by Dan O'Brien
Abe leaned forward. “To be clear, Rhys, I did not tell you to go out and sleep with strange women. I had hoped you would engage them in healthy and meaningful dialogue.”
Rhys waved dismissively. “Perhaps that was your intention, but that was not its application. Whether you wished me to engage in harmless banter or not, I found that the quickness with which I say no might be influencing positive outcomes in my life.”
“I have to interrupt for a moment here. I do not recall discussing the importance of saying yes to new experiences. What book were you listening to on the tram?”
“I do not see how that is relevant….”
Abe narrowed his gaze and smirked. “Was this another self-help book, Rhys? We had talked about the importance of introspection and journaling, not the blatant use of positive nonsense.”
Rhys scoffed. “It was not as if I was reading one of those books. It was an autobiography of a great man. I did not sleep with this woman. The whole ordeal was rather stressful.”
“Please continue.”
“I had left quite early for work because I love riding the train through the city. It provides a welcome distraction from the depressing four walls I call home. This woman asked if I was in the lifestyle. It seems that everyone is part of some kind of diversion from real life in this day and age. Not certain of what she meant, I decided to go back to her apartment. I could not have guessed what she had in mind.”
Abe chuckled and immediately wished he had not. There was something oddly amusing about a man who had been alive for many centuries experiencing something new. It was a testament to the myriad carnival that was life.
“Pardon my interruption, Rhys. Please continue.”
“I found that I had no answer to her question, so I nodded politely. She seemed excited by response, reticent as it was. We departed the train at the next stop in a neighborhood with which I was unfamiliar. As I entered her building I was struck by sense of foreboding. Had I human faculties, I imagine I would have had a panic attack. Alas, all I was capable of was a tremendous feeling of dread.”
“Why not leave immediately?”
Rhys waved a hand. “Were I to run at the first sign of panic, I would never leave the dark confines of my home. No, I needed to see where this led.”
“And where did it lead?”
“We ascended the few flights of stairs to a musty hallway rife with discarded boxes and chipped wallpaper. She turned back to me just as we approached her door. There was this wry, mischievous smile on her face.”
Rhys shifted in his seat and folded his arms closer to his body. “I could smell incense even before we entered the room. The lights were turned down low and I could hear groaning and whispered voices. Do not confuse me with a prude, good doctor. I have been a party to many orgies in my time. This was something substantially more perverse.”
Abe resisted the urge to comment on the use of good doctor once more. “What exactly happened, Rhys?”
“The lights had been turned down low and there was paraphernalia littering the walls depicting….”
“Depicting what?”
Rhys sighed. “Your usual macabre and vampire fare, though I am dismayed at the very notion. Men painted in white and the worst music to which I have ever been exposed. And I survived Disco and this Bieber craze.”
“They were roleplaying then?”
Making a few circles with hands, the vampire seemed disenchanted with the word usage. “When I imagine roleplaying, I get the image of overweight men with terrible facial hair rolling multi-sided di. Some of these goths had fang implants, ceramic molds made to look like a child of the night.”
“What about the woman who brought you there?”
“They were having some kind of orgy. There was a fair amount of pig’s blood by the smell of it. Magnificent drapes were cast across the windows, obfuscating the light. That part I found quite useful. Otherwise, it was a sordid and ridiculous moment.”
Resituating himself on the couch with only the slightest of movements, the vampire continued. “Another of the socially inept approached me and asked if I wished to join their covenant. A meat sack asking this of me would have thrown me into a rage a century early, but, alas, I found his particular brand of melancholia amusing.”
“Amusing?”
“Very much so. I asked him how long he had been a child of the night, expecting the very pinnacle of overwrought acting and facial pinching to get the right mix of anxiety and despair. He did not disappoint. His voice deepened and he looked off into the distance. Another of the painted children changed the music to something more somber. It reminded of The Cure, a band that I quite enjoyed….”
Abe waited as Rhys drifted off in thought.
“And?”
The vampire looked at him with wide eyes and a distant stare. “Just as a well of memories overwhelmed Proust at a slight smell, thoughts of the Cure and a simple musical note have filled me with a scattered kaleidoscope of the 80s. I found the style and music of that day quite droll. It reminded of the years lost to the sands of time that has no hold over me.”
Abe tapped his pen on his knee in thought. “Were the 80s a particularly difficult time for you?”
“They were not a hardship. These painted children of men reminded me of the cyclical nature of humanity, the propensity for repeating the stupidity of your past.”
Abe scribbled something onto the notepad, which drew a scowl from Rhys. “Do you feel that humans are deficient in some way? That we are constantly repeating the past?”
Rhys seemed irritated by the question, evidenced in his tone as he replied. “Do you not? I find the regularity with which people re-invent themselves and start over tremendously irritating––most of the time they do not put in the appropriate amount of time necessary, and then fail at the first sign of resistance. A culture of indifference plagues you all. Terribly irritating.”
