Since the cost of the house itself was minimal, I was able to put the majority of money into repairs and decorating. The frame is solid and that’s one of the most important things. There were some plumbing and electrical issues that had to be ironed out and most of the drywall and flooring were replaced, but once the house got cleaned up, it’s surprising how wonderful it looks.
The workers switched out the thin wooden doors leading outside and the basement entrance with decorative steel doors with supporting frames, then added additional sturdy locks. This included two bars that fit into the floor and ceiling on each one to provide tamper proof safety. My parents insisted on this since this is the first time I would be living alone. Even if an intruder managed to remove the hinges and frame, they still wouldn’t be able to get the door to budge. My parents were right. There’s no such thing as being too careful, especially as a woman living alone in the country.
The few small windows that line the top of the rooms in the basement apartment have iron bars attached from the outside that can’t be opened without a key and there’s an extra layer of protection in steel shutters that lock in place to cover the entire opening. After moving into the house and spending my first there listening to the sounds outside and feeling lonely, I realize that these precautions are worth the money.
It doesn’t make sense to save a few bucks on repairs if aren’t alive to spend it. Some of my friends think I went overboard and joke that I’ve essentially created a jail to live in, but that’s not how I feel. These safeguards keep unwanted visitors out, but they don’t keep me inside. When I’m home on a nice warm day, I open the windows to circulate fresh air throughout the house. I love sunshine and the smell of the outdoors. Everything gets locked tight at night, though.
My parents are very conscious of what is occurring in the world around them. I think that has a lot to do with my Dad’s business. He works closely with the federal intelligence community and provides security consulting or whatever else his clients need, so he always knows what’s going on around the world before we hear about it on the news. He can’t tell us everything, of course, but it’s not too difficult to figure out from the bits and pieces of phone conversations I’ve eavesdropped on that it’s some really heavy stuff.
I’m not one of those people who goes through medicine cabinets when they visit, but my dad actually challenges me to do the investigating and then tests me later to see what I figured out from what I heard. I’m the son he never had and that’s resulted in my being trained to follow in his very large footsteps.
I definitely didn’t grow up in a normal family. I wasn’t allowed to drive a car until learning how to change the tires and oil by myself. Seriously. How many girls have to do that? By the time I passed the bar exam and moved into my own place, I could already do most minor repairs to my house and car.
While my high school friends were out dating and going to parties, I stayed home studying or working after school and saved money for college. While in college, I took as many hours as the advisor would allow and graduated faster than normal with a GPA high enough to place me in the honor society. Even before putting on the cap and gown for the graduation ceremony, I’d already been hired by a reputable law firm where I still work.
I enjoy the tranquility of being alone most of the time, but I still like to have visitors over once in a while for dinner or the occasional party. I also have a very warped sense of humor. In my opinion, if you don’t laugh at all the craziness in the world, you’ll eventually go insane.
That’s why lawyers, psychologists and cops commit suicide more often than the guy working at Joe’s Burger Shak. They forget how to laugh. They deal with peoples’ lives on a daily basis and it’s stressful. People in these professions can’t ever make a mistake and if they do, the repercussions can stay with them forever.
My younger sister is nothing like me. You know the type. She’s a high maintenance blonde with bleached teeth and a fake tan who always wears the newest style clothing and is always up to date on who is going out with who in Hollywood.
The last time that I visited the family, I decided to have a talk with her about her future since it was obvious that my parents weren’t getting through. Yeah, I know it wasn’t my place, but what are big sisters for if not to nag and drive their siblings nuts?
I sat next to Ashley on the pink ruffled bedspread in her bedroom that’s decorated with Eifel Towers and French poodles and we chatted about nothing important. Ashley was painting her toenails which bores me to death, but I suffered through it while listening to all the gossip about the infamous couple, Darius and Jasmine even though it really made me want to puke.
Who really cares how big her butt is in a bikini or the nude photos taken of her the year before? The woman is spoiled by money and doesn’t have a clue how normal people live. Her so-called “better half” is a confrontational narcissist who could really use some anger management. I could care less about the two of them.
The most horrific thing that could come out of this apocalypse would be for someone like them to have survived in their mansion while a working man or woman died because they didn’t have enough money to fortify the their home with windows that don’t even keep out the cold and paper thin walls.
“So, Ash, you know that I love you. Right?” I asked as she frowned and rolled her hazel eyes skyward.
“I don’t wanna be nagged, Sidney. You’re not my mother.” She whined in a huff.
“I’m not here to nag you, Ash. I’m just wondering if you’ve decided about college or if you’d like me to help you find a good job.” I urged as tactfully as possible as I traced the pattern on the bedspread with my fingers. “You can’t expect to live with Mom and Dad forever.”
She huffed. “I already know what I’m doing. I’m going to marry a rich guy,” she stated emphatically without missing a beat.
