Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Since the Sirens
Read Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Since the Sirens Online
Authors: E.E. Isherwood
Tags: #Zombie Apocalypse
Since the Sirens:
Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 1
Copyright 2015 and Published by E.E. Isherwood
When the end came, everyone left alive found their own
religion.
The dead, however, became militant atheists.
Chapter 13: The Hole Nightmares Fall Out Of
1: CIV
Martinette Peters was standing in front of her oven, thinking about cooking. While she had done that very thing tens of thousands of times throughout her life, this morning was different. Troublesome.
Normally, her breakfast was prepared by Angie—the nurse who lived in the flat upstairs. But today she didn't come down at her normal time, and she wouldn't answer repeated inquiries on the intercom or telephone. Marty waited as long as she could to see if she'd show up, but after an hour she decided to try to cook something for herself. What was once second nature now required proper planning.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast. The same thing Angie had made for her the past two years. Every day. Without fail.
Standing in the kitchen she came to a sad realization. She studied the cabinets, the pantry, and her cooking dishes. Everything she needed was far above her. Either Angie had intentionally placed everything on shelves out of her reach, or she was growing shorter...
She walked from the kitchen, holding a bag of bread. That, mercifully, was within her grasp on the counter. The phone rang as she guided herself into her comfy chair. Was it Angie?
“This is the Metropolitan Police Department, City of St.
Louis, with an emergency alert. Violent disturbances have been
reported in multiple locations within St. Louis city limits. There is
risk of violence or death to any participants or bystanders. If you
are hearing this message, we urge immediate evacuation to safer
jurisdictions. Follow instructions from city or police officials in
your neighborhood. Be alert for additional emergency messages.
(pause) This is the Metropolitan...”
While shifting in her seat, the robocall repeated through
the answering machine. She screened everything these days, responding
at her leisure, if at all. Despite having many friends and relatives,
she seldom had energy for chit-chatting. At 104 years of age she
assured herself it was okay to be picky.
The announcement finally ended with a beep, leaving her to her
thoughts.
As if I'm going to run for the hills!
She glanced at the two-wheeled walker in the corner, tennis
ball-swathed feet fresh and yellow—she hated using that big
device. If she was going to chance an escape, which she certainly was
not, she'd use the smaller, quad-footed cane sitting by her side.
Though despising that thing too, she grudgingly admitted it helped
her get around more effectively than grasping at walls and furniture
while patrolling the cozy single-level flat.
Ignoring the instructions, she resumed cross-stitching under the
timeless rhythm of the wall clock. Angie would call sooner or later, and then the day would start properly.
It wasn't long after the phone alert when she heard a great
banging sound from the front of the apartment. To her
hearing-amplified ears it sounded like someone had fallen down the
stairs leading to the upstairs flat. Over the years she'd heard many
things dropped down those stairs, including many by her own
grandchildren who just loved playing on them despite her stern
admonitions. Over those years she had also come to know the sound of
someone tripping up the stairs, or falling down the steep flight.
This was a case of the latter.
“Probably Angie, I sure hope she's OK.”
Getting up, she patiently grasped her cane, pushing up on the
armchair with her free hand. Normally it was Angie, her friend and
nurse, who would come down to help her when she had trouble getting
out of her chair after being comfortable for too long. They had an
intercom system rigged in every room so they could communicate
between floors. This time she was able to make the transition from
sit to stand unaided.
She lamented that if someone up front was counting on her to help
them quickly, her kyphotic back and sub-five-foot stature would
incite panic once they realized how slow she was. Her gait was a slow
shuffle at best—foot, foot, cane. It was, however, very steady
most of the time. That at least would give the desperately injured
some modicum of hope of eventual rescue.
She hurried—in her own way—to the potential fall
victim. At a snail's pace she passed her curio cabinet and shelves of
fine China in her dining room, and emerged in her front living room.
She steadied herself on a big armchair then pushed off to the last
stop; the pair of doors at the very front foyer of her home.
Perhaps her family was right about needing a smaller place to
live, but she wasn't ready to abandon the home she'd shared with her
husband of 68 years. No way she was going to be consumed by a dank
retirement home. No, her next stop would be Heaven. However, as a
compromise with her family, she allowed them to hire Angie as her
full-time nurse. She lived in the upstairs flat, and Marty's heart
sank at the thought of her assistant lying at the bottom of those
steps.
Lord help us!
When Marty reached the door she was gratified to hear noises on
the other side, though she couldn't explain why her first thought was
that Angie would be dead after such a tumble; she could tell Angie
had fallen now. Soft moans and scratching at her door indicated this
was indeed an emergency. She steeled herself to see the fallen
victim. The door opened inward into the Marty's flat so there was no
fear of further hurting Angie with the door itself.
“Oh my, Angie. Are you alright?”
