Notes from a Necrophobe

by T. C. Armstrong

  The others are stirring now. “I remember going to the midnight premiers of movies. There was such a vibe for those shows and you felt part of one big crazy community. No matter how senseless the movie was we all laughed and cheered and screamed because we were stupid with exhaustion.” I don’t know what Kaboom is talking about, but it sounds like fun.

  Nemesis is the next to say something. “I remember my family hanging out at the beach house and how we’d bodysurf until we were too hungry to stay in the water.” Wait, Nemesis had a family? She never mentioned them before. I wonder where they are now.

  I’m done with pretending to be asleep! Besides, it’s my turn. “I remember riding my bike around the neighborhood and there were always other kids riding their bikes around and we would all join up and ride around together and Mom would call us ‘Heck’s Angels.’”

  Everyone seemed to smile at this, except Mom and Sarah. Their eyes have taken on that lost look again. The others are facing them like they’re saying, “It’s your turn.”

  Sarah says, “I remember not being cold and hungry and scared all the time.”

  “I remember loved ones,” Mom says softly.

  The smiles have disappeared. Nadia switches off the lantern and I’m glad she did ‘cause I don’t like to look at faces when they’re sad. We fall quiet again, and I actually start to drift off to sleep.

  But then a familiar sound makes my brain wake up screaming. I don’t know why this sound makes my heart beat so much faster. It’s not a loud sound like a bang. It’s a soft sound, a sound we would not have heard if we had kept on talking. I can just about make it out—it’s like a gentle hissing. I’ve heard that sound not long ago—where have I heard that before? It’s only a small noise; yet it’s enough to wake me up with the force of a body slap.

  “Doom,” Mom says, her words heavy and even, “did you and Ghost take all the cans of liquid nitrogen from the closet?”

  “Um, no, we weren’t able to carry all of them so I left a couple behind that were already used. They didn’t seem to have much in them when I shook them.”

  His words are like those falling grand pianos in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Everyone jumps to their feet as Naked starts to fluff out and growl. Mom doesn’t need to say anything to us because we’ve already started backing up towards the stairs with split kits on our backs and bags in our hands. Sarah’s holding Linus’s blanket like she’s choking it to death and she’s breathing so fast it’s the loudest sound in the room.

  Mom gives the order, “Kids, get your kits.” I shiver as I remember when she last said this, right before those jailbirds set our house on fire. And just like that time she’s trying to sound like this is no big deal and we’re going to be fine, except this time she’s not doing a very good job of it.

  Time seems to freeze as we stand there wondering what’s going on outside the theater. Mr. Cromwell has his flashlight trained on the doors, but his hand is shaking so much the light bounces and weaves around the room. I hear the click of more flashlights being turned on and soon other circles of trembling light join Mr. Cromwell’s. I don’t see the point. They’re flashlights, not x-rays; it’s not like they can show what’s happening on the other side of that door.

  The hissing stops. It’s followed by the muffled sound of breaking glass and the doors burst open, spewing bodies into the theater.

  HOUSTON

  The dead come pouring in so we charge up the stairs like rockets fuelled by panic. We break through the trap door and climb onto the roof. We collectively gasp when the cold slaps us in the face and steals our breath. The sharp air lodges in our throats, bone-bare and fang-sharp. Our bodies struggle to adjust to inhaling frozen air, making our breathing so labored it’s as if our lungs carried luggage.

  The heavy kits aren’t helping the situation much. “What have you got in here?” I shout at KC as I push her kit in front of me. “Books?”

  “Yes!” KC shouts back as I pull the last person through the door and onto the roof. It’s too dark to see at this point, but I’m guessing it’s Mr. Cromwell.

  “Are you crazy…” I start to argue, aware that anger is trying to displace fear, but my mother’s piercing voice hacks into my thoughts. “Get the cover over that door! All of you! NOW!”

