She delineated time as “before” and “now.” Back in the days of “before,” Vick never sought out noise to fill the background of her life. She had loved silence, until the world fell silent and still. So still, that every movement was a signal of potential threat. The slightest flutter of a leaf could send her heart pounding in her chest. The stress of her growing hyper-vigilance felt at times as if it would crush her.
Vick came to crave the very sounds she had once avoided, but she didn’t dare introduce them into her life now. Noise was no longer a matter of choice. The creatures were drawn to sound. An iPod and a set of headphones became the only thing standing between her and utter madness. She couldn’t use them when she was out of the house, but at night, when the shutters were down and the perimeter secure, Vick lived in those headphones. Television and radio were a thing of the past, the Internet died after a month, but her iPod lived, all 64 gbs of it.
In fact, it became her most prized possession, to the point that she locked the device and the extra battery pack she kept charged at all times in a fireproof box when she left the house. That tiny technological brick held the last sounds of the world she had known. Music, videos, podcasts, books, and emails.
She hadn’t realized the wifi on the iPod was on that night in July and that it picked up the last messages she would ever receive. When she turned the wireless off, the email lived on in the iPod’s memory. She waited almost 10 months to read one message in particular. One dated from that night. July 4, 2010.
When she did read it and watched the video attached to it, she calmly loaded her 9 mm automatic, got in the car, drove to Boston, and went to Symphony Hall to commit suicide.
They didn’t make it easy, the omnipresent dead. She had to put down a cellist and an oboe player in the lobby. She knew them both. Or had known them when they were alive. They didn’t get the chance to take her out though. That trigger was hers to pull, and there was only one spot in the building where she planned to pull it.
And then she heard the screams and the very clear profanity floating up through the deserted city streets. The voice was a woman’s, and judging from her vocabulary and the terror in her curses, she was very much alive. Vick tried not to move toward the sound. She tried to go ahead with her plan, but she hadn’t succeeded in exorcising the humanity from her soul in those months of isolation.
Even when she thought mankind was extinct, or morphed out of any coherent recognition, Vick remained human. She ran toward the sound and found Lucy, back up against the wall, trying to stand down six of the creatures with a tire iron. Vick took them out one at a time, and then she took Lucy home with her, and everything changed.
Vick had assumed that she would be alone for the rest of her life and she, and only, she would write the definition of “rest.” And then there was Lucy in that alley. Afterwards Vick told herself she went on living because she was responsible for another person. The truth was that she went on living because — for no reason that she could fathom — she wanted to again.
The fact of Lucy’s existence gave her a convenient excuse, and the actuality of the other woman’s presence gave her someone to talk to. Before Vick knew it, they had built a life in the ruins, and she had come to love her improbable friend. After that suicide was out of the question, because it was not a thing she would ever do to Lucy.
Once their life together became an established matter, Vick simply assumed they would continue with it for whatever amount of time they had because there was nothing else to precipitate change. The facts were simple. They were alive, the dead weren’t. In her own way, she gradually came to feel safe. A kind of predictable routine returned to their day-to-day existence, a dangerous predictable routine, but a routine all the same.
Chapter Eight
The cracking of a log in the main room broke Vick’s reverie. Her thoughts had wandered far into the future from that first night. She stared at the page and started to write again . . .
“You survive, my dear.”
With that simple instruction, Quentin ushered her into the elevator. They rode in silence down to the deserted lobby. As they reached the front entrance, the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm made Vick stop automatically.
But whatever the old man intended to say was interrupted by the dinging of the elevator behind them. Vick turned toward the sound, and for a second, her numbed mind couldn’t process what she saw.
Maurice’s dead assistant, Evelyn, staggered out of the elevator. A shredded length of intestine tumbled out of her ripped and stained blouse. The dangling tendril swayed obscenely as she lurched toward them. Her milky eyes glared above her snarling mouth, and she held her hands out like talons, clawing the empty air.
Suddenly Quentin was pressing the weight of the pistol into Vick’s hand. “I’m sorry, but could you please do something about this?” he asked, seemingly nonplussed.
Vick blinked at the gun, and on instinct flicked off the safety. She raised the weapon and shot Evelyn in the chest. The woman slowed, but she didn’t stop.
Vick fired again. This time the bullet blew out the back of the woman’s head, sending a sticky spray of blood across the framed poster announcing the next performance at the Boston Opera House. Wagner’s “Der Götterdämmerung.”
“Thank you,” Quentin said. “Now, we must hurry.”
When they reached the front doors, Quentin whispered, “We are going to my office at the Conservatory. We must move quickly. We are going straight down Huntington. Stay as close to the buildings as possible. I have a key to the door on this side of Jordan Hall. We won’t cross over until we’re all the way there. Do you understand?”
Vick nodded.
“And do not use your gun again unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he said. “We want to attract as little attention as possible.” With that, he slipped through the door, and Vick followed.
