The Seventh Day (8 page)

“He said they didn't know what it was but
they thought that maybe it was viral. He said it’s everywhere and not to go
near anyone.”

He nods. “Where is your mom?”

“In the closet under the stairs.”

His thick wooly brows lift but he doesn't
say anything so I do, “She might not have turned. Like your friend Jack, she
might have been genuinely sick but we couldn't tell. Joey shot her in the side,
scared to death.”

He winces and I can tell it’s not because
we shot our mom but because we had to. “Jack turned, kiddo. We saw him bite.”

“But he came back?”

He nods, shrugging bags over his shoulders.
“That he did, but we cared for him. We fed him.”

“I locked her in the closet with water. She
won’t die in the two days it should take Dad to get there. I know she was bit
on the shoulder at some point and never told me, but maybe she’ll be like Jack.
I left a note for my dad so he can find her when he gets there. He’ll care for
her.”

“If he comes.” He sighs, shaking his head.
I don't want to think that way.

When we get inside, Mrs. Milson makes us
pasta with tomato sauce, salad, and garlic bread. The smells make my mouth
water but the tastes almost make me cry. The girls eat like I’ve never seen
them do before. They gobble. It’s the only way to describe it.

“Do you have a lot of food?” she asks,
smiling down on the three girls hovering over their plates.

I shake my head. “Not a ton. I had been
thinking about going back down and stocking up when Dad came, but now I think
we should go before he gets here.”

Her eyes reveal something. It’s a hidden
something, a secret maybe. She nods along, sipping her wine. “You should just
go tomorrow and leave the girls here with me. You could both go and see if the
kids are back at our house yet.”

Mr. Milson nods. “We were discussing this
already. It snowed down there, just a dusting but it’s cold. They will have
exposure. Most will be frozen, dead, or dying. Either way, they’ll be moving a
lot slower.”

My eyes dart to the clueless little faces.
He catches my drift, nodding. We don't speak of it again. I don't want Joey to
realize I’m planning on going down there without her.

“You guys should sleep here tonight.”

The girls’ faces
lift,
covered in sauce and grins that tell me they want that. I know I do too.
Normally I’m not one for sleeping at other people’s houses—my friends
make fun of me for it. But tonight I think sleeping in a house where I’m not
responsible for everything under the sun sounds divine. It will make it easier
to slip out in the night too.

After we eat I hurry back to the cabin to
lock up properly and grab the stuffies. When Songa is in my arms, I feel like a
kid again. I tuck my gun in the back of my pants, wishing I had a holster for
it. I really don't want to shoot my ass off like I shot my foot with the arrow.

I hand the stuffed animals to the little
girls and nod at the stairs. “Bedtime.” Gus gives me sniff as I pass him
Monkey. They saunter up the stairs, pausing and looking back at me—even
the dog.

I nod. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

Joey swallows hard but she turns and climbs
the stairs to the loft.

I turn and walk into the living room to sit
across from Mrs. Milson. “What else did you guys see down there? Was there military
or police or anything?”

Her eyes narrow.
I can see them trying to conceal something again. But Mr. Milson
isn’t as deceptive. He shakes his head from the kitchen. “There were not a lot
of regular people. Anyone we saw was running scared or hiding out. The streets
were slowly filling up with the bitten. Once they turned they just stood there,
like they were waiting to be started up or switched on. When we drove past
them, they jerked three times to the right and then started chasing us.”

My stomach sinks. “Mr. Milson was telling
me about the president’s speech. Did you see it too? We missed it.”

She snorts. “Fat lot of good it did
watching that. I voted for him and everything. He’s a moron. He was all God
bless us and grant us the chance to start over when the dust settles. What
dust?
The dried blood?
Where the hell is the military
on this?”

Mr. Milson chuckles at his wife’s rant as
he joins us in the living room. “The speech was less than impressive. He truly
had no advice. He was as emotional and devastated as the rest of us.”

“Except he has an army of men to keep him
safe,” Mrs. Milson utters boldly.

“Great. So we are on our own.”

