by J. B. Beatty
“Can you just skip the bone marrow thing and give her the second week of chemo?”
“Man, that’s like flying blind. We will have no idea if we’re on the right path. Plus, the second week of chemo could kill her. As it is, this first week is totally kicking her butt.”
He shakes his head in frustration. “This is my fault. I’ve been arrogant in thinking I could do this myself just by getting the right drugs. All that time we spent dicking around, I should have instead been tracking down some elderly cancer doctor who we could kidnap. There’s got to be some out there.”
“That would be a challenge. In a big fucking way.”
“Forget it. There’s no way that could happen in time.”
“Is there a YouTube video on grabbing bone marrow samples?”
“Of course. I’m just scared shitless of poking something into her bones.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Exactly that. In two days.”
15→AIN’T YOU HAD NOTHING BUT THAT KIND OF RUBBAGE TO EAT?
“S
he wants you,” I say to Carrie when I find her in the kitchen.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I just went in there to spend a little time and talk with her and she screamed at me to get out and send you instead.”
“She really asked for me?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong? She probably won’t scream at you the same way. I was the uninvited guest. You’re invited.”
“It’s just that I barely know her,” says Carrie.
“Maybe that’s why she wants you.”
Carrie leaves. I open the fridge. Unappealing leftovers. I open the freezer. Pop-Tarts. I justify my next move by considering that our decision to try to stock up with healthy foods was predicated on the notion that since my compatriots were all sick, they needed healthy food. I, being the only healthy one, can eat junk food without guilt. At least for the next 40 years until I develop a cardiac condition.
We actually have food stocks that are quite decent now. Short on condiments and spices, but a good cook would be able to put together some nice meals.
The trouble is, we don’t have a good cook. Justin is the best, but he rarely cooks because he’s so busy with Maggie’s treatment. Instead Carrie and I have been taking turns. She does pasta. Creativity for her is chopping up a hamburger patty and adding it to the sauce.
I’m generally a bit more dangerous in the cooking game. I was spoiled in culinary terms, with parents who were both good cooks. Plus, they often took us out to all kinds of places. There is no ethnic food on earth that I haven’t tried and liked. But I resisted all of my parents’ efforts to teach me how to fend for myself in the kitchen. They always told me that I would regret not learning how to cook. And then they proved themselves right by leaving me to fend for myself in the Apocalypse. Still, I want to create fancy ethnic meals without having any of the requisite skills.
Last night I made chicken mole over rice. I have to say that the rice was well-received. The mole I couldn’t even eat.
Carrie returns. “Do we have razors? We must have a razor somewhere. Justin says he thinks you know where you put them.”
“Razors? I don’t remember putting them anywhere. I remember we had a bag of cheap disposable razors… “
“That’s all I need. Unless you have shaving cream too. I need that also.”
“Maybe in the closet that has the toilet paper in it.”
She starts to leave.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“She’s in day 5 of chemo. Her hair is dropping out like crazy. She wanted me to fix it. I had to tell her there’s no fixing it—it’s just a matter of shaving the patches off and making it smooth and shiny. The hall closet?”
“Yeah, with the toilet paper.”
She looks back at me. “It’s my turn to cook.”
“Right. I cooked yesterday.”
“I’ve got it today. It will just be a little late because I have to do Maggie’s hair first.”
“That’s okay.”
“Don’t worry about cooking. And get away from the fridge. I’m on it today,” she says threateningly.
“I wasn’t worried. And what are you saying about my cooking?”
“I’m not saying anything about your cooking. I don’t have a problem with your cooking skills.”
I nod at her despite her obvious insincerity. She leaves.
From the hallway, I hear, “I have a problem with your lack of chicken-thawing skills.”
16→SO IT MAKES IT SO ROTTEN DIFFICULT TO GET UP A DIFFICULT PLAN
The maps we have been collecting are taped to the wall of our meeting room. Basic highway map of Michigan, plus a collection of topographical maps of the area that we found in some old codger’s cabin.
Our food wars and Maggie’s chemotherapy and the discussions about what to watch on Netflix are all necessary distractions. That’s the stuff that keeps us sane.
Our true mission is finding out who the GAC really is. And as outnumbered and outmanned as we are, we fully intend to exact our revenge against them. That’s what drives us.
Justin comes in holding a baby monitor. I point at it quizzically. “I need to know if she wakes up,” he says. He turns to Carrie. “We need to have this talk, and I’m sorry I’ve been so busy with Maggie.”
“No apologies, please. Really.”
“Okay. Finally. Carrie, on your first day with us you mentioned a fence that the GAC is behind. Tell us about it. Tell us everything.”
“Well,” she says. “I never actually saw it. I was at the camp when our scouts came back and told us about it. Before we got attacked. It’s somewhere near Traverse City. And they said it runs along one of the roads. I don’t know how far it goes. It almost sounds like a military base or something. Soldiers along the fence, watchtowers, cameras, helicopters going in and out.”
