Those Who Remain

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  We did survive our first zombie attack. Zack and Paul were the only casualties. Sad, true, but I have to focus on the bigger picture. Every group did their part, even if some hadn't been able to shoot well; they still served as lookouts and made Molotov cocktails. I think I can leave town without the whole place burning down to the ground. Roger can stay, just to make sure, even if I would really prefer that he come with me.

  “Danny, I'm talking to you. It's polite to respond.”

  “Sorry, Ma. I'm thinking.”

  “Yes. I gathered that. Still, if you really have to stay, then I'm going to ask you to help me with these documents. There’s a lot to be done.”

  Ma's main responsibility as a member of the town's council was to take care of the boring bureaucracy. Back when things were normal, she managed the town's finances, census data, and, of course, volunteered to supervise and check the color of picket fences, as well other petty laws the council had approved. Today, her job is no less complicated and boring. She counts our stocks of food, clothes, medicine, and other supplies vital to the town's survival. Ma is trusted, respected, and liked by everyone here, so it's no surprise she also volunteered to make sure people had what they needed—and nothing else.

  “So, if you could start separating rations to each family on this list, I would be very grateful.”

  That wakes me up. No way I'm doing that. “Can't I just watch you work and provide witty commentary about the people on the list?”

  Her stare and tightened lips are enough for me to get a clue.

  “Okay, I'm leaving. But I'm coming back for lunch. We're going to eat together, hear me?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “And… Where is your shotgun? You need to keep it with you all times and loaded, alright?”

  “You're adorable when you are scared to lose your mama. Come here, and give me a hug, honey bunny,” she says with her sugary voice and a duck face.

  I lift my arms in defeat. “Okay, okay. I'm leaving already. You can stop being creepy.”

  She laughs as I exit the classroom. Arriving at the Main Street, I stop in the middle of the pavement, giving the school a last look before moving on. It's in the middle of the town, surrounded by houses and people. She's safe in there, and I made sure the shotgun is near her before going out.

  I find Roger and the comedy double act hammering wooden fences against the grass. In a nearby backyard a pile of zombie bodies burns. The stench fills my nose with a weird barbecue smell. I don't think I should feel hungry, but I do. It's almost noon, and I skipped breakfast to catch up with Ma since she woke up before sunrise.

  Gutierrez's belly bounces around as he swings his hammer against the wooden stakes. O'Neil cleans the sweat of his face with his already stained sleeve. They look exhausted, while Roger shows no signs of fatigue, his hat shielding him from the sun with sleeves rolled up.

  “Hey, guys. How are things coming?” I ask, sitting in a swing next to the pile of burning zombies. “Did more zombies show up?”

  “A few, but things are getting quieter. Margaret killed them wandering around the southwest border, but nothing else since sunrise,” Roger says, watching my reaction at the woman’s name. I blink and stare at nothing. “Gave us time to work on fixing the fence.”

  “How about you, Terrence? Done anything useful this lovely morning? How about helping us out, huh?” O'Neil says, walking toward me and offering his tool. “I can lend you my hammer.”

  I look at it, then back at O'Neil’s crooked nose. I let out a laugh and shake my head. “No, thanks, man. But I can go and grab you lunch, how about that?”

  The cop rolls his eyes at me. “Yeah, sure. Whatever, Terrence.” He turns around, mumbling, “…Thinks he so much better than us, yeah, right. Running off to save his mama, abandoning his post…”

  “What did you say, O'Neil?” I insist, after hearing his complaint well enough. “Something about being grateful to me for warning the town, organizing everyone and actually knowing what zombies are? No problem, man.”

  Roger shakes his head at me, while I give him a shrug. Why should I do physical work when the best thing I can offer to everyone is my mind? Yeah, I know I sound like a pretentious ass, but come on. I killed a bunch of zombies last night, I deserve the rest.

  Because I'm a generous soul, I do go and bring them lunch and three cold beers. O'Neil should thank me for that too, since, without the generators I bought, only warm beer would be available to his ungrateful annoying self.

