MZS- North East

by K. D. McAdams

  It’s been a long day and I haven’t even been up for five hours. I had sex, I think, drank some wine and a few beers but didn’t eat anything, went for a walk, and met up with some friends.

  Along the way, I killed more people than I can remember.

  Tears start streaming down my face. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand but it doesn’t help. My breathing gets shallow and pauses for a second. This is not keeping my shit together.

  I try and stifle the sobs that take over my body but I can’t. This isn’t me, this isn’t real. I was trying to grow up and make it on my own. Now I need these people. And they need me.

  It’d not about having a nice car or eating at great restaurants. It’s about staying alive, literally. For what?

  The meaning of life has never really been my thing. I’ve always been more of a “one day at a time” kind of guy. The irony of that statement and my desire to curb unhealthy habits brushes past without hitting squarely.

  Figuring out the future was always something for tomorrow. Most of the time the answer to “what do I really want?” is a steak and cheese and a cold beer. I guess that means I’ve had a pretty sheltered life.

  If this can be fixed, what do I want to do afterward? Do I want to leave a mark on the world? I don’t know how to help people in a big picture sense. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to waste an opportunity to make a difference.

  The conundrum of my future helps me fade off to sleep.

  Chapter 12

  When the Humvee slows I wake up, grateful for the rest. I’m also grateful that I didn’t have to think about falling to sleep. The images that are stuck in my head will make it impossible to lie down and sleep the way I used to.

  “Morning princess,” Todd says, with more than a little snark.

  I glance out the window my face was recently pressed against. The sun is setting; it’s the opposite of morning.

  “I was waiting for a kiss,” I say, tossing him a wink.

  Nothing out the window looks familiar. More accurately, it all looks familiar, the generic suburbs of Boston. Old white houses, a town square with three churches, and a random monument.

  If we were doing what I am supposed to be doing, we would be looking for a house. My fiancée or my wife would be talking about the white picket fence she wants and how important a yard is for our future children.

  We would be traveling in a German sedan that we can’t really afford but the financing rate was too good to pass up. I would be wearing an actual suit instead of my jean tuxedo and the last wine I drank would have come from a bottle with an expensive label instead of a bag of plastic protected by a cardboard box.

  What we’re doing now is by no means fun. It helps me to see that the life I was searching for would not have been all shits and giggles either. Why do we have an age limit for wanting to hang out with your friends and have fun?

  To me that sounds like a better description of what you are supposed to be doing. Marriage, kids and a house are great, but not instead of being surrounded by a group of people you like doing things you enjoy.

  Right now people that I like surround me. I don’t really enjoy what we’re doing but someday this will be over. Hopefully my friends will still be here.

  In the front passenger seat, Tucker is out cold. I’m glad for him; he needs the rest. Hopefully he’ll do okay, as the supply of drugs dries up. I never thought he was an addict, but even a solid habit can be tough to break.

  “Where do you think we should stop?” Cupcake asks quietly, so as not to disturb his copilot.

  “The nearest army base?” I say. Really, I have no clue.

  The plan seriously ended at “leave Boston.” Granted, he got me farther than I could have gone on my own, but still.

  “The army doesn’t really do New England. Bases tend to be in the South.” Todd has a tone of authority, but I think it’s all posture.

  “Why stop? Let’s keep driving in shifts,” I offer.

  “No. I don’t want to be out here in the dark. What if we drive right into a herd of zombies? We should only move during the day,” Cupcake says. It’s a well-reasoned response.

  Basically, we want to hide… a Humvee. We keep driving, and I can’t even wrap my mind around the problem. There is nothing that feels like a solution for safely storing a large military vehicle. Traditional thinking is not going to cut it in this new reality; creativity will be the key to survival.

  “There.” Todd raps on his window lightly.

  I look across the vehicle and out his window to see an old run-down gas station. The pumps are gone and a faded old sign says “No Gas,” but the building appears intact and there is a single garage bay.

  “Aren’t these wider than regular cars? Will it fit in the garage?” I ask. The Humvee feels like it’s a building on wheels. I can’t imagine that we can squeeze it into this tiny old garage.

  “Only a little. It should fit. Great idea, Todd,” Cupcake says.

  The Humvee slows to a stop and Cupcake begins to back it up toward the garage bay. Backing in makes a lot of sense and spurs my survival thinking.

  An old garage is the perfect hiding place. It’s small enough to easily clear and secure, though I doubt people were here when the shit hit. The cinderblock structure is also sturdy; you would need more than a crush of undead to break down the walls. The clear garage door has me a little worried, but it looks like it should hold long enough to let us drive through whatever threatens to break it down.

  Getting in could be tricky, though. We could break a window, but that would erode some of the safety the place offers. If there’s an office, we could break in there and then close and lock that door from the inside. Or if we have to break a window, we could choose one higher up the building so it’s not obvious to zombies.

  While I think, Todd hops out of the truck. He has a pair of bolt cutters with him and I can see that he left a tire iron in the foot well. Once again, he left the vehicle without a weapon. Part of me wants to be a dick and make fun of him for his potentially deadly mistake.