Angie had fallen down the stairs sure enough, but she had larger
problems than a mere fall. Her skin was ashen and her eyes were
bloodshot—or bloody, it was hard to tell—and her usual
perfectly manicured hair was sitting in greasy knots. Her
light-colored nightgown was soaked with sweat, and had many red
streaks and blotches from top to bottom. The 60-ish nurse now looked
almost skeletal and her emotional state wasn't the expected
embarrassment or agony from the fall, but was instead...anger? Her
right foot was clearly broken from the fall—it was now pointing
in the wrong direction.
Why isn't she screaming?
While she scoffed at the warning on the phone, she was aware of
the panic sweeping the nation and she was even aware of the mystery
Ebola-like sickness which so troubled many of her family members.
They were at her flat just last night urging her to come stay with
them until it all blew over. She demurred, declaring she felt
perfectly safe for the time being. She assured them if things got
really bad
she'd oblige them on their offer. Secretly she felt
it couldn't possibly get bad enough for her to leave. For someone who
had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, Vietnam, and
the War on Terror, she did not panic or scare easily.
She wasn't panicking now, but she was hasty about shutting the
door.
“I'm sorry Angie. You aren't looking right. I'll call 911
and get you some help.”
Before she could get the door fully closed, Angie stuck her arm
and shoulder into the void to reach for her, preventing a good seal.
“My lands!” It was as close as Marty came to cussing.
2
A woman of 104 would find it impossible to kick or shove a person
lying on the floor hard enough to get them back through an open door.
It would be difficult for someone half her age. Recognizing this,
Marty released the door and did the only sensible thing she could at
that moment—she began walking away.
Perhaps it was habit, or maybe just a little bit of panic creeping
in, but she began walking deeper into her flat rather than step out
the front door to the relative safety of her front porch. As she
moved for several seconds she realized her mistake and partly turned
around to see if she could still slip out the front door—and
was disappointed to see Angie slithering into her flat, blocking
escape that direction. She had a malicious look to her that Marty had
never seen before on her friend's face. And she was struggling to get
off the floor.
“Angie you are hurt badly and aren't yourself. Please wait
where you are and I'll call a doctor.”
Pushing herself, Marty had several moments to consider her options
as she moved deeper into her domicile. She knew Angie was probably
infected with heaven-knows-what, though it was beyond her reckoning
how anyone sick or healthy could lay there with a broken ankle and
not make a peep. She understood she was now in mortal danger. Working
her cane with her left hand, her free hand was in her pocket holding
her Rosary again. At her age Death was never far away, and the Rosary
was an important reminder of her faith she always kept close, but
this was not how she wanted her story to end. She needed a plan.
She could easily lock herself in any room of the house—a
bathroom would be the best choice for now—but she couldn't help
wonder how strong Angie might be. If she could survive a broken ankle
and not complain, what if she could survive banging her head on the
thin wooden doors? The growling sounds of the sick woman behind her
spurred her to continue onward without stopping to consider potential
side routes.
“I'll just be a moment Angie,” she said aloud.
She walked into the kitchen at the back of the house, looking
around frantically for something to help her. Her heart was beating
hard at the effort to simply walk at such a brisk pace. She scanned
the kitchen table, the oven area, and the open door to the
basement—Liam lived down there, but he was gone for the day to
the library. She would never be able to get down all those steps. Her
eyes finally fell on her impressive collection of kitchen cutlery and
she again chuckled to herself at a funny thought.
Maybe I could fight her with a knife? Ha!
She knew it would be futile to try to fight. And her painfully
slow progress forward brought her near the back door, her only real
option left. Going into the backyard was a definite option, but that
would put her outside her own house for who-knows-how-long. What
about food, water, her pain medications, the telephone? Could she
survive until Liam returned? The shuffling noises entering the
kitchen made up her mind for her.
With great aplomb she slid out the solid back door, quickly
pulling it shut behind her. The exterior screen door slowly followed
suit. Did she hear a bang on the other side? She was now on her back
porch. The concrete area was a flat, open space with a small awning
overhead providing limited shade for a few chairs and one large
freestanding porch swing she kept around mainly for the
grandchildren. She liked this flat for a lot of reasons, but a big
one now was how few stairs she had to use. The bright-eyed Marty who
moved in all those years ago never imagined she'd still be here at
104 with a disdain for steps.
She hobbled now, her back starting to flare up in pain, to the
closed window near the back door so she could get a look back inside
at her squatter. She had to put her face up against the glass to see
through the glare of the morning sunshine. Her cane with its four
small feet waited patiently at her side.
Angie was right up in the window looking back at her!
Oh my! Poor Angie.
Getting a better look at her, Marty could see Angie had to be
standing on her broken foot. She was banging herself against the
window quite forcefully, the interior screen frame already having
become ripped and bent. The only thought she had at that moment was
how much pain the poor lady must be suffering with that broken foot.
Marty moved away from the window to consider what to do next. She
quickly ran through a Hail Mary prayer, not for herself but for
Angie—clearly the more endangered soul. Next she sat in the
sturdy armchair on her back porch. She knew she'd have trouble
getting back up, but there was no choice but to take a quick rest.
And think.
