teeth.

  “Awesome,” she said, and turned away to begin her morning workout.

  I was sure I would give it up right then and there, but I found myself driving to the gym again in the middle of the week. Jordan greeted me with a “Don't pass out on me today!” and I nodded foolishly. I eased into my run (okay, brisk walk), drank plenty, and while I didn't end my session feeling good about myself I certainly met my goal for the day. It dawned on me in the middle of my workout that I had hoped to see Pink. That she could see me gamely exercising and that she would approve. Then, of course, I realized she wouldn't even remember me. I was just a bump that slowed down her morning routine. She was more likely to recall a pothole in the road before she ever recalled me. I was probably 10 years older than her, not particularly attractive and painfully shy. Who cared if I was trying to get in shape? Still, in the weeks ahead I continued to show up at the gym. I started my routine as a Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule but by the end of my second week I started going every day.

  And did not run into her at all. Yes, I was feeling good and had lost five pounds already. Co-workers had mentioned I looked better – the matronly ones that always threatened to set me up with this or that daughter of so-and-so. But I hated showing up at the gym and never running into her again. Hell, even if she was just there – we didn't have to make eye contact or anything. It wasn't like I daydreamed about her. I had associated the gym with her and her momentary kindness, and I could not separate the two.

  I’m not too anal a personality, but I liked my routine. I had been going to the gym daily for two straight months, and one morning I overslept. I toyed with the idea of just skipping it. But if I did, I would skip again. And again. Would that be so bad? I could continue to eat healthier, and get out and exercise by jogging. It was getting warmer and lighter out, and lately I had taken to running down to the gym instead of driving. I could work up the nerve, surely, to run out in front of God, nature and everyone else? I loved Riverside State Park, and the idea of running the trails there appealed to me. Yet I had taken up more than just the treadmill, so I sighed and decided I would brave the 6:00 crowd. Also, I really hate paying for something and not using it.

  It was much more crowded than my normal schedule, but there were still plenty of machines available. I was not one to plug in an I-Pod or bring an e-reader while running, so I always just focused straight ahead as I ran.

  “Look at you go!”

  Startled, I twisted my head around and down, and there she was.

  “You're looking good!”

  I slowed the treadmill to a stop, but still stumbled a bit as I stepped off.

  “Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt you or anything,” she apologized.

  “No. No problem,” I panted. “I probably need to...hydrate.”

  Without any self-consciousness, she gave one of those open-mouthed grins some people have when sharing a joke. I liked the way the freckles on her nose and cheeks moved when she did that.

  “You remember me, then?” she asked, almost as if she was sure I wouldn't have.

  And smoother than I ever had been when addressing a woman, I said, “Yes I do – you were very kind to me.”

  I didn't think her smile could grow any wider, but it did.

  “Well...we have to look out for each other, right?” And then, out of the side of her mouth as she tipped her head towards the front desk and Jordan, “Not like we can count on the local jocks to keep an eye on us.”

  I laughed, light and easy. “I think you're right about that,” I said.

  She gave me a friendly pat on my arm and said, “Well good to see you!”

  “You too!” I replied, and she turned and headed to the locker rooms. I stepped back up on the treadmill, and ran as strong as I ever had. And decided the 6:00 crowd wasn't so bad.

  I ran up the stairs, three flights, before I stopped and proceeded more cautiously. Take nothing for granted! I paused and listened for any tell-tale signs of the dead – or living. I didn't think the warrior had been with anyone else, but once in awhile they showed up in pairs. And the days of roving gangs seemed to be over. Too many people in one spot, I theorized, and ultimately the plague would work its way in.

  If the warrior had been with someone I thought I would have encountered him by now, and I had not seen anyone else when I had first spotted the guy. Lucky. Very lucky today. Still, the guy didn’t have a backpack with him, and that bugged me.

  I could not hear any random thumping and stamping in the stairwell. The dead did not gasp and wheeze loudly - I supposed they had to work their lungs to do that, but they just didn't need to from what I understood. Yet some would vocalize - an absent-minded, dry groan. Some could be quite rhythmic too – I could swear Pink was trying to sing at times. But most were deadly silent, the only noise the shuffle of their feet - or the sounds of chewing.

  I continued quietly all the way up to the sixth floor, and stepped into the hallway. This level had one lawyer's office, and the rest of the floor was taken up by a dentist. I thought about doing my survey from the roof, but the warrior had made me nervous about being outside now. I scooted low through the doorway on the back balcony, and peeked through the bars of the railing and looked over the back parking lot. The crows were feasting and so was Pink. She had managed to work all the way out from under her kill and had begun to eat at his shoulder. I was long past the point of shuddering at the sight these days, but my heart did flutter in my chest.

  Poor Pink...I owe you one yet again, don't I?

  I looked over the neighborhood, and could see a few wandering dead scattered in the grid-work of streets. But no real signs of life. Not even any deer or elk – or moose, thank God. I checked the coil of rope I could use to rappel down the side of the building if I had to (be prepared, and all that shit). I should have checked them on all the floors, but I was home and I wasn't going anywhere else for the rest of the day. I backed into the hallway, then stood and moved down to the dentist's office doorway.

