The Diary of Jill Woodbine: A Novel of Love, Lies, and the Zombie Apocalypse

by Jay Smith

  That’s another thing I like about this room: it’s well-insulated. I can’t hear people outside and I can focus. I admit that, at first, that was a little creepy. Silence and stillness are scary things in my world. But when the kids aren’t here I can borrow the classroom library computer – another side effect of being the site’s newsletter editor – to do some research. I have about 2 Terabytes of archived books, magazines and newspapers from the past year along with a lot of podcasts, video… I want to try and piece together some of the things I wasn’t paying attention to in the world.

  In retrospect, the world went to shit a long time ago when we made political debate a competitive sport rather than a means of social discourse and progress. I’m reading online news stories run as our major cities were burning or drowning in eaters that talk about who’s to blame, what party they were from and how socialism or fascism was at the root of all this. I’m reading one Time Magazine article that profiles some of the 100,000 international peacekeepers ready to sweep in from Canada to help protect the last great western economy, spare some lives and maybe turn the war in our favor…but the Democratic President and Republican Congress couldn’t get over themselves long enough to admit they needed help.

  Rich pundits didn’t pontificate from bunkers very long. When New York City imploded in waves of violence, rioting and terror, the champions on both sides of the political shitmatch left town. Newspapers broke down and actually printed just news – where to go and what to take. Casualty reports and warnings. You could download a phone app that pointed to safe houses and relocation centers. That’s in places like New York, Philly, Los Angeles… but in suburbia and out into the rurals, life continued with the same pissing and moaning they’d been taught by the media to keep them stupid and idle. By “them” of course, I include myself. Until it was too late, I just thought this was the latest in whatever big scary thing people made up to make us vote one way or the other or buy something we really didn’t need. Like a lot of people, I didn’t really see hundreds…thousands…hundreds of thousands of deaths overseas as my problem. Once it reached America, I was sure someone else would take care of it and let me keep my head firmly wedged up Steve Job’s undead asshole.

  By the time the eaters reached Main Street, USA, Oprah, Hannity, Olbermann, Jon Stewart and the usual brand of thought-makers were no longer on the air. Except… Out west, in Wyoming, a new American government has been established. Calling itself the Western Free States, it could have been its own reality series on Fox. When the President and Vice President went into “seclusion” three months ago, the only thing keeping Congress functioning was its shared hatred of the United Nations. A group of governors, Senators and rich folks decided to arbitrarily move the nation’s capital to Yellowknife and establish quarantine. The President and his people did not respond to the threat, so the Speaker of the House Newton Santoni, a Republican from Wyoming, declared himself President pending free elections and appointed – of all people – former Alaska Governor Sarah Palin Vice President.

  Three weeks later, Santoni had a stroke. Palin became President and blew the lid off the already high stupid threshold by appointing radio host Glenn Beck as her V.P. What’s weird is that some of the President’s former cabinet members joined Santoni in his new government, despite being part of the opposite party. Meanwhile, there has been no word from the elected President, the Vice-President or half of Congress. There’s no Supreme Court or Joint Chiefs. The Navy, Air Force and other military forces are reporting to Major General Alec Hornbloom, a man who has vowed to maintain control of the military until the elected President reports in or free elections are held.

  The most powerful conventional military force exists in the Free States while Washington, DC is occupied by thousands of eaters. It doesn’t seem to matter if people out here in the east agree to follow Washington or Wyoming. The military in the Free States keeps the borders closed and the people free inside. The United Nations has some residual power outside of that area. But neither government is able to govern outside its borders, which is why there are a lot of local governments out there taking care of their own.

  So, according to this digital timeline of events and a recap of the last day of Facebook and Google, it looks like the world lost its cell phone and iPad while standing in the middle of a desert. And with the sun setting and the wolves closing in, I have to wonder if we were prepared for such a time and what will remain of us when this coming winter turns back into spring. What will come of these children when HG World begins to close in on them and they begin to dream of putting the outside back together again?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – BE THE BALL, O’NEAL. BE THE BALL.

  Had a good – if eventful - meeting with David up on the roof. I met him on the makeshift driving range with a man I remember from the bus. I almost didn't recognize O'Neal because the last time I saw him his upper body was covered in blood and meat with bone fragments lodged in his face and neck. I don't remember talking to him. I do remember a lot of screaming, though. I guess it's one of the effects of collective trauma, but when O'Neal saw me, he seemed happy to see me and even hugged me. We shared the small talk for a bit, nothing about that awful day but about the beautiful fall weather and how the leaves were beginning to change. O’Neal reminded me of my Uncle Jerome from Florida, the one who had a mental breakdown after losing his entire savings in a Ponzi scheme.

  He was the family “millionaire.” After he was released back into the wild, Uncle Jerome had an all-around softness to him, but especially in his speech, his movements, his smile. He joked that they had to cut the rage from his brain, and then he’d laugh that breathy gasp like it was the first time he ever told that joke. That was as animated as he ever got. O’Neal was like that. I don’t have a pre-eater O’Neal to compare this version to, so maybe he was always that way. Giggling. Smiling at clouds and paying attention like they were speaking to him.