They were, by no means, alone on the street, but most of the foot traffic seemed to be surging down Massachusetts Avenue. Later, Vick would remember bumping into a woman whose eyes rolled with terror, but the veneer of civilization hadn’t completely shattered yet. “Pardon me,” fell incongruously from the woman’s tense, white lips before she fled down the street.
When they reached Jordan Hall, Quentin quickly unlocked the side door. Once they were inside, he locked it again, giving it a tug to make certain it was secure. On the way to his office, they encountered a small knot of terrified music students. When they saw Quentin, they all started babbling at once, obviously relieved to see someone in “authority.”
The little man held up his hand for silence. When the babble of voices died, he pointed to one slender Oriental girl. “Tell me,” he said simply.
They were all enrolled in the summer institute. They’d been in their practice rooms, only to come out again to a world gone mad. The dark-haired girl who seemed the unofficial leader of the frightened little group said, “When we saw the panic in the streets and those . . . people . . . I told everyone to stay inside. We locked the front door.”
“Have you checked all the other doors?” Quentin asked, starting to walk again.
“No,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Securing buildings against a mob is hardly in your curriculum, dear,” he said mildly. “Please divide yourself into teams of two. No one goes anywhere alone. Make sure all the doors are locked. Block them if necessary. Find out if we are the only ones in the building, and then report to me in my office.”
Obviously relieved to have an assignment, the students broke off in pairs. Quentin took out his keys again and opened his office door. Before he flipped on the desk light, he moved to the windows and drew the curtains. The room seemed comfortingly warm to Vick, who sank into a leather wingback chair in front of the desk, all the strength instantly gone from her body. Quentin sat down in his desk chair, and they simply looked at one another over the gleaming expanse of dark, polished wood.
“Do you drink Scotch, V
ictoria?” the little man asked suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“I asked if you drink Scotch.”
Vick nodded numbly.
Quentin got up and walked to a small cabinet under the window. He returned to the desk with a bottle of Glenlivet XXV and two glasses. “I’ve been saving this,” he said. “It’s obscenely expensive and I think very much in order.”
When Vick didn’t answer, he went on. “At the time I bought it, on special order, for a princely $350 a bottle, I wondered what occasion might be worthy of such extravagance. I would say the dead rising to walk among us qualifies.”
Seeing Vick’s stricken expression, he softened his tone. “I am sorry, my dear, but I do not think we have the luxury of delicacy. Their numbers are growing and we must begin to formulate a plan for leaving the city. I am not insensitive to what you have endured this night, but I need for you to be your father’s daughter.”
Vick took the glass he held out, and when he encouraged her with a gesture of his hand, she sipped the whisky. It was strong and smooth, spreading out into her bloodstream with instant authority. She felt a flush of heat move into her cheeks and some stirring of life in her dulled mind. Quentin saw it, too.
“Yes, there you are,” he said gently, taking the chair beside her. “You are Matthew’s daughter, after all, and Hanson’s granddaughter. You are made of quite stern stuff, Victoria. You must draw on that now. Take another drink.”
Vick did as she was told.
“Now, are you listening to me?”
She nodded.
“Answer with your voice, please, Victoria.”
She had to try twice, but finally she said, “I’m listening, Quentin.”
“Where are your grandfather’s notebooks?” he asked, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. “The red leather ones with the black corners. Where are they?”
Vick blinked in confusion. “Papa’s notebooks?”
“Yes, your Papa’s notebooks. Think, Victoria. Where are they? Do you know?”
An image of a cardboard box shoved into the corner of an attic behind a dressmaker’s dummy flitted through her fractured thoughts. “Maine,” she said, sounding as perplexed as she felt. “In the attic, I think. Why?”
“Is anyone at the house in Maine?” he asked.
“No.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Then tomorrow we find a safe means of egress from the city and head north.”
But Quentin never made it to Maine.
January 2015: The Cabin
Vick set the pencil aside and rubbed her tired eyes. Through the open door of the bedroom she could see Abbott, quietly adding wood to the fire. She threw the covers back and cautiously sat up. Her head reeled a little, and she was sore, but she thought she could stand.
Before she could try, however, Lucy said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Vick didn’t have to turn to see her friend. Lucy was already standing in front of her. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” Vick said.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Lucy countered.
“I can’t sleep,” Vick said. “And Abbott just put more wood on the fire. Let me go sit in there for awhile.”
“Wait right there,” Lucy commanded. “And I mean wait.”
When Lucy came back, she had Abbott in tow. His whiskers barely hid the bemused grin. “You are giving Lucy what my grandmother used to call conniption fits.”
“She has those quite a lot,” Vick deadpanned.
Lucy scowled. “I have my reasons.”
Abbott gently moved her out of the way to stand beside Vick. “Lean on me,” he said kindly.
Vick cautiously slid off the edge of the bed, wobbling a little as her legs took her full weight. Abbott’s steadying arm went around her waist, and she was grateful for it. With his support, she gained her balance. “I’m fine,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
They slowly made their way across the short distance, with Lucy hovering in the background. By the time they reached the chair nearest the fire, Vick’s face was white from the exertion. She sank gratefully into the chair and Lucy immediately covered her with a blanket.
