The Seventh Day

by Tara Brown

  My response is a gulp but my hand slips to the handle. He’s right on all accounts. I can run faster, hide easier, see better, avoid dizzy spells, and we will die without the medicine. Simple cuts and wounds could be deadly without meds. I shiver again as I open the door and step out into the frosty dawn that is approaching. The sun is rising, bringing us a whole new day of hell on earth.

  Gripping my jacket to me tightly, I cross in front of the truck as he starts the huge vehicle back up and slowly drives by me, leaving me to make the block.

  The memory of my coach teaching us to tiptoe run, landing on the soft part of the foot, fills my head. Using that technique I move silently through the empty streets. There isn’t a sound, beyond the distant hum of the engine, my heartbeat, and the creeping of the morning fog in the cool breeze.

  On the crest of the small hill I pause, listening for them.

  Nothing moves. Even the truck is gone or just silent. I slip past a couple rundown houses and a place that used to be a bakery once upon a time and tiptoe down the hill to the street where the old pharmacy is.

  There is something in the cool wind, loneliness I suppose. A solitary piece of paper blows past me, scuttling along the road and startling me. I watch it drag and flip along the lonely pavement, wondering if this is what it feels like to witness tumbleweed in an old western movie.

  I pause at the bottom of the hill. I’m at a crossroads, with the pharmacy across from me on the old frontage street that used to be busy, again once upon a time. Now this is the dingy side of town where no one really comes—except the old timers like Mr. Milson who have been using this pharmacy since Jesus was in short pants, as my dad always says.

  My eyes catch movement in the dark shadows along the sidewalk next to the pharmacy. Slowly, I step into the shadow of the old bakery and press my body to the gray siding that used to be white.

  The shadow of the person walking stays straight. It doesn't jerk or twitch. It doesn't pause, listening for me. Surprisingly, it walks casually. I narrow my gaze, attempting to see clearly but the dim morning light isn’t enough to let me see. When he comes to the corner I finally breathe, sighing.

  Mr. Milson stands at the edge of the road, looking both ways as if he’s perplexed about where I am. When I step from the shadows he smiles. He looks relieved but it doesn't last long. His chubby hand lifts, pausing me from walking forward.

  He steps back into a shadow, waiting for whatever it is to be gone. I follow his lead, not sure what he sees.

  The sound hits my senses first, making me tense everywhere.

  It gets louder as it gets closer. I recognize it as a vehicle when it’s nearly on top of us, but not a vehicle I’ve ever heard before.

  The building I’m leaning against rumbles as the vehicle draws nearer. It shakes so hard I too shudder along with it. My teeth are chattering along with the rest of me. The noise is so loud, I swear it’s a jet and not a vehicle.

  My breath is lodged in my chest, remaining the only unmoving part of me. I squeeze my eyes shut as it’s on top of us and through my lashes I see a tank. I grip tighter to the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. Through the strands of eyelashes dancing in the wind I see a herd of biters chasing a tank. I wait, as if I am hiding from the bulls in Pamplona. Bulls might have been less surprising to see than a tank.

  Mr. Milson too remains hidden as the rigid bodies of the undead chase the tank through the hollowed streets of Laurel. A sight I never imagined I would see. His head peeks from behind the shadows, nodding at me after a moment of no one passing by us, not even a straggler.

  I let the air out of my lungs and run across the road, braving the exposure of the street and not looking to see if I am in danger.

  I slam into the wall next to him, again gripping to the side of a building.

  “They’re gone.” He steps away from the shadow, leaving me there. I pry my shaking hands from the building and follow him to the front door of the old pharmacy.

  “The back door was sealed up tight.” He looks around constantly, lifting a tire iron from his side and breaking the door open with surprisingly little noise. He gives me a look, nodding at the open door once he’s got it completely open. I slink to his side as he steps into the darkness, not making a sound. I follow him, hearing only the sound of my heart beating in my ears. He closes the door when I’m inside, blocking it off with a row of carts.

  The noise echoes off the walls, reminding me that we are not alone. “Wonder who was driving the tank?”

  He nods, peering out into the streets. “I was hopeful it’s military but one tank doesn't seem right. And why lead the sick away? Why not kill them? That just seems weird.”

  My insides clench. “Maybe they have a cure.”

  His solemn face lifts to meet mine. “Maybe.” He placates me like I am a small child in need of soothing. “I’ll get the meds. You find all the food you can. Meal replacements and candy bars and energy bars. Get painkillers and muscle relaxants, and all the things you girls need for your monthly situation.” His cheeks brighten. “Get some of everything.”

  I nod, really not wanting to talk about the monthly situation. He stalks off, ending the conversation there thankfully, so I grab a cart and wheel it around. The selection in the old pharmacy isn’t great but there are more bars than I expected to find. I grab boxes of every kind of medicine. I have three carts full with everything I could find when he’s done. He waves me to the back of the store. When I get back behind the counter I see the open door to the truck. I pause, not liking the door being open. He smiles when he sees my face. “I went out already.”