Abe let the vampire stew in his anger for a moment, not wanting to draw out more ire with a misplaced word. Treating Rhys was unlike any other being he saw, yet in moments of pronounced emotion he was frighteningly humanlike.
“Is it that you think they don’t value their time?’
Rhys nodded imperceptibly. “I have watched centuries fade into antiquity, yet the commitment of a few weeks’ time is beyond the capacity of a greedy, petulant human. Life is a gift, but you do not treat it as such.”
Abe looked at his watch and grimaced.
The session was coming to a close and he felt like he had not accomplished nearly enough. “How about your job, Rhys? Has it gotten any better?”
“I find the hum of the computers and machinery deep in the bowels of the building relaxing indeed. It is the level of respect afforded members of the IT department of which I am not particularly fond.”
“Has someone said something to you?”
Rhys shook his hands demonstrably. “Nothing like that. It is the sneers and subtle glances in the break room. A little toad from accounting pilfered one of my blood oranges from the refrigerator despite the bold, black letters written on the bag. He denied it, but I could smell it from a mile away.”
“Interoffice theft is quite common I am afraid, Rhys. I loathe doing this, but we must stop here for today.”
Rhys stood with a smooth movement.
Abe ambled to a standing position and extended his hand, which the vampire grasped lightly. “I would like you to use the light-box that I had you purchase to see if you can bring up your tolerance to sunlight. We will have a light therapy session next and discuss the use of some SSRIs, though you know I would prefer we follow the cognitive behavioral treatment schedule as far as we can take it.”
“As you say, Abe.”
Dr. Rogers motioned for the door and Rhys was gone without a sound. Standing in his darkened office, he reached for his notebook and scribbled down the very edges of his thoughts. As he placed the book down, he prepared himself for his next client.
Hobbes Family
&n
bsp; I
Day One
T
he world had ended, or at least slowed for a spell, when the outbreak claimed the consciousness of humanity. There was a brief moment before the proverbial sky fell when many people thought the entire idea was just the shenanigans of the ne’er-do-wells who were pulling a fabulous hoax on the world. The first day brought skepticism and curiosity. Pop culture had engrained in people the fear of the unknown and a fair amount of preparation in the event of anything resembling a zombie plague.
This sense of a participatory chain of events signaling the end of Hobbes’ civilization was far more abrupt than for which many were ready. People had hoarded and stockpiled. Nary a person could be found who did not have an assault rifle or nail-bat prepped and ready for the staggering undead.
It was the deed, however, that proved far more difficult for most. Even though necrotic flesh and a certain vacancy behind the eyes announced the undead to those passable as living, it was the possibility that this momentary lapse of humanity could be overcome. This idea quickly faded as the disease spread, claiming metropolitan areas and rural areas alike.
By the end of the first week, skepticism had turned into panic. Stores were raided and cities were emptied as quickly as possible.
Roads were congested with cars fleeing to a transient safe haven just beyond the boundaries of memory and the known. The problem with being surrounded by water is that eventually you hit a coast, no matter which direction you drove. Cars were abandoned as power grids wavered and then went silent. Soon, the nights were as dark as the inside of a coffin and the days unperturbed by the sounds of the city.
Philosophers had for the majority of human civilization discussed what man would be like in this state of nature. Great minds debated the merits and pitfalls of a world unperturbed by the guiding force of norms and mores. It appeared that something drawn from nightmares and the fiendish, albeit amusing, minds of writers who envisioned a world where the rebuilding of a civilization was juxtaposed against a frightening dystopia burdened by moral ambiguity and vagary of purpose. The great apocalypse proved to be a grand thought experiment, much to the chagrin of everyone.
*
Michael had been an insurance salesman before the world took a turn for the dark and weird. His wife, Susanna, taught 3rd grade; their daughter had just turned six.
The first day had been horrendous. As a family they had sworn off guns; they had even joined in on the sobering mantra of gun regulation. It was for this reason that the home invasion in their quiet suburban neighborhood came as a shock.
The television droned on about airborne toxins, blood-borne pathogens, and other maligned medical reasons for what was simply being called an outbreak. Sirens cried in the early morning as the sun peeked above the horizon like a shy trickster. Clara, his young daughter, ran through the house with wild abandon. School had been cancelled for fear of spreading the infection.
Hollywood had prepared the masses for a sudden outbreak with scampering, roaming bands of undead. The reality had been far more frightening. Loved ones degenerated slowly, like a full-body Alzheimer’s.
Movement slowed as well as brain function.
Alertness was replaced with a complacency that went well beyond fatigue. Mouths rotted and skin congealed, before sloughing off like warmed ice on a windshield. It was on this first day, as Michael watched his daughter run about the house yelling and laughing like it was a snow day, he learned that he was not as prepared as he thought.
They did not live in a large home.
The sound of broken glass was muted by a passing siren and raised voices farther in the distance. Clara did not react and Michael approached the front window that overlooked the manicured lawn in the secluded cul-de-sac. Wide in the shoulders, he was not a muscular man. His large hands were bony and calloused––strange for a salesman. He had lost his appetite, and his love for violence, during two tours in Afghanistan.
