The October Light of August

by Robert John Jenson

  I became less nocturnal, and so saw others like me more often. But we were like ghosts to each other, I think. Shadows in the corner of your eye that are gone when you turn your head. I imagine many might have had families to keep fed, but may not have had the calories to spare in a fight to take supplies away from me. Or, they were just decent human beings.

  I was careful not to be seen entering or leaving any of my haunts. Tracks in the snow couldn't be helped, so I avoided my mom's house and the garage. There were tons of tracks around the office building, but I believe the area's population had scouted it enough to decide it was empty of value. Decent human beings or not, desperation to feed a child could drive anyone to depths that had been unimaginable before the pandemic and I trusted no one.

  Becoming more active in the daylight made me feel groggy and disoriented – that October light of August feeling. The sun on the bright snow lit the world with a dreamlike quality. Shadows were filled in, and I felt like I was living on top of clouds. I slept fitfully. One morning as I crossed through the fence bordering the back parking lot I stopped under the trees in the neighborhood to fumble with my sunglasses. I didn't like the feel of them under the fabric of my ski mask – they pressed in on the sides of my head too tightly and I just wanted to crush them up in a fist and then drop-kick them down the street, but I knew I could not do without them. My exasperated breath fogged and then froze on the right lens, when I saw the boy.

  He was maybe seven years old, in a striped t-shirt and shorts, just marching down the middle of the street. Brown hair in a buzz cut, freckles liberally sprinkled across his face. And he was eating an ice cream cone. I blinked rapidly in the bright light and squinted, but the kid continued his walk down the street. He was completely silent. I could see his blue sneakers sinking into the snow, but I could hear no frosty crunch with each footstep. Just as he was about to round the corner and disappear from view, the woman caught my attention. She had come in the same direction, as silent as the boy. She seemed to be anxious that he was out of sight and picked up her pace in her vintage flats, white capri pants and red blouse, a matching red scarf tied around her head. Of course the horn-rimmed sunglasses completed the retro look.

  Well, this is it, I thought. I have officially gone off my rocker.

  As the woman left my field of view, I looked up the street to see if anyone else might be coming, but I was alone again. I stood there for awhile, then jammed the sunglasses on my face, my right eye straining to see through the cloudy lens. I made my feet lift from the snow and take me down the street to the intersection where they had turned. I didn't expect to see them, but there they were, a hundred or so feet west of me. The woman had caught up with the boy and they now held hands as they continued their stroll. I started to trot towards them, the cold air burning my lungs and making the hairs in my nose feel shriveled. I closed the distance about halfway to them, and then stopped. I almost yelled, but I knew they would not look back or acknowledge me if I caught up to them. So I just watched them round another bend and disappear once more.

  Holy crap.

  I stood in the middle of the street and just stared at the point where they had left my line of sight. I had no doubt I would still see them, heading north towards Wellesley, if I ran up to the block where they had turned. Thoughts of ghosts, alternate universes and time loops fought a losing battle in my head against the overwhelming evidence that I was just bug-fuck nuts.

  The boy and woman weren't the only hallucinations I had in the coming days, although I could rely on them most mornings. Sometimes they were joined by a girl skipping rope, or carrying a kitten. Once they all sat on a curb, eating cones they had just bought from the ice cream man – looking natty in his white suit and a far cry from the stoners driving their little trucks that I grew up with. Why I was being haunted by ghosts from the swinging sixties – over twenty years before I was even born - I had no clue.

  Some evenings I would return to the sixth floor to find a jet-set party going on: go-go boots, lava lamps and skinny ties in abundance. I would ignore them and climb into my ceiling. In view, they were as silent as an eye blink. Once I settled in, I could swear I heard the tumble of ice in glasses and laughter. Sometimes as I drifted off to sleep, I could clearly hear my mother's voice say, “Why don't you join them?”