She nods aggressively. “My thoughts
exactly. I feel like there is no way the government was oblivious to this. But
then I can’t help but wonder why was most of our military not brought home? If
they knew, wouldn't they have brought them home? Or were they trying to keep
the military safe and letting the rest of us get sick? I don't even know. My
whole head is full of contrary thoughts.”

Her words make me think of my dad’s, words
I had forgotten about. “They knew. They knew this was happening. Dad said they
thought it was terrorism and banned any news on it until it was too late.”

They both stare at me blankly. I don't know
what to say to add to what I’ve said, especially not when they’re looking at me
like I’m guilty of something.

“They knew and they never warned anyone?”
Mr. Milson looks disturbed.

I nod, not understanding how a warning
would have helped anyone. We’re alive because they never warned anyone. This
mountain would be full of people—sick people—if anyone had warned
us.

Mrs. Milson shakes her head, still not
speaking.

“Where are your children?” I ask, changing
the subject. Her comment at dinner makes me think they were on their way to our
town.

They both lose the color in their already
pale faces. I instantly feel like an ass. He clears his throat and shakes his
head. “They were in New York when the city got—sick.”

Oh God.

I want to apologize but he shrugs. “They
might have gotten out. Our son is a brave firefighter. If anyone can be smart
in a situation like this one, it’s an emergency-services worker. Our daughter
was with him. They met there for a family vacation.” He looks down, mournful
for a moment. “We were supposed to meet them but my doctor wanted me to see him
about the dizzy spells I’ve been having.”

She reaches across to him, squeezing his
hand. “Our kids are fine. I know they are. Brent will get them all home safely.
It’s why I want you to go and check, in case they made it already. Our
daughter’s husband is a pilot.”

He nods, not responding. I have to assume
he has more common sense than she does.

I glance up at the ceiling. “I better go to
sleep. What time do you want to go into town?”

Mrs. Milson scowls. “Maybe you should stay
here, sweetie.”

Mr. Milson and I both open our mouths but I
protest first. “No, I need to come. I need to make sure my mom isn’t dying in
the closet because I locked her in there. I need to know if she’s like your
friend Jack.”

Her eyes lift, filling with worry. “Okay.”

He nods at me. “We leave in a couple hours.
So get some rest. I want it to be still dark when we go.”

I nod, turning and walking to the stairs. I
feel horrible. I don't think the bad feeling inside of me is going to go away.
The Milsons’ children are probably dead. My father is likely also dead. How do
you land a plane with no ground support? Did the military keep bases open for
people to land from other countries? Or did my father die in Russia, becoming a
biter too? These are things I have to face. The cold reality is starting to set
in.

I lie in my bed, snuggled into Songa and
Joey, and glance up at the wooden ceiling. “Dear God, please help me know how
to stay alive. Help me keep them alive too. Thank you for helping us
find
the Milsons. Please help our parents. Please let there
be other people like us who are still alive. Amen.” I feel like a cheater, only
praying now that the world is ending and I am the last of the rats on the
sinking ship.

I close my eyes and let sleep take me,
forcing my brain to shut off with its traitorous whisperings. I make myself see
the Milsons for what they are—a miracle. The very miracle I asked for
just last night. Maybe God is here.

Day Four

The drive down is silent. Neither of us
seems like a big talker to start with, but
add
a
zombie apocalypse and it gets worse. It’s an awkward silence and I wish I had
something to say, but I’m terrified. I’m scared for my life. I’m scared I’m
going to see a biter and know them. I’m scared I’m going to open the
under-stairs storage and my mom will be dead—or worse.

It’s weird that there are things worse than
being dead.

We don’t see a single car on the road. Not
a single person walking the road or even frozen as if waiting to be jump-started.
The whole drive down the mountain is just dark and lonely. Not even the animals
have come out.

The truck is bumpier than my SUV. The ride
is rough and loud. I feel like something is going to come rushing from the
woods because of the noise.

Mr. Milson and I haven’t spoken in the
forty minutes it takes us to get back to town. He drives fast, for an old man
with dizzy spells.

