There are footsteps behind me, soft sounds coming across the crunchy grass. I know it’s not one of the undead. Their footsteps are never even, there’s always a limp or a drag or a stutter to the step. I know, in fact, exactly who it is, but I don’t want to turn around to face him. The warmth of his presence is preceded by a few whistled bars of a Mary Poppins tune. A song about kites never sounded so doleful.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, gently.
“Too crowded in the tent,” I say.
“I know you’re upset. You don’t have to lie to me,” Collin says, standing very close. The same familiar scent, and an unfamiliar, unwelcome jolt of desire. “Just because … things are different, it doesn’t mean you have to lie.”
“Okay.”
“You’re hurt. I saw when we were putting up the tents. You could’ve just rested, you know.”
“I know.”
“Is it bad?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I wish he would leave. I wish he would take his warmth and his concern and his goddamn accent somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Somewhere not so tempting. “Probably just a cracked rib or something.”
“You and Ned were a bit vague about the particulars. I had a feeling it was intentional. You don’t have to elaborate if you don’t—”
“I killed someone,” I say.
“The guard, yes. He mentioned you … sort of … knocking her out.”
“I didn’t knock her out, Collin. I strangled her with my computer cord. I strangled her and then … then her blood was all over my hands. She was suffocating me, crushing me against the wall. It was her or me, her or me. And it was almost me.”
“Christ. Maybe I didn’t want to know that.”
“I killed Zack. I killed … others. I feel hideous.”
“You’re not, I promise. I can’t take my eyes off you.”
“Sure you can,” I say. “You’ve got your wife back. Everything is good again.”
“You know I don’t think that,” he says, laughing bitterly. “I don’t know what to say because I’m afraid I’ll just … I’m afraid you’ll think I’m a very bad person. But I don’t know what you think, do I?”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I tell him. “Let’s just … I don’t know.… Let’s just keep some distance. It’d make things easier on me.”
Collin’s quiet then but he won’t go away. I should tell him I’m afraid, that I really do want to be with him, but the chance that he’ll refuse me, rebuff me …
He looks distant, his face resolving itself into a death mask, pale and aloof, the unexpectedly attractive and unmovable gaze of a pharaoh staring out from his painted coffin. We stand together in the stark, shattering cold, neither of us wanting to break, to bend, to talk. This is why I want to leave, I say to him in my mind, because I can’t be around you; I can’t be around you and not want you to myself.
I hear his breath catch and I think maybe he’s spotted a wandering Groaner. But then I see it, at the bottom of the hill, bright and strange and completely out of place. It’s so unexpected that for a moment I don’t believe that it’s really there. Maybe it’s an illusion, a shared hallucination, just a vision in the mist.
A black and white horse, a zebra, blinks up at us from the base of the hill.
“God,” he says. “It’s so beautiful.”
And then I remember where we are, the paths, the benches, the mangled street signs and why the park looked familiar. It’s Henry Vilas Park. My mom took me here twice when I was a little kid, and just next door, butting right up against the park with its jungle gyms and picnic tables and pretty benches is the Henry Vilas Park Zoo.
As it trots to the base of the hill, the zebra seems to sense us up on the hill watching it. It stops, turning a complete circle, its hooves muffled on the cold, hard ground, and then stares at us. The long, striped nose is lowered and then tipped to the side as it regards us, the black eyes closing and opening with that disturbing, equine sensitivity. I know, it seems to say. I’m lost too.
I wonder how many of the animals have survived, if there are tigers and elephants and giraffes waiting in the mist too. The thought doesn’t last for long. Collin takes my hand and holds it, not pressing, just cradling.
“Do you hate me?” he whispers.
“No. No, it isn’t your fault.”
Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s the chill mist hovering at the bottom of the hill. Or maybe it’s the beast watching us, the stranger, the thing that doesn’t belong, the thing so far away from its home and so totally out of place. Whatever it is, we’re kissing and the pain in my chest is there again but this time it’s different and it’s not my ribs.