At first I thought she was joking, but the disturbing thing is that she was serious. I know from experience that arguing with my baby sister is a waste of time and leads to pouting and sulking, but I couldn’t help asking. “And what if you don’t find one or he has you sign a prenup then divorces you after you are older and aren’t as pretty anymore? What if you’re left with nothing and you don’t have a degree or job skills? How will you support yourself?” I arched my eyebrow and looked at her questioningly.
She shrugged, crossed her arms and fixed me with an irritated stare.
I threw a decorative pillow at her head to break the tension and jumped up from the bed to leave. “Okay, okay. I’m going. If you want to talk about it, though, you know I’m there for you. You’re my favorite sister. I just worry about you.”
“I’m your only sister, dufus.” She retorted while trying to hide the smiling curve of her lips. We can never stay upset with each other for long.
I know from experience that the world isn’t an easy place to live and Ashley will find out the hard way that other people in the world won’t pamper her. I almost feel sorry for the girl because that’s a very hard lesson to learn. I love my sister, but sometimes she frustrates the hell out of me. I just don’t understand her attitude and to be honest, I find it selfish that she thinks that other people should be expected to take care of her just because she’s pretty and doesn’t want to work.
It’s not like Ashley’s a bad person, though. The girl has a heart of gold and will give the shirt off her back if someone needed it. She loves animals and is the first person people call when they need someone to lean on. It’s just frustrating that she’s still living in this dream world where women stay home, men support them, and they live happily ever after like in the fairy tales.
Ashley is the pretty one of the family and inherited my mother’s looks. Mom has golden hair with clear blue eyes that sparkle and usually dresses with a style and class that I can never seem to mimic. On the other hand, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her wearing a pair of oil soaked overalls and lying underneath the car installing a part or in a t-shirt and b
lue jeans covered in dirt and sweat sawing a piece of wood to build a piece of furniture she designed for the house. It’s just the way that things are done at our home. Ashley is obviously the exception to the rule.
When my parents go out, Mom transforms into a knockout beauty and men of all ages turn their heads when she walks by. Dad has always said that he’s the luckiest man alive. Mom just agrees with him, kisses his cheek, then wipes the lipstick stain away. They are deeply in love and not afraid to let the world know.
Mom and Dad raised me to be independent enough to live a successful life and find a soulmate who will love and appreciate me for my other qualities, not as an unpaid cook, maid and breeding machine that a lot of women seem to end up becoming. At first I didn’t understand what their reasoning was in raising me the way they did, but as I matured and had encounters with a few Neanderthals, their reasoning made plenty of sense.
Don’t get me wrong. I love men, especially those who are in the military, but some of the guys I’ve dated act like they seriously believe the woman’s place is in the home barefoot and pregnant with her mouth shut. If a woman wants to stay home and pop out babies, then that should be her choice, not something that’s expected and if she chooses to have a career, then why do families and friends pressure her to marry?
I refuse to settle down until I meet a man who is confident enough to accept me the way I am without trying to change me. My long auburn hair and curves must be giving them the wrong impression if they think that I’m going to become a trophy wife who grovels at their feet and agrees with everything they say. Not gonna happen.
Interestingly, I usually enjoy being around men more so than women. When ladies start discussing the latest fashion trends, who’s cheating on who or how much weight someone has gained since their pregnancy, my eyes will literally glaze over. These things seem like a waste of breath to me. Ashley says that I think like a man. That’s because I’d rather talk about restoring a muscle car, target shooting, or what’s happening on the political scene than the plethora of subjects that women seem engrossed with.
I’m also not into drama queens or “mushy” stuff. I don’t want to talk about my feelings, thank you anyway. So far, I’ve been lucky in finding both male and female friends who are just as abnormal as me. They also have a jaded sense of humor, which helps. If someone falls for the “pull my finger” gag, you just can’t help but laugh. It may be in bad taste, but that doesn’t mean it’s not funny.
I dropped the final load of supplies onto the floor, released Coco from her carrier and lifted her chubby body onto the sofa next to me. She’s large for a Chihuahua not only in size, but also in girth. Because she has horrible allergies and the only treatment we’ve found that works is prednisone, she has an eating disorder. She’s on a special diet of salmon and sweet potatoes for allergies, but so far it hasn’t worked and it’s expensive to buy, but she’s worth it. The veterinarian and I have gotten to know each other pretty well because of the amount of time we spend at her office and the fact that the doctor is also a fan of zombie books. I wonder how she’s doing right now.
Coco can jump onto the sofa by herself, but conveniently forgets how to if someone’s willing to do the work for her. We cuddled together with her head resting on my lap while I turned on the television set mounted along the wall. Even though the basement is essentially soundproof, I was still careful to keep the volume just low enough to hear in case there was someone outside listening. Every few moments, I redialed the cell phones of my family and their home phone. Nothing went through, so after a few hours of repeating the procedure with no results, I finally gave up trying.
The news on television was similar to what it was when this thing began except that things have become much worse. According to the anchorman that I’m watching now, violence has erupted in almost every city in the country, including Washington D.C. The President, Vice President and Joint Chiefs are on their way to separate secluded bunkers with command centers in place in order to keep a working government in place.
