by Michael Noe
It was an early lesson on disappointment and I have yet to forgive him. When he got his nose broken by that Nazi, it was karma kicking his ass for that damned vault. I cheered as blood poured down his ugly mug. It was a moment I’ll never forget and that feeling of being cheated never left me. Standing in that bathroom with the medicine cabinet door swinging open, I felt that same excitement I felt when Geraldo opened the vault. Of course I knew that there was a chance there were no drugs in there, but damn it this was the suburbs. There had to be something in there.
Aside from the usual bullshit, there was nothing useful in the damned thing. Just some aspirin and other daily household stuff. The disappointment I felt was depressing but this was only my first house. There were many more to hit. I was like a reverse Santa Claus. When I headed downstairs, that was when I hit pay dirt. Here was where it made it up for the lack of drugs. There were cans of Italian wedding soup and clam chowder, a jar of instant coffee and enough creamer to save me at least three trips to the store. As I threw these useful items into my bag, I felt good about the trip. It wasn’t a complete waste of time after all. They were boring people who demanded people not only noticed them but liked them. In a way, I was glad they were dead.
I cautiously headed back down the stairs, making sure I was alone. The last thing I needed was a surprise waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. The weird thing about being alone is how sound becomes different. Unless you experience it, there’s no way to describe it. You become attuned to sounds and how different they can be. Normal sounds don’t bother you but the one that doesn’t belong scares the hell out of you. I was prepared for anything as my feet hit the bottom step. The room was just as empty as it had been when I arrived. I breathed a little easier now that I was down stairs. If anything came in, I would see or hear them.
It felt like Christmas morning. When I was a kid, I would sneak downstairs just to see if Santa came. I didn’t want to wake up my parents if the tree was empty. It would be pointless. I would tiptoe down the stairs like a ninja, filled with a mixture of fear and excitement. I would wrack my brain trying to figure out if my behavior was good enough to warrant presents. I would sneak down those stairs with my butthole tightly clenched, hoping there was something under the tree. Even if it was coal, at least I would know I got something.
That’s the magic of childhood. Believing in something so absurd with conviction. I was amazed by magicians and horror movies that gave you something to fear. It wasn’t until I got a little older that I began to see magic didn’t really exist. Santa Claus was no different than Jesus Christ. I still look back on those Christmas mornings with fondness because it proved there was good in the world and that magic truly existed. Those treks down the stairs were always rewarded by a tree that was full of presents. Now, many years later, I felt like that same kid sneaking down the stairs, but this time I wasn’t trying to make sure my parents stayed asleep. I wanted to make sure I was still alone.
The house was just as silent as it had been when I arrived. I knew I didn’t belong here. I was an interloper who was just trying to survive. In just a short time, there was nothing left of the middle or upper class. We were all wiped out with one gnarled finger like words on a chalkboard. I was no better than a hobo with a bottle of hooch wrapped in a brown paper bag. All I needed was a shopping cart and I could haul my wares down Main Street. I was carrying my bag just like Santa, except I wasn’t leaving presents. I was taking them. I was the Grinch on a mission to take the joy away from the wretched Who folk.
I made my way to the kitchen and gleefully raided the cupboards. The stench of rotten meat was unbearable. I covered my nose with my t-shirt and could still smell it. I could taste it on my tongue and feel it coating my throat with its sick smell. I knew the other kitchens would have that same smell or worse. It all depended on what I encountered. There could be corpses liquefying for all I knew. It was all a mystery. Thankfully, there were no other surprises waiting for me as I rummaged through their canned goods.
This was a kitchen that had once been full of life. Now it was silent and filled with the ghosts of the past. How long would these houses remain empty? Someone would surely come around to claim it as their own. It was a tastefully decorated house that oozed money. This was probably all Mary’s idea. In our neighborhood, there were the soccer moms and the bored housewives who lived to entertain, so the kitchen as well as all the furniture had to be top of the line and comfortable. This was all about prestige and reputation. That was what made the wealthy so loathed. It didn’t matter how much money you had. What mattered was how you acted while you had it. Bill and Mary were those rich assholes who made you realize that most people with money were assholes.
Even their canned goods were top of the line bullshit which made me realize there are certain things you shouldn’t put in a can. The lobster bisque didn’t look appetizing so I left it and stole a few bottles of wine and a 12 pack of Heineken. There was no junk food at all which made me wonder if Mary had a problem with her weight. I didn’t see any diet pills upstairs, but she could have been one of those binge and purge type folks. I tried to remember the way she looked the last time I saw her and couldn’t. It was almost there, but it was like looking at a picture that was taken out of focus. Everything was all lost in a perpetual fog. Time wasn’t even a concept I could readily identify anymore.
I made my way out of Bill and Mary’s and headed toward the next house. I noticed that the grass was growing high. Soon it would resemble a jungle. The earth would reclaim the empty homes and parking lots. That was the beauty of progress. We needed more parking, we needed more shopping. The interesting thing was that no one ever gave any thought to the reality that there would one day come a time where parking wouldn’t matter. As consumers, that was the rallying cry. Consume, and obey. If you did those two things, you could be a functioning member of society.
