by James Dean
He looked at it, but didn't see it. His brain played from a reel of memory he'd tucked back away and hoped to have lost. A reel he wished he could burn forever. He saw run down Opels, dented Fiats, smoking men who scowled at him, and kids who wanted his Smarties. He heard a mosque's tinny speaker reading the prayers and he hoped that was what the words were that day, not a call to blow him and his friends up. Drowning it on all sides was the crushing heat and humidity of the Middle East. Something in his heard started to whine, and he felt the clanking of dirt and debris hitting the roof of his humvee. The road sped by faster and faster as he tried to escape it. Escape all of it.
His hand on the steering wheel might've been covered in a friend's blood. Adrian wasn't sure anymore.
"Brother, pull over," a calm Thomas said. Somehow the words from the man who looked and sounded like him broke the vision apart.
Adrian's hand overcorrected and yanked the steering wheel so his car jumped back into his lane, crossed through it and hopped up onto the stone curb. He smashed the white trash bags into oblivion and stomped on the brakes so hard his head snapped forward, setting off a blinding stab of pain in his neck. He overcorrected for that too and slammed his head back onto the headrest hard enough to make his spine tingle. Adrian's hands went fully numb as he hyperventilated, and dropped his phone. It landed back in the cup holder with a hollow plastic clunk.
"Sitrep," Thomas' voice said from the tiny circular depression at Adrian's side. Adrian's ears almost missed his brother's words, but somehow it didn't.
Adrian swallowed with a throat that felt covered in tacks. Minutes passed. He fought to fill his lungs with air that worked, air that fed his lungs. When he finally found focus--and air--he replied to his brother. His words were hoarse.
"I saw trash, and the guy honked. And… and I had a moment."
"What'd you see?" Thomas asked quietly.
"A patrol. I don't… I don't remember if it was real," Adrian said to the car. The man who had tailgated him drove around.
"Fucking asshole!" the man hollered out his window before driving off.
Adrian's hand reached down for an M4 that wasn't there.
"It wasn't real. A flashback. A memory that can't hurt you. You're home in town, safe and sound. Where I would be if I could. Is everyone safe? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." Adrian felt his neck where the stab was. Just right of the spine. Whiplash. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear. That hurt.
"Good. Put the car in park and breathe."
Adrian put the shifter into park and closed his eyes. Inside his chest his lungs still felt like they'd been put on a hot grill and pissed on. His head pounded, offset by the thumping heart that still wanted out. After a few seconds of thinking only of his breathing, his lungs calmed the tiniest bit, and the pounding in his head and chest receded.
"Better?" Thomas asked. Adrian noticed the background noise on the phone call had died away.
"A little. Did you move inside?" Adrian asked between deep inhalations through his nose.
"Yeah. I thought the chopper noise might've triggered you."
"It didn't help. This isn't your fault. Thank you. I'm glad you called. If you weren't here to talk to me…"
"Wish I'd thought about it. I would've called you someplace quieter."
"You couldn't have known," Adrian said, feeling his body loosen. The fingertips on his left hand had almost returned to full sensation, and he made a fist over and over, pausing to wipe the river of sweat away from his face. He looked out of the passenger side window at an old woman who stood behind her screen door. She looked at him and scoffed. Adrian waved at her.
"Still. You have these often?" The panic attacks?"
"Not anymore. When I first got back I had them a lot. Fewer and fewer as time passes. I haven't had an attack in… a year. This was really out of the blue. One of the worst I've ever had."
"Talk to the VA? They'll offer you some kind of service," Thomas suggested.
"Yeah, they'll let me wait six months then determine my PTSD isn't service-related. I don't have time to wait for that again. They can eat my ass. I'm doing fine on my own. Cassie's great and I have a few friends that are good too. Hearing you, and talking right now is helping better than anything ever has."
"Those who have been there, know. It's different."