  Taking his word for it, I follow him out and load the contents into the truck. Daylight is upon us. I don't like taking things from the stores in town, even if no one is here with us. I think the worst part is that it’s broad daylight and the whole place feels barren.

  I can’t help but wonder what will happen to this town if we don't walk around in it. It will surely become a ghost town. The only difference between it and real ghost towns is that the ghosts here will eat you.

  “So my house and then your house, and then we’re on our way back up the hill.” I nod at his softly spoken sentence. “We’ve been awfully lucky so far. Hope that continues.”

  I don't nod at that one. I don't want to jinx us. He shouldn't have even said the damned sentence if you ask me. No one says how lucky they've been mid-mission.

  When we start the truck I expect them to come in hordes, droves of biters but not one makes its way to us. In fact, even the streets are empty as he drives up into the suburbs on the hillside, the opposite side of town from my house. But when we get into the neighborhoods we see several of them—biters. They look cold, no frozen. They look like the cold is killing them, and even as they jerk their heads I notice it’s slower than before. It takes them longer to reanimate.

  We cruise up the small hill to the street he lives on. I remember coming once to grab their snowmobile with my dad. They had asked us to bring it up because their truck was full.

  He slows down, making it easier for me to see them—really see them. A man standing in a yard, where frost-like snow coats the grass, lifts his head. His eyes narrow as his head jerks to the right hard, three times. He swings into motion, his mouth moving and his hands grabbing, regardless of the fact we are moving too fast for him to catch us.

  “They’re getting slow from the cold. Just like I said they would.”

  I almost sigh and beg him to stop saying things that sound cocky—that's how the people who are alive in the middle of the movie always die. And we aren’t even close to the middle yet. The middle of the movie would mean we knew who the bad guy was. So far that could be anyone.

  Even our own planet. Mother Nature probably does hate us, so this entire thing might be some seriously vindictive vengeance on her part.

  But if it’s not her, there’s always science. Scientists are always making mistakes and then overconfidently assuming they can control things they can’t.

/>   And then there is the world war that never seems to end. Terrorists hate us, all of us.

  The list is essentially endless and filled with speculative assassins trying to end the world we live in.

  Glancing around the quiet suburb I have to admit they have succeeded. Doors are left open to houses with no signs of activity. Looters or biters have clearly been through the area. Vehicles are parked in bizarre places with doors open and glass smashed. Bloodstains mar siding on houses and windows. Garbage drifts across pristine grass, no doubt mowed recently in preparation for winter. My dad always loves the last mow of the year. He trims the grass only slightly, leaving it a bit longer for the winter.

  Seeing the perfect lawns makes me miss him even more.

  Mr. Milson slows the truck down considerably, letting the biter get closer. My insides twist and turn, and I refuse to look anywhere but where bloodshot eyes are.

  “Nope, definitely no one there,” he mutters, sighing in obvious disappointment.

  I trust his judgment, refusing to part my gaze from the thing that was once a man in a suit. He swings the truck around, running down the biter closest to us. The truck bounces as the huge tires find their way over the remains of the man. I gag under my breath, not wanting Mr. Milson to know I disapprove of his cavalier opinion of the biters. He ends lives too easily. I fully believe the man in the warehouse is dead on the cold concrete, where we left him to die alone in the dark. Seeing Mr. Milson this way makes me wonder what else he is cavalier about. It also makes me think we can’t stay with the Milsons. I don't even want to ride back to the mountain with him. My safety feels gone, sacrificed in the dark the way that man’s life was.

  Chapter Six

  My fear of everything returns with a vengeance when we pull into my neighborhood. Bodies lie in the way along the drive. He treats them as if they are rocks his truck can navigate easily. We each sway back and forth from driving on the bumpy road.

  Biters move slowly, frozen and weak from the three days they have spent exposed to the weather and starvation. I don't understand how they’re alive without water, unless blood counts.

  “When I pull up to your house, you jump out and I’ll circle the block, taking the followers with me.”

  I nod, not even caring anymore that he is leaving me to find my own way. The fear of the biters is real—it’s huge, but somehow it’s not the bigger threat in my life. That would be my mother awaiting me in the house, either dead or undead.

  He drives the wrong way to my house, taking the long way around. A woman in a pair of UGG boots and a sweater, I swear I own from Hollister, climbs to her knees from the crisp grass. She walks her hands back to her kneeling legs, each finger moving as if it were the leg of an insect. When we pass her, she’s getting up robotically. She joins the stragglers behind us, a small herd of them, each looking worse than the next. But the woman in the UGGs does something I don't expect. She jerks her head to the left three times and falls to the ground in a heap, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Blood trickles from her nose.

  I lose sight of her as we round the corner past Julia’s house.

  The way her chest heaved looked different from the other biters.

  “You ready?”

  I sigh my response, “I am.” I don't tell him that I’m scared to see my mom dead in the closet, starved because I locked her in there.

  He turns onto my block, the far end of the road from my house, and slows down. The herd right behind us has thinned as they’ve struggled to keep a good pace, but at the very back of the pack of biters, I can see there are far more than there were. The noise of the loud truck brings them.

