by Jaime Munt
Maybe it didn't for other people.
Who knows what other people were told was happening. I guess the real question is when it became real for each of us.
I'm sitting at someone's kitchen table. I did some significant damage breaking in—so I can't stay long. I needed to rest and needed a chance to sort out my thoughts.
I talk to myself and Mr. Ages too much—so much that I worry. I don't know anything about psychology, but I find myself muttering about what I'm doing when I don't have any reason to talk.
When I don't talk I'm stuck in here where all this writing comes from.
I worry about when I tremble like I'm cold—and I'm not.
Blood sugar?
Are my nerves giving out? My sanity?
Am I lucid enough to know if something’s wrong? Can you worry so much about going crazy that you do?
Am I a boiler that needs to vent and won't? What do I vent? How?
Sometimes I feel like I'm going to break down. I'll think I'm fine—I'm not thinking about anything at all and then I can barely walk and then I can't breathe and I'm somewhere between sobbing and puking.
And I lose time. I lose miles. My mind leaves me on auto pilot.
Every time I regain control, Mr. Ages is standing there, against me. Worrying –I don't imagine that he worries.
And he gets sad.
He gets sleepy. He can be playful—sometimes he's so nuts it’s like a caffeine crab has clamped on his ass.
He's feeling this, just like me.
He's lost just as much as us—everything he knew. And, like me, he probably doesn't know what happened to whoever he loved.
On the bright side—I'm living it up.
Do you know how long Slim Fast stays fresh? A long time. And it doesn't need refrigeration.
There are four cases in the pantry and two bottles in the fridge. 34 bottles.
I also got a bunch of vitamins and I'm boiling water on the barbeque out front to make noodles. Macaroni and cheese if the powder packet is still good—I'm gonna eat it no matter, but I thought I checked it.
I have three more boxes of that and some oatmeal.
The couple that lived here must have planned to wait it out. They had it barricaded pretty well. There are public notice fliers for going to the nearest “Relief Station”. But I can't imagine that they'd leave this for some unknown. I wonder what happened to them. Janice and Mickey Wright. They have a lot of pictures on their walls.
They are probably in their 50's. They look like nice people. Stuffing my face with their food—I can’t help but like them. No pictures of children, but a lot of cats. I haven't seen any, but Mr. Ages will eat well on their food.
I can't stay because of what I did to the door. I'd have to seal it off to keep it closed. That's no good.
After the noodles are done I’ll do a half assed job making it secure so I don't have to worry about anything coming in while I'm eating.
I need to find a way to move all this stuff, because the water from the park is heavy enough. I don't want to leave any of this. There'll be hell to pay first.
I took a deck of cards.
I was hoping for a rifle.
I can hear Mr. Ages crunching on dry cat food. I'm writing at a kitchen table in a cute little one bedroom house. If the windows weren't boarded over—neatly, I think I should point out—this would have a very "normal" feel to it.
When the water boils I'm going to have a cup of instant coffee with sugar—I hate dried creamer.
I already went through the caffeine withdrawal—I don't know if I really need to get into that again, but I'm going to.
I'm very willfully falling off the wagon.
Tonight, I hope everyone's doing this well.
Nov 29 6:46am
Mankind can do just about anything. We could adapt if God flooded the world. We could adapt to anything God might have done to the world that 150 years ago would have devastated mankind.
Is this the length God had to go to?
Is this a way to start over for us, as a species—I am content to think that.
Then maybe I don't have a reason to worry about the people I love.
Maybe this is Armageddon.
Maybe all the pieces of shit are dead and snatched away to Hell because there's nothing to debate.
Maybe all the really good people have gone ahead because God knew they were good, without a doubt.
Maybe with everyone that's left there is some doubt about where we belong and we're being tested to see how we really rate.
I accept the challenge. I need something to work toward. There are a lot of things I felt I had to do that I'm not happy about.
I don't want to live this and then go to Hell too.
Do you believe in a higher power?
Do you believe in God?
I do.
With how fucked up things are, I wouldn't take any chances. What's the harm?
But I wonder how many people of faith or otherwise are having doubts they never had before.
I find myself thinking about God more than I have in years. I would pray when luck was walking a razor's edge and I hoped He'd tip things in my favor. Or at least without being cut too bad. I'd pray when I found myself thinking it'd been too long since I prayed.
I haven't been to church since 5th grade.
I don't feel I need to attend to be as good a Christian as anyone that does.
To me, the core of what most religions want is merely for us to not be pieces of shit. Call it playing it safe—or call it commonsense theology—or how about a little common decency.
I think gods were realized in suffering—when people needed something for hope, which is what keeps us going, isn’t it? Gods give us something to blame … Because sometimes it’s really hard to be human.
So it’s no wonder then that I've thought so much about these things now.
If God is undecided about everyone that's still alive—I've sometimes wondered if Mr. Ages is some kind of emissary or supervisor. Maybe there's a grosbeak that's following the person that shot at me and is reporting back.
