by Tara Brown
Cynthia and Jack meet us in what appears to be the nook, but my eyes are drawn to the back. A slapping sound brings my attention from the yard and the zombies, to my friends. Cynthia is holding her cheek and she and Naira are both crying.
Jack appears confused and takes a step back just in case.
I’m huffing my breath and not sure if she slapped Cynthia because she closed the door or if it’s something else.
A noise comes from the back and I spin to see the Lululemon lady. She’s got more cuts and scrapes but she’s in the yard running for the glass gate. I slam the back door and close the drapes, moving as quickly as I can to block out the view of the zombies.
We peer out the side window, my heart pounds but at least I haven’t peed my pants again. Yet.
Jack creeps to the kitchen. He comes back with keys. A few sets. He hurries to the front window and tests the unlock buttons, which fortunately make no noise but the lights on the vans flash.
The people crammed into the front van slip out and split up, some of them getting in the other van.
Jack gives one set of van keys to Naira and keeps the other, placing the rest of the keys he was holding on the counter. “We gotta make a break for it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to get my head into the right place for the moment we’re in. Survival. I need to think survival. “Just like the bus, someone stays behind and makes noise in here, the rest of us get to the front yard and get into the vans. When everyone is in the vans, the person making the noise runs for it. We’ll keep one of the van doors open so they can run in and jump in as we’re driving away.”
The thumping on the house gets louder.
“Who’s the fastest?” Jack asks.
“I am,” Naira says softly.
“I’ll do it.” I ignore her. “My plan. I’ll do it.” I’m not selfless, so my brain is screaming at me to let Naira do this. But I can’t ask someone to do this, in case it’s a bad plan. Which I’m worried it is. The moment those vans start, the zombies will be attracted, and I’ll be running for my life.
“Tan—”
“No.” I grab Naira’s hand. “If I don’t make it, Jeff said you turn right on Sixteenth Ave. Away from the ocean. Drive until you come to some place called the Fraser Highway. Take that until you get to the Trans-Canada. Drive east on the Trans-Canada. Go now!” I squeeze her fingers once then hurry to the back side of the house and begin to move chairs over the hardwood floors, bumping them into each other and making a commotion.
Jack pushes Cynthia and Naira to the front door and opens it slowly, peeking out. He waits a second then sprints, running as hard as he can for the van that was unlocked. He slaps the keys into the hand of the person waiting and rushes to the other van. He and Cynthia get inside the back and Naira jumps in the driver’s seat.
The doors are closed too loudly. The vans start. The banging in the backyard ends.
I bolt for the front door, running hard across the grass and pathways.
I’m halfway when I catch a glimpse of color and blurred faces to the left and right of me. The vans are moving forward, the one in the front of going too fast but the second one is slower, the door is open and Cynthia is screaming at me to hurry. Her hand is out, reaching for me. I just about have her, I’m pushing so hard I can’t breathe. It’s like sucking jam into my lungs.
But I find more. I jump to catch her hand as something hits me on the side. I’m thrown off course. The van slams to a stop which causes the door to shut.
Fingers dig in.
Pain stabs me in multiple places, ripping and tearing.
I’m fighting for my life. Kicking and screaming until sound doesn't come out of my lips.
A face, snarling and angry comes into view. It’s Lululemon lady. Her blonde hair drops into my face as my hands slip around her throat, holding back her face. She pushes down onto me as the other zombies surround the van. The faces of my classmates in the window are there one second and the van is gone the next.
My arms tremble and eventually they lose. She slams her nose into my shoulder and her mouth is open and she’s tearing my arm through my hoodie.
I scream as she holds herself there, biting down and pausing.
It’s too late.
She pulls back after a minute and then goes limp. She flops on top of me and lies there, mouth parted with a piece of torn gray hoodie in her blood-coated lips.
My arms are so weak I can’t push her off.
I’m bit.
This is it.
I’m gonna wander like one of them.
So much for the seventh day bullshit.
At least I don't have to run around anymore. I don’t have to fear them. They don’t seem to attack each other.
My arm is killing me but I manage to get the lady off me. She’s dead, I think. I must have killed her with the choking, though I swear I stopped choking when she bit me.
The other zombies are gone, they chased the vans.
I struggle to stand and when I do, I don’t move. My eyes are locked on the road where my classmates went, stuck staring at the road for a long time. At first, I wait for the signs of zombification to start. Then I think about how everyone watched me get bit and not one of them jumped out. Mitch would have jumped out. He would have saved me. But maybe he would have been bitten too. Maybe he was already. Maybe I’ll find him and we’ll wander together.
Unsure of where to go next or what to do, I realize I’m starving.
Maybe that’s the first stage.
But I swear everyone said the change was instant.
I’m not sure what’s happening but decide to make my way into the house. This time I don't bother to close the door or lock it. I’m dying, what does it matter if more zombies come?
I make a peanut butter sandwich and struggle through the fact the bread is a bit stale. It’s homemade and not great. My grandmother’s was way better. The natural peanut butter doesn’t help.
The sandwich curbs my hunger but now I’m so thirsty I can barely swallow the last bite.