I must be exhausted because my reaction time is terrible. There are voices, angry, shouting voices, but I’m not going anywhere, as if I’ve suddenly been submerged in a murky pool of water. The voices are muted, contorted, but I don’t want to let go … Not now … Not this minute … His lips have stunned me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
It’s Lydia. She’s screaming and waving her arms and pushing me. I don’t hit back. I want to hit back. I look down the hill and watch the zebra disappear back into the mist, startled back into hiding, startled into reality.
“Calm down, Lydia. Just calm down.”
They’re fighting, sighing, rolling their eyes at each other. I stand off to the side and watch, alarmed by how fed up I feel, how detached and sad I’ve become. It isn’t the right moment for a revelation like that but it doesn’t matter. I turn away, let them continue the argument. Lydia says something like “Come back here, don’t you dare walk away from me.” But I go back to the tent and quietly take a piece of paper out of my laptop bag. I take a pen and, squinting into the darkness, draw a line down the center and, at the top, write: PROS & CONS.
A few minutes later it looks something like this:
PROS
I like Ted.
I like Ned.
I like Evan and Mikey.
I like Renny.
I love Collin.
Collin and Finn have weapons and knowledge.
Strength in numbers
Vehicles
CONS
Lydia.
More mouths to feed
More people, more noise
Lydia.
Bickering and dissent
Attachment
Pandering
Lydia.
My mom is out there.
I didn’t even need to make the list. Just thinking about it all, just writing this has convinced me that I know what I want to do. It isn’t an easy decision and I know it won’t be a popular one, but it’s my life, my survival and I’m determined to be proactive even in the face of so many … complications.
Tomorrow I’ll tell the others. I’ll stand in front of them, take a deep breath and say: I’ve decided to go it alone. Thank you for your help, thank you for being my friends but it’s time for me to go. My mother is out there somewhere, and I’m going to find her or die trying. I’ve waited too long as it is. Don’t look for a postcard, there won’t be one.
Then I’ll take Dapper, my laptop bag and my ax and I’ll find my mom’s house and make sure she isn’t there. I’ll forget about Collin. I’ll find my mother because I owe it to her. I’ll find her because it’s time.
But for now I need to rest, friends, and so do all of you. Stay safe, stay alert and stay in touch. I’ll write again soon when I’ve reached another safe place, another stop on the way forward.
COMMENTS
steveinchicago says:
October 29, 2009 at 3:06 pm
I had your optimism for so long, and I don’t mean in comparison, your optimistic and usually cheerful demeanor regarding the circumstances we’ve been put in were a beacon of inspiration. Still not knowing why we keep up this charade of normalcy could have only ever lasted so long and now we here see what can happen from being too generous and welcoming in the face of extinction. I hate to say it but I feel
so bad that there were people like you and collin … people like me … that were generous and helpful in the time when we shouldn’t have been. Maybe I was lucky, maybe we were lucky to have not been brave enough to try to find a bigger shelter and some more permanent holdout.
Allison, don’t leave them … they need you as much as you want them.
Norway says:
October 29, 2009 at 4:21 pm
Good luck! I’m not sure I agree with your decision, but if you can find the coast, and a boat, we have a nice, warm, dry, spacious and Lydia-free cave over here on the other side of the Atlantic. Same goes for anyone else in the neighbourhood. We have a radio signal, scouts say it transmits fine to the coast.
Allison says:
October 29, 2009 at 4:46 pm
That’s very tempting! You’re the third survivor to suggest a boat but I’m not much of a sailor. We’re also tragically landlocked here. Maybe your post will attract some help; the people around here seem to know the score.
October 30, 2009—Housekeeping
Maybe I’m selfish or reckless or both, but honestly? I can live with that.
Ted and Renny are fast asleep when I get up. Dapper is too, but he doesn’t protest much when I nudge him to get out of the tent. It’s early, only a few hours after going back to bed, and I haven’t slept much at all. We sleep in our clothes, in our shoes, in our coats. I don’t have much to take with me and it doesn’t seem right to take their food or their supplies so I just take my ax and my laptop bag and a few granola bars. There will be places to ransack, to pilfer, I tell myself, and they won’t suffer much without me, not when they have Captain Commando and Ned I-Can-Hit-A-Splintered-Toothpick-At-Thirty-Yards Stockton. I’m injured, and a lousy shot anyway.