His brown eyes watched the street carefully, not paying nearly enough attention to the sounds of his house. As he watched the neighbor across the way pull bungee cords over boxes that were haphazardly thrown together, the realization that his daughter’s voice was no longer white noise to the wordless symphony outside dawned on him.
A narrow hallway led back into the house.
His voice was strained. “Susanna? Clara?”
There was a whimper, and then murmurs.
The sound of his heart thundered in his ears as the worst possible scenarios worked their way through his head: the disgust he felt for all the pornography he watched over the years; cheating on his taxes; not doing the dishes or telling his wife he loved her enough. These were the silly things that raced through the mind in a nanosecond when the world tilted ever so slightly.
The morning sun cast shadows.
Walking past the kitchen, he looked for a weapon.
A mallet, the kind Susanna used to tenderize meat for filets, was on the counter atop a cutting board. With no knives or pointy implements of any kind––clearly the desired weapon of any child of horror and gore movies from the late 20th century––he settled on the mallet. He was holding his breath as he took the two steps into the back bedroom.
A wisp of a man held his wife by the neck.
He hid behind her small body, which provided proof that the intruder was a featherweight at best. His wife’s auburn hair was wet in places from sweat and her green eyes screamed, though her lips remained tight.
Clara was nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Clara?” Michael rasped. The intruder looked at him strangely, clearly not recognizing the name. “Where’s my daughter? What’ve you done to her?”
A frightened squeak emanated from deeper in the room, among the shadows and piled sheets that had been a cascading fort hours before. Poking his head out from around Susanna’s head, the bird-like quality of the man’s face––sharp nose, thin eyebrows, and angular jaw––were quite apparent.
The invader’s eyes were a soupy gray. Gesturing with his free hand, in which he held a box-cutter, he started to speak. “Money….”
Michael took a step forward and the man squeezed harder on his wife’s neck and shook the box cutter angrily. “Let my wife go. You can have whatever you want, just don’t hurt her.”
A surreal moment passed, in which, were it a heroic action film, Michael would have leapt across and disarmed the man with a series of well-coordinated movements. Unfortunately, his life was not directed by Michael Bay. The intruder relieved his grip, convinced that the strong hold of societal norms would enforce the unspoken agreement made under duress.
Up until the moment that Susanna ducked to the side and fell against the side table, dislodging and breaking an antique lamp, he was still convinced that he might indeed get what he wanted. As Michael moved across the room with a lumbering tackle, the lie dissolved and the state of nature was restored.
Bringing the mallet down as hard as he could, Michael felt bone give way. The intruder screeched and swung the box-cutter as they rolled to the ground. Michael could feel the skin split far too easily, but the pain faded behind a kind of primordial rage that was unquenched. Grabbing the hand that held the box cutter with his free hand, Michael struggled with the man.
Clara screamed as her father and the freak came down in one convoluted ball near her. Clara was up, a small wound along her forehead bleeding and turning strands of her hair into gnarled clumps. Susanna grabbed her daughter in her arms and ran to the edge of the room, stopping to look back. Clara pressed her face against her mother’s shoulder and sobbed as the grunts intensified.
The intruder, though smaller and frail, was possessed of a surprising strength. It was then that the thin veneer between civilization and chaos gave way. Swinging his head wildly––though if pressed he would say he was attempting to strike the man with his head in a controlled movement––Michael crashed the hard bone of his forehead against the softer tissue of the man’s face.
The resista
nce faded into a groan.
The box-cutter rolled to the ground as the intruder’s arm went limp. Michael realized he was screaming as he stumbled back onto the bed. His vision was blurry and he could make out part of the man’s face; rather, only a portion of the man’s face resembled something human.
Civilization had died, but the concert played on.
II
Day 147
A
s Michael looked out the broken window of the convenience store, he recalled the last remnants of humanity that been flushed from him like so much waste that day.
Winter had set in.
The tall blue oaks that surrounded the building on two sides were dusted with frost; the ground was an amalgam of crystal sheets broken only by brave stalks of undergrowth that dared the frigid touch of the gales.
The interior of the building would not serve as a long-term solution. However, it would be useful until the weather broke.
The trek out of the suburban areas, even ones as small as those in the Sacramento Valley, had begun in the family Subaru. Highway 99 had been so congested, so overrun with smoldering and abandoned vehicles that the Hobbes family was forced to make the remainder of the trek on foot. Winter had not been as absurd as it had been during the past month. Often the snow levels came down into the valley for a day, sprinkling unsuspecting areas with brief, beautiful moments of frozen precipitation.
This was different.
A storm had settled in the valley, trapped and angry.
When the sun managed to peek through the clouds above, there was a moment when it almost felt bearable. But the great star was soon obfuscated behind a gray wall once more, bloated and teeming with fury as a fresh zephyr of snow and blinding particulates dragged the valley.