  It feels like it’s taking ten years too long to do it, but we manage to push the weighty MDF particle board pool cover inch by inch over the trap door in the roof and throw our weight on top of it. My mind races back to my high school physics class and imagine our situation as a word problem: “If twenty zombies try to push their way up through a three by three foot opening, can they do so with enough force to displace a larger heavier cover held down by the weight of eleven half-starved survivors?” Part of me says we should be fine, the other part is stuck in panic-mode because I can feel the dead thumping and shoving away at the pool cover. Each time they push it, it shakes with their effort and my heart skips another beat. With every knock on wood my brain shuts down just a little more. I’m out of ideas, I don’t know how I can stop these things and I can’t help anyone anymore. All I can do is be a giant paperweight and think heavy thoughts.

  At least I’m not alone. We’re all trying to hold down the last barrier between them and us. I look up at my mom, who’s wearing her most frightened expression to date, and ask, “Now what do we do?”

  “We’re doing it,” she replies.

  “I know what we should do.” Dorothy chimes in. “We should be grateful.”

  “What?!” squeaks Doom. “What do we have to be grateful for? Do you know where you are?” He looks at Dorothy like she’s lost her mind.

  “Well, for starters, it’s not raining.”

  My posture relaxes at this thought. Enough tension goes out of Doom’s shoulders to show he agrees.

  We sit there shivering from a combination of cold and fear, trying to get our wits about us. I mean, seriously, what just happened there? I thought things were bad when the parasites started raining down on us, then I thought it was really bad to be trapped in the house, then it was bad to be trapped in a little part of the house, then it was bad to lose the house, then it was bad to lose the Jeep, and then it was bad to be in a refugee center where we didn’t feel safe, then it was bad to be abandoned by those who were supposed to protect us, then it was bad to be squeezed into a hallway with people who hated our guts or were too stupid to live, then it was bad to be cornered into the theater, and now we’re trapped on the roof. I mean, where are we supposed to go if this doesn’t work out? I don’t know how things can get worse. I just know that somehow they will. That’s crazy, right? How could things get worse?

  Jesse’s shrill cry cuts through my thoughts. “Mom!” she shrieks “Where’s Naked? Where’s Killer?”

  Oh, that’s how it could get worse.

  Everyone gasps. I can see how we’d forget something as silent as Killer and only KC would miss that furry little nightshade of a cat, but honestly how could we forget Naked? How is it possible to forget your greatest protector in their hour of need? It’s like my brain put all its power into our escape, and there were no thoughts left for Naked. Naked saved our lives over and over again, and still we left her behind. We abandoned our best friend. I can feel the bottom dropping out of my world as guilt overwhelms me.

  “Mom we can’t leave her down there with those things!” Jesse insists. “We just can’t!”

  I expect KC to say something about Killer, but instead her teary voice hoarsely asks “Why isn’t Naked barking?”

  Huh, she’s right. We’ve never been more threatened by these things, and I haven’t heard a peep out of her. Maybe if she had barked we wouldn’t have forgotten about her in our mad rush to get out of there. Jesse’s crying even harder now. “Mom how are we going to get her out of there?” I expect my mother to put a comforting arm around my baby sister and make up something to calm her, but she doesn’t even seem to hear Jesse. She just sits there with an intense look of concentration on her face.

 
Suddenly my mother gasps. “Wait! Everyone be quiet!” She barely manages to hiss this out through chattering teeth.

  She’s not the only thing that’s hissing. I can hear the same hissssss we made as we froze the Infected’s brains out and the same hisssss they made as they froze the hinges off the doors. Not again...

  “Everyone move!” Mom orders. And then she quickly adds, “But not off the board—move to the edges.” We all scoot, but not evenly. I think we’re a little reluctant to separate after what we’ve been through. “Guys, you’ve got to spread out if we’re going to hold this board down.” She shines her flashlight into faces flush with fear and then says in a more controlled, soothing voice, “Just form a circle and keep the trapdoor area at the center.”

  I’m glad someone’s thinking here. We focus our flashlights at the origin of the hissing sound and wait to see what happens. We don’t have to wait for long. The hissing stops and the knocking begins. Well, it’s more like a dull crack. The first three cracks are muted, but the final terrifying crack! hits us like a bullet as the last barrier between them and us shatters.