"It is. Hey, I um… Can I let you go? I’m on a curb, and I need to get home before the cops get here. There's an old lady looking at me, and I think she's going to throw one of her cats at me if I don’t move my car."
Thomas laughed. "If we had a dollar for every time one of us boys had to leave before the cops got there…"
Adrian laughed with his brother, and the pain and tightness in his chest receded. "So true. It's no wonder mom and dad drank."
"Just you and Caleb alone was enough to ruin them both. Becca and I are the angels of the family. Look, get your shit together. I'll try calling later before you go into work. Take care of yourself."
"I will. I miss you. Love you," Adrian said.
"Love you too. Tell everyone I called and said hi, and that I love them," Thomas said.
"I will."
The call ended, and Adrian immediately dialed another number from his contacts. The phone rang multiple times, then went to voicemail. He dialed again, and let it ring until it went to voicemail a second time. He hung up, and dialed a third time. He felt his pulse tick up again.
She picked up on the third ring.
"Hey babe," Cassie asked at almost a shout. She was in the strip club and thumping electronic music blared in the background.
Better than the chopper. "Hey, I had another attack."
She didn't reply, but after a few seconds the call became quieter. "Where are you? I'll come right now."
"No, I'm okay. I was talking to Thomas when it happened. I just wanted to call and tell you. Hear your voice for a second."
"Jesus, Adrian are you okay? Was it a bad one? Where did it happen?"
"I'm fine. Not that bad," Adrian lied. "I was driving. It just… happened. I went off the road a little. At worst I might have a flat tire."
"For shit's sake. I can't leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?" Cassie said, teasing him. "You're okay, right? Can Steve come if you can't be alone? I'll call him."
"I'm sure he would. Look, I'm okay. I just… wanted to hear your voice. I love you."
"I love you too. I'll see you in the morning. Text me when you get to work and let me know you're still okay."
"I will. Have a good shift. Get lots of tits."
"You mean tips," Cassie replied.
"Don't presume to know what I meant. I love you," Adrian said.
"You really are fine. I love you. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
Adrian hung up and after setting his phone down, he looked at his hands. His long, large fingers and wide palms. He turned them over, looking at the front and back with care, examining under the nails and in the tiny folds of his skin's wrinkles. Confident the blood he had seen minutes earlier was in fact delusional, he put his car in drive, hit the directional signal, and pulled off the curb as calmly as he could.
Only a few miles to home.
Barbie
Adam Carpenter
I stood in a cemetery, and my brother stood next to me. It must have been evening, because the sun wasn’t in the sky, but it was still kind of light. It was sort of hazy, like everything was soft around the edges. But it wasn’t cold, so that was nice. It had been getting colder, so a break in the weather was appreciated. I could feel his eyes on me. As I turned to him, he spoke.
“They’re coming for you, Barbara.”
“Shut up, you cock,” I told him, laughing.
“No, seriously,” he said. “They’re coming for you.”
“Who’s coming for me?” I asked, still smiling, playing along.
“The dead are coming,” he sighed. “They already came for me. Now they’re coming for you.”
“Mark,” I sai
d, “you’re seriously starting to creep me out. Like, take you to a doctor and put you in a home, kind of creep out.”
“Listen to me, Barbie.” He knew I hated it when he called me that. “You’re asleep, and I’m already dead. I hate it that we have to have this conversation over and over. Maybe you’ll remember it this time. You’re going to wake up soon, and you need to move again. The place you’re in now--the warehouse--it won’t be safe much longer.”
He looked around.
“Shit, they found me.” He took my hand and stared into my eyes. I can remember his eyes; dark blue, with green striations. I’ve never seen anyone else with eyes like his.
“Listen, and listen good, because I don’t know if they’ll let me come back again. I hope you make it. Mom and Dad, they couldn’t move fast enough, and they didn’t listen to me either. When you wake up, you need to run. Head North…”
“Mark,” I interrupted, “you’re not making any sense.”
