I followed her into the room to gaze at their trophies and she whistled at me.
“Hey,” she said, and tipped her head at the doorway. “Hang back there and keep us covered, huh? Eyes and ears open.”
I sheepishly moved back to the doorway and she gave me smile and a wink, then moved to the safe in the corner.
“Whoa,” I said. “That's a monstrosity.”
“Right?” she laughed. “I'm glad I talked him out of keeping it in the basement – hate to be down there right now. And you think the damn thing cost enough? It also had to be shipped up from Oregon. Jesse couldn't just get one at Costco. Hell no. One of his buddies got one from the same guy and he fell in love with it, so he just had to have one too. Has a digital keypad, but you can remove it to get to the key lock – which he was convinced was vital. Afraid he was going to forget the combination...” She frowned sharply and looked down, blinking rapidly. After a moment, she cleared her throat.
“Anyhow. Let's see – yep, they took the keypad off. Looks like they tried to move it. Huh. Hope they got hernias out of it. Lock looks...okay.”
She examined the three spokes that made up the handle and seemed satisfied that it wasn't tweaked.
“Okay,” she said, and slipped a key into the lock and twisted it. The handle spun easily, and she yelled, “Whoo-hoo!” as she yanked on the door.
The smell of shit and piss exploded out of the safe as Mike fell forward and onto Jackie. I jumped, not comprehending what I was seeing. She yelped and fell over backwards, and Mike began to claw and snap at her neck. Her gun began to fire up into his chest, and he bit her savagely on the shoulder. She screamed and brought her leg up to push herself away. I darted in and put the M9 up against his head, but the gun didn't fire. I punched his head, and he bent down and bit into Jackie's inner thigh. She screamed again, had her gun up to his head, but only empty clicks fired from it. I finally flicked off the safety, brought the gun back to his temple and pulled the trigger.
The gun roared and Mike dropped loose and still. Jackie pushed herself all the way to the doorway, blood bright and red pumping from her leg.
“Aw, no,” I moaned, and stripped off my shirt and began to wind it up tight.
Jackie shivered violently on the floor, and looked up at me with terrified eyes. I knelt and began to wrap the shirt above the wound, twisting it tight.
“Aw, crap,” she stammered. “Son of a bitch.”
I looked desperately for something to jam in the wound, and nothing seemed within reach.
“Let me have your shirt!” I barked, and began to tug at it.
“What – what the fuck for?” she asked.
“To jam in there!” I yelled wildly, tipping my head towards the blood welling from her leg.
“What good do you think the-that's going to do, sweetie?”
Jesus, she was shaking badly. Shock, I guess?
“Stop the God damned bleeding!”
“And then what?” she asked.
“Huh?” I asked, and looked into her eyes.
“And then what?” she repeated. “Honey, I'm done – I got bit. Twuh - twice, no less.”
I stopped pulling at her shirt, but kept my fist twisting the make-shift tourniquet on her leg.
“So?” I pleaded. “Maybe the blood will flush out -”
She brought a hand up – blueish and cold - to press against my chest.
“Artie, you know better. You know better.”
“No I do not,” I said as tears and snot streamed down my face.
“Just let it go,” she said, and pushed at my hand that clenched the fabric on her leg. “Come on, it'll be easier this way.”
“But you're the best friend I've ever had,” I sobbed.
“Oh – Jesus!” She barked out a laugh. “You poor boy – a miserable old bitch like me!”
I couldn't think of any sort of reply to that, so I just cried.
“Look Artie, you're going to have to shoot me in the head – yes, God d-damn it. Yes. You'll have to - I don't want to come back like one of those things. You want to see me like that? You think that would be me? I would do it only...only. They s-say if you kill yourself you go to hell. I don't know th-that for sure, but I don't want to chance it. What if I get to see Jesse again? Huh? What if?”
Deep in my throat I huffed a low growl of frustration. Of course I knew she was right. Of course I did. But I could not let her go.
She dug and probed until her fingers crept under my hand on her leg.
“You do this for me,” she stated firmly. “You do this.”
So I did. I let go of the t-shirt that had tried to stem the blood that wanted to flood out of her femoral artery. Jackie sighed and leaned in against me. I could feel her breath on my chest, her eyelashes fluttering against my skin as she blinked.
“Keys,” she muttered softly.
“What?” I asked.
“Keys. Jesse... Must have had another set made. Key ring. Kept on his key ring. Stupid jackass...”
I reached up from the twist of cloth on her leg and brushed hair out of her eyes, leaving a smear of blood. She twisted her head to kiss my hand.
“Don't...you,” she whispered. “Don't you... give... don't...”
She never finished, but I knew what she meant to say. I nodded, and kissed the top of her head. Her shivers slowed. Her breath became shallow, and I watched as her eyes blinked. And blinked. And blinked. And blinked. And then just stayed open.
If the one thing this journal does is to preserve the memory of the force of nature that was Jackie – albeit a memory that took place over a handful of days and from one person's narrow perspective - then I can die happy. Writing about the short time we were thrown together and of her death took longer than it should have, but if you can't understand why then you're some sort of incurious 'warrior' that likely used these pages for toilet paper or burned them for warmth. Hopefully, you at least got a paper cut.