“Let me make us some tea,” Abbott said quietly, disappearing into the kitchen.
“You want to tell me what made you decide to go hiking in the middle of the night?” Lucy asked, sitting down on the hearth. “You were writing in your journal when I fell asleep.”
“I did a little bit too much remembering for one night,” Vick said.
“Julie?” Lucy asked.
Vick nodded. “Yes. And I was thinking about those first days when the newspeople tried to tell us it was just a fever.”
Lucy shook her head. “They told us to wear masks and stay inside. Not one of them had the guts to tell us we were in the middle of a plague that was turning the whole population into a herd of rabid dogs.”
Abbott joined them. “The water is on to boil,” he said. “What do you mean rabid dogs?”
“This whole thing started with some kind of plague, a virus or something, but now the dead can infect the living with a bite or a scratch. We’ve seen people who were attacked and torn in two wake up and try to find a way to feed.”
“Dear Lord,” he said. “How do you kill them completely?”
“With a head shot,” Vick said. “Or really any massive damage to the cranium. Whatever switch it is that turns them back on is buried deep inside the head. Blood loss won’t do it. Tissue damage doesn’t phase them. They keep right on walking with broken bones. Nothing works but destroying the brain.”
“I imagine these are things you’ve learned the hard way,” Abbott said.
Vick looked into the fire, her features strained in the wavering light. “We had no idea back then just how many lessons we would have to learn.”
Chapter Nine
Boston, 2012
The need for replacement solar panels forced them to make the drive to Boston. It was a beautiful spring day and they decided to cut through the wild tangle that had once been the botanic gardens. Out of nowhere, one of the dead made a grab for Vick. She dodged deftly and Lucy raised her gun to fire, but Vick hissed, “No. The shot will echo and attract more of them. Come on.”
They sprinted ahead of their shambling pursuer, hopping over a little stream. Vick glanced back, then slowed and put her hand on Lucy’s arm, pointing behind them. As they watched, the dead man stumbled to a stop and stood staring down at the moving water, which was no more than two feet across and probably less than a foot deep.
He could have easily stepped over or waded through, but instead he was making nervous mewling sounds and swaying uncertainly. After a minute or two, he backed away and wandered off as if he’d forgotten about them entirely.
“What the hell?” Lucy whispered.
“I think it was the water,” Vick answered.
To test the theory, they intentionally attracted another of the creatures, and the same thing happened again, and then again. Like everything else they learned about the dead, the two women used their new knowledge to their advantage.
Although the project occupied several weeks and involved multiple abortive versions of the final product, they ultimately figured out how to use a pump rigged to a generator to draw water from the deep spots at the base of the cliff behind the house in Maine.
They directed the water and sent it down a makeshift ditch on the west side of the main building. The pump was too loud to run all the time, but if the dead ever started showing up in numbers, they could turn it on and create an extra barrier.
Often Vick thought they just made work for themselves to stay occupied, but as the basement gradually filled with supplies and equipment, her sense of safety grew. Two could carry more than one, and on what they called “shopping” excursions, they watched each other’s back. Slowly the house did become the I Am Legend set, which was their standard joke. There was no lab in the basement and they weren’t looking for a cure, but they were compani
onable, and Lucy proved to be amazingly adept with machinery.
They could make more noise in the basement, and they often found themselves there at night, Vick cleaning the guns or taking inventory, while Lucy sprawled out on an old discarded sofa. And then there were the times when Vick crept down the stairs alone. Those were the nights when she woke up drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. It wasn’t just that she remembered the shootings on that first night of the end of the world — her world — it was much more that she remembered that slow-motion click that preceded the fourth gunshot by just an instant.
She remembered the way she’d slid down to the floor with her back against the wall and watched the sticky redness stain blond curls lying on an expensive Persian rug. The blasts from the window lit the room with random, lurid flashes. They danced in the blood, making it course with life, even as it died there in the deep pile.
When those moments came over her, Vick would cast her eyes down and find something to do with her hands to hide the fine tremor that passed through her elegant, capable fingers. The last thing she wanted was for Lucy to see her hands shake.
Vick often asked herself why she did all this. Why she kept going when everything and everyone she loved before was gone, destroyed by her own hand.
Was living a habit? Or was it more than that? Some sacred imperative she held onto after a life of intellectualizing? The books had served her well. Lucy imagined Vick had prepared for all of this with some kind of Ninja-esque past. In truth? The first dead person she ever killed she put down with a music stand in sheer terrified desperation to find any kind of weapon and just live.
The second one? He was easy. The third one almost killed her. An improbable savior came to her rescue. She let the fourth one kill him. Since then? She hadn’t let one escape. What she knew about survival, about running their home, acquiring the things they needed, preparing for shortages and the cold months? Much of what Lucy perceived as Vick’s capability came from the pages of books and articles, even from YouTube before the Internet died.
Fermata: The Winter: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series (The Fermata Series: Four Post-Apocalyptic Novellas Book 1) Page 5