“Dammit, just listen!” he yelled, “You have to find Liz, and the kids. They won’t make it without you. Quick, give me your knife.”
I handed him my knife, and then wondered where it came from.
“Mark, is this a dream?” I asked.
“Finally,” he exclaimed. “She gets it! Now look.” He took the knife and pulled my left arm towards him. “Look at me!" he demanded. "You need to find them in six days if you’re going to survive. If it takes any longer, then they'll live, but you probably won’t make it. If you find them in seven days, they’ll still get through, but you will almost definitely die. If it takes more than seven days, you all die. Remember that. Seven days.”
I looked down and saw that he had carved the number seven into the outside of my forearm while he was speaking. Why didn’t I feel it?
“Now go. Find Liz, and the kids, and take them North. Just follow the sevens until you find them. Between the two of you I'm sure you’ll figure out the rest. Now go, hurry!”
He pressed the knife back into my hand, turned me around by my shoulders, and shoved me into an open grave. Right before I hit the bottom, I woke up, gasping. I looked around, and it took a moment to remember where I was. My knife was in my hand, and a number seven was carved into my left arm.
*****
DAY 1
I was in the warehouse. I’d already been there for at least a week, maybe a week and a half. I didn’t have a calendar, and it was pretty much meaningless these days anyway. It had been at least a year since That Day. The weather had gotten cold, then warm, and it was getting cold again; so yeah, at least a year, maybe 16 or 18 months. It was sometime towards the end of 2011, let's call it October.
The warehouse is on the outskirts of Proctorville, which is just across the river from West Virginia. The warehouse wasn’t much of a building, but the roof didn’t leak, all of the doors had good locks, and it was right next door to a restaurant supply warehouse. Did you know pallets burn really good? Almost no smoke.
I had a pretty good thing going; I didn’t want to leave. But I also had a number carved into my arm by a dream. So I packed up and left.
I asked myself a lot of questions those first couple of hours on the road. Was that a dream, or a vision? Was my brother dead and talking to me in my sleep? Was it just my own subconscious telling me to move on? Did I carve the number seven into my arm while sleeping? Or was that my brother?
There was one question that kept repeating over and over, echoing through every thought and emotion: Who the hell is Liz, and why is she important to Mark?
I walked out the front door and looked to my left. Six zombies stumbled towards me, like they'd been waiting there. I climbed up into the back of a pickup truck and whacked them on the head, one at a time. That's the trick: one at a time.
When I got done with that I looked around. Off to the right, there was a sign for Highway 7. Had I seen that before? Did I remember it subconsciously when I was carving it into my arm? I noticed that I was mumbling to myself, and I forced myself to stop. Keeping as quiet as possible is always a good thing on the open road.
One of the first things I learned was that you don't hunker down. Unless you have a place prepared ahead of time, do not stop moving. Clear a house, stay the night, take as much as you can carry (if there is anything worth taking), and keep moving. I had found enough starved-to-death zombies that first spring to prove my point. Always run, never hide. I’d been breaking my own rules staying at the warehouse. Dreams aside, it was time to move.
Highway 7 was the scenic route that followed the Ohio River. River on the right, forest on the left, the occasional farm, wildlife all over the place. It would have been a nice road to drive, back in the day.
I got to Crown City before I even saw a zombie. It wandered down Cemetery Road, of all places. It saw me, so I had to put it down. For one-on-one situations I prefer a roofing hammer. It’s got a spike on one end and a regular hammer on the other. Step to the side, swing at the skull, but don’t go deep. If you go too deep the hammer gets pulled out of your hand when it drops. It there’s more than one zombie, you don’t want to start dropping your weapons.
I crashed that night in a discount store. Bare walls, dust on the industrial grade tile floor. Someone had taken all of the perfume and nail polish, but they left some t-shirts, as well as some assorted garden seeds; cucumbers, tomatoes, things like that. Barter stock for the win. I found a box of tampons that got shoved under a shelf. They looked to be in good condition, so that's a double win.
