The Seventh Day Box Set

by Tara Brown

Mr. Swanson’s head does the three jerks again but to the right this time. He looks over at my neighbor who is now backing away. Mr. Swanson leaps into a run. My neighbor turns to run but is tackled to the pavement. Mr. Swanson bites down on the man’s shoulder. His teeth stay there like a pit bull’s would, as his fists fly at the man’s ribs and head. He punches so fast I can’t be sure I see them all. No matter how the neighbor moves, Mr. Swanson’s teeth don’t stop biting down. My shaking hand grips into Furgus’ neck fur.

  When my neighbor no longer fights, Mr. Swanson pulls back. Stringing flesh and blood drip from his face. He backs away from the neighbor and falls to the ground.

  The neighbor starts to move, almost instantly. He twitches in the feet and hands. His body slowly finds its way, the same as Mr. Swanson’s did—robotically. He wipes his mouth, like he’s a regular man again and the spell has worn off.

  He walks to the door to his house, looking around the street for someone to tell about the savage attack on him. He doesn't act like he’s wounded, just looks around like he might be confused.

  I know I am.

  He wanders around for a few minutes, lost.

  My eyes don't want to leave him and the odd behavior but they are desperate to see Mr. Swanson and if he’s moving.

  He’s not.

  I have a terrible feeling he’s dead. Hot tears are trying to fill my eyes and block out the bad things, but I don't blink and just let my eyes fill up. Furgus backs away from the door, leaving me there. His growl is back.

  The neighbor starts to walk. He goes to the exact spot Mr. Swanson was before the door was opened and is suddenly frozen in the trance his vicious attacker had been in.

  My stomach is in a ball and I’m not a hundred-percent certain I didn’t pee myself. I force my hand to leave the windowsill when I’m pretty sure I did pee. I slowly lower my hand, scared that my zombie neighbor might sense me moving. When my hand’s between my legs, I sigh in disappointment. It’s wet. I look down. Yup—I did. I peed my pants, right onto my mother’s leather bench. She’s going to murder me. I don't even know how to explain how it happened.

  Furgus whines, shaking his head at me and backing away more. He knows, even though he cannot see it, that something terrible just happened. He sensed it.

  I look back at my neighbor, ignoring the fact I’m standing in the warm puddle and my dog is desperate for me to leave the door. No matter how hard I try to though, my eyes don’t want to leave him. I don't trust him, even though he was just attacked and Mr. Swanson is dead on the grass, or unconscious. The words of the newscaster ring in my head: the symptoms of the flu are instant onset.

  My neighbor stands there, silent and unmoving, like the man at the school. That's exactly what he reminds me of.

  “Damn.”

  Joey walks to the hallway. “Hey, Lou—”

  I press my finger to my lips as if she can see my face. “Shhhhhhh.”

  She gets closer, whispering, “What are you doing?” Furgus steps forward, grabbing her sleeve and pulling her back. He’s a hundred and sixty pounds so she doesn't stand a chance at fighting him off. Irish wolfhounds are the largest breed of dog in the world—if he wants something he usually gets his way. “Gus, don’t.” She shoves him but he continues to pull her back into the hallway. His eyes are wild. He knows what’s behind the door.

  “It’s okay, Gus. It’s okay, boy. Shhhhhh.” I try to sound soothing but I don't think he’s buying it. He lets go but doesn't back off of Joey at all. They are besties, sleeping together every night. He takes up the entire bed but she doesn't care.

  “What’s happening, Lou?”

  I shake my head. “We have a major problem out there on the street. Gus is right. Go back to the living room, turn the TV volume off and all the lights. Sit there on the rug. I’ll be there in a second. Take Gus with you. Make no noise, tell the other two that. Keep trying the cell phones and house phone. We need to find some help.”

  “I wanna see.” She leaves Furgus’ side and climbs onto the bench with me. The weight on the bench shifts as she groans, “Dude, why’s it all we—” I clasp a hand around her mouth. She makes a face, still managing to speak through my hand, “Did you pee? Did you pee on the bench? It smells like pee.” She wrinkles her nose.