The fridge smells like death when I open it, but I manage to snag a Diet Coke from the door and close it before I end up getting sick from the stench.
The sound of the can opening is amazing, a miracle. I gulp until it’s all gone.
The moment I’m done, I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion like I’ve never felt before. My legs are heavy and my eyes won’t stay open.
In some twisted version of Goldilocks and the Three Zombies, I make my way upstairs to the bedrooms. I check them all out before settling on the one with the oversized king bed. But I’m coated in blood and sweat, and I am my mother’s daughter. I can’t climb into the bed dirty and gross. I end up snooping in the drawers and closets until I find a Lululemon stash. I pull off my sweaty, bloody hoodie and check out the wound. It’s not even big. I’m going to die because of a smaller bite than the mailman got that time in my neighbor’s yard.
In the bathroom, there’s some weird personal hygiene wipes. Like baby wipes for adults.
“I don’t even want to know,” I mutter as I wash my body with them, face and all, before pulling on the fresh clothes. And I even steal some deodorant from the drawer next to me. If I’m going to be walking dead, I’m going to smell nice and look fresh.
Without giving anything else much thought, I curl up in the bed and my brother is the last face I picture before I drift off to sleep.
I wish I’d seen him one more time.
Chapter 10
When I wake, my head is throbbing and my neck’s stiff. “Mom?” I say groggily, hoping she’s home. My throat is sore as shit, which means Mason has given me something. Again.
Has he been sick lately? I can’t remember.
“Mom!” I call again but I don’t hear her footsteps in the hall.
Is she working?
What’s that smell? It’s different—perfume or laundry soap I don't recognize.
I feel around in the dark, my fingertips tiptoeing along soft
ness that reminds me I’m in bed. But this isn’t my bed. Did I sleep in my mom’s bed?
Where am I?
No, it’s a stranger’s bed. A stranger’s house. I forgot, I’m a zombie.
The bite on my arm hurts when I move it. Surely, the infection is starting to hit now.
I push myself to sitting up and the room spins. This must be the first symptom. Not hunger. That probably comes later.
The night sky is bright outside the window. The moon lights it up enough that when my eyes adjust, I see the bedroom. It triggers all the memories and events leading up to this moment.
Ms. Mara.
Trevor.
Louis.
Bev.
Mitch.
I’m undead. Or rather dying and waiting to wake up undead.
The house is silent, creepy silent, triggering me but I remember I’m dying anyway. So it doesn’t matter if something jumps out of the shadows.
Defeated by the whole outcome, I nearly lie back down but the pain in my throat pushes me to get up, though the process isn’t simple. I slide from the bed, digging my toes into the pile when they meet the rug. It takes a lot of pushing to stand and I realize how weak I am. I must be dehydrated as hell. Or this is the change.
Staggering from the bedroom, my hands find places to grip, a railing, a wall, a picture that's so large I can slide my fingers along the bottom of the frame.
The kitchen isn’t as bright as the bedroom was—we closed all the blinds and curtains—so I open them and let the moonlight flood the expansive rooms.
Light glints off objects as my eyes dart about the space, seeking one thing. Holding my breath, I get the fridge door open again and grab another Diet Coke, closing the door before I exhale with a cough.
Again, the sound of the can opening is something heavenly. The bubbly liquid is rough at first on my throat but eventually becomes something resembling lubricant. The pain begins to ease. When it’s empty, I put the can down and stumble around the kitchen to a doorway that must be the pantry. There’s no light in here but standing in the entrance for a few minutes allows my eyes to adjust enough to make out shapes and logos.
My fingers tremble as I grab a large bottle of water. It’s tough to get the cap off with such weak hands but when I do, I lift it to my mouth and tilt, letting the liquid pour down my throat in a series of gulps.
This is what I was looking for.
This refreshing feeling of water. Life force. Mana. Whatever the hell you want to call it, the water is that. I drink until I might get sick, and maybe even a little past that point.
I’m heaving breaths and tilting my head back, waiting for the room to stop spinning, when I hear something.
It’s a creepy noise, scratching.
My heart races, mixing with the feeling I might toss my cookies, or rather water overload. I manage to step back and stare at the doorway where someone is standing. I want to run, bolt, but my legs don’t move. I’m frozen still, stuck here in terror.
The person isn’t a person at all. Moving in scary jerking movements they make their way forward, coming to where I’m standing completely motionless like some stupid forest creature who is convinced if I don’t move it won’t see me.
And somehow it works.
The jerky, blood-soaked mess of a zombie walks past me, not even pausing to give me a glance. It stands at the back door, staring at the small curtain, and stops moving.
I don’t know what this means.
Does it not see me or am I one of them?
Do I move or stay here until it leaves?
What if it never leaves?
Shit.
We stay like this until my legs threaten to give out. I force myself to take a step forward, certain that if it eats me, it eats me, since standing here until I die is not a better outcome. The thing doesn’t move. It barely even breathes.
I take another.
My legs wobble as I take a third.
A glint of something hits my eyes.
It’s the keys Jack left behind.