  While the magnificent duo eats, I sit close to Roger. “Long night, huh?”

  “It could’ve been worse.” He gives me a nod, tasting his beer and placing the cold can against his temple. “Although losing Zack and Paul was…”

  “Not my fault.”

  Roger gives me a raised eyebrow. Maybe I overreacted there.

  “I didn’t say it was.” He sighs, before continuing. “Danny, about what you did—”

  “We need more people. And patrols twenty-four seven,” I interrupt him. “And guns. Remember guns? The ones you said you were getting?”

  I really don’t want to hear him lecture me about the hypocrisy of expecting people to follow orders and not complain, then promptly ignoring orders. Thankfully, my pitiful attempt of changing the subject works.

  “They’ll get here. In the meantime, maybe we should focus on hand-to-hand combat and training people to handle melee weapons.”

  Did Margaret tell him about my catastrophic attempt of killing a zombie with a flashlight?

  “Don’t forget about the patrols. The factory is still there and who knows what went down in the community college.” I insist.

  “I won’t.”

  I’m about to leave, and let him continue his work, but I stop myself. There’s something I need to get off my chest. “Roger, you know why I had to leave them, right? You get why I needed to help Ma.”

  “I do, Danny. It was my fault. I should’ve put you two in the same team in the first place. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  Why does he always place blame on himself? Why does he keep acting like he’s responsible for me? We are not ten; he doesn’t need to protect me from bullies anymore. I’m not his little brother.

  “It wasn’t your fault. I made the choice, not you.”

  He avoids my eyes for a second, finishing up his beer. “But you don’t think you made a mistake,” he finally says, looking at the sky.

  Is he trying to make me feel guilty? It won’t work. “It wasn’t a mistake. Ma is family; she’s all I got.”

  “And I should’ve known that. That, in the end, the town’s not your priority. You keep wanting people to make sacrifices, but what you really want is to keep your life exactly like it always was.”

  “Look, Paul died, and yeah, that’s sad, but it’s not my fault that Nolan decided to run off. And I can’t be blamed when a zombie bites someone.”

  “And that makes you feel less guilty, right? Good for you.”

  I let out a frustrated groan at his bitter, but forced calm tone. “If you want to say I’m a useless, selfish, and annoying bastard, then say it. Don’t go pussyfooting around it!”

  As soon as the word “pussyfooting” leaves my mouth we stare at each other, corner of our lips shooting upwards. After a second or two, neither can hold the laughter in anymore.

  “You didn’t just say that,” Roger says, between a laugh. “That just didn’t come out of your mouth.”

  “Hey, I was trying to go for impact. Show you I meant business. I’m a tough guy, you know, I pick fights in bars just for fun.”

  We laugh even more after that. When our smiles die down, Roger places a hand on my shoulder. “You were right for wanting to help your mother, Danny. If I was in your place, I would’ve probably done the same.”

  I’m not quite sure he would. I sure as hell wouldn’t with a mother like his. Roger’s mom was a drunk with a foul mouth and the tendency for using corporal punishment too freely. I guess I wasn’t the only one av
oiding my life inside that shooting range. When she died of liver cancer, Roger could finally go home without enduring verbal and physical abuse. He never mentions her, and I’m happy to oblige him.

  I guess what they say about abused children is true: they can become abusers themselves or dedicate their lives to protecting others from it. I’m glad Roger turned out to be the second case.

  “But, Danny…” Here comes the lecture. “If you want people to put the town’s safety first, you need to lead by example. You need to apologize to Margaret and make amends. Also, next time stay with Mrs. Terrence but don’t stray from the mission. Okay?”

  He’s too nice and level-headed. Even I can’t resist agreeing with him. “Okay. You’re right. Big surprise. But you still need to find me those guns, don’t think I forgot.”

  He nods with a smile, and I leave.

  As promised, I go back to eat lunch with Ma. She's still locked up in the stuffy room, papers all around her. We did have some laptops working, but Ma decided it was better to go back to paper sooner rather than later.

