Going Green

by Christina McMullen

  Back home, I tore open the plastic. Okay, that was a lie. I spent twenty minutes searching for scissors that would cut through that crap and still cut my fingers on the plastic shrapnel. Honestly, if I ever find out who makes those packages, I’m going to kick them in the nuts. I plugged the passport into my laptop and waited impatiently for the drivers to install. When it was set up, I checked the network. It was working like a dream. I logged into my account and paused. What I was about to do was wrong and I knew it. But the thought of waiting out the apocalypse with my gun nut uncle in Nebraska overrode my moral compass. But just in case, I checked my connection one last time to make sure my IP was completely untraceable. Assured that the internet police weren't going to come knocking, I opened up my Wish List and hovered the cursor over the Buy All button.

  I clicked Buy All.

  A box popped up with the total price of $5673.28. Dang, staying entertained through the apocalypse was expensive. After another thirty second moral debate, I clicked Deliver Now, and watched as the files filled the folder that I had created on the passport, crossing my fingers that the connection wouldn't crap out.

  Two hours later, and with five terabytes left, I broke the connection and deleted my account. It's not like I stole the money from anyone. All I did was take advantage of an exploit in the gift card system. Heck, all the big news sites posted the article where they 'accidentally' showed how it was done over a week ago, so they really should have fixed it by now. But then again, half their employees were probably turned into zombies by now and I'm only giving it another year before the internet is gone.

  But none of that matters now. I've got everything I need to live happily ever after. Every movie, book, game, and TV show I've ever wanted belongs to me. Not on some stupid cloud that will go away, but on three different mass storage devices. Action, adventure, mystery, horror, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, paranormal, I've collected them all. And not one stupid zombie movie, book, game, or show in the lot. Tomorrow I move into my bunker.

  * * *

  It wasn't easy getting everything out of the house without my parents catching me, but I've done it. Admittedly, it's kind of creepy now, twenty feet below the ground, in the remnants of my grandpa's old Y2K shelter, but I'm sure it will grow on me. I told my parents about this place months ago, but they rolled their eyes and made some comments about how paranoid grandpa was. Well, duh. Everyone knows Y2K didn’t start the apocalypse, but hello! WE ARE LIVING THROUGH THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE! Grandpa might have been paranoid, but he was thorough. There's a solar panel that will provide me with enough electricity to light the place, cook food, and most importantly, charge my tablets so I can live out my remaining days in a blissful la-la land where zombies don’t exist. Let the apocalypse happen. I'm so ready for it.

  * * *

  My parents showed up this morning, pounding on the door and screaming at me to get in the car. I refused. I brought them in here and showed them how safe the bunker was, and even offered to let them all stay here with me, but they said no. At least they didn’t make me go with them. I promised to call every day, but I don’t even know how much longer we’ll have cell service. It doesn’t matter. They know where I am if this all blows over. I’m not going to Nebraska.

  * * *

  I AM AN IDIOT!!!

  My chargers are missing! After months of careful planning, I've been undone by my own stupidity! I remember wrapping them each carefully and putting them in one box for safekeeping. Safe indeed! I left the box under my bed!

  All of my tablets are dead, my phone’s battery is low, and my laptop is blinking warnings at me. Even my stash of vintage e-readers will only last me another few weeks at best.

  * * *

  Everything is dead.

  No more movies.

  No more games.

  No more books.

  I’m going insane.

  * * *

  I’ve become so desperate that I pulled out grandpa’s musty old box of paper books. Guess what? Grandpa loved zombie stories!!! Nothing but stupid book after book about freaking zombies. I didn’t even know they were popular in the twentieth century! I can’t live like this. I’m going back to the house to get my chargers. There are a lot of zombies out there, but I’m going anyway. Grandpa left a small hatchet in here and I’m taking that with me for protection. If I don’t write anything again, you’ll know I’m dead. Or a zombie. Gross.

  Wish me luck.

  Missed Connection

  CHAINSAW BEAUTY IN THE TARGET PARKING LOT

  You had me at “Eat brain, feel pain!”

  You were the girl with the pink hair and a wicked steampunk sleeve tattoo mowing down zombies with a Husqvarna 55.5-cc 2-Cycle, slinging puns with wits as sharp as your blade. I was the guy with the Poulan Pro 28-cc hedge trimmers that you called “messy, but effective.” When we worked together to kill that one crazy biker zombie, I felt as if we were made for this. But you were gone before the last severed limb hit the ground. I would love to slay more of the undead with you or maybe just get coffee. If interested, please send me a message and tell me what you said after punting the biker zombie’s severed head so that I know it is you.

  Dead on the Outside

  I am writing with the hope that someone will find this, read it, and stop to consider their actions before automatically killing the next “zombie” that crosses their path. I’m sure this sounds like a strange request. Rest assured, I am not some sort of hippie activist. If you would have asked me last year if I believed that everyone, the undead included, deserved equal treatment, my answer would have been, “Absolutely not!” After all, why should mindless killing machines be spared any sympathy? And there is where I stand corrected. Not all of the monsters are mindless.