  KC

  The hard cover breaks open on the last solid knock, but only a little bit. A triumphant fist erupts through the gap and starts to feel around, searching for fresh flesh to dig its infected nails into.

  “Hey, you know what I’m grateful for right now?” Kaboom says. “I’m grateful there wasn’t much left in those cans of liquid nitrogen.”

  “Told you,” Doom says smugly.

  “Do any of these kits have a knife or an axe?” Mom asks. I try to imagine what will happen to the hand if we cut it off—will it run around the roof on its fingers like “Thing” from the Addams Family?

  “Wait.” Mr. Cromwell stands up and pulls an axe from his kit with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat. I have a fleeting thought about him looking like Paul Bunyan as I concentrate my flashlight on the still-grasping hand. I can hear more determined fists knocking away at the wood, but to no avail. “We’ll need to plug up the hole once we chop it off.”

  “This board is huge,” says Houston. He sounds like he’s just woken up from a quick power-nap. “Can’t we just push the part with the hole over to the side of the trapdoor? We’d only have to move it about three feet. There’s plenty of board left to keep them down below.”

  “Good idea” replies Mom. She’s sounding a lot more confident now. “But let’s not cut off the arm. It’ll just leave its infected liquids behind. Besides, the whole board may not be broken, but it could be weak enough for the axe to make a bigger hole.” She looks at each one of us to make sure we’re paying attention. “We’re going to have to time this just right. When I say ‘now’ I want you all to move to the ends of the board. I want the guys on my side and the girls on the other. Mind the hand. Okay. Now!”

  We quickly scramble in the darkness to our places at the opposite ends of the board. I’m relieved my mother has a plan. “Good. Okay, girls, I need you to keep your flashlights on that hand. Mr. Cromwell, when I say ‘Go’ I need you to walk up to it and stomp it through the hole. Just the hand, try not to stomp on the board itself. If you can’t get it back through the hole with your boot, use the axe.”

  “Why does he get to stomp on the hand?” Kaboom whines. I think he wants a chance to be the hero, especially in front of Nadia.

  My mother sighs in exasperation. “Because he has the biggest boot! Now the second that hand goes through the hole, Mr. Cromwell and the girls will jump off and away from the pool cover, and you guys will push the cover with all your might till I say stop. I’m sure Mr. Cromwell will join you in your efforts once he’s off the board.” She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t order us to take a deep breath too, but we collectively take one with her. It sounds like an asthmatic jet trying to take off.

  “Go!”

  There was a drum roll which was probably just the fists below knocking faster and faster while the hand above frantically searched for us. All it found was Cromwell’s boot. There was a sickening crack of bone and the hand disappeared. Mr. Cromwell jumped off, and the moment he jumped off we jumped off. Jesse dropped her flashlight and Sarah yelped at the sound, but the rest of us managed to keep our light on the hole.

  We must have surprised the Infected because nothing had a chance to pop up through the opening before we covered it with the intact side of the board. I’m kind of disappointed I missed my chance to see a severed hand crawl about the roof Thing-style, but I’m still glad to see it gone. The boys seem to be propelled by panic-power because they pushed that board over much faster than they did the first time and within seconds my mom shouts, “Stop!”

  We clamber back onto the new middle of the board and wait. There are a few weak thuds and a fair amount of scratching, but that’s all that’s left of their efforts until they give up and silence takes over. In a way I wish it wasn’t so quiet—it’s like when Jesse and her old friends were silent, if they’re quiet it means they’re up to something.

  Mom’s not going to let us rest yet. She starts to give out instructions before the boys can get their breath back. “Mr. Cromwell, could you please go over to the ladder from the custodian’s office and remove it from the roof? Take Dorothy with you, she can shine her light on it while you work. Oh, and take care you don’t fall into the swimming pool. It’s a bit of a hazard now that we’ve taken its cover away.” I can guess why Mom asked Dorothy to go—all the other girls are too scared to move. “Okay, boys, good work on moving the board. Now I need you to keep your weight on it. You too, Sarah and Jesse. The rest of us will fetch the tent and move it over here to cover this spot.”