  O’Neal offered me his nine-iron and a chance to whack steel and stone spheres off a tee into the mob mulling about in the parking lot. I politely declined, and he giggled. Not sure why, but it made me smile, so that was a bonus. I stepped off their little fake grass pad and claimed a paint bucket for my own bony butt and tried to pretend it wasn’t urgent for me to talk with David about Molly’s whereabouts.

  I enjoyed watching David project the path of his shot with his hands, explaining carefully how the ball would rocket out left and let the wind hook it back just so and into the face of some eater's temple. The reality of the shot would play much different. A lull in the wind meant his shot carried on its course into the trees outside the parking lot. O'Neal giggled at that, then exploded into this high-pitched, but infectious body laugh. I smiled again. David caught me and wiggled a finger at me, scolding "Nothin' outta you, Woodbine." With that he turned the green patch over to O'Neal and stepped back from the edge of the roof.

  He joined me on an upturned paint bucket and we watched O'Neal's weird, little golf dance as he lined up his shots. He giggled at the little rubber shot and then noticed us smiling over at him, which made him giggle even harder. It was a giddy little childlike laugh and I took comfort in it.

  David looked around to check who else was in earshot and then got to the reason I came up to the roof in the first place: "So. Her name is Molly. She's got a rockin' body, faded red shoulder length straight hair and either brown or hazel eyes.”

  I nodded. He had to put a twist on it. “You know if I mentioned the body and wasn’t sure about the eyes, I’d be labeled a cad.” I scowled and he let it rest. “Five-six, maybe five-eight. You don't have a last name or bed assignment, no picture. Somehow she has a key to the women's rest room. Last seen heading to a date with Jackass. Hank was involved somehow."

  That was everything I’d given him when we first spoke. I added, "she left her personal things behind in the bathroom."

  "I went by there this morning. I didn't see anything." That news got me excited. Maybe she came back. But I had to consider ot
her options, like maybe Jack found her key and had Hank take care of anything left behind. David continued, "I also talked to Hank, who denied anything about anything -- before I asked him a single question. He says he doesn't know any ‘Molly’ which makes me believe he not only does, but did something really stupid."

  O'Neal let out a sudden cheer, and then caught himself. He cupped his free hand over his mouth, but pumped his golf club over his head. His eyes sparkled and I assumed that the great golf warrior had struck down another of the walking dead. I offered a brief, sincere golf clap of approval and continued with David. "I don't suppose you know if Hank has her stuff or if he knows anything at all."

  David shook his head. “I even checked his secret stash. Strangely enough, it was completely empty.” I found myself looking at my shoes and hoping I hadn’t blushed.

  “Can you bring him in for interrogation or something? I mean it’s not like you couldn’t punish him for something.”

  David sighed and stared out into the gathering clouds to the west. "See, that's where you're making my life complicated."

  Of course, I asked him what the hell he meant by this when clearly there were bigger things to consider, not the least of which was a missing person. He acknowledged my point, but raised a hand to try and explain. "When you ask Hank about someone he's pimped for Jack or anyone else then Jack - or anyone else - gets defensive. I can't just ask Hank 'hey did you kill and eat some girl named Molly?' because if Jack did do something awful to her -- or worse IS STILL doing awful things to her -- then a whole lot of people will fall on black days. I just told Hank that you were looking for Molly because she borrowed something from you that you want back. Of course, he asked me what that was which means he either wants to account for it or he's going to try and sell something like it to you."

  "What did you tell him I borrowed?"

  "I didn't say," David replied. "Which irritated the bejeebus out of him, let me tell you."

  That was also very telling. "Did you talk to Hank before or after the rest room?" David replied that he saw Hank the night before and checked the rest room the next morning. I was about to point out that it might explain why the property was missing, but David was already ahead of me.

  "I checked the cameras in that area this morning between the time I talked to him and when I checked. He hadn't been in there. That's not to say he didn't go in before, but I took a chance that he would panic when I mentioned it. No such luck. I can go back and look at the last 48 hours, but that might get ole Jack's jowls a-tremblin'.”

  “Do you have any good news?”

  “Well, before Ruby and Regina started poking around the office, I did go back to the time you mentioned the two of you were in there. There isn’t much to go on, but I was able to point my cell phone camera at the surveillance screen. Aside from the really ugly sweater, I didn’t get a clear shot of anything.” David likely didn’t copy any files because it would leave a trail. At least he confirmed my mystery woman really exists.

  “By the way: expect to be banned from the roof and your hot newspaper gig taken away if you did something to make Jack twitchy."