  But antagonizing a guy I just met while we’re all on edge doesn’t seem like a good plan. Instead, I hop out of the rig with my hockey stick and head to the garage door.

  “I got your back,” I tell Todd as he searches for something to use his bolt cutters on.

  A quick look of panic flashed across his face before he nods in appreciation. We need to be a team. I know from years of playing soccer that a huge part of coming together happens in the locker room or generally off the field. We’re not in the heat of battle so I consider this “off the field,” and a good time to tighten up our team.

  Todd finds a padlock securing an L-bracket on one side of the door. The bolt cutters make easy work of it and he bends to lift the door. It won’t budge.

  I’m glad we’re not under pressure, but I wish he would hurry up. Now that I’ve experienced the security of sitting in the Humvee, the feeling of exposure out here in the open is frightening.

  On the opposite side, down by the ground, is another L-bracket and lock. It’s in an awkward spot and Todd struggles to get the bolt cutters on the loop. I want to offer to help, but my gut says bad shit is about to happen. My grip tightens on the hockey stick and I prepare for battle.

  “Pat, come hold this up so I can snip it,” Todd calls. “Fucking thing is impossible.”

  I can’t see a zombie, but I am close to freaking out. Backing up until my back hits the garage door, I scan the quiet horizon. Quickly I drop to a knee and pivot to hold the lock up for Todd’s cutters.

  “Hurry up,” I whisper urgently.

  Todd fumbles on the first try but gathers himself and snaps the steel loop of the lock. I don’t even try to clear the pieces from the L-bracket or open the door. My stick is back in my hands and I’m ready for battle.

  “Easy killer.” Todd pats me on the back and guides me away from the now-open doorway.

  The zombie battle is raging in my head now, too. I survived the i
nitial surge of undead; will I be able to survive myself? Physical destruction is not the only concern in this war. That’s probably true for all wars.

  Cupcake backs the Humvee into the stall carefully. It is wider than a regular car, so the fit is tight. To get out of the rig, he’ll have to climb over and use the passenger side door.

  When the engine stops Todd quickly closes the garage door. It’s loud and I’m surprised I didn’t hear it going up. The noise brings me mostly back from my self-assessment. I scan the floor looking for something.

  A random coat hanger feels close to what I’m seeking but not quite. Nothing else catches my eye, though, so I grab the coat hanger. Walking to the garage door, I bend the thin metal of the coat hanger and slide it into the track of the door.

  My simple lock is easy enough to remove from the inside but makes it hard to lift the door. A screwdriver would be better, but the owners don’t seem to have left any tools behind.

  Bleary-eyed Tucker steps out of the Humvee and stretches. Cupcake tumbles after him, not gracefully. Without a word, Cupcake pokes his head back inside the Humvee and emerges with my rack of beers. The thirty-pack is placed on the hood and Cupcake tears open the cardboard.

  We each take two cans and stand in silence. Guys don’t do well sharing feelings. It’s kind of a stereotype, but for us it’s accurate. We’ll drip our feelings out through jokes and insults over the next month or so. Right now silence says more than any words could convey.

  The cans are opened and Tucker raises his in the air. We all follow suit. It looks like he wants to say something but no words come.

  “Viva,” I say somberly.

  “Viva,” my friends echo.

  McLean Davis - Upper West Side, New York, NY

  Chapter 13

  I wish my phone had a way to sort contacts by how much I like them. Normally you’d say, “Just look at the recent calls list.” But that’s flawed logic. Mine is dominated by my, as of last night, ex, who I fucking despise, and people who only know me in the context of work.

  Mom and dad are easy. So are sis and the girls from my quad at school. Zoe from home is in there, but once I’m past the top ten it gets foggy.

  Now I’m in contact purgatory. Names of people I vaguely remember meeting but have little context for why their number is in my phone. Guys who I thought seemed cool only to find out they were typically lame, only looking for sex, assholes. Why don’t I just delete those?

  I’ve been awake for precisely two hours and I want to go back to bed. The outside world is a disaster, literally. Not in the way that my life is a disaster, but in the millions of people are dead and more die by the minute way. I think.

  My liquor embalmed brain is struggling to choose between my two big issues:

  What time did I finally get in this morning?

  What’s really happening with this new disease?

  For the first issue, I can trace things up to four a.m.—after that they get really iffy. I was on my third and intended final glass of Pinot Grigio when I found out Jason was cheating on me, big time. Throwing it in his face would have a perfect reaction, instead I finished and said ‘Got your text.’ Before storming off to the nearest bar.

  I rarely drink to excess so this binge was completely over-the-top, for me. When I left the speakeasy at four I was heading home, but something tells me I stopped; I just can’t remember where.

  The second issue is a little harder to work through. I know the situation is serious—TV stations wouldn’t let these reports loop endlessly when there are college football games and important baseball games being played. But I also know enough to know that if the government is at fault, they could manipulate the story to divert blame.

  Thankfully I didn’t do any drunken texting. It might be helpful for finishing my timeline, but would hurt my pride.

  Actually, I don’t have any pride left. Jason and I were together for almost a year. The sex was average but he was a nice guy who always treated me well. I thought I could see a future with him and was even considering a discussion about moving in together. Which makes his dick pic and text message so hurtful.