“Sounds like a base to me,” I say.
“Yeah, but they said the fence goes for a very long way—in a straight line. And there’s a gate that one of the highways leads to. They said supply trucks were coming in. And some transports that appeared to be carrying people.”
“Reinforcements?”
“No, not soldiers. Regular people.”
“Meaning, not zombies?”
“They saw no sign of zombies up there except for a few that wandered near the fence and were shot by the guys in the watchtowers. Every time they hit one they cheered.”
Justin is frustrated. “Do you know anything else about them?”
“Not really. Nothing that you don’t know. They drive transport missions down the highways, always seeming to be bringing whatever they’ve got back to their base or whatever. And they kill everything that moves. Doesn’t matter if it’s a zombie or an old person or a child.”
“We are so incredibly outgunned against them,” I say. “What are we going to do against soldiers in a fortified position who have missiles and machine guns and helicopters?”
“We’re not going to do anything against them. Not there.” Justin stands. “We just have to catch one or two. We need to find out who they are and what they’re up to.”
“I don’t know how we’re going to do that,” I say. “We probably wouldn’t have a chance against two of them in a Humvee. I don’t see them surrendering to us.”
“Me either. That’s why we need to construct some IEDs.” Carrie and I look at each other. “Roadside bombs,” he continues. “Not so hard to put together so we can detonate them from a distance. Pick our target. Most of their vehicles are armored lightly if at all. They’re also traveling in small numbers since they have no opposition, around here anyway. We just wait for the right lost lamb to come wandering down the road alone, flip the vehicle with a little explosion. If there are any survivors, we grill them until we get some intel.”
Carrie and I look at him in astonishment. “Where did you…?” she says.
“Two years in Afghanistan, you learn a thing or two
.” He turns back to the map. “Now look, we can do our homework now, but there’s no way we can make this operational until spring. While I kind of like the idea of snatching someone in a snowstorm, the fact is we have no safe shelters between there and here, and we have absolutely no idea of their travel patterns. It’s just a little too cold to sit by the side of a road for a month hoping that someone wanders by in a Humvee.”
“And then there’s zombies,” I say.
“Yes, there are flu victims.”
“I don’t know about you guys,” says Carrie, “but I’d really just like to concentrate on killing these people.”
“You sound more like Maggie every day. Have you done a mind meld?”
“I watched them kill all my friends. That’s all it takes sometimes.”
Justin turns and looks straight at her. “You need to start getting used to the idea that any killing we do needs to be very limited and targeted. We’re not going to indiscriminately gun down men in black. Because if we’re shooting that much, bullets are going to be coming back our way. It’s a real world law of physics. And there are only three of us who are in any shape to fight right now. We cannot afford a single casualty. Not one. Or we will all end up dying.”
“Okay,” she says, a touch resentfully. She’s not okay with it. Hopefully she will be by the time the snow melts. Or we’re all going to be in trouble.
“Justin,” I say. “Do we even have the ingredients for bombs?”
“There’s a box that RIP hid out in the woods away from our living quarters. He said it was a little explosive and might come in handy on a rainy day.”
“You’re serious.”
He nods.
“Do you know how to make one of these bombs?”
“Not a clue,” he says. “Try YouTube.”
17→THIS AIN’T NO HEALTHY PLACE
“I
can give shots,” says Justin. “That shit’s not hard. All nurses are trained for that stuff. But they don’t train us for this. Taking a giant needle that’s empty and pushing it through everything to the bone. Then pushing it into the bone? And taking something out of that bone?”
“Do you want a good stiff drink before you do it?”
“I’m thinking that would be the opposite of what I need.”
“Do you want us here in the room?” Carrie asks.
Maggie’s already out cold, laying on her stomach, ready to give her marrow to science. Justin alternately holds the needle and looks at her, then puts it back on the tray and paces. He’s clearly got the jitters.
“Probably, yes, leave the room.”
We stand there looking at him.
“Goodbye,” he says emphatically.
We walk into the hallway, shutting the door softly behind us. I stroll and keep strolling, down the hallway to the end where we rarely go, past the doorway to the stairway that leads to the control room and the silo. She walks alongside me and we both sit atop the stairway.
“This is going to sound horrible,” she says.
“I’m in. Shoot.”
“This situation we are in is strangely liberating in a way that makes me sound like the worst human being on earth if I explain it.”
“Go on. I’ll be the judge. I’m good at judging. I’m very judgmental.”
“It’s just that for the last eight years or so, I’ve been the sick one. I’ve been the one the medicine’s always for. I’ve been the one my family always worries about.”
“Everything’s relative.”
“I know. I’m awful. I am not in any way glad that Maggie is dealing with leukemia. But am I horrible to admit that it feels good to be regarded as one of the healthier people here?”
“It’s kind of like you’re being judged by the company you keep.”
“I guess. I don’t know. It’s just a weird feeling. I mean, half the time I feel like one of the mole people, living underground, plotting revenge, ready to have a nervous breakdown from lack of sunlight.” She puts her hands on the step and leans back.