  When we reach my house he slows enough for me to open the truck door and jump out, running alongside the slowly moving vehicle. He stops as I run toward the house and the next thing I hear is the truck skidding in reverse. I look back to see him aiming the massive vehicle directly at the biters. Their bodies hit but I’m focused on the garage door. My fingers shake as I press the pin pad. The door doesn't budge. Of course, the power is out. I nearly facepalm myself as I look back to see if anyone is following.

  Not one has noticed me; they’re still swarming the truck. I turn and run to the side yard, jumping onto the fence and pulling myself up to look into the backyard. I lean against the wood, ignoring the splinters in my fingers as I catch my breath and listen for anyone else who might be in my yard before I jump down.

  Slipping along the siding, I take small steps, desperately trying to hear over the sound of the truck. Beads of cool sweat gather on my forehead as I grip to the side of my house.

  When I get to the corner, to the spot that will reveal the entire backyard, I take several deep breaths before I peek around it. My legs twitch with the want to turn and run back to the fence but there’s nothing there. The yard looks the way it did days ago. Even the grass looks the same, not even a leaf is out of place. It dawns on me then that the weather has been oddly consistent—overcast and roughly the same temperature. No wind, no rain, not a lot of snow, and not much sun. So of course the grass wouldn't have changed, but wouldn't more leaves have fallen?

  Seeing the backyard makes me think of home, being home and being safe. It’s there in the view of the grass I’ve spent all of my life growing up on, I realize my father isn’t coming for us. He isn’t here. He hasn't been. He would have used a window or door back here to get inside and he hasn't. All the windows and doors are still boarded up.

  He never came. Not for us and not for her. Something must have stopped him. And that means she is either dead inside or she’s one of them.

  My insides twist into a ball as I walk across the crunchy grass to the back deck. I climb up, using the railing to get to the second story where the windows weren’t boarded. Sitting on the overhanging roof makes for a spectacular view when I look back over the town.

  Smoke billows from several locations in my neighborhood. The smoke becomes one with the low-hanging clouds, and it’s as if there is no light left in the world.

  I fear we broke it all, even the light inside of us. I don't feel any in me. I feel disparity and anguish. I feel broken and hollow, like the good stuff has fallen out and what’s left is the husk or shell. Like Mr. Milson and his inability to feel anything for the people he kills.

  It’s been three days and I’m already sick of this life.

  I want to get invited to a party, see my friends, drink a little, and feel a little bit guilty for it all. My friends were everything a few days ago and suddenly they’ve become nothing, a liability maybe even. Apart from Sasha maybe. If anyone is alive it’s her. Her dad is a savage and no one can run faster than her. I glance in the direction of her house, across several blocks, and decide I need to check and see if she’s alive. The smoke doesn't seem to be coming from that direction and adding her to my predicament would increase my odds of keeping the kids alive. Jamie, my other best friend would be a complete liability and a risk to my sister and her friends, but I can’t fight the want to glance at her house quickly and wonder if she’s alive. I doubt it—I imagine she clumsily brought this plague into our town. But I miss her in every way.

  Not that I can think on it now. I turn and stare at my own reflection in the window.

  I sigh, pushing the window to the side and listening for my mother inside of the still house. One of my legs slides in the window easily but the other leg refuses, as if half my brain is completely against the trip I’m about to take.

  I force myself into the window, still pressing my back against it though. I shudder from the cool air inside of Joey’s dank room. The pinks and purples of the room could trick you. They could lull you into a false sense of security.

  The plush carpet presses down as I take my first steps. The hallway is motionless but there are five doors from which she could jump from behind and attack me. I listen for her breath or anything that might give her away.

  The house has never been as eerie or silent as it is now. I swear I can feel her cold hands upon me wi
th every step I take.

  My bedroom door is cracked open just enough for me to see my bed. It calls to me, lying about safety and sleep and things I might never have again. Fighting every instinct inside of myself I turn for the stairs, taking them slowly and missing the ones that creak. I have snuck out a couple times so I know which ones try to sing of my escape like an alarm for my parents.

  When I reach the landing my eyes lock on the bench at the front door. The urine stain is still there, looking waxy and pale compared to the dark leather. The way Mr. Baumgartner’s eyes sought me out in the dark still makes me cringe, but I have to keep going. I pause at the end of the stairs, listening for anything. The sounds from outside mix in the house, stirring the silence so I’m not sure where all the noise comes from. Some of it could be inside.

  Forcing bravery and the end of this expedition I take a breath and lean forward. The door to the under-stairs storage is in shards with a large hole in the center. Blood has dried to the jagged edges of wood. But none of that is what catches my eyes. No, it’s the twitching fingers with the chipped red nail polish and bloody fingertips that drag my eyes to them.

  Was she wearing red polish? I don't remember.

  But it has to be her.

  The note to Dad is on the floor, torn a little and coated in old brown blood like the door. Her arms and hands are scraped raw from escaping the prison I placed her in. The way her fingers twitch brings tears to my eyes. It’s the kind of twitching you would expect in a dying person. It’s the last of the movements she will ever make. Weak and desperate jerks that are linked to the last of her nerves as they die off with her starved body.