I stretch and do a few careful jumping jacks on the crunchy, frosty ground. I’m getting used to the feeling of being cold all the time and of living with that little twisted pit of hunger in my stomach. I’ve taken on the life of just about every Dickens character I can think of. Dapper sits and scratches his ear, unperturbed by my morning calisthenics and unaware that soon, very soon, he won’t get to steal food out of Evan’s little hand or clean Ted’s palms after he’s eaten a bag of cheese puffs.
I try not to think about those things. I try to forget that in a matter of minutes, as soon as I dip down below the hill and make it behind a building or two, there will be no more Ted, no more Collin and no more ankle biters. I can’t let Ted know I’m leaving. He knows about Liberty Village and he’ll try to follow. I can’t let that happen. It’s sad, sure, but sadness and hunger are hard to tease apart this early in the morning. The grass is stiff and loud as I take a deep breath and set off down the hill. I think, judging by the sunrise, I’m heading vaguely east. There are no zebras in the mist this morning, no lions or giraffes, and no humans to stop me.
Before I make for Colorado I’ve got to be sure, certain, that my mom has left for good. It doesn’t feel right to get on the road without first checking my house. She could still be there waiting for me.
I lost my mother’s purse long ago, gone in the fires at the arena, but it doesn’t matter. I know that Post-it by heart and I’ll never forget it.
There’s a zip-crack in the distance, Finn’s sniper rifle. I know it’s him because he’s in love with that gun and Collin generally uses an assault rifle that sounds more like rat-ki-tat. Finn must have switched guard duty with Collin sometime in the night. I pick up the pace, trotting down the hill and toward a cluster of trees at the base of the hill. If Finn mistakes me for one of the undead then my little adventure will be very short-lived. I make it to the trees, my heart pounding, my lungs practically breaking with the soreness of my ribs. I keep hoping that there’s nothing really wrong with me, that the sprain or break will heal on its own, that I’m not quietly, secretly bleeding to death of some horrible internal injury.
Dapper stays close, his nose more or less glued to the back of my knee as I slow down and head toward the street. It’s real now. I’ve put distance between me and the camp and going back would mean an extra awkward conversation with the group. I won’t go back, I won’t.
I don’t know if they’ll guess where I’ve gone, but it doesn’t matter; no one knows how to get there. I cross what must be Wingra Street and turn south toward Erin Street. For now I’ll just have to guess, because most of the distinguishing features of the neighborhood have been destroyed by fire. The buildings and brownstones are nothing but charred, hollowed-out skeletons with the broken windows empty, staring down at the forlorn street, standing watch over the fallen mailboxes and stopped cars.
The roads are quiet until I get to Orchard, where a group of Groaners move up the right lane toward me. There’s three of them and they’ve got that disjointed, desperate speed that tells me they’re starving. Luckily it also means they’re weak and clumsy and too distracted by their own driving hunger to be much of a threat. And it doesn’t bother me. Not anymore. I can’t even imagine what a psychologist would have to say about that. I can look at a decomposing human, a person reduced to meat, to flesh and bone and their raw, brittle parts and feel only the faintest pang of revulsion.
Luckily, whatever part of Dapper is German shepherd makes him a natural at commands. I’ve taught him sit and stay and he does, his tail twitching with excitement and frustration as I take the ax to the three Groaners. He wants to help, to defend me, but if he so much as licks one of them I’ll be short a good dog and a loyal companion.
I’m out of breath after that, the ax hanging limply in my right hand. Without sleep, without enough food, I’m not much use against the undead. It hurts to pull a full breath into my lungs and the pain has made my arms weak. I make a promise to treat myself better, to eat more and exercise and regain the strength that I’ve lost. There’s no room for mistakes now, no one to pick up the slack for me if I stumble or hesitate.