  I gave a quick scan around the immediate area, but nothing looked disturbed. I had set out in clear view a mini-fridge that would be irresistible to any looter, plus random boxes that looked like they could have been sealed up with various medical supplies - but when turned over, they had clearly been opened and emptied already. None were touched, and I couldn't hear or smell any dead, so I crept slowly to the front of the office and looked out over the front parking lot, and to the main drag of Division Street.

  A lot of the windows had been smashed out by looters early on. It was cold up here, and a strong breeze tugged and twisted at my roughly-cut beard and hair. I wasn't sure I would actually winter here again, but I thought I might stick it out for one more. I liked the vantage point, and I knew the area very well. My mom's house was mere blocks away, as was the elementary school I went to. And the gym.

  I pushed away those thoughts and peered down into the front parking lot. I couldn't see any movement there, but out on Division I could see a coyote trotting along. Not far behind it, a dead man lurched along in shorts and a t-shirt. He was missing a good chunk of his left forearm, but there was something distinctly odd about his face and chest. I fished in my backpack for binoculars, and after double-checking the sun was high enough not to glint off the lenses, I focused in on the dead man and was amazed to see porcupine quills sticking out of his face, arms and chest. Well. You don't see that every day.

  Other than that, the area was empty and quiet. Perhaps all the excitement the universe could allot for one day had been used up. I moved back to an enormous wall of filing cabinets that stored patient records, x-rays, whatever. Most had been dumped across the floor, but a few drawers were opened strategically to give me steps up to a dropped ceiling. I climbe
d up and slid aside an acoustical tile from the false ceiling, grabbed a rope tied to a support beam from the floor above, climbed, and slipped into the cavity. I dropped back the section of tile into place, and hopefully the office appeared empty once again.

  I lay in my sleeping bag, swinging gently, and as usual when I had an encounter with her my thoughts turned to Pink. I had never learned her real name. She would forever be known to me by her posterior declaration of the word 'Pink'. What did that even mean? The fight against breast cancer? Her favorite color? Something sexual? Did she even know what it meant, or did she just like it intuitively and it didn’t have to mean anything to her? The meaning of it didn’t bother me so much as not knowing her given name – I hated the thought that she was forever locked into a nickname she was unaware I had tagged her with.

  I wondered if the gym had info I could retrieve, but I was certain there were no hard copy records I could access – or at least something I could hope to identify as her. A photo ID was not part of the process when I joined up. You told Jordan your membership number and he typed it into the computer at the front desk when you checked in. And getting access to information on a computer was pretty much not going to happen now. Still, if I got bored someday I might wander into the gym and explore.

  I would see Pink at the gym for about a year – before things started to go horribly wrong in the world. She would show up at the 6:00 hour fairly regularly, and if she happened to spot me or make eye contact she would grin and wave or maybe ask me “How’s it going?” as she walked past. But the longest conversation we ever had was our second one. And truth be told, I was fine with it. It’s not like I ever entertained the idea that I could ask her out, or even become a friend. Her presence made the gym a better place – she would sing softly along to the music of her I-Pod and it made me smile. That she existed in my universe was enough, and I could take that for granted like gravity and growing older.

  Once, I saw her at the café in the bookstore I worked in at the mall, but I knew better than to bother her – who wants to be thought of as a creeper? Better to at least be recognized as only a fixture at the gym than someone to avoid now because I had over-stepped a boundary. If she had ever spotted and recognized me, I was unaware.

  So when the pandemic hit with full force, I don’t recall that I ever spared one thought about her in those traumatizing times. If I had, I must have assumed she had been part of the mass migration fleeing the city, or at least had someone to help her survive if she stayed. Like most people, I had problems of my own.

  My hand hurts like hell. I poured some more alcohol on it and bandaged it up again – but I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m far from dropping dead, and while I would like to wrap this narration up, my plan hinges on some sustained below-freezing weather. While I feel it coming, I think I have some time yet. So - where were you when the dead started coming back to life? And more importantly, started chowing down on us?

  Me, I was at the gym when I first heard of the homeless guy chewing the other homeless guy’s face off in…San Diego, was it? Some news channel reported it on one of the flat-screens bolted to the walls in front of the ellipticals. It was a day later, I think, that news agencies around the world recognized that this sort of behavior had been happening here and there for some time; that some people were trying to eat other, living souls out there, and didn’t seem to care where they did it or who was watching. It must have been some new, dangerous drug – but no one that I can recall was thinking it was a disease. Or that dead people were reanimating and had a case of the munchies.

  Aw, look at me. Slipping back to those dark-humored days, where something like people eating people was novel and hil-fucking-arious. Worth nothing more than a morbid curiosity and a 'what’s-the-world-coming-to?' frame of mind. Is that how we always dealt with weird shit that didn’t happen directly to us? We must have laughed at the first person to swear – swear to God - that these cannibals were actually dead people coming back to life.

