My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (3 page)

Later—

While I was in the midst of my hot blooded sexual reverie, the world was falling apart.

The virus is now being reported in nearly every major metropolitan area. Atlanta. Phoenix. Miami. Chicago. New Orleans. Los Angeles. Overnight, the federal government shut down all the airports. Most of the major cities—and some minor ones—have declared martial law. No one is allowed outside after dark—and this time of year, dark comes pretty early. Blockades are being set up across major interstates to stop people from traveling.

The President came on TV and did the usual effing political BS about staying calm, order will be restored, sacrifices have to be made, the situation is being dealt with, we will prevail, be patient, etc. I call bullshit.

The media is doing the usual share of reporting based on emotion. Rather than spending time interviewing scientists and doctors, they’re focusing on the
‘matters of the heart’
aspect: interviewing sobbing mothers separated from their children, wives who can’t reach their husbands, that sort of reporting. Emotional drivel that doesn’t help
anyone.

People are attempting to bypass the blockades by taking back roads. Little-used country roads are sometimes bumper to bumper. And to make it worse, most of the gas stations are closed—the gas tankers have quit delivering. I wonder if Clone’s is still open.

October 10
th

I don’t trust the TV stations. They don’t sound the same. And there are a lot fewer commercials. Like many, I’m convinced they’re under government control. The news outlets are all basically giving the same message: do not panic, stay inside and the government will get everything under control in a jiffy. But a cursory surf of the net shows otherwise. Facebook was either shut down a few hours ago, or their servers couldn’t handle the traffic. On YouTube people had been posting photos and videos of the traffic gridlock and footage of zombie attacks. That’s what everyone calls them. It was funny the first couple of times. It’s not so funny now.

Detroit is infected. Detroit!—less than fifty miles from here. People are starting to panic, and the grocery stores are a madhouse but shelves are nearly empty. I’m glad I’m already stocked up.

For years I’ve been spent reading dark, frightening and sometimes apocalyptic books. Books like
Thirty Seconds Later, the Hot Zone
(all the more frightening because it was non-fiction),
the Doomsday Book, The Road, No Country for Old Men.
Even though it was sometimes grisly reading, it caused me to evaluate my living situation and to ponder what I should do to prepare—just in case. Perhaps I was only looking for something to distract me from my grief, but if I hadn’t prepared, I’d be a whole lot more worried than I am. Without those books and my own depressed and pessimistic view of the world, I wouldn’t have spent the money on the solar panels, supplying the storeroom, turning this basement into a survival bunker or
bomb shelter
as they used to call them back during the Cold War. I had no idea anything was going to happen so soon, and can’t believe how lucky I am to have gotten as much done as I did before the bottom dropped out. The one thing I didn’t do was make this place radiation proof—funny how it’s not much of a worry these days.

I saw the Seton family across the street pack up their SUV and screech out of their driveway. I don’t know where they’re headed, maybe to their lake house at Boyne Falls. Maybe somewhere even more remote. Maybe they have connections with a survivalist’s camp where they hope to be safe.

About a half hour ago, a patrol car cruised slowly down the street. First one I’ve seen today. No one in the neighborhood is outside. I occasionally see slight movement of a curtain or a blind as someone looks out. For all I know, they see my curtain move when I look out. It’ll be dark in another hour or so and I think people are afraid something bad might happen, and don’t want anyone to know they’re home. I know it entered my mind.

I’m going through the house, sealing off the windows with black plastic, hoping to prevent any light from leaking out. Using black makes the window look dark; using foil calls attention to the fact that you blocked out your windows. I have a moveable flap of overlapping plastic a couple inches wide on each window so I can (hopefully) go unnoticed as I peek outside to watch the neighborhood.

I unplugged all the lamps just to make sure I don’t accidentally turn any lights on. I don’t watch the TV up here, I only watch it downstairs. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. If the wrong people had any idea about the food and booze I have, they’d try to take it by force. Hell, I’ve watched
Twilight Zone
, I know how formerly good neighbors can suddenly turn into
the wrong people.
Now I understand the need for weapons. Not to attack, but to defend.

I’ve scrutinized the trap door into the basement. Unless you know
exactly
where to look, you would never suspect it’s there. And I was very smart when I left the original entrance to the unfinished basement intact—anyone looking for a basement would go downstairs, only to find it cluttered and unfinished with an old, rusty washer and an empty chest freezer that’s not plugged in.

I’m moving the last of my things into the basement. With the windows blacked out I can still come up into the house whenever I want, but once I start living there I’ll need to restrict how often I come up. I need to quit writing now so I can get more done. If my intuition is right, I’ll have plenty of time to write before long.

October 13
th
             

Nearly all the stuff has been moved into the basement. I’ve checked and rechecked everything—the power, the gas, the water and composting toilet. The basement is quiet, a bit too quiet, but the fan in the grow room provides white noise so I should sleep okay.

I watched the street from upstairs for a while. I’ve seen cars driving by, sometimes filled with people just gawking, like they’re hoping to see something horrible.

I saw an SUV stop about a half-block up yesterday. Three guys got out and went into a deserted house (I think it’s deserted). A few minutes later they came back out, carrying stuff they loaded into the car. One guy wrestled a big TV into the trunk. What good is a TV when the power goes out?

My first reaction was to pick up the phone and call the police, but the land line quit working a couple days ago and I’m no longer getting any signal on my cell. Where are the cops? Where is the National Guard?

My second reaction was to head downstairs. It already feels safer.