  “What?” squeals Nadia. “Why do we have to move the tent over here? Why can’t we just go stay in it over there? I don’t want to sleep on something that’s only a few inches between me and a zombie!”

  “Because they’re probably counting on us to move off of this board when the rain returns, and then they might be able to push it up enough to squeeze through. If we can set up a permanent camp on it, the weight of our bags and bodies might be enough to keep them at bay.”

  “Fine. You do whatever you need to do. I’m done here.” She plops down next to Kaboom, leans her head on his shoulder, and closes her eyes. Kaboom looks up at us apologetically. I’m cool with this. If she goes with us, she’ll just get in the way. I can’t imagine her being much help anyway.

  Mouse isn’t as resigned as the rest of us about this. “Wouldn’t want to bruise Kaboom’s precious little flower,” she mumbles as we walk away. We blindly follow my mother as close as we can and as we walk I have a vague notion that I am following in Ghost’s last steps. Even in this moment of fear and exhaustion I feel a twinge of renewed grief.

  Mom starts to give instructions again. “Keep your lights up and your eyes sharp. This roof isn’t even. It moves up a number of levels, so you don’t want to bark your shin on an edge when it steps up a few inches or more. The tent is on the highest point.” She shines her light ahead. “See, right there.”

  We have to scramble up a two-foot ledge to the next level, but soon we’re face to face with a small green army tent. I shine my light around its base and discover it’s been staked down by bulldog clips. The clips are connected to eyehole hooks that have been screwed into the roof. It’s got a nice lightweight but solid pipe frame inside, a bit like the castle tent we used to set up inside the house for playdates and sleepovers. Mom must be seeing the same thing because she orders us to unclip the tent from its moorings and to each grab a corner—one hand on the base and one hand on the side—and carry it whole back to the board. I take one corner, my mom takes another, Mouse takes the third and Nemesis takes the fourth. It’s a real bear getting it back though. It’s not as heavy, but it’s awkward to handle, especially as we maneuver it down the two-foot drop and on to our section of the roof. In the distance, I can hear a “Clang! Clang! Clang!” that I hope is the sound of Mr. Cromwell taking out the ladder to the roof before the I
nfected start to use it.

  We’re sweating and quivering with the effort of keeping the tent steady when we get back to the boys. Sarah and Jesse have fallen asleep against Houston. Mom takes a chance on the weight ratio and lets us stay while she sends the boys back to fetch a part of the tent too valuable to leave behind—the wooden pallets that will allow us to stay dry when the rain returns. Damn, I wish she had let us carry the pallets and the boys carry the tent!

  The first fingers of dawn appear over the horizon and I feel a measure of relief. It’s nice to know we survived the night. We’re so tired from everything we’ve been through that it’s hard to think, but Mom won’t let us rest until we’ve set the tent up properly. “There will be nobody left awake to be a lookout if we keep this up,” I think to myself, but I know this is the right thing to do because there’ll be no one left alive if we don’t. All this escaping and surviving will be for nothing if the rains take us out. She lets us pause long enough to pull our raingear on and then makes sure the tent goes down, the guide lines tucked under the pallets, the split kits filling out the edges of the tent. The sun has completely broken through by the time we’re finished. It’s not a big job and I’m surprised it’s taken so long, but we are moving awfully slow. There’s just not enough fuel in our tanks to keep us going—one can only run on panic power for so long.

  Mr. Cromwell and Dorothy have returned from what looks like a very strenuous workout. No one bothers to ask if they managed to detach the ladder or not. At this point, we’re happy to assume they did. Mr. Cromwell offers to do guard duty so we give him a weak, grateful smile and then crawl like wounded animals inside the tent. It’s a tight fit, but we don’t care; even Hou seems to have gotten over his personal space issues. The pallets are cold and hard and it doesn’t matter; at this point I could sleep on a clothesline. I lie down next to my mother after she positions herself at the front of the tent. She starts to zip up the entrance, shutting us off from the light of day, but not before I get a glimpse of what’s beyond the edges of the roof; a view that is sure to fuel my nightmares for the next few hours.