  I'm not sure if I was bothered more by the hallucinations themselves, or the realization that perhaps the reason I was having them (other than a poor diet, stress and lack of sleep) was to fill a void created by the lack of people. While I wasn't exactly full of pride that I could function as a loner in society and be reasonably happy, it was startling to think that I might need people as a whole - to the point that I was hallucinating them. Perhaps you really did need someone in your life – even if it was someone to ignore. If you're hoping for visions of Jackie as some sort of guardian angel, I'm sorry. I did not see her, except in dreams. Sometimes auditory hallucinations with her voice would startle me from dropping into sleep, but even those were usually in my mom's voice.

  I noticed if I had a purpose for the day, I was less prone to hallucinate. Exploring abandoned houses and structures seemed to keep them at bay. It was only while trudging mindlessly through the snow, or returning home with the only thought of climbing into my sleeping bag, would they come out and play. So I resolved to be more active, and I had a few plans to make “zombie traps” throughout the neighborhood. The work would keep me occupied, and what the hell – it was exercise. I heated canned food more often – I would even use fireplaces in the houses where I was working without fear of attracting the dead – so I was kept warm by better food, exercise and actual heat. It was almost an existence.

  Three weeks of below-freezing weather kept me busy. A few light snow storms added to the layer on the ground, and when the sun was out the very air itself seemed to glitter when the temperature would drop below zero. On those nights I didn't bother to go to my hidey-hole in the ceiling. I would huddle next to a fire I had made and sleep curled around my trusty spear. I figured if anyone alive was around and eager to take things from me, there was not a lot I could do about that. I was more vulnerable while I was working during the day anyway, so I slept pretty well. It was nice not having to be on guard constantly and not have to worry about someone wanting to eat you.

  But the cold snap could not last, and soon it climbed into the thirties - and even forties - and rain began to dissolve the snow. It was odd not seeing the streets turn into mushy, rut-filled gray slush by cars, but it was a pain slogging through it just the same. It was two days after the rain started when I discovered the first of the dead as it shuddered and twitched its way back to un-life, like an old stop-motion animation. I practically obliterated the thing's head in my frustration, more furious that my smug prediction of 'burst brain cells' was wrong than I was of having to deal with the dead again.

  The guy whose head I soaked and covered with snow still seemed to be frozen, but I dragged him out of the planter and across the back parking lot, chunks of ice flaking off his head as it bounced through the slush. A crow flew quietly in and landed on the back fence and watched me as I tucked the body up against the dumpster and battered its head in with my hammer. It felt like trying to tenderize a roast that had been shoved in the back of a freezer for years. I ended up taking my pickaxe and removing his head from his shoulders. If there's a will then there's a God damned way...

  With the dead up and about again, I returned to my nocturnal roaming and sleeping during the day. I theorized I was keeping warm by moving about at night, and with warmer days it was easier to sleep. This, in retrospect, probably meant dick in the grand scheme of things. The office building, not climate controlled, could store the colder night air inside and not warm up as much as the outside air, but I was snug enough in my sleeping bag and the fact that I didn't catch pneumonia or get eaten and lived through the winter means it worked well enough, I suppose.

  Spring, though, was just a mess. I usually enjoyed spring – the f
irst signs of buds on the trees, and how all of a sudden it seemed like the leaves exploded out and everything was green and lush again – that always lifted my heart after a dreary winter. But the drizzle, wet snow and rain, rain, rain just wore me down. The dead did not care. They still didn't have the vitality that they had in warmer days, but they soldiered on. As did I.

  Late April brought a few dry days, and restlessness drove me to finally make the mile and a half trek to the library. After my customary zigzagging through alleys (much more of a chore now) I cut through the high school and park and approached the library with an openness I almost regretted - I suppose my complacency in winter made me reckless. In the predawn light I didn't have my goggles on – I was conserving batteries and could see well enough as I crossed from the park into the library's parking lot. None of the dead seemed to be around – it was cold and all that I had seen were lethargic and barely moving. It was the smell of smoke that brought me up short.