Did I shoot her in the head after she died? Of course I did. Much later, after I had wrapped her in sheets. Then I added layers of plastic from trash bags duct-taped together – I was going to make it tough even on the worms to get to her. I went through the same dilemma I had with my mother – what would she want to be buried in? And, as I did with my mom, I left her as she was. I liked that she was in a t-shirt of mine. I didn't think I had the right to go through her things or strip her and clothe her again - and I don't think I could have gone through with it anyways. Like with my mother, I found a cold and methodical resolve to shut down my grief and get the job of burying her done.
I hopped back over the fence and went in the house to hammer the door shut again – mostly to put off what I needed to do, I suppose, but also to make it harder for anyone to get in while I was occupied. I then grabbed my shovel and pickaxe and tossed them over the fence. They had served me well so far.
As I climbed back into Jackie's yard, one of the dead had wandered in from the alley through the garage. He barely had time to register that I was there before I took him down with the shovel. To this day I couldn't describe him to you. I dragged him off to the alley and then shut both garage doors, picked a spot close to the fence that I judged was close to Jesse, yet where I could still feel comfortable swinging the pickaxe without whacking the fence from time to time.
I would not half-ass this grave. It would be deep, and comfortable. I made sure it would be long enough by stretching out in the grass and marking my length and width – if it would be tight for me it would be fine for her. I attacked the ground with a mechanical and thorough aggression. Once I got through the grass roots the going was easier, although a few roots from our tree next door slowed me down.
I would pause to drink and eat, then jump back to it. If I paused too long I would think, then remember, and then relive the events of the day. And if I succumbed to that I would be useless in digging her grave. I still had several hours of daylight, and would use them well. I probably dug deeper than I needed to, and neater than it
had to be. More than likely I just was prolonging the finality of putting her in the ground.
Once, the quiet of the neighborhood had been broken by the sound of a glasspack muffler racing down the street and shots being fired, with “Fuuucking biiiitch!” trailing after. But it was over and done within seconds and I barely paused in my digging.
When I had trouble climbing out of the hole the last time I decided that it would have to do. I pulled her over to her grave, swung her legs over first and tried as gently as I could to lower her torso and head in. She landed with a thump, but flat on her back and that made me feel a little bit satisfied. I hadn't closed her eyes for her – I couldn't bear the thought of them being shut permanently. Also, if there was a Heaven above, I wanted those eyes to bore up through the ground and into God himself for as long as they could.
I didn't feel right leaving her alone in her grave. I went into the house, down the hall past the dining room to the living room. I discovered the front door had indeed been knocked askew from its frame, and a picture window had been broken with a few planks that had helped barricade it hanging loose. The front wall wasn't breached, but a large jagged crack ran down it floor to ceiling.
On a wall space below the banister on the stairs hung a faded 16x20 of Jackie and Jesse on their wedding day, probably fifteen or so years ago. They were looking up from cutting their cake, Jackie with her radiant smile, Jesse with an uncomfortable one. It looked like Jesse was one of those guys that found it hard to smile honestly for a posed picture. Surrounding the wedding photo were 8x10s and 5x7s of various candid shots, and in most of them Jesse had an easy grin that couldn't help but make you smile. There were two pictures where a black Labrador featured prominently. In one of them Jackie was giving it a smooch on top of its head and the dog was slurping Jesse on the cheek, who was laughing. I picked the pictures with the dog, and one where they were sitting on a dock by a lake, snuggled next to each other in the light of a sunset.
I placed them near her head – something to look at when not giving God accusing stares – and began to fill in the grave. When done, I looked around to see if there was anything to keep animals from digging in, could find nothing. I wondered if I could pull the boat and trailer over to cover it, decided I more than likely could not. Plus, I didn't want anything other than Mother Earth to block her view of the sky. Or vice versa.
I could not stare in the same sort of hypnotized admiration of Jackie's grave that I had with my mother's. I made my best effort at disguising it – replacing the clumps of unkempt sod and brushing the grass around to naturalize the look of it. Sweeping away footprints with pine boughs, if you will. It worked about as well as you would expect. But if it gives her a few months of rest, I suspect Mother Nature will take care of it in the end. Anyone reading this, you know what is buried there. The guns are in the safe, if you're inclined to get them. The keys are on me.
I climbed back over the fence for the last time, and swung up into the tree and into my room. Where Jackie had slept. My bed had been made neatly, and on it lay a gray tank top. I pretended not to see it, and went down the hall to my mother's room. Glass lay on the floor where bullets had punched through the French doors. Ah yes - the boys in the Civic, no doubt. More than likely still congratulating themselves over their brave act of retaliation while I was digging next door. I ignored the glass and lay down on my mother's bed and tried not to let the day crash over me, but that went about as well as you would expect. If onlys fought with I should haves, with the not fairs meekly trying to get a word in. Bubbling to the surface was a hatred for all the assholes, the gun-crazed sadistic thugs, who used the end of the world as an excuse to let loose their true nature of brutality and selfishness.