  Instead of being the guy that is honest and responsible, it turns out he’s the guy who sneaks out of a romantic dinner, snaps a photo of his junk and texts his mistress “Had to take the trash out. Hope this holds you until I ditch the bitch.” Except he fucked up and sent it to me.

  Losing Jason isn’t what hurts most; it’s knowing how colossally I misread his character. If I can’t judge people and pick the good ones from the bad, what does my future hold?

  I should be breaking up with guys because I realize that I’ll never like country music or be able to understand LARPing. Ending a relationship because you find out after a year that a guy considers you trash is like buying a shovel the week after a blizzard.

  How sure can I be about any of my judgments? Do I actually know what a fair price is or if the bestseller I just read was actually good? Are my clients and coworkers nice to my face but hate on me behind my back? My world has been rocked to its core by one asshole and his stupid camera.

  My judgment is so off; maybe this epidemic really is the zombie apocalypse? When the newscaster looked at his notes and carefully called it a disease, I assumed it was a controlled situation.

  Most people wouldn’t distinguish between infection and disease. They hear either and assume sick. Subconsciously, they know that a disease is not necessarily contagious, so they can worry about the patient but not fear for themselves. My father taught me to recognize subtle nuances in word choice.

  We also know that an infection can spread. One infected person gets others around them infected, and so on. Infections are fast and scary you worry about those that are infected and everyone else.

  When an infection gets as bad as what is being reported, the sick are eating people alive, you also worry about each person you meet. Are they infected but not showing symptoms yet? Where have they been before this? Am I going to get the plague simply by breathing the same air as this person?

  But maybe I’m just making all of this up? I don’t know how to judge anything. I am a full-fledged idiot. Which is why I was out drinking until sunrise.

  The noise hits first, followed by a rumbling strong enough to knock pictures off the shelf. I rush to my window and throw open the light-blocking drapes that allowed me to sleep for most of the day.

  Again I am reminded of what an idiot I am. Unless the building across the street is collapsing, I’m not going to see anything. Struggling art dealers don’t get apartments with a view in New York.

  The building across the street is not collapsing. In fact, I can barely even see the sky from my window. One thing I can see is the street, which is empty. That simply does not happen in New York. Every street in the city that never sleeps has at least something going on.

  Holy shit, this could be real.

  In the future, when people ask me how I survived the zombie invasion, can I really tell them I slept through it?

  If ever there was an incentive to get over a breakup, I guess this is it. Hopefully battling zombies is as therapeutic as pints of ice cream and romantic comedies. Maybe I shouldn’t jump right into battling zombies, though; signing up for spin classes is not the same as actually going.

  Yeah! Idiot status confirmed.

  The runner that comes into my view looks a little weird, but hey, this is New York. He—I think it’s a guy—is running faster than I’m used to seeing, but what do I know? I’m not a runner. At any rate, nobody would be out jogging in the middle of a real zombie apocalypse.

  I leave the window and go get my phone. Maybe if it’s safe to go out for a run, cell service is back and I can call my parents.

  Nothing. I quickly call through my list of top contacts and get a couple of voicemails, but mostly dead air. Now I’m back to staring at my recent calls list to see if anyone has tried to reach me. Thankfully Jason’s name has aged off my first screen, but all the activity is outbound. S
eriously though, why didn’t anyone try and call me? Where is my dad, he always checks in on me over the weekend?

  While I fire off a few texts, I walk back to the window.

  Checking the street for more activity brings me a sense of normalcy. There is another runner, also going surprisingly fast. Maybe there is a neighborhood road race toady? That would explain the low car traffic and the fast running.

  And that family that’s struggling to get down the street.

  I kind of get exercising as a family, but this is extreme. These parents are actually dragging their kids along the street. If mom and dad want to win the race that bad, why not leave your four-year-old with a sitter? The way they’re wrenching the kids’ arm is borderline child abuse. But hey, they’re ahead of the sizable pack by almost two blocks.

  I’m a little bit embarrassed that this helps me feel better about myself. My childhood was awesome. Dad was a bit of a loud cheerer at field hockey games but he never would have dragged me along a city street to win some stupid neighborhood race. If this family loses the “coveted” family trophy, I wonder who will get scolded worse, the big kid or the little one.

  Oops, the big kid tripped. They are right in front of my building so I can see it all. I giggle a little, knowing that I have my answer. Hopefully the abuse is just verbal.

  Mom and dad appear to be screaming at the poor kid right there on the street. Do I dare open the window and try to listen? They do an awkward scream-drag-pause cycle. Is winning a race really this important?

  Listening in on a family in turmoil isn’t that bad. No one will ever know and hey, it’s a free country. I can open my window whenever I want. Sheepishly, I slide the window open and focus my listening.

  “GET UP!” The dad’s voice is clear and his urgency is palpable.

  “Please GOD, PLEASE!” The mom sounds like she’s having a breakdown.

  The verbal pleas are repeated over and over. I can’t hear the poor kid, but I have to assume he’s crying. I know I would be.