  At the entrance to the brick and glass building was a metal trash can with holes poked in it, the light of embers shining feebly through them. A small tent sat next to it, and I made out a wide form sitting in a camp chair, with a rifle barrel poking above its shoulders.

  Aw, shit.

  I was motionless, afraid that I would soon be silhouetted against the sky. I was only twenty-odd feet from the person, and I could hear faint snoring from the tent. When it became apparent I wasn't going to be challenged I relaxed some, let out a shaky breath and took a step back. When there was no stirring, I took another. Then backed up rapidly until I could dart behind a shade tree in the parking lot. I let the shakes tremble their way out of my muscles, and quietly worked my goggles out of my pack. The world turned bright green, and I got my first good look at the person in the chair.

  Where he once looked wide and bulky, it was revealed that he was mostly jacket, a boy of nine or ten, swallowed in downy Gore-Tex. His stocking-capped head drooped into his puffy chest. The camp chair held him in an indifferent embrace, the tips of his boots barely touching the ground beneath. He clutched a rifle loosely in the valley made between chest and arm. I could see two wheel barrows parked behind him, mounded high with books. The tent next to him had its front flap open, but I could not see inside very well from the angle I had. I assumed at least someone was in there based on the snoring, more than likely an adult male.

  “Oh, kid,” I breathed. “You would get in so much trouble if he found you sleeping on the job.”

  I looked around, and could see windows that had been boarded up with plywood sheets. Bullet holes pockmarked them and the skylight windows up higher. I couldn't tell if a battle had been waged here or not, or it had just been wanton destruction. I was close to a strip mall and grocery store, and I had to believe this might have been a contentious territory for supplies. Might be a lot of living in the area. And a lot of dead.

  That the campers seemed confident enough to have a fire seemed to suggest that they weren't afraid of living competitors to steal from them. Perhaps there just weren't that many of us left. I could assume they knew this for a fact and knew the area well - or I could also assume they were idiots. I couldn't help feeling uneasy for them – it was my nature to hide from everyone, living or dead. And it would be easy for them to misjudge their safety – especially with people sneaking around in the dark...

  I watched the boy for ten minutes, and he didn't seem to stir at all. The sky was brightening in the east and making me more nervous, so I slipped off the goggles and decided I had to do it now or just go back to my hidey-hole. I worked the Wrist-Rocket loose, judged I could see well enough in the light, loaded a small rock into the pocket and let it fly. It zipped off the fabric of the tent and ticked into the brick building. I swore inwardly and waited, but there was no movement. I loaded another rock, and this time pinged it off the side of the trash can. The kid's head jerked up with a gasp, and his head swiveled in confusion.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he hissed, and he jumped up from the chair. He grabbed a book from one of the wheel barrows and began to rip pages from it, dropping them in the trash can. Orange light flared through the holes in its side. He dropped the covers and spine in, and turned for another book. While he was occupied, I slipped backwards into the park, keeping my eyes on him. He was clueless to my presence, and I was able to back around the concession stands and then dart across the park, the school, and back into the comfort of the neighborhood.

  Well that was a waste of time, I thought bitterly. Ah, hell – maybe I saved the kid from a beating (or getting bit). I was trying to decide if maybe he would have been better off facing the wrath of an angry father – tough lessons might be better in this brutal new world – when the sun rose and lit the trees in yellow-green glory. I hadn't been out this late (or early, I guess) in some time. I was usually back at home – home, a pitiful hole in the ceiling – by now. Maybe on the roof heating up something to eat, but soon ready for bed.

  Thinking of the office building as home made me think of my mother's house, so I stopped by there to snatch a few supplies. By the time I was out of there the sun was higher and felt wonderful on my face. I sensed it would get warmer today – maybe the upper fifties - and the thought cheered me. Instead of heading directly to the office building, I decided to stroll around for a bit and moved up to Wellesley to feel the sun's full potential. I unzipped my parka and the utility vest to have it shine on to my sweatshirt.