When the world goes to hell you really start to appreciate all of the little luxuries, like soft toilet paper, and feminine hygiene products. I would straight up murder someone for a pint of ice cream, now more than ever. It's the creamy stuff the ladies can't wait to get in their mouth.
Anyway, I made a barricade at the door and called it a night.
*****
DAY 2
I woke up before dawn, but not by choice. Somebody pounded on the glass front of the store. I’ll give you a hint: it was zombies. Five zombies, to be precise. I went out the back and jogged around the building, through the parking lot to where a cargo van and a truck were parked close enough to make a natural hallway. Fortunately the zombies were stupid enough to come at me straight down that hall, which made for easy killing.
The second day passed pretty much the same as the first, except for one significant difference. We'll get to that.
Pro-tip: Do not drink water directly out of the Ohio River. You will die painfully. I had one of those tube shaped water filters, where you stick it into the gross water and just drink straight through it like a straw. I got it off a dead guy, so I'm not sure how much life is left in the filter. But he had two more that were still in their original plastic! (Go Me!) So I should be good for a while, I hope. I try to use them only in emergency situations, but as we get further into the end of the world, those emergency-type situations become more and more common. Bottom line, get clean water whenever you can.
I had a little zombie trouble in this nowhere town called Galipolis. Stupid name for a town, and just about everyone in that craps-burg was dead. Most were dead twice, which was good, as I only had to deal with four zombies while I jogged/ran through town. It was obvious that someone had been through, on purpose, just to thin the undead herd. Is it strange that knowing someone was nearby, intentionally keeping the zombie population down actually made me more nervous than a town full of zombies would have?
It's different for lady survivors. You get those Last-Man-On-Earth survivalist guys, and they can get together and share stories and trade furs or whatever they do, and that's fine. It isn't the same for me. For us. I mean, I hope there are women out there who are able to make it on their own. God knows nobody is stepping up to take care of us. Not as equals.
I never use guns.
I don't dislike guns, I just think that they are a liability in my situation. If I had a gun, and ran out of ammo, I'd just be left with a lump of metal to carry around, weighing me down, in the
hopes that I could find more ammo somewhere. Also, they’re loud. Guns are for people who want to stay in one place. Which brings me to that one different thing about the second day: Marshall Power Plant.
Some genius had either kept it running, or got it back up and running. I don't know what they were burning, but it was producing steam and electricity. And noise. It was producing a lot of noise. The place was THICK with zombies. I ended up going pretty far out of my way to get around them, and not just because of the zombies. There were burly men there, working the plant, walking the fence. Living, breathing men. I didn't see any women.
Maybe the women stay inside because they feel safer inside. Maybe they keep the women inside, to keep them safe. And maybe they keep the women inside, so they can't get away. Or, worst case scenario, there aren't any women. If that is the situation, then there was no way in Hell I was going to be the first living female they see in God knows how long.
I took the long way around, and I made it all the way to this wide spot in the road that looked like it was called Meigs. I couldn't find it on a map, but there was a Meigs High School, and a Meigs Motel, so I'm calling the place Meigs. There was a sign up in front of the Meigs Motel, and I don't know what it used to say, but the words left on it spelled out, "YOUR SECOND NIGHT". I took that as a sign, no pun intended.
If you're ever in Meigs, don't stay in Room 4; the bed has a shitty mattress.
*****
DAY 3
Four zombies milled around the parking lot that morning. Just standing there, staring off into space. I hate it when they do that. They look like junkies--strung out on I don't know what--looking at some psychedelic unicorns that only they can see. But there wasn't a back door to this place, so I went out the front as fast as I could. When you’re out in the open the trick is to get them spaced out so you can take them on one at a time. I just jogged for a while, and they naturally spaced themselves out based on height. Zombies with longer legs move faster. Go figure.