Taking a rest, I kneel down and carefully clean the ax on one of the Groaner’s torn Windbreakers. I’m worried Dapper will try to lick it and get himself sick.
It takes us another thirty minutes to get to Lowell and every time we encounter one of the wandering undead it gets harder and harder to swing the ax. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have waited until I was stronger, healed, before striking out on my own. Who will keep watch while I sleep? Dapper? Suddenly, martyrdom seems significantly less glamorous and a lot more like a slow, creeping death.
It’s quiet on Lowell Street, which is simultaneously encouraging and a little alarming. There’s not a normal human being to be found, no wandering dogs, nothing to indicate that life remains. I’m not used to seeing the neighborhood like this—still, silent, filled up with wind and the eerie sense that time passes here with no one to mark its movement. I had seen it like this a few times before; whenever the St. Patrick’s Day Parade or Easter Hat Parade rolled around, the houses would empty out early in the morning and no one would return until lunchtime. But at least then there was the promise of return, the feeling that soon the neighbors would walk up the drive, tired or sunburned, but pleasantly so.
Like every other neighborhood we’ve slogged through, there are signs of a hasty retreat: front doors hang open, windows have been smashed and never replaced, SUVs and sedans clutter up the yards where escapes failed or the driver simply abandoned the car. The grass has grown long, tickling the top fenders of the SUVs, growing up and out as if to swallow the cars or turn them into ancient, tattered monuments to What Once Was.
The Hewitt residence is more than halfway down the block on the right side. It’s not a big house but I’ve always loved it. It’s just big enough to feel spacious and cozy enough to feel personal and loved and lived-in, like an oversized pair of knobby old house slippers. There are no Groaners here and no Floaters, just the sound of morning moving forward and a few birds greeting the sun as it winks at the city and then moves behind a bank of clouds. It’s an old brick two-story house with a sharply slanted roof and a porch with white, wooden railings. We always
had plans to make it a screened-in porch to keep the mosquitoes out during the summer. We talked about getting the New Yorker and some mint juleps and reading aloud to each other on the muggy July nights when there was nothing to do but sit and bask in the wet, dizzy heat.
There’s a flag still hanging outside our house, a big white flag with a green peace sign. My mom was always a serious hippie and I could never convince her to get rid of that stupid flag. It seems vulgar now, swinging there, blaring a message of peace that means nothing at all anymore.
The car is gone, the garage door shut. I tell myself this is a good sign. I look for all kinds of signs, clues, hints that will tell me where she is, if she’s come back here or not. And like all signs, like all palm-readers and self-styled mystics, I’m grasping in the dark. But it’s an earnest grasping and I can’t seem to stop. The mailbox is empty and most of the windows are still okay. When I get onto the porch there are brown stains on the wood floor but that doesn’t necessarily mean something bad happened. It could be anything. Anything.
I have to kick the door down. That makes me smile. What a tender touch, Mom, locking the door when Armageddon is coming for you. Inside it stinks, but it’s a human kind of stink, a stench I recognize by now. There’s food somewhere that’s spoiled and the dirty dishes in the sink have begun a new and exciting mold colony. Tiny untold worlds have sprung up all over the house—cobwebs, mold, a trail of leaves leading to a broken window. But there’s no sign of my mother, just a sense that things were left in a hurry.
“Mom?” I call, being careful not to be too loud, to draw too much attention. “Mom, you there? It’s Allison.”
There’s a line of shoes against the wall of the mudroom but her gardening work boots are missing. Our matching flip-flops are there, reminding me again of the way we relished summer, the way we made it our own and squeezed every last warm, lazy day out of it.
Now there’s the smell of rotten milk and it doesn’t matter that the refrigerator door is closed because the decay, the rot, is everywhere. The spiders have made good use of the kitchen, constructing webs in every corner, stringing their houses from faucet to knob, from cookbook to fruit bowl. There are two black, caved-in apples in that bowl and a folded card next to it.
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped Page 21