  My name is Caitlyn Rogers and I am a zombie. Five months ago, while my husband and I were making a run for supplies, we were attacked. I survived, but my husband, Thomas, did not. Looking back, I would say that he was the lucky one. His death, though tragic, was swift. I managed to escape back to our shelter, numb to everything but the emptiness I felt from losing Thomas, only to find that I had been bitten.

  The virus began to take effect almost immediately. My skin took on a greenish hue and became thick, tougher, almost like leather. My eyes, once blue, are as red as blood, yet my eyesight is sharper than ever, as is my sense of smell.

  I noticed that right off. The uninfected smell different. Better. Attractive. Delicious. I fought the urge for as long as I could. I tried to survive on our rations, but found nothing in our supply to be palatable any longer. Even the high quality aged beef that Thomas managed to liberate from the butcher’s reserve tastes rancid to me now. Can you imagine my disappointment? All my life I have wanted to experience this one gastronomical indulgence and when I finally have the chance, my body turns traitor and craves nothing less than live flesh.

  I thought I could satisfy my cravings with small animals. At first, I could. In my new state, squirrel and possum, yes, the food of hillbilly folklore, became the staples of my diet. Filling, yes, but not at all satisfying. Imagine eating ramen noodles while staring at a plate full of prime rib. Now imagine you have been staring at the prime rib and eating noodles for a week straight. At some point, the temptation is going to be impossible to resist. You are going to put aside your paper cup full of soggy noodles and try the prime rib.

  I am ashamed to say that after two weeks of surviving on rodents, I caved. I tried to be as humane as possible, but after the first bite, I was no longer in control of my actions. I’m not proud, but the young man was delicious.

  I was upset, of course, and I vowed to stick to animals after that. But one night, while I was hunting and generally minding my own business, I was shot at. I had done nothing to provoke an attack, yet still, he saw me as a threat. I was shot for no reason other than the fact that I was a zombie. Of course, I had no way to communicate that I meant no harm. The ability to speak in anything more than grunts, screams, and cries was one of the first changes
that occurred. I killed him out of self-defense and dined like a queen. After that, it became something of a dangerous game. I bothered no one, but if they attacked me first, all bets were off.

  Still, I cannot blame my attackers for seeing a monster. God knows I look like one. But inside, nothing has changed. Inside, I am still a woman. I still grieve the loss of my husband every single day. I still cling to my humanity and try to partake in activities that once gave me joy, no matter how difficult they are now. My body has changed, but my mind is still as fit as it was before being infected and my memories are as strong as ever, which makes this existence a living hell.

  I used to wonder if people in a coma felt this way. Were they aware of their surroundings? I wondered if they knew that they were helpless and it scared me. I never wanted to end up like this. It is a lonely existence. I’ve tried communicating with other infected people that I’ve come across. It’s a frustrating process that usually ends with me or the other unfortunate stalking off, completely out of patience. A couple of times I felt as though I was making progress, but the sudden presence of an uninfected human with weapons usually cut my experiments short.

  Even writing this has been a difficult chore. I know the words, I can recognize the characters on the paper, but the process of getting the thoughts from my brain to the page takes an amazing amount of effort. I look at the shaky, scrawled letters and know that this is not what my handwriting used to look like. I don’t know where the disconnect is happening. I wasn’t a scientist. I was an insurance agent.

  I don’t know what I am anymore. I only know that if this is my fate, I do not wish to exist. When this letter is finished, I will seal it in an envelope and tape it to the door of the post office in town. On the envelope, you will find the location of this shelter. There is plenty of food and clean water. My only wish is that whoever finds this takes it to heart. We are not monsters and we can exist without attacking you. Please try to see the good in others. As for me, I am putting myself at the mercy of the uninfected. I do not expect to live to see tomorrow’s sunrise and I am fine with that. I am tired. After five months of hell, I am looking forward to my final rest.

  Act III

  Extinction

  The Volunteer

  Agent Kevin Jenkins sat in his office and stared blankly out the window, barely seeing the chaos that had overtaken the parking lot below. Pilots, service crewmembers, and security agents marched behind the barricades, carrying signs and shouting anti-NASA slogans as if they were participating in a routine union strike for higher wages or better benefits. But this was no ordinary strike. This was a matter of life or death, and life, it seems, was conceding defeat.

  Eleven months, fifteen days, and ten hours. Not even a full year had passed since the day that Jenkins stepped aside and allowed the calculated destruction of Southwest Stratosphere flight 563. Within days of the reported accident, it became apparent that their attempt to prevent one catastrophe created another, bigger, and uncontrollable epidemic. Of course, the cover up didn’t help. By the time the rest of the world noticed and began closing their borders to the US residents, it was too late. The infection had already gone global.

  Eleven months, fifteen days, and ten hours was all it took to bring about the end of the world.

  * * *

  “Jenkins, are you even listening to me?”