  I peer out the window, but he hasn’t moved. He didn’t hear her. When I look back down at her, her eyes are wide. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what to do. I put a finger to my lips and then put them on her waist. I place her hands on the windowsill and lift her up into the window so she can see too. Mr. Swanson is on the ground and our neighbor is standing like it’s the ending of the Blair Witch Project.

  I know I shouldn’t show her, but I need her to understand the severity of what we are dealing with. Her jaw drops. “Is Mr. Baumgartner okay?” I’d forgotten his name in the chaos.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Mr. Swanson beat him up, and then Mr. Swanson fell down and Mr. Baumgartner got up and started acting crazy.”

  Her voice is eerily calm, “Julia’s dad? Why did he beat him up?”

  “I don't know. They’re acting like the man at the school.” I lower her back to my puddle of pee. “Take your socks off, go in the living room and tell those two not to make a sound. Don’t speak and don’t tell them what you saw. Just say a bloody man is in the yard and we have to be quiet. Keep trying the phones and the cell service. Take Gus—he looks worried.”

  She doesn't argue, just shakes as she slips her wet socks off. I pull my pants down, soaking up all the urine. I can’t believe I’m such a baby. My father would be so disappointed if he saw the pee—saw the fact I’m so weak. Maybe I am like my mom.

  I stand on my pants in my damp underwear and look back out the window. Mr. Baumgartner is gone. I look to the left and the right, but he isn’t there. I see something below me and look down.

  There, at my front door, is Mr. Baumgartner. He’s looking up at me, twitching like a bird does when it walks. I jump, making a noise. A small squeak.

  His face contorts as his body flies into action. He is no longer just a docile man with blood on his face. He’s a raging savage. He looks like an actor in a movie as he flips out, pounding on the door and clawing at it. The chair under the handle jumps with the banging of the door. I jump from the bench and push it so it’s against the wall across from the front door. I slide the chair between the bench and the door. It’s a tight fit but the pounding on the door no longer rattles it, just the whole house. I’m scared he’s going to come through the front door. Gus runs back into the hallway, ready to bark, but I dive at him, holding him and whispering, “It’s okay, Gussy. It’s okay. Stay calm.”

  He watches the door, not moving but not barking either. It’s almost as if he knows barking will get us all in trouble. When the banging stops and again the street is silent, Furgus backs up. He gives me a look and turns and stalks back into the living room with the little girls.

  I turn and run up the stairs.

  My mother is still asleep. I run past her to their closet where Dad’s gun cabinet is locked up. I don’t know the code, but I grab the huge brass lamp from my father’s side of the bed and smash down on the metal lock. It makes my whole body shake and I can hear the girls downstairs crying and screaming as the banging starts back up.

  Finally, the lock breaks free. I pull out the handgun and the shotgun. My hands hurt and shake, but I manage to load both. I’ve shot at the range with my dad for years but I’m scared. Soda cans and targets aren’t people.

  I don’t think I can do it but I have to try. I won’t die that way—getting beaten and chewed on. Screw that.

  I run down the stairs with the weapons in the position he always made me carry them in. I sit on the stairs and wait. I smell like urine, in fact the whole stairwell does. I am cold, wet, and tired but I sit with my back against the wall and my feet in the railing as he rages on our door.

  A woman screams outside.

  The three girls scramb
le to the stairs. They huddle against me, gripping to each other for dear life. Furgus stands at the bottom of the stairs, leaning into us. His panting soon becomes the only noise we hear for several moments until the door begins to rattle again.

  We sit watching the door vibrate until it stops. Then there’s a loud bang. The whole house shakes.

  Tires screech and people scream.

  A terrible thought fills my head—a fear really. What if the world is just starting its long journey into ruin?

  The noises don’t stop. They grow in level and then reduce, only to rise again. It’s like waves of noise with no pattern and no end.

  You can’t slip off into a daydream because of the constantly erratic nature of the noise.

  I notice Lissie staring at me. Her bright eyes dart from the guns to my face. I smile at her. “It’s okay. I know how to shoot. Me and Joey go to the range with our dad.”

  She nods but the look in her eyes doesn’t fade. She probably has anti-gun parents. I wonder how those people are faring right now? Because I know how we will fare.