I walk closer to the counter where they are.
The creature doesn’t move. It stares, almost as though it’s paused, at the door.
I lift the keys with a fob from the counter and notice the FORD lettering across it. One key hangs from the ring.
The vans were Mercedes.
I didn’t know Mercedes made vans.
Hope flits about in me as I press the lock button on the fob and a sound fills the air.
The creature turns toward the sound, toward me. It hears the noise and rushes forward. I’m about to panic when it brushes past me, ignoring me and heads for the sound.
My entire body is pins and needles and my hair is standing on end, I’m sure of it. My breath leaves my lips in a gasp that sounds like crying.
When I get it under control, I grab the other keys and walk to the back door and open it, heading for the deck with the gate that remains closed. Lululemon must have fallen over it when she came bursting up the stairs.
The door in the backyard appears to go to the garage. It’s unlocked and when I get it open, I sigh. It’s my first bit of good luck. The car, a Ford Mustang GT, is sitting with its lights on, creating a glow in the garage.
I push the garage door opener and wait, honestly needing way too long before I remember the power’s out.
“Nice one, Tan,” I whisper and walk to the front.
I press the unlock button on the car, making the lights come on again.
The garage door is like ours, and I recall how my dad got it open when the power went out once. On my very tiptoes, I reach and grab the red pull chord, jerking it back when it unclicks.
The door isn’t so easy. It weighs a ton and I’m weak, but I manage to get it up and open. The night air smells nice, even if the world is empty and I am alone.
As I get into the car, the zombie comes around the side of the house to the front. He pauses and stares. Not at me, but at the car. As I start it and move forward, he comes to life. And I wonder if this is his car and he’s completely devastated someone like me, who can’t drive for shit, is stealing it.
The thought doesn’t last long because as I drive out of the garage, the door comes slamming back down and the zombie pauses to notice the noise before he follows me as best he can. Driving on the wrong side of the road and just missing a parked car, I turn right like my friends did and head along the road in the dark, seeing only light in the places my headlights touch.
As I turn onto a street, I realize I’m going down in numbers and make a U-turn. When I finally get back to Sixteenth, I’ve lost my zombie, but I’ve gained a couple of new ones. I turn onto Sixteenth Avenue and pray at least some of my classmates have made this journey.
Please God.
Please don’t let me be alone.
Because I have a bad feeling I’m not changing.
Not even a little.
Chapter 11
The Seventh Day
“Where ya headed?” the old man at the lit-up gas station asks as he strolls over from the dark shadows.
My body aches and my car is on fumes, but I’m excited to be back in the arid climate. The air is so dry I feel my lungs filling completely when I breathe.
“Billings,” I say, not sure how I’m going to pay for the gas. I was lucky in Canada and got some from a nice woman at a gas station. She said we had to stick together. I’m not sure how many of us there are left to stick together. I’ve seen all of five cars since I left Canada an hour ago. “You have power here?”
“No, genny. You alone?” His voice is gruff.
“I—I’m—”
“I don’t mean to sound creepy. Just can’t trust people these last few days. Been bad around here.”
“I’m alone,” I confirm, wishing I had a different answer. I’ve been driving for six hours, and I’m not even halfway home, meaning I’ll be alone for a lot longer. At least another eleven hours, if I get lucky with vehicles and gas.
“You s
een many of them bastards alive still?” He nods out at the long stretch of dark field next to us. “The undead?”
“A few but I’ve been driving in the dark the whole time. Did you hear the guy on the radio who said they would die on the seventh day? That must be today.” It’s hard to see any vast changes; the sun is nowhere near coming up. It’s three in the morning.
“Heard about him. I didn’t hear the recording. You out of gas?” He eyes my car, pressing his weathered and chapped lips together. He’s older and thin, not the type of man I’d assume would ride out the zombie apocalypse but here we are.
“Yeah, coasted in on fumes,” I say something my dad always said. My mom never putting gas in the car drove him insane when they were married. It was funny, after they divorced, she stopped driving with the van on empty. I wasn’t sure if it was because she only did it to bug him or if she realized we were on our own, and if she ran out, he wouldn’t come save her.
“I’ll tell ya what,” the man pauses, “I’ll trade ya. Your car with no gas in it for mine with a full tank.”
“Can I have some candy too?” It’s a weird request, but I’m starving, and I don’t want to seem too needy. I don’t want to owe more than what the car is worth.
“Deal.” He spits on his hand and holds it out for me to shake. I don’t know what to do. He’s stuck there, hand out, arm trembling a little, annoyed look that I suspect might be permanent on his face. So I spit on my hand, but I’m not cool like him so it sort of dribbles from my lips and lands half on my chin and part on my hand. I haven’t dreaded too many things in my life but the moment our hands squish together and I fight a gag, I know I under-dreaded that.
He pulls his firm fingers back and wipes his hands on his coveralls. I do the same on my borrowed Lulus. “Where’d ya steal it from?”
“Canada.” I hold my thumb over my shoulder suggesting where I got the car from is just a minute away. The reality is I’ve been driving for six hours. Canada might be close by, but the house is a long ways away.