  Jim Banks’ voice issued from the speakerphone on the desk behind Agent Jenkins. It sounded distant, crackled, and distorted, just like the recordings of the pioneer astronauts from the 1960s that still played in the now empty and abandoned museum on the first floor. Though Banks was aboard a ship, he was not yet in space. He and several other high-ranking US officials were only a few miles away at the launch site. The reason for the poor connection was simply that there was no longer anyone to maintain service on the phone towers.

  “Of course I am, Jim,” Jenkins lied. He had not been listening and to be quite frank, he did not really care what his superior officer was saying. “I apologize, but there’s quite a crowd gathering outside and I really think I should go speak to them before they do something desperate.”

  “You can deal with them later,” Banks snorted dismissively. “There are a lot of very important people on this flight and the sooner we get them off the ground, the better.”

  “I can’t argue with you on that,” Jenkins agreed with a sardonic grin that he was glad Banks could not see.

  “Well then, what are you waiting for?” From the tone of his voice, Jenkins could clearly get a mental image of what Banks probably looked like. His usually ruddy complexion was probably well on its way to an apoplectic purple.

  “Absolutely nothing,” Jenkins replied calmly as he turned to face the computer console on his desk. “Preparing for launch in five minutes. Please have the flight crew prepare for takeoff.”

  The task that Jenkins was about to perform was not an enviable one. One month prior, the United States government officially announced their strategy for dealing with the viral zombie epidemic. Seeing as the virus was resistant to all drugs and spread quickly enough to cut the world’s population down to just over ten percent in less than a year, it was decided that the best course of action would be to have the uninfected leave the planet. The idea was that the problem would ‘sort itself out’ when the infected began to attack each other. Given how quickly the virus spread, it was estimated that the earth would be zombie free in a matter of just a few short months. However, as is the case with most government calls to action, there was one minor hitch.

  Minor, that is, to those who wrote the legislation, and were guaranteed passage aboard the presidential transport, Shuttle One. However, for the vast majority of those they govern, minor was not the word to describe the issue. Despite the significant decrease in population, there were still millions estimated to be uninfected in the US alone. The near orbit resorts that would house the refugees only had room for a couple hundred thousand at most. At first, there was outrage. The masses realized that these spots would quickly be reserved for the wealthy and influential. To prevent rioting, the government announced that they would use a lottery to select the names of those who would be allowed to seek refuge in orbit. What they neglected to announce was the price to obtain a lottery ticket, which was more than twice the average household income, thus securing all available seats for the wealthy and influential.

  There were riots, of course. As soon as the shuttle corps announced they had selected the pilots and flight crews for this final mission, those who would be left behind led the nation in a violent revolt. Several of the shuttles were destroyed before the National Guard was called in, bribed with the promise that they too would be allowed passage into orbit. Of course, this was a lie, but the government continued to use the empty promise as leverage until it too ran dry.

  At mission control, there was a complete shutdown. Ground crews refused to do ship maintenance unless they were also promised a spot on the list. There was a complete walkout of all NASA security employees and the launch team managed to upload a virus that sent the mainframe into a complete meltdown.

  With the main computer broken beyond repair, it looked as if no one was getting off the planet, which caused more panic, this time, among the elite. Rather than riot, they did what came naturally when a difficult problem arose: they threw money at it. Many of the wealthiest in the nation were offering most, if not all, of their net worth to anyone who could find a way to get them off the ground. They expected the top computer programmers to be clamoring over each other for the chance of a lifetime, but oddly enough, not a single programmer wished to be the wealthiest person left to die on an apocalyptic planet.

  In the end, it was Kevin Jenkins, NASA Security Agent second class, who saved the day. Jenkins informed his superior, NASA Security Officer Jim Banks, that there was one flight override system that was not connected to the mainframe and it happened to be in his office. Banks took this information to the heads of state and used it to secure his own space on
one of the increasingly crowded escape shuttles. Jenkins had every right to be mad at his superior, but he wasn’t. In fact, he had been anticipating that Banks would do exactly what he did and even volunteered to singlehandedly navigate the shuttles into orbit from mission control. A move that would not only leave him stranded on a dying planet, but one that would also leave him stranded alongside millions of other unfortunates who saw him as a traitor.

  * * *

  “This is mission control, signing off. Enjoy your flight.”

  Kevin pressed the ‘off’ button on his headset and stood up, taking a step closer to the window so that he could look out into the parking lot below. Throngs of protestors were nearly indistinguishable from the zombie hoards as they tried to press their way into the building. He turned around and left the office, walking with a newfound spring in his step as he made his way from the lab rat-like maze of bureaucratic offices down to the lavish and expansive foyer that served as the public face of the space operation. At the top of the stairs that led down to the foyer, he stopped, opened a panel in the wall, and entered the code that overrode the locks on the outside doors. As one, the crowd surged forward. It was time for Jenkins to greet his guests.

  “Go home!” he shouted, using the acoustics of the cavernous room to be heard over the din. “You’re free! Go home and protect your families!”

  A confused silence descended upon the crowd.

  “What kind of a sick joke is that, traitor? You’re stuck here. We’re all stuck here!” a voice called out, causing a swell in the cacophonous roar once again. Kevin Jenkins held up his hand for silence.