Every news station is covering the events from tonight. There are reports of people being murdered from New York City all the way across the globe. Even scientists seem baffled as to how the plague is spreading so rapidly.
My hope of having a quick end to this madness has been dashed.
As always happens during a situation like this, people have already started looting, breaking into homes and price gouging. Sounds of gunfire and explosions were captured on more than one camera. One thing is certain. The country went to hell tonight and no one in the government or on television really knows why or how to fix it. The fact that our government leaders chose to run away to stay in bunkers doesn’t instill confidence either. Do they know something we don’t?
You’d think that I would have already accepted all the changes occurring around me, but I was still having a difficult time. I leaned back on the couch in my pajamas with my legs crossed Indian style clicking through the channels on the 50 inch flat screen TV mounted to the wall hoping for some positive news. There was none.
The TV was a gift I gave myself so that I could exercise in the basement instead of dragging my lazy butt to the gym every day. I’ve never felt comfortable moving and sweating in a room full of women that I know are criticizing my flaws while I exercise. Most of them won’t admit it, but I’ve been around females long enough to know how the game’s played. Working out in the basement also saves money on membership fees, so the television has virtually paid for itself. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I can hear the soft comforting sounds of Coco’s breathing and feel the warmth of her body snuggled next to mine. She’s making little hiccupping noises in her sleep. I hate disturbing her when she’s like this, but I’m one of those people who can’t seem to function without a solid eight hours of sleep every night and now that the adrenalin rush is beginning to ease up, I’m starting to feel drowsy.
Since I went to bed at ten last night, I still need a few more hours of rest, but with all the danger lurking outside, I don’t have the luxury of crawling back under the covers right now. The coffee maker is calling my name. Yes, I know that fear should be enough to keep me awake, but it apparently isn’t doing the job.
I tried easing up off of the sofa so as not to wake Coco, but of course it didn’t work. She’s apparently already forgotten about the now silent alarms outside and after popping up with her little tail wagging, followed me into the kitchen. That didn’t come as any surprise. One thing I know about my dog is that although she loves me better than anyone else, she loves food even more.
“You’re a pig. You know that, right?” I accused in jest as she wagged her tail and tilted her head in hopes of looking cute enough to get a treat. Yes, I know what she’s thinking.
That little fur ball is a professional con artist and when begging doesn’t work, she’ll tilt her head, wrinkle her brow and cry real tears. The girl is talented. She can even catch a piece of kibble thrown in the air without missing. If I’m cooking and drop something, she’ll have it eaten before it ever had the chance to touch the ground. That’s one of the reasons why I have the chunkiest Chihuahua around.
With Coco walking around my feet doing her best to trip me, I rinsed out the coffee pot, threw some grounds into a filter and flipped the switch before filling a cup with non-dairy creamer and sugar. As the aroma of coffee began wafting tantalizingly throughout the room, I was thankful that the basement was sealed well so that the smell won’t be noticed outside. It would be embarrassing to get attacked and eaten zombie’s because of a caffeine addiction.
Of course, I’m making the assumption that in the condition they’re in, these zombie-like creatures would even recognize the smell of coffee or realize what direction it came from. There are no neighbors living right up next to my house anyway, so I doubt that my house is surrounded by a horde. As I mentioned earlier, we’re pretty isolated out here.
No one on television has used the word “zombie�
� yet, but there’s really no other expression that adequately describes them. They’re dead humans who are attacking and attempting to eat other humans who then die and reanimate into the same lifeless creatures they are. That’s a zombie. This has to be a nightmare and I’m going to wake up soon. I’m blaming it on that damned Tufo book I was reading!
My two favorite authors are Mark Tufo and Joshua Green. I like both of these guys so much that I even friended the two men on Facebook. It was extremely interesting to find out how much their own personalities and lives resemble the characters in the books they write.
Tufo had me in stitches the other night with one of the predicaments that he just naturally seems to get himself into. Apparently, he was cooking a foreign dish and had ordered something called “volcano spice.” Now, a normal person would see the name and take that as a warning, but Tufo’s like a kid who has to stick everything in his mouth. He decided to taste it without the benefit of food to cover up the heat of the spice and later shared that the result was similar to melted lava.
You’d think that would be enough to teach him to be more careful, but later he was cooking in the kitchen again and had another experience - this time with scalding hot sugar. His wife finally had enough and in lieu of rushing him to the emergency room where they apparently know him on a first name basis, she kicked him out of the kitchen. He’s like a kid with power tools. It’s a dangerous combination.
Josh is a man deeply in love with his wife, Jess. He’s from Kentucky and is a profound thinker who has an unusual way of viewing the world and people. He looks beyond all their failings and sees the good inside. It’s a talent that I have yet to develop and probably never will. Josh is the type of person that you’d want to have as a close friend, especially in a zombie apocalypse, but also at any other time. He’s an all-around great guy.
Nuclear Undead (Book 1): Wake the Dead Page 3