  So noted. David's attention had moved from the sky back to O'Neal. His "I'm thinking" look deepened into one of concern. I realized that O'Neal had been giggling constantly through our conversation but hadn't taken a stroke since his victory cheer. He stood on the green felt with his club down and touching the surrogate gold ball. His teeth were bared and he was caught in a giggling fit that sounded like a lawn mower that sputtered, but just wouldn’t catch. I thought maybe he was waiting to get control of himself, maybe the thought of beaning that last eater was just so cathartic or slap-sticky good...maybe he hadn't laughed that hard in a long time. But that wasn't it. His body trembled and tears poured down his red cheeks.

  Meltdown: It's a moment when all the stress and anger leads to a volcanic eruption of crazy. The thing is that nobody in here knows when that will happen to them. It just does. In the first few weeks of being inside and cut off from the hell of the world, there came a point when people stopped reacting and jumping at every noise. They began to calm down. But in that calmness, they began to think the way they USED to think and all those things they shoved into a corner of their mind or under the mental rug were getting put back into place. People had time to think and wonder and worry about everything they ran from. That’s when the real problems started.

  Constables are trained to watch for the signs. Anything, no matter how tangential or trivial or stupid can trigger a meltdown, something as simple as a name overheard or an image...even smells. The body chooses to process whatever the mind is dealing with.

  Warrior-Poet Jeb explained it best in his typical scatological way. “The body shits when it needs to shit. The pain’s just the brain trying to do the same. People keep all that shit up in their heads til it just explodes.” Jebediah is a god-damned genius.

  Sometimes people fight, they wake up screaming...some steal little things from others, sometimes without realizing. Some even freeze like their operating system is caught in a loop. When it happens, things get dangerous. The wrong word, a sudden touch or movement... anything could make a bad situation worse quickly. David and I saw the same potential in O’Neal. While there were no other residents around, O'Neal had two hands on a weapon and was four steps from the edge of the roof.

  David and I quietly and carefully stood up and walked toward O’Neal. David, who has dealt with many of these episodes, started out calmly. "Hey, O'Neal. You're good, bro. How about we get you inside?" O'Neal didn't even acknowledge us. I let David take point on the approach. I'd like to say it was because he was David was a duly ordained constable, but truth told: I didn't want to get near that edge again.

  David stopped at the edge of the green carpet and put his hands down at his sides. Neutral. Measured. Calm. "Hey, O'Neal. How can I help you?" More giggling. A tiny stream of blood mixed with drool to roll down a corner of O'Neal's mouth. His eyes were wide. O'Neal was relatively small, about Molly's size and very slim. His giggling turned to a weird shrug in time with his short breaths. “O’Neal…it’s Jill. You’re safe.”

  Except he wasn’t. And you never try and tell someone on the verge of a meltdown that they are safe. As soon as I said it, I realized I’d basically tripped the wire, lit the fuse, pulled the pin…I cut the wrong fucking wire and O’Neal. Just. Exploded.

  David did not hesitate. Before O’Neal could get his club above the waistline, David swiped it from his hands. O’Neal then tried to go for my throat. His mouth opened, showing me red, bloodstained teeth. Blood and drool poured over his bottom lip and spit up from behind his teeth as he screamed. It took me by surprise and David was forced to bring the club down across O’Neal’s forearms to the sound of zipping metal and a sharp CRACK that dropped both his arms and spun O’Neal around toward David’s left fist. O’Neal howled like a wounded, angry dog when David connected with his left cheek, but he still had enough energy to throw his good arm out and catch David in the eye. Before I could do anything, David brought the nine-iron back across and connected with the side of O’Neal’s head just above the ear.

  The hit didn’t take O’Neal out entirely, but the concrete lip of the roof did when he hit the ground.

  David quickly dropped down next to O’Neal and turned him on his side. Explaining it was not something he liked doing, David opened O’Neal mouth and pried it open. The blood was from a tasty gash in his tongue. He likely bit it by accident at some point. If it was the cause of his Meltdown no one would ever be able to say.

  As Harris and another constable I hadn’t met arrived, I was asked to leave. O’Neal’s hands were bound in front of him. Doc Marley was brought up to check him over for infection – a precaution in these cases – before he was allowed back inside. Harris escorted me to the floor and advised me to say nothing unless asked about it by a Constable or Management. The look on his face suggested there might be trouble for me down the road, but he added nothing else bef
ore walking back up to the roof.

  An hour later, I was still kind of hovering around the foot of the roof access stairs, pretending to admire a mural of American landmarks all packed into a single purple mountain range. David came down with a cold pack on his left eye. There was no sign of O’Neal. When I asked, the look on his face was almost the same as the one I got from Harris. He had to leave and advised me to go do something about Red Molly. Before he rushed away, he turned back and said. “By the way… did you ever think to check the infirmary for her?”

  I said I went by first aid and asked Doc Marley if he’d seen her. He said he hadn’t.

  “No,” David corrected me. “I mean the real infirmary. The one where the real sick and injured folks go.” And without further explanation, David turned and headed for the office to report what had happened to O’Neal. I have to guess that’s where he was headed. Something like a meltdown is a big cause for concern and I wondered how much shit I was in for it.