If that's what's going on, then God's soul inspector just rolled over to clean himself.
I don't know if this is the first time I've seen him from this angle, but it’s clear that he's been neutered. He was cared for.
In a second here I'm going to get up to boil some more water—I'm thinking oatmeal.
There are supplies here—more than I can take. But I can't stay.
It'll be here for the next person.
Found a large rolling suitcase - will lighten my pack - all but a soda bottle's worth of water that I'm going to keep on me.
9:37 am
I slept too hard—I'm sure Mr. Ages must have barked.
We had about an inch of snow and hoarfrost this morning.
It was unmistakable—someone drove by this morning, before I woke at 5ish. 5:11.
The snow and ice melted back in a plate sized circle and left the snow around it dirty—gray and brown.
A vehicle had idled there.
I heard an engine turn over somewhere behind a neighbor's house within sight.
They're coming.
Dec 15 2:44pm
I locked Mr. Ages in the bathroom and used my claw hammer to take the boards off the bathroom window, which I found shattered on the other side.
Mr. Ages was instantly upset—I was going out that window.
I couldn't see him from the ground—where I landed hard—but I know what a dog looks like that wants out or wants something more than life itself. He was hysterical—barking and yipping, howling madly. Screaming.
I picked myself up. I heard a car door close.
Then I heard a second.
I was going deaf again—both loud and silent humming in my head—maybe buzzing—something felt not heard. But I could feel my pulse in every fiber of muscle, in every nerve. My flesh got cold, not just because it was cold—I didn't wear a coat; all my things but my tools wer
e in the bathtub.
A one armed woman, a busy body was in the backyard—it was moving too slow to worry about right then.
I peeked around the corner and then moved into the path my eyes just scanned with satisfaction. No one was there.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye—a man just came into the backyard. If it was two of them, I was fucked because they would be able to see in the snow that someone had escaped from the window.
Mr. Ages noticed the man too. I never heard him bark like that.
I thought about a game I played when I was kid—Ten Steps Around the House.
All ye, All ye outs in free!
"Hi bitch," he said to the busy body. I heard him hock a loogie. “Don’t be shy. You're not too rotten for me."
"And you're dead motherfucker,” I promised, no louder than a breath.
I heard someone at the front door, but only my soul took the time to feel relief. They were trying to break in. They wouldn't have to try hard.
They were in by the time I reached the front door.
I didn't think too much about the rest.
I rushed in behind him. He would expect the other guy—since he expected me to be in here. Me, with the dog barking, behind a locked door.
I stuck the screwdriver into his throat with my right hand and let go, because I knew he'd turn on me, no matter how surprised he was or how bad it hurt. Adrenaline considered, I wonder if it hurt at all.
It wouldn't have a chance to.
He had a handgun and I grabbed that wrist—the hammer finished him.
I retrieved my screwdriver and blood shot out across the floor at my feet. Then I noticed blood on my hands. I was hurt from crawling through the broken window. My arms were shredded.
Adrenaline considered, I didn't feel much at all.
"Hey, I think there's a Stinker in here!" the other man hollered.
He was walking around the side of the house—following my blood.
I drove the screwdriver into the dead man's ear before he came back and had only a breath or two before the second man reached me.
The tip of the rifle moved through the broken front door. I turned the hammer's claw into his mid forearm and plunged the screwdriver deep into his eye.
When he dropped, I kept my hold on the screwdriver and he slipped off it and down the four steps outside. I went down with him because the claw of the hammer was stuck in his arm.
I heard running on the frost and snow—there was a shrill cry when a woman flung herself on me.
She was skinny and seemed impossibly light, even so, the fight was pretty matched until she bit me—I screamed.
I went berserk.
The next thing I knew I was out in the backyard. I stepped over the one-armed busy body. I knew I'd killed it because I could smell the odor of death on the tools I carried.
I went to their car and through their things. They didn't have much ammo, but it was better than nothing.
I took the rifle and handgun. I checked their bodies for anything useful—I took the car keys. I broke out the house's back door. I got my things. I got my dog.
Mr. Ages didn't settle down for hours. Only when I stopped to let it digest. That was when I noticed the knife in my shoulder. I yanked it out, chucked it out, put the car in park and lifted my leaden foot off the brake.
I hugged him hard.
I wish he could have understood why I'd left him, how sorry I was that it scared him.
I don't know how long I held him—just until I noticed how much blood I was getting on him and how dizzy I felt.
I barely managed to cover the wounds before I passed out.
When I woke up, the car was out of gas.
I don't know how much blood I lost. I got sick and had many hours to contemplate if I'd be a busy body soon. The fever didn't help—my reasoning or my fear.
I ditched the car after I came around and managed to keep all my supplies.
Cars get picked over probably more than homes or stores—because there's more of them and it's safer. So I don’t like to sleep in them because I feel justified in my concern that someone may try to get in it. Then I'd be a sitting duck.