  The first “I must have shot him five or six times” report I heard was at Costco. Probably one of the first “Fucker bit me” reports too. It was still early in the pandemic, where stuff like that seemed to be only happening in the major cities. There were several of us clustered around a seventy-five inch monstrosity of a TV watching as some guy in Tucson related his story to a wide-eyed reporter, how this “Guy comes stumbling into my yard, all jerky-like? I’d seen those reports about them guys bitin’ everybody so I went in the house and got my gun and the guy just followed me right in so I must’ve shot him five or six times. Fucker bit me, though, so I popped him in the head and that ended it.”

  We stood there with puzzled frowns and half-grins as we shook our heads and moved off to buy our gallons of milk, wine, dog food and whatever else we thought we needed. I can remember pushing my cart past the display of batteries, then turning back and grabbing multiple packs. The camping displays were out, and I bought a sleeping bag and a water purification system. I was pretty susceptible to the impulse buy. I honestly don’t think it was in the front of my mind that it would be survivalist days soon – I’d always hated someone with that mentality. But maybe I had some of my dad in me that was awake. Mom had always told me he was a bit of a conspiracy nut. Much later, I was very grateful for that instinct – and of all the impulse buys I would make in the weeks to come.

  The first attack right here in town might have been a week later (I don’t think the CDC had made their announcement about the dead yet). Some dead homeless guy began attacking skateboarders at the skate park under the freeway downtown. He ended up getting his head bashed in by several kids, many who claimed “The fucker bit me.”

  It wasn’t long before another homeless guy, who was known to panhandle at 3rd and Brown, caused a panic as he stalked along the street lunging at people, cars, and buses until he was shot and stopped in front of the Goodwill. Now, I find it curious that the first cases here were homeless. Think about it. I can buy the idea that the infection spread to us like it did around the world. But I would have expected it to fly, drive, ride the train – whatever – into town. And not as fast as it did. I know jack shit about the spread of disease and how this infection travels. And I realize homeless people ride into town from elsewhere all the time, and could have infected our locals.

  See, I think this whole cluster-fuck was done on purpose. Before you measure me for my tinfoil hat, just consider why our little city – hundreds of miles from any other city - would have its homeless population be the one to start a localized pandemic. Sure some new drug could have explained it, but we knew it wasn’t something illicit that had been ingested. This was an infection – it could be caught and transmitted during the fever stage very easily, but once the patient died it had the bonus feature of causing the corpse to rise and continue the fun. Albeit in the most pants-shitting way imaginable...

  More of the homeless began to attack, along with prostitutes and tweekers. It wasn't long before war was declared on all the so-called scumbags of the city, lead by a jackass of a newspaper columnist.

  The first cases of upstanding citizens getting bitey were north of the river. One of the skater kids that had been bitten infected friends and family on the north side, so naturally the focus shifted from the deadbeats and it began to be debated if access from the north should be blocked into downtown, and more importantly the South Hill (this was never stated implicitly at first, of course). No matter that the outbreak originated south of the river. The North Side was too dangerous (by this time we knew the infected were, indeed, actually dead).

  Now, before I get accused of fomenting class warfare, a couple of things: One, it’s a little late for that. There may or may not be a thriving community across the river and up the hill – I have no way of knowing. Maybe if I wasn’t such a loner I could be reaping the benefits of friends watching out for me. And two, I’m well aware there were poor and middle class on the South Hill. And there were rather affluent neighborhoods up her
e too.

  But you know what? Too bad if you’re offended that I bring up the notion that the South Hill would think they actually had to barricade themselves from the trash of the north. Because when they actually did do it – or attempt it – thinking it would save their asses speaks for itself. I’m sure someone thought it through and came to the conclusion that, “We’re at least doing something.”

  Sure, I’m carrying baggage from the good old days. If I had a dollar every time some self-important twit from the South Hill looked me in the eye and whined, “But I came from the South Hill” because we didn’t have a book he or she was looking for I would…well, I’d probably have lived on the South Hill. If you’re deluded enough to think there wasn’t any sort of geographic smugness to our little city, then I’ve got a cure for the pandemic I’d like to sell you.

  The first of the dead I saw in person was shuffling awkwardly up my mom’s street. I had been staying with her by then, and it was pretty early in the morning. Power was still flowing, and the street lights were losing their intensity as dawn gained the upper hand. There weren’t many cars out and about that early on a weekend - there wasn’t a lot of traffic in those days anyways as people wanted to stay home and safe. Before the great panic to get the hell out of Dodge, at any rate.

  What caught my attention as I sipped coffee and watched the sunrise was my mom’s neighbor as he darted across her front yard. He was balding, paunchy, and in jeans, white t-shirt with an unbuttoned flannel shirt. A big guy, fairly affable according to my mom. She knew his name - Jesse something - but I was pretty much on just the nod and wave level of acquaintance. I rose from the sofa and moved closer to the picture window to peer in the direction he had ran, but he was out of view. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I should stay in with the door locked, or go out and help – if it was needed at all. I decided I needed to know what was happening, moved to the front door, unfastened locks and stepped out onto the porch and looked south down the street.