In times of war, you would be handed a shiny gun and shipped off to a country where no one gives a shit about parking, and they only know how to obey. Hate was always universal and free. Things that mattered were no longer a concern. Universal health care no longer mattered and that new Starbucks that served you overpriced coffee was now an empty shell. All the malls and Wal-marts were now vacant. War was now all that most people knew. I’m sure at the moment I was stepping onto my neighbor’s front porch, someone was fighting against a zombie horde. They had no choice in the matter. They had to obey to survive. I was the exception. I stuck it to the man by not obeying. I chose a different route and I was living. No zombies anywhere in sight. Yay me, mother fucker!
The American message was simple. Be a good consumer. Don’t rock the boat by asking questions. Maybe if we had asked a few questions, we wouldn’t be in the situation we were in. By blindly following, we allowed this shit to happen. When we voted, we placed ourselves one step closer to Armageddon. We had always been the walking dead, but we were too stupid to see it. I wish I had listened to the hippies or the yuppies. If I had listened to preachers, maybe there was a plan in place, but I had ignored it by following the herd. Blindly following the herd, I should say. Everyone did. It was just what you do. No one was immune. You have to play the game. There are no rules of course but no one ever tells you that part.
I shook away the thoughts and looked around. I was once again alone, or so it seemed. My heart was beating a million miles a minute. I thought that getting into that first house would settle the nerves a bit but that didn’t happen. A bloody handprint contrasted with the white paint on the wooden screen door. The screen itself was shredded with bits of flesh on it. I looked down by my feet and saw a few blood splatters that had long since dried. Did I really want to go in there? There was a chance that there was something there I didn’t want to see, or not even walk away from. I was afraid and for good reason. I had no idea what existed beyond that door, but I knew that if I kept standing there, something was bound to come out after me.
I ventured in slowly and was surprised by not onl
y a well-stocked medicine cabinet but a couple baggies of pot in what I assumed was a teenager’s room. It was hidden inside a desk drawer among some cd’s and other assorted shit. I did a little dance and walked through the rest of the house. In the main bedroom, there was some jewelry, which did me no good. The best of the loot was in the bathroom. There were quite a few bottles of Xanax, and OxyContin. It was looking up to be a fun evening. There were a few bags of snacks that would mix well with the pot and pills. All I needed were a few neighbors and it would be a party.
The one thing I didn’t find were bodies. The blood wasn’t anywhere inside the house. It was only on the door and screen which was a bit confusing. There were a ton of reasons. People were trying to escape from the chaos so it made sense that they would try and make their way into any house that was available. The doors were all locked. The owners were nowhere to be found. I had the same thing happen at my front door, minus the blood. The streets were filled with people trying to escape. On this street, it wasn’t as bad but in the center of town, there was nowhere to go. No matter where you went, you were trapped.
I could dismiss the blood. I only felt a little uneasy. If there had been a slaughtered family inside, I’m sure I would have shit my pants. The last thing you want to see is a family of dead people lounging in the living room. The smell from the refrigerator was bad enough. The last thing the house needed was a rotting cadaver funk. I headed out quickly, making sure I closed the door behind me. All of the drugs and canned food were thrown over my shoulder, giving me the appearance of a robber. I felt good with my haul. It wasn’t a complete waste of time. I had what I came for anyway. The best part of all was there were no zombies greeting me outside as I made my way home.
The neighborhood was exactly as it had been when I went inside. There were no shambling corpses waiting for me as I scrambled into my warm house. I wanted to crack a window to let in a stray breeze but that was just asking for trouble. What would happen if I forgot to close them? Anyone could wander in. I didn’t need to fall asleep and wake up to someone threatening to eat my face off. I wasn’t ready to die yet. Maybe at some point, when I felt the solitude creeping in on me, but not now. I had drugs to take. This was exactly what I needed to escape for a while. I looked at my bottles and couldn’t help but grin. I wondered what the pharmacy had to offer.
I popped a Xanax and grabbed a Heineken so I could salute my neighbors properly. It was because of them that I had this bountiful drug harvest. If the pilgrims had this kind of shit, they would have been able to live harmoniously with the Indians. We wouldn’t have driven them from the land they owned. Life was good on Xanax and I knew that I would be sad when they were gone. I would at least enjoy them while I had them. I looked at the other bottles and saw nice happy labels like Percocet and Zoloft. It was as if the gates of Wonderland had opened up. Next, I would have to raid the pharmacy to what was left.
I didn’t even bother removing them from the kitchen table. I stood them up like soldiers so I could easily reach them. When I felt bummed out, I could reach for my little friends. This was exactly why we went after the pharmaceutical companies. They were drug pushers who thought that they could solve all of life’s problems by medicating it. We were all zombies before the real zombies hit. Now? I could see their point - the world needed drugs because it was such a horrible place. Now, with no one around me it was still a horrible place, but an empty one. These drugs would help me cope. It was a crutch but what else was I going to do?