When we get to the outskirts of town he
glances over at me, speaking loudly over the sound of the Dodge truck, “This
won’t be a one-stop shop, unfortunately. We’ll drive to the warehouse for the
food
,
then we head for gas, and hit up the clinic for
medicine. And then my place to see if my kids are there, and then your mom is
last. We don't talk to anyone, we don't make noise, and we don't use our guns
unless we have to. Deal?”

I nod, pulling my gun from the front of my
backpack.

“Use the knife I gave you if you have to.”
The way he says it suggests I know what he means when he says use the knife.
But I don't. I certainly hope I don't.

Mr. Milson points as we enter the city
limits. “That sign has never given me the willies before this moment.”

It’s old and wooden, and reads,
Welcome to Laurel
, and has a bunch of
other words scratched off on the bottom. It’s not cool like the one for Billings
that's made from the huge slabs of stone.

“Yeah, no kidding.” The sign has a
foreboding feel to it. I grin sarcastically. “If this was a horror movie there
would be a bloody handprint on the sign.”

He laughs but it’s bitter. “Well, at least
they spared us that.” He drives down a road I don’t think I’ve been down in a
long time. It leads to the industrial part of town. We pass Redneck Pizza and
turn toward the flower shop. When we pass it he lifts a finger. “Hopefully no
one else has found this place.”

His words make it feel as scary as I fear it
actually is. Reality has been making a bit of a visit to me lately. My
illusions of this working out differently than I fear it is, are fading away. My
brain no longer tries to distract me with hopes that my mom is okay. Chances
are she’s dead and there’s a possibility we might die along the way. I need to
remember that.

“Make no mistake, Lou. There’s one thing we
need to be ready for. We may need to be able to pull the trigger because
someone else might have found the food and supplies first and they may not want
to part with what they have. I don't want to fight over food. I’d rather not
risk us, but the moment might come where we have to. It’s better to be able to
run if we need to, but we will fight if we’re forced. You ready for that?” He
drives across the railroad tracks and instantly my heart rate picks up the
pace.

“I don't know. I guess. I have never
imagined a moment like this one before.” I fight off the nerves, remembering
the last time I heard the word run. “I dreamt my mom was screaming at me to
run, the other day before this all started, and now I swear I can hear her
voice.” The words leave my lips as a whisper that makes no sense to him I’m
sure. I don't even know why I said it.

He glances at me. “Well, remember that
advice, kiddo.
Because if things get heavy in this
warehouse—we run if we have that option.
We abandon the food, no
matter what.”

I nod blankly, still stuck on the image of
my mother shaking me and screaming for me to run. It was the weirdest dream
I’ve ever had. Never before has a dream stuck with me that way.

The second we leave the pavement I am
uneasy. The sound of the large truck on the dirt road is enough to drive you
insane.

“You ready?”

I shake my head. “I don't think so.”

He winces. “Me either.” He continues down
the old Number 10 Highway, until we see our first one—first biter. I
barely see him in the dark, but when the headlights flash on his face, it burns
in my heart—I recognize him. He works at the gas station down the road.
He’s in my class but I don’t recall his name. It’s something common, like John
or Mike or Steve.

“Oh, now look at that. Little Josh Wallace
is a biter. Look at him all frozen there.”

Right, Josh. His name is Josh. He’s frozen
until we drive by—then his head jerks to the right three times and he
starts to run. Mr. Milson speeds up, losing him. “How do you know him?” I ask.

He looks in the rearview at the poor kid
chasing us. “His dad owns a gas station I fill up at and he’s one of my
dart-playing buddies.”

“Oh.”

“You must know Josh. He’s in your grade,
isn’t he? Senior year?” He skids around a corner and we see another one running
toward us. My stomach lurches into my throat. The man gets close enough for me
to see the blood in his eyes. He looks like an actor in a movie when he bounces
off the side of the truck, making me jump and grip to my seat simultaneously.

We bob along the gravel to the warehouse
that I think looks inconspicuous. It looks far more like a rundown mess that
was abandoned years before this moment, than a place I would think holds food
of any sort. Mr. Milson gives me a quick look. “When I get close enough to the
warehouse, you jump out and test the doors. See if they’re open.”