  While we share Joe's greasy pizza—perks of being on the town's council—I tell her my idea of searching for a doctor and medical equipment. Ma's reaction surprises me.

  “I don't think you should, Danny.”

  “But, Ma… Without it, people might end up dead from stupid things, like infections, cuts, or external bleeding.”

  “Yes, that's true. But I still think it's too soon.”

  “I don't need to go personally. We can send someone else if that's what you're worried about.”

  “That's not it. I think the town is not ready.”

  “Why?”

  “People leaving means they will see the horrible things going on out there. They heard about the bombings, the quarantines zones, the dead. But seeing it? It's a very different thing. When they come back, they'll be broken. Hopeless. And everyone else will notice it. It's not the danger that keeps people here, Danny; it's hope. You gave them that, and it's too soon to destroy it.”

  She's right. I nod and place the plan in the back of my mind, to be put into action at a later date. People need hope, stability. And the best recipe for that is a nice dose of ignorance. During my teenage years, I hated the sheep, the lowest common denominator, the reality show fans and celebrity obsessed. To me, they represented everything wrong with the world, but as time passes, the more I'm sure they were the happiest people around. Ignorance is bliss for most, and I have to accept that.

  “Now you should stop avoiding the problem and apologize to Margaret.” She continues before I can’t even start arguing back. “I know why you did what you did. I understand, Danny. Truly, I do, although I don’t agree with. And while we will never know if Paul would be still alive if you stayed with the team, this doesn’t change Margaret’s feelings. So you need to apologize.”

  I sigh. Everyone’s going to be on my case until I do it, won’t they?

  Margaret’s out patrolling again, or perhaps, she never did stop in the first place. She certainly looks like someone who didn’t sleep at all.

  “Hey, Margaret…”

  I gulp at her look of sheer anger. Maybe Jacob wasn’t the scariest member of the Hunter family. “What do you want?”

  “To say I’m sorry. I’m sorry Paul’s dead.” But it’s not my fault. And I would still leave you guys again in a heartbeat to help Ma.

  “Fine. Now leave.”

  Her dismissal pisses me off. I’m trying here, but she’s not even listening. “Look, I’m really sorry, okay? But my mother needed me.”

  “I don’t care. It makes no difference, Paul’s still dead.”

  Rude. “Can’t you understand my side of things?”

  Her laugh is as cold as her eyes. “Talk to me after you had to shoot someone you love in the head.”

  The mere suggestion… The mere thought of that makes my heart beat fast. To hide my fear, I roll my eyes at her. “Well, that settles it then. We won’t have to talk at all. Because that’s not happening. Ever.”

  She clicks her tongue, shakes her head and keeps on walking. I stare at her back for a while before leaving with a shoulder shrug. Well, I tried.

  The Girl in the Supermarket IV

  November 31st, Wednesday, 3 pm

  We leave the mall and our home behind, walking by the sidewalk of the long road leading out of town. Peter’s mood improves the farther we get, but I’m the opposite. Five times I glance back at the faraway buildings with a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

  I left home for good now. I’ll never see Mom and Dad again. I’ll never know what happened to them. Am I doing the right thing? Did I give up too easily?

  “Laurie, check this out.” Peter rushes ahead in the direction of an ice cream truck. “Do you think there’s still some inside?”

  People left their cars behind, probably because the traffic blocked their escape from Whitefield. The road is filled with SUVs, small cars, vans, and even buses. Most have their doors open, keys still in the ignition. Something must’ve really scared the drivers. Something already long gone, I hope.

  I step toward the ice cream truck while Peter climbs inside to see if there’s anything left we can eat. I’m not really all that hopeful, so instead I keep watch, back against the vehicle and gun in my hands.

  To be honest, I’m scared of the gun. The thing is heavy and smells weird, but it works as a way of keeping people away, so I’m carrying it around all the time now. Peter walks around like the world became a huge Disney park, but I’m not as comfortable. Where he sees a fun quest for ice cream, I see drips of blood on the driver’s seat.

  “Jackpot!” he shouts from the back. “Found it, Laurie!”