“But then the other half of the time I feel like, I don’t know. Maybe Wonder Woman? Is that weird?”
“Yes,” I say, looking at her carefully.
“What?” She self-consciously brushes her hair away from her face.
“Nothing. I was just looking at you. I don’t think I ever really looked at you before.”
She bites her lip, then says, “Do you like what you see?”
“It’s not about me,” I say.
Before I can explain the thought that’s only half-formed in my brain, she throws her face against mine, her lips moving and grabbing and twisting. I eventually recover from my shock and respond, grasping her while wondering if a good human being would be pushing her away instead. As I give in and start to pull her closer, she falls against me and pushes me to the floor.
When I take a breath, she says, “This isn’t going to be a thing.”
“Okay.”
And then more of that kissing.
18→BEFORE NIGHT THEY CHANGED AROUND
Ididn’t see that coming. Not at all. Not in any way. I hadn’t even thought of Carrie in that way. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I hadn’t even looked at her that way except for the 3-seconds before it happened.
When it’s over, we awkwardly put ourselves back together. She leaves first, and the stairway door gently shuts behind her.
Holy hell. I had no vision in my head of a romantic future besides my errant fantasies about a healthy Maggie.
Carrie’s older than me, smarter than me… yeah, and sicker than me. But this throws my world view into the air where it scatters in a whirlwind of scenarios I never considered. Not so much because I am overwhelmed by possibilities, but because I am overwhelmed that there are any possibilities in this world for me.
I open the door and walk down the hallway. I start to whistle for a second but then I stop; too casual. Instead, I clear my throat and throw my shoulders back before I step into Maggie’s room.
But once I am inside and see Maggie laying on her bed, sleeping in a fetal position, I feel bad. “Bad” is an intentional understatement here, because I am struggling for the words to describe this emotion. It’s as if in my brief episode with Carrie—and the moment of victorious whistling in the hallway—I descended to some previous and regrettable version of myself, a me that viewed any sex as a win.
But this wasn’t any sort of triumph. I’m not sure what it was and perhaps I am simply making too much of it to begin with. It’s not as if I have any sort of relationship with Maggie, but I have to admit that I have feelings for Maggie, who has saved me more times than I can count. While I keep telling myself that Maggie would quickly say that we have nothing going on—and that’s probably right—I can’t figure out why I feel so horribly guilty now looking at her with the scent of Carrie still in my nose.
“What’s wrong?” asks Justin. Sometimes he has ESP that’s downright creepy.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I stammer.
“Right. Nothing’s wrong. Other than whatever it is that’s written all over your face.”
He turns back to his microscope, on which he has apparently been analyzing the marrow sample. He’s also consulting pictures he pulled up from the Internet.
“How’s it going?”
“I feel like I’m back in college. I just learned to do a wedge-spread film…”
“I’m not going to ask.
“Don’t. There’s a reason I avoided classes about this stuff.”
“Have you been able to use your magic machine?” I’m referring to the thing that looks like a computer printer. He had RIP and I grab it from the oncology lab in Traverse City.
“Use the correct term, dude.”
“I don’t remember the term. It’s not really in English.”
“Dry hematology analyzer. Learn it. There’ll be a test at the end of the unit.”
“Gotcha. Is it working?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t tried it yet. I wanted to
use the microscope first to try to see it with my own eyes. I still have to learn how to use the analyzer.”
“How’s Maggie doing?”
“Unconscious.”
“Okay.” I look around the room. “Is there anything I can do to help out?”
Justin looks up at the ceiling. “Can you please go read a book? In another room.”
“Ummm.”
“Any room. Just not this room.”
“Okay,” I say. I don’t move. I want to be next to Maggie now. I want to talk things out with her. Even if I could hear her ridicule me now (Woohoo! You got lucky! What do you want, a flipping parade?”) it might help put me in my place.
Justin clears his throat.
“I’m going already,” I say, looking slowly into the hall first as if I’m afraid to run into Carrie.
19→YOU DON’T KNOW ME WITHOUT YOU HAVE READ A BOOK
Iread a lot undergound. Especially now that we have nothing but time. I’ve downloaded a lot of books from the Internet, just in case we get cut off at some point. I have also picked up a few volumes during scavenging missions. I’ve always preferred real books that I can hold. And smell.
Right now I’m reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Rereading, I should say. It’s the book equivalent of comfort food. Yet there are passages that remind me of our situation since the rest of the world ended.
When Huck and Jim travel down the Mississippi on their raft, dodging all kinds of danger, that brings to mind our own journey. And when he talks about the solitude they experience on the river at night, I think about the solitude we are facing in our bunker. Only ours is a hell of a lot less poetic.
“We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened…”
No stars undergound. Our bunker is devoid of the music of frogs and the glimmer of lonely lights along the shore. Instead, we have white halls, white walls, zero windows and the relentless pounding of bright overhead lighting. It is a sterile, empty dungeon.