A few hours ago I saw a small knot of men walking down the street. I got the impression they were looking for trouble. One guy carried a rifle. I stayed out of sight, although I do have my .22 in its holster, strapped to my hip. I feel stupid wearing it, like I’m nothing but a poser, which I guess I am. I don’t know if I could hold it steady enough to even aim. Were those guys looking for someone to mess with? Were they an ad hoc neighborhood watch?

October 16
th
             

The leaves are rustling in the trees and falling in a colorful shower, the air is cool, the moon is three-quarters and waxing. By all rights, this should be a beautiful day for fudgies to drive north for color tours. But this year there are no fudgies, no art- or harvest-festivals, no color tours, no wine tastings.

Perhaps
the only upside is not having to endure political campaign commercials and mailings and ads stuck in my front door. Politics likely got us into this mess; it sure as hell didn’t get us out. To hear empty promises and spurious finger-pointing would be more than I could stomach.

I haven’t made downstairs my permanent home yet. I slept down there a couple of nights, but I usually sleep in my bed. The nights I spent weren’t very restful—just being in a room with different acoustics is enough to throw off my sleep patterns.

I think it might be time to make it a habit though. Things aren’t improving. It’s impossible to say when order will be restored, and when it will be safe to go out again.

I’m upstairs. Satellite TV is out. The local broadcast channels are out as well. The internet is down. It feels very strange. I feel absolutely cut off. I was smart enough to start DVRing the news, so when I have time I’ll be able to see what the last few hours of news broadcasts were like. But current news is gone—no TV broadcasts, no ability to Youtube or Google—it’s only a mystery what’s happening across the world, much less in Ann Arbor. The only signals I pick up on the radio are looped broadcasts warning everyone to stay indoors, martial law is in effect, violators will be arrested, looters will be shot. Stay inside and wait for the authorities to restore order. I think if someone isn’t set up like I am, following that advice is lunacy. Doing nothing is what cows do on their way to the slaughter house. You’d be waiting to starve to death, or find a stranger pointing a gun at your head while he steals your food or rapes your wife or daughter. Or you.

Something’s going on near Michelle’s house. I heard what sounded like screams and gunshots. I’m going to check it out.

Later—

I checked the window facing her house. It looked like a house was burning a few blocks over. Smoke filled the sky and washed over the neighborhood, but I heard no sirens and saw no fire engines go by. While I was watching, the electricity went out.

I didn’t see any activity in or around Michelle’s house, so I did what may have been a stupid thing—I got a piece of paper and wrote ARE YOU OKAY?, then taped it on the window under the plastic so she might see it. I prowled around the house, peeking out other windows, and every few minutes checked back. After about thirty minutes, I could see her pacing back and forth in her bedroom, and when she glanced toward my window I took down some of the paper and waved to her.

She looked very upset, like she was barely holding it together. I thought for a couple of seconds and made a decision I hope I don’t come to regret. I wrote MY SIDE DOOR on another piece of paper and held it up. Then I pantomimed pointing at my watch and held up two fingers. I pointed down the gate in her fence between our yards. From her door to mine it’s only forty feet or so. She made the okay sign with her thumb and fingers. I waved and blocked the window again.

It’s 1:50 now. I hope she’s smart enough to make sure no one’s around when she runs between our houses. I don’t know what I’ll be able to do for her. I don’t know why she’s so agitated. I don’t know what she needs. I don’t know anything. I’m tense, and I’m entering uncharted waters. Heaven help me, I pray I haven’t made a huge mistake by reaching out to her. When will I learn not to be a rescuer?

October 17
th

She’s here now, uneasily sleeping in my bed. She keeps tossing and turning. I’m trying to stay awake in case she has a nightmare or sleep walks or something. How should I know what her sleeping habits are?

Yesterday ended up being quite an ordeal. I had initially figured someone tried to break into her house, or maybe she’d seen the house next door get broken into and was freaking out. But it turned out to be much worse. At 2:00, just as planned, I went to the side door and unbolted it. I then looked out the peep hole. Within about thirty seconds, I saw her fence gate open and she sprinted to my door. By the time I got it open, she was in a state of near panic.

She looked at me, her face pale, eyes wide. She lunged into the room and immediately began to whisper hoarsely “
Close the door! Close it!!
” While I was doing just that, she threw her body against it, causing it to slam shut. She even drew the bottom deadbolt while I locked the upper ones.

“It’s okay, Michelle, you’re safe now. They can’t get to you,” I said, still thinking she’d been threatened by an armed group of thugs.

“
Did you see them too?!”

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“I saw the guys break into a house down the street and I saw a group of guys walk by,” I said, holding on to my naiveté for an extra moment.

She was breathing so hard and fast I thought she was going to hyperventilate. She stared at me as if she didn’t know how to respond. Then she shook her head as if trying to clear it and said, “Please, we have to get away from the door! I don’t want them to hear us! We have to hide!” I still had no idea what was going on, but agreed it was a good idea to get downstairs where it was safe. I raised the trap door and she scooted under my arm and practically ran down the steps. “
Hurry! Hurry up!
” she pleaded. I closed and locked the door behind me, then hurried down the stairs.

She’s the first person to see my basement since I finished it, and I don’t think she even knew where she was. She sat in one of the arm chairs, nearly in a fetal position, her hands over her face, her whole body shaking. It looked and sounded like she was having a panic attack.

“Michelle.
Michelle!
” I said. She was unresponsive to me. It crossed my mind that she might be in shock. I went to her and open-palm slapped her. Okay, I didn’t really, but that’s what they do in the movies. Instead, I went into the storeroom, opened one of the bottles of bourbon, poured a small glass and, bottle in hand, went back into the living room. She hadn’t moved, and but had started whispering what sounded like “I don’t . . .” over and over.