  “Cool,” I answer, gaze moving around between the cars. “What is it?”

  He pops his head out, sticking a candy bar in front of me. I let out a gasp, he chuckles.

  “Is that…a Caramel Galaxy?” I try to snatch the chocolate bar from him, but he lifts it away. “Pete! That’s…”

  “Awesome! I know. But there’s only one. So…” He winks, getting out of the truck and landing next to me. “You need to work for it.” He pats his cheek with a finger.

  “What?” My voice comes out a little too high-pitched. I hope I sound outraged, not embarrassed. I cross my arms just to make it clear.

  Peter bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding, Laurie. Lighten up. There’s like thirty bars inside. You can have ice cream too, if you like melted yellowed goo that smells funny.”

  “No, thanks,” I say after clearing my throat. I climb inside the truck to fill my backpack with a bunch of delicious Caramel Galaxys.

  Also to hide my warm cheeks.

  Yeah, Peter is cute. I can't deny it. He's unbelievably cute, but I can't keep feeling like this every time he jokes around. I’m not at one of Jenny's sleepover parties, there's no time to gush over a boy. I take one of the bars and sit on the driver's side, legs hanging outside the van. The caramel mixed with cookie dough and chocolate melts in my mouth, tasting like the best thing I ever ate. Peter decides to jump on the hood of the car and eats his candy while watching the sky above us.

  The weather is getting chillier by the day. I'm glad we looted winter coats from the mall. Walking for hours on the road makes me sweaty, but winter is coming. And I'm not saying that because it’s that TV series’, Game of Crowns, catchphrase. Dad didn't let me see it anyway. Too violent, he said. His little girl shouldn't be exposed to that kind of stuff.

  I wonder what would he think of me now.

  “Do you think we could take one of these cars?" Peter interrupts my thoughts. “It would be so cool to travel around by car. Walking sucks.”

  “Do you know how to drive?”

  “Nope. But how hard can it be? I’m just three years away from getting a license anyway.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I do like the idea of traveling by car, staying warm and comfy inside. We could use it as a safe place to sleep during the night, without havin
g to worry about anything. Maybe it’s worth a try. “These cars are stuck here. Maybe somewhere ahead there’s others that we could drive. ”

  “Okay, so let’s get moving to find one.” He jumps off the hood, tossing the bright purple plastic wrap on the ground. I frown at his littering. End of the world or not, manners are manners. Mom would throw a fit if she saw him.

  We move between cars. I keep an eye for useful things people left behind. Inside a family RV we find a few bottles of water, a pair of gloves that fits both of us, and another flashlight. As we walk, I spot signs of whatever happened to scare everyone away: a discarded shoe, ripped clothing, drops of blood.

  Then a foot under a car. My heart beats a little faster after that, head turning around every few seconds to check if we are really alone.

  Peter seems oblivious to all of it. Or maybe he’s better at pretending than I am.

  A few hours later we understand why the cars wouldn’t move and people decided to abandon them. A huge truck fell down in the middle of the road, spilling its contents on the ground. Huge logs of wood block the way, some even have fallen on roofs of now burnt cars with smashed windows and twisted hoods. Broken glass and scorch marks are everywhere.

  “Woah…” Peter breathes out, approaching the truck.

  After a second of admiring the destruction, we step out of the road to the grass, and pass by the accident. On the other side, there are a few abandoned cars as well, but enough space for us to drive off. I point out an old model with its key still on it, but Peter makes a face and moves on. He doesn’t want any car. He wants a cool car. I just want somewhere warm to sleep in. Finally, he decides on a black SUV that smells like cigars and alcohol.

  He sits on the driver side, a smile playing on his lips. I toss our backpacks on the back of the car, then slide against the leather seats. As Peter turns the engine on, I open the radio panel and search for a station that still works. Who knows, maybe there’s someone out there broadcasting news. Nothing comes up.

  “Yeah, this is a nice ride,” Peter laughs, playing with wheel and positioning his feet on the pedals. “Now for the best road trip ever, we need music. Grab my backpack.”