  The sky is dark but the streets are alive with chaos. I look at the girls. “Let’s go see what the president said. They probably have it on replay.”

  They nod. I can see how exhausted they all are—we all are. We tiptoe away from the stairs and the three of them stay too close. I drag Furgus with us, stroking him constantly so he doesn't bark or freak out.

  I’m uncomfortable with the guns being near them, so I put them up on the counter and go sit on the rug. Joey turns the volume up slightly and we huddle around the TV. The same lady is speaking about the same images. I think the broadcast is old.

  It dawns on me then I’m still in wet underwear. I frown. “Stay here, I’ll be right back. Don’t move or touch anything.”

  I run upstairs silently and jump in the shower fast, rinsing off as fast as I can. The bathroom lights and the hot water shut off simultaneously. I stand there, confused for a second, as the cold water pours down on me. It stops moments later. Even the cold water won’t run.

  I pull back the curtain, suddenly intimidated by the cold, dark air around me.

  It feels colder with the lights out and every shadow feels like it might house something waiting to bite me. I grab a soft fleecy towel and dry off, slipping down the silent hallway to my bedroom and pulling on new panties and bra. I pull on a hoodie and have one leg of sweatpants on, when I hear a gunshot.

  It sounds close. Did it happen in the house? I left the guns downstairs like an idiot.

  Oh God.

  What if they’re playing with the guns?

  What if Lissie grabbed them and shot someone?

  What if the noise draws the zombies?

  I scramble down the stairs, dragging my pants behind me and nearly tripping on them. My brain is numb as I round the corner. The image makes no sense in my mind and tears instantly spring from my eyes.

  My tiny sister is holding the handgun, shaking and crying silently.

  My mother is on the floor, twitching.

  I skid across the tiles on my knees, grabbing at my mother, and immediately noticing the spot on her stomach where the blood is spreading across her shirt, making a growing design. On her shoulder there’s more blood but it’s older, dried, and caked. A spot like the man at the school. A bite mark perhaps?

  The tear in her skin makes me shudder as images of Mr. Swanson biting down fills my head. I drop my mother, backing away quickly.

  “She had red eyes and couldn’t stand up and she said help me. She said help me like the man and she was twitching and Gus barked and she jumped at him,” Joey says, like she is in a zombie state.

  Furgus cowers in the corner, scared and shaking as hard as the three little girls are.

  I slip past my mom’s body, rushing to Joey. She is frozen. Her trembling lip is moving nearly as fast as her rapidly rising and falling chest. The hallway and great room are filled with the orange emergency lights from our security system. I can see the quivering lips and heaving chests of the small girls so I wrap my arms around them, taking the gun from my sister. The three of them shake with sobs, silent sobs. Furgus finds his way into the circle, nuzzling against us. He shakes like they do—we do. We all shake and sob but we make no noise. It’s like they know that this is a whole new world, and in it tears must come quietly.

  I pull back. “We have to leave here. I will watch her. Go upstairs and pull on as many layers as you can. Pack a bag of clothes. I’ll pack some of the things from here. I’ll get the food and water and supplies out to the truck. Hurry.”

  Joey shakes her head. “She had red eyes, Lou. Sh-she was sick, right? Sh-sh-she said he-help me and then she opened her mouth and made a sound like I’ve never heard. Like a mean dog. And when Gus tried to stop her from coming near us, she lashed out at h-h-him.”

  I look at my still mother on the floor and nod. “You did the right thing.” She did, and yet I think my heart might be broken. It is entirely my fault. I never should have let Joey see what was on the street. I should have protected her, but I didn’t want to be the only one who knew. I didn't want to be responsible and now I have failed us all.

  I have failed my father in every way.

  I kiss Joey on the cheek. “You and Gus saved us. Mom was gone. The virus was in her. Once it’s there, the person is gone. Instant onset—remember what the news said?” I pat Furgus, gripping to him for sanity.

  “I didn't want her to attack, I didn't want her to attack, Lou.” Joey cries harder, still not making as much noise as I think she should be. Our mother is dying and we are letting her. We should be screaming. I want to scream. I want to be sad and I can’t. I have to be scared.