The blood loss and fever didn't give me much choice. I put down the seats in a minivan, locked up and lay down in the back.
I lost a lot of days. I'm glad my watch keeps track of dates.
I feel very weak when I think that my watch's battery dying will upset me as bad as I'm afraid it will.
Mr. Ages has messed himself in the van multiple times, but I wasn't always clear enough to let him out. Then he needed water and food—so did I.
She must have had the knife when she jumped on me.
I killed three people—easily. I was scared out of my mind, but I think it should have been hard.
The busy body in the backyard had a shirt on, hadn't she? When I stepped over her she didn't. I heard what he said. I've seen enough apocalypse movies to know...
So I’ll never be sorry about killing him.
I guess I know now what would happen if I came across other survivors.
But I don't know what to feel about it.
Dec 16 7:16am
When I was fourteen I found a dead person.
It was spring thaw and the snow receded enough that the shape of the exposed ground around him looked like a gingerbread man.
I knew who he was. I'd never met him. I couldn’t even remember his name, but I remember all the articles and the news about the missing hunter.
The blaze orange jacket was in ribbons; he'd been eaten on—a lot. The claw marks were clear. Bites that weren't successful enough to tear out chunks left clear indications of the feasting done after he was dead. I hoped.
I felt miserable for him, imagining what he went through. I never would have thought I might likely die a similar way.
Statistic keepers say… what now are a person’s odds of dying by gunshot or being eaten alive???
90% is the answer.
“Death by zombie.”
Please phrase that in the form of a question.
“I apologize, Mr. Trebek. What is the chance of death by zombie?
You are absolutely right.
The police would later say he'd probably accidently shot himself in the gut.
I will never forget any detail of that moment—standing there while the scent made an imprint on my mind. Like a sixth sense.
Since then—no meat on the bone. I stopped eating store made burritos and fast food chicken sandwiches when more than once something crunched in them and I couldn't identify it. Cartilage? Bone? Teeth?
Too close to the animal. No skin. No bone. And the only time I better see anything like bloody is in steak. I don't know why it's different. It just is.
So I just can't understand how I did that.
Will I have to do it again?
7:21pm
No more confrontations.
Run and hide will be a mantra. A way of life—literally.
I'm done with this shit.
Here’s a question I never asked myself:
Would I rather go through the apocalypse as the weak, guilt ridden person I was before
-or-
as a stranger that does whatever she has to do to live? Anything she has to do.
I don't like to take chances.
And that's always included strangers.
I need to be someone I can live with because that's the home where my thoughts live at and rest and breed.
I need to talk to God—on my knees, with my hands palm to palm, thumbs together against my chin—like I was first taught to, when I was little.
I need to get this out more than just on paper.
I'm sorry.
Dec 17 10:59am
I wish I didn't have to travel by road, but my attempts to negotiate woods and even fields have been futile with the supply wagon (suitcase) I'm pulling.
In keeping with my early New Year's Resolution, I’m learning to run and be happy about it.
/>
I improvised a leash for Mr. Ages and almost had to drag him half a mile to get away from twenty some busy bodies that were chilling out on the freeway. I didn't see them, only three on my side of the enormous accident piled across most of the four lanes.
I was glad for the suitcase's wheels, such as they are. Not exactly muddin’ tires.
I would have lost a lot if I'd had to leave it.
I wish I could leave the ice behind.
Unless I get away from the area, I know it will be with me until spring.
Dec 18 6:09am
I'm going to save one of my Chocolate Royale Slimfasts for that last meal of fruit cocktail. I really liked that.
SlimFast: Official sponsor of Survivors of the Zombie Apocalypse.
Dec 19 10:58pm
I'm in a Starcraft camper. The pickup pulling it was too open—not safe to sleep in. There wasn't a house for miles and it had been dark already for too long when I found the abandoned duo.
The camper was collapsed for travel, but it was shelter enough for us. In the cold, sleeping in cramped spaces is a delight.
Mr. Ages does break wind several times every night and is the worst thing about smaller space.
At least I can stretch out in here—I've been pretty close to a human pretzel some mornings.
I woke up to something trying the locked door. I put both hands over Mr. Ages' mug. Though he'd actually improved a lot. His growl was low and deep and I silently comforted him and prayed it wouldn't hear.
One bark and I was doomed.
I would never know if it was safe to come out.
Eventually I'd have to take the chance... I hate that.
I heard the sound of multiple pairs of footsteps.
"I got some Planters!" someone exclaimed.
I clamped my hands harder. I sucked in on a breath of surprise.
Busy bodies are too busy to talk...
"How much?" a second man answered.
"About half a cup," the first man returned. "That locked?"
"Yep."
"Probably everything's in the back of the pickup."
"It's been picked to pieces."
I hoped they wouldn't realize how recently.
I checked my watch. 9:21pm. It was dark out and I hoped I'd lucked out.
I was also praying that Mr. Ages and I had walked around enough that they wouldn't know where we ended up.