I had decided that the last gun I would ever fire would be the one that kept Jackie from becoming one of the dead. After I had tossed the guns into the safe, I pushed and shoved Mike back into it as well. I figured if the alpha dog and Nick had wanted him in there so badly, then why the fuck not keep him there? I wondered if they would be happy that their booby-trap had worked so well. I imagined they would be. I couldn't believe that the alpha had the foresight to dream up that plan when he had shot Mike in the chest and not the head, but some people can be twisted, twisted fucks. They very well may have decided on killing Mike and doing that – seeing that he had been bitten - justified it for them.
A small part of me hoped so, because I couldn't help but believe that if I had only stayed awake, I would have overheard their plans to stuff Mike in the safe. I was certain if it was an impromptu plan, they would have been excited and laughed about it as they retrieved Mike from upstairs. If it had been premeditated, maybe they wouldn't have been as gleeful and – ah, but I can go round and round like this forever. I am buried in guilt, and will never be able to see through it to give anyone an accusatory stare. Or, for that matter, a shameful glance.
And so, it seemed, the world finally decided to quit fooling around and got down to the business of going crazy. At least in my little corner of it.
As the days went by, traffic increased – both foot and vehicular. Big, ungainly and improbably modified trucks roamed the streets, mowing down the dead and living alike. It seemed the living had divided into the 'I want what you haves' and the 'Good luck taking it, fuckers'. Either way, the weak and vulnerable were the losers. And the dead wanted to eat all of them. I could write that I had seen some things you wouldn't believe - and then write them down anyway, but you could very likely top me in stories of cruelty I suppose. At this point I have no desire to recount the rapes and cold-blooded brutality people inflicted on each other, seemingly with the only reason being was that they could.
Bear in mind a large portion of the population had fled the city to...where? I have no clue if anywhere else is better off than here. But those of us that stayed, like people who refuse to believe that the hurricane will really be as bad as projected, had had enough of waiting things out and were going all proactive on everyone's asses.
Honestly? I think if each neighborhood could have acted together, it would have been easy to defend from the dead. The dead did not run. The dead had no real coordination to speak of. They did not see in the dark, have superior hearing or super-smell. Yes, you were shit out of luck when you were surrounded – more than likely to at least get bitten. But as far as I'm concerned the panic and chaos that ensued did more to spread the infection than anything else.
You take your modified Hummer and plow over a group of the dead. Think you destroyed every infected brain in that group? Did you step out of your rolling fortress, not see the one stuck to the makeshift whatever-the-fuck welded to the front, and it bit you? Did you hide that fact from your buddies, get infected, and then infect them? I think there were damn few people like Jesse who knew the jig was up and shot themselves. Someone will always think he or she will be the first one to be immune to it. To beat it.
Maybe there's some command post out there – the CDC working away at some cure – that has all the answers. I'm sure there are plots and graphs and computer models about how the disease spread. Hell, maybe there's a contingency plan letting the whole thing burn out and leaving a viable population to get the human race back on its feet. I only know what I've seen, and I think the big freak-out only made things worse.
The dead could not batter down doors. Their limbs had the strength and tenacity to grab and hold on, and the power that is the human bite unencumbered with squeamishness. They did not worry about their teeth breaking. But the dead did not have an attention span. Yes, they would try doors and windows, but if that yielded no results, they eventually moved on. This of course is not to say that the dead were not dangerous. But when I decided that a moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one and left my mother's house, it wasn't the dead that I was particularly hiding from.
The lure of Jackie and Jesse's house for the dead and the looters finally drove me out of mine. I had briefly wondered what was going on at my apartment complex, decided I
needed nothing from there and had no desire to be with anyone else. I stuffed a backpack with power bars and water, batteries for the night-vision goggles and a flashlight and my old wrist-rocket. And Jackie's gray tank top.
There was a small door that opened into the attic which was normally blocked by my mom's dresser. I stored all of my supplies in that space, and blocked the door again with the dresser. I had considered hiding in there (I had screwed leather belts to the back of the dresser to pull it towards the wall from inside the attic), but didn't feel too safe with random gunfire blasting through walls. And I basically had the itch to just get the hell away from there. I tried to make the house look as looted-looking as possible, grabbed my spear-of-destiny and left the house with the back door open. Removing the braces I had hammered into it, I opened the front gate, then the back gate and stepped cautiously into the alley.
I could feel the heat of the day rising up off the packed earth. Little puddles leftover from the thunderstorm were being absorbed by the deep ruts formed by trash-trucks that had powered through there every Wednesday. Weeds and grass had grown high between the ruts, and gangs of gnats hung in the twilight. I looked back once at my mom's house, and gazed longer at Jackie's. I was afraid if I ever went back in there I would never leave.
So I headed down the alley, dodging puddles and waving away the gnats with eyes open and ears tuned. I wasn't entirely sure where I was going, but I decided I would stick to the alleys unless I was forced not to. At the first cross-street I paused, leaning against Mrs. Clarke's fence. I wondered if Mr. Clarke was in the house, hiding and afraid, or a corpse attached to an oxygen bottle? I thought the latter likely, but felt guilty for not checking on him. Who knew if he was armed and trigger happy? He probably wouldn't have remembered me anyways.
The October Light of August Page 9