  I kiss Joey again, muttering, “Go and get the stuff. We have to go now. The gunshot might have been heard by some of them. They could be outside listening for noise.”

  Julia and Lissie give me a look. “What’s out there?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. The sick people are attacking the not-sick people.”

  “They said it was a flu. People don't attack people from the flu.”

  Joey shakes her head. “The last thing I said was that I hate her. What if she heard me? What if she dies and thinks—“

  I press her into my neck. “Shhhhhhh.” It’s too much for a near eleven-year-old to take. She’s losing it and I think I’ve already lost it. “I’ll take care of Mom. Go upstairs. We can talk about it in the SUV on our way out of here.” I nod at Julia who helps Joey out of the great room. They hug the wall, avoiding my mother’s body. I grip the handgun and walk toward Mom. When I get close, I notice her back rise and fall. Gus growls at her, backing away slowly. His haunches are up and his teeth bared. I put a hand out for him. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.” He walks to me, pressing his face into my hand. His eyes close for a second as he pants. The stress is bad for him too. We both look at Mom.

  She’s still breathing, thank God. I drop to my knees, rolling her over. The gunshot is in her side. Joey’s bullet only grazed her side and the bleeding is already slowing down. She is burning hot so I know she’s sick. The wound on her shoulder is clearly one of the bites. I cover my mouth with my shirt and grab one of Mom’s arms to drag her to the under-stairs storage. I push her inside and turn on the light, but it doesn’t turn on. In the dim glow of the emergency lights, I can see her eyelids flutter a little but she doesn’t move or make a sound. I grab a blanket off of the couch and lay it over her and then grab a case of water to lock in there with her, just in case. Tears are filling my eyes and my heart is racing. I don’t want to leave her but I’m scared. What if she is becoming one of them?

  I close the door and grab a dining room chair. I stick it under the door handle and step back. Her blood is still on the floor; I can see it in the dim glow of the emergency lights. I hurry to the kitchen, getting the bleach and cleaning the blood.

  My tears mix with the bleach and blood. When it’s done, I pour the bleach right onto my hands and then wash them ag
ain.

  I pull off my shirt and grab my gun, tucking it in the back of my pants like my dad always told me not to. I run up the stairs and wash when I’ve got all of my clothes off. I suddenly understand her desperation to get the blood off of her.

  The dim orange lights of the security system make everything more intense and frightening. I change into three layers of clothes. I pack a bag of more clothes and run back down the stairs, holding the gun ready as I open the door to the garage. It still stinks of bleach in there but nothing moves or breathes, apart from me.

  My breath is louder than anything I’ve ever heard, I swear it. It feels as if it echoes off the white walls of the still garage.

  I want to flick on the lights, but I know it won’t do anything. I hold up my useless cell phone and click the flashlight app. Nothing moves. I creep down the stairs to the concrete floor and sneak around the vehicle, checking for signs of problems.

  It’s cold in the dark, and when I get to the wide garage door, I swear I can see my breath. I flash the light along the whole door but it’s intact and the lock is still slid across the bars.

  I turn, hurrying through the dark to the supplies. I start grabbing bags of groceries and water. I fill the trunk and third-row seating completely. I even squeeze food between the bucket seats. The girls come with their bags of clothes and tear-stained faces. They climb in amongst the rubble, fitting themselves in between everything else.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  I give Joey a sad look. “If Dad comes, he might be able to help her. But I doubt it. I think she’s really sick. Your shot never hurt her. It grazed her side a little. You should know that—she wasn’t hurt by you. It’s the sickness. You missed, Joey. Do you understand me? It won’t be you that hurts Mom—it will be the fever and the sickness.”

  Joey cries again. I’m not sure if it is from relief or sadness that she shot at our mother. She climbs into the SUV and closes the door.

  I go back into the house and hide the rest of the food in the closet of the office that doubles as a panic room. Dad built it like a weirdo. Military scientists aren’t known for their rationality. Most are preppers. My dad isn’t a prepper, but he has always insisted on things he believes are common sense. The house had been built and finished already when we bought it, so he made his own version of a safe room with the small walk-in closet in the office. It looks like a regular closet inside, but the wall is not a regular wall. It’s the opening to a tiny panic room.