As the Xanax and beer soothed me, I thought about what I needed to do next. I knew I couldn’t stay in my house forever, but the thought of venturing out and trying to find survivors still didn’t seem all that fun. I wasn’t someone that who could lead, despite my reputation in business. I was paid to be ruthless and command respect, and people respected me because I was a success. Now I was just another guy looking for a way to survive. I had no idea where the zombies were and I wasn’t in any hurry to find out. I wasn’t a follower either. In order to do that you had to lose all of your self-respect and allow yourself to be led. That wasn’t me at all, and when it came time to decide what was best for everyone, I was only looking out for myself. How would the actions of others benefit me? Odds are they wouldn’t so therefore, they could die and I would be okay with that.
That night, I went to bed more relaxed than I had ever been. It was as if I were thrust back into the womb. I felt safe and protected. For a while, nothing could touch me. I could hear my heart beat lulling me to sleep. In here there were no zombies (were there ever?). It was just me and my little warm fuzzy cocoon. The Xanax took away all the worried thoughts and allowed me to relax for the first time in weeks. I would deal with the world another time.
Chapter Five: Don’t Know What You Got Til It’s Gone
High on Xanax, I remembered a song by a hard rock band named Cinderella called Don’t Know What You Got (Til It’s Gone) and I cried like a baby. It’s true though. If you look at everything around you, imagine what it would be like if it was all gone? The song is about a failed love but I felt this weird connection to everything that had happened. You can have all the zombies munching away on your friends and family, but what happens when they all vanish? All you have left are the memories of the way things used to be.
The band was actually pretty good for starting out as a hair metal band. Night Songs was a phenomenal debut album steeped in hair metal bad assery. You listen to that album and you just know that this is a band to watch because they had something that no other hair band did. I don’t think it was originality. It was the song writing of Tom Keifer. When Long Cold Winter came out, it was like someone lit a fire under that band and they had this new bluesy edge to them that didn’t exist on their last album. This was a band that had evolved and became something other than just a hair band.
It was exactly where I was as I looked out my living room window, lamenting my situation. Tom was right. It was a fucked up way to realize it, but it was true. You have no idea how much you miss things when they’re gone. It wasn’t just the lights and the running water. I missed the feel of a woman’s skin against my hand. The feel of her breath on my neck. The loss of the internet was just the tip of the iceberg. You can live without internet. People survived without it for years. People used phone books and actually wrote letters, or picked up a phone when they wanted to talk to someone. It’s a concept that was lost on the future generation.
The weather was now the only thing I could rely on. Rain would wash away the blood and clean the maggots and flies from the bloated, decomposing bodies. I was now smell blind to the decomposition that replaced the smells of spring. I used to love this time of year. It felt as if the world was waking up from a long slumber. I missed the changing of the seasons. The joggers used to annoy me, but now I missed them and the way they looked so determined to shape and tone their bodies. All that work was only temporary. Everyone died, so all that work to stay healthy was just a waste of time. It may have made you feel invincible but it was just a short fix and proved that you couldn’t escape death.
There was always a struggle to cheat death. That was America’s pastime. No matter what anyone says, it wasn’t baseball. When you flipped on the television, it was all about losing weight, or preparing for death. You needed the right health coverage, you needed to fit into your old prom dress so you could stagger around your house in a drunken stupor, wondering what might have been if you had made better choices and didn’t settle on the man that made the most sense. The art of living became replaced with this need to succeed and show your neighbors how bad ass you were. You had to grow up and prove to everyone that you made it, but in the end, you only ended up miserable.
I was no better than anyone else. I was so focused on my career that I never got married. The last girlfriend I had annoyed me and wanted a life I couldn’t offer her. It happens to a lot of people. You have these goals that are so important that no one can change you. Most of the women I dated wanted to change me and make
me into someone I wasn’t. I could never find anyone who was happy with who I was. It was never a hard choice, so instead of allowing them to recreate me, I let them go. Now, here I sit in a hotel room, contemplating my life and all the choices I made. Those choices led me here. To this moment and the book that you’re reading.
To be honest, marriage scared me. It’s almost like death without the coffin. There’s a progression with marriage. You have the few years with your spouse and then decide that you want a family. Kids are forever. You lose bits and pieces of your life and I’m sure that most parents have regrets. How could they not? They gave up their freedom for this idea that children were the answer to a happy life. I’ve seen parents and they don’t always look so happy. They look as if they’re trapped in this horrible nightmare that never ends. I wasn’t even good with children. Some people just adapt naturally but I always froze when people handed me their babies. I had this tiny person in my arms and I wasn’t thinking about how cute it was. I was thinking; “Oh fuck, what if I drop it?”
The finality of the institution of marriage is really bullshit. It’s a piece of paper that’s legally binding and guarantees that if either of you decide to end it, the man loses half of his shit. It’s no longer your stuff, it’s hers. I wasn’t too keen on the idea that I would love a woman enough to want to stare at her for the rest of my life. I was always very indecisive and was always afraid I would wake up one morning and realize I had made a colossal mistake. The woman I swore to love and hold and give all my money was in fact the wrong woman. I should have been married to someone else all along and at this moment, she was out there doing whatever the fuck she wanted because unlike me, she played it smart and said no to the life of wedded bliss.