  My thoughts returned to the campers at the library, and I wondered if they lived there, or were just on a supplies run? The loaded wheel barrows suggested that maybe they were gathering fuel. If so, the fact that they decided to camp there suggested they had a bit of a journey back to wherever it was they came from. Or, they just decided that the library was their turf and were guarding it. Who the fuck knew? Trying to find out might get me killed, and I made a mental note to stay on my side of Maple Street for now.

  I wondered for the umpteenth time what condition my bookstore was in. Just thinking of the mall gave me a feeling of dread, and I couldn't understand why. I assumed it had been a refuge or base for all the bad guys out there – surely its allure was irresistible? I could look down the street and see its parking garage and I kept it in view until I turned right behind the gas station and entered my alley. Much later, I would smile thinking of that – it was right around 6:00 in the morning, after all.

  I heard the crows first. They came swooping down low over the sporting goods store and then into the parking lot behind the office building. They circled the lot, flapping and cawing restlessly. Something has them stirred up, I thought, and flexed my grip on the spear. I hadn't quite accepted the idea that they were my early warning system - they hadn't taught me yet that we were going to have a symbiotic relationship.

  I could hear the tell-tale footfall of the dead coming from my left, between the sporting goods store and the single-story group of buildings that cozied up to the tower. I stopped, and waited for the dead thing to wander into the alley. The cadence of its walk was odd, a scrapping, dragging type of footfall. Probably limping. And was it…humming? Trying to sing? Almost like a little kid, carefully counting. One…two…three…four… It had an up-speak quality that I expected to suddenly punctuate with a “Boo!” Or, “Ready-or-not, here-I-come!” It was charming and ghoulish at the same time, and I shifted uneasily in the alley. Was there more than one? I hadn’t seen groups of them since last fall, but it was a new spring, with new surprises. I looked around, but the alley was clear behind me. The back of the sporting goods store protected me on the left, a backyard fence on my right. I took a step back, waiting.

  She maneuvered into the alley in an almost stately way that some of them had – walking like an old, careful drunk. Her skin was dingy and mottled, but still looked fairly smooth and unbroken and I could see no indication of bites or scratches - just a single bloody palm print that pressed itself into the fabric of her white tank-top. Her gray sweats still seemed fairly tight around her midriff. She wo
re one flip-flop, the other foot filthy and bare. That explains the odd footstep, I thought. She had the sun behind her, yet she didn't see me as she turned to her left, towards the office building. I fetched the hammer from my pack, anticipating running her down with the spear and then finishing her off as usual. Here, I could probably just run up and bash her right in the back of her tangled blond locks and that would be that. Or, use this chance to see just how good I was with the slingshot. I was considering this when I noticed the word 'Pink' written across the seat of her sweats.

  No matter how often I have cursed myself for being foolish, sentimental and cruel for not dropping her right there, I had known the instant it dawned on me who the dead woman was that I would never be able to end her misery. Surely, that had to be what it was like to be dead - miserable? I had no idea if the dead hurt, had any notion of what they were now or what they had once been. There were no indications that they were nothing more than a shuffling sack of hungry, biting instinct. Except…she seemed to want to sing.

  All the more reason to end it for her, Jackie's voice would argue.

  At first I was certain that my hallucinations had returned – but they had never combined sound and vision before. I stood in the alley, dumb and indecisive.

  It…can’t be her. Can it? Where had she been all this time? Some of the dead just seemed to pop into existence, as fresh and unmarked as a newly laid egg. Had she been with someone? She certainly wasn't dressed for scrounging like me...

  I wanted to whistle and draw her attention, but she was the one to end my paralysis. The dead woman stopped suddenly, tottering as if still learning to balance herself in her new state of death. She turned towards me, making an observation for a moment, then methodically began to stagger in my direction. I could see the faded spray of freckles across her nose and cheekbones, and there was no longer any question that it was Pink. The blue eyes were dim and weary, but undeniably were the same ones that had once stared into mine.