“I can’t.” My heart is in my throat.

He grabs my arm. “You have to. Just do it.
Fast, don’t think. I’ve seen you on the lacrosse field—run hard. Think of
it like it’s a game.”

My breathing is short and my legs are numb.
“I can’t.”

He doesn’t listen. He pulls up to the
warehouse, getting really close and screams, “GO!”

I grab my gun and jump out as he speeds off
again. The biter chases him, leaving me alone. I run for the door. It opens
right way.

I switch on my flashlight and close the
door behind me. The light bounces around in the dark from the shaking of my
hand. My stomach twists and I’m positive I’m going to throw up.

My breathing and heartbeat are so loud I
can’t hear if one of them is sneaking up on me from the dark spots I can’t see.

I keep shooting the flashlight all around,
trying to see all of the dark at once, as if they’d be smart enough to hide in
the dark places.

I can’t make my feet walk so I stand there,
completely still. Part of me knows I need to open the garage door on the other
side—we talked about it but I can’t move.

When I hear the tires screech outside, I
jump making the light bounce some more.

“Be brave, Lou. Be brave. Don’t be Mom. Be
Dad!” I whisper to myself. Forcing myself to move—shuffling my feet along
the floor. They scrape on the cement, making noise reverberate in the dark. I
freeze and wait for the thing I imagine is there to come and get me.

I hold my breath and stand perfectly still,
but nothing comes.

With trembling hands and a rabbit’s
heartbeat, I shine the light around the massive shelves and walls. It’s cold,
so cold, inside. I can feel my breath making frost as it leaves my face. I can
almost hear my dad’s voice if I listen hard enough. He’s telling me to be
strong and trust my abilities.

I don’t think I can but I have to try.

In the silver light of the flashlight I can
see the door I’m supposed to open on the far side of the warehouse, through the
rows of shelves.

Taking one large breath, I risk it and run
there with my hands out, feeling the breath of the biters on my neck.

When my fingers meet the metal of the door,
I close my eyes and hold my ear to it, listening for him. In the bouncing light
I shine along the wall, I see the thing I seek and press the up arrow button,
just as I hear the truck coming. He is just about through the door when I press
the stop button and the down arrow. The door starts to lower as the back of his
truck gets through.

I back away from the massive door as it
lowers, holding my flashlight on the gap as it gets smaller and smaller, hoping
nothing will follow him through. It closes just as loud banging starts on the
other side of the door, making me jump.

I turn and hold the flashlight on the
truck. Mr. Milson gets out. “Nice job, kid.” He points. “Let’s get busy.” He
grabs a flashlight and a crowbar and hurries to the shelves. He doesn’t fear
the dark or that there might be something in here with us. He just works. I
feel less scared with him here but not much.

He slices some plastic and grabs a flat of
canned food. “Peaches—take them all.”

We grab a flat each and start hauling it,
in the light of the truck. I load the peaches as he moves on to find something
else. He drops a flat onto the bed of the truck and grins. “Beans—take
them all.”

I almost wrinkle my nose at them, but then
I remember we are actually starving. We are like the early settlers right now.
There is no such thing as food I don’t like. There’s food and hunger.

I load the beans flat by flat as he comes
over grinning. “I found chili! It’s the beefy one too.”

I follow him over there after the beans but
he’s already moved on and found pasta and sauce. He’s excited like it’s
Christmas.

I’m tired but I keep going. I’ve been
loading for long enough that my fingers are burning but the back of the truck
is only three-quarters full. I am skeptical that we will have enough to last
the winter from just this truckload.

I’m halfway across the pasta sauce pallet
when I hear something coming from the other side of the warehouse. I freeze,
turning my flashlight off and hide in amongst the shelves. There are voices
whispering something. “Hey! What are you doing? That’s stealing.” A man’s voice
rings out into the silence of the dark warehouse.

He chuckles back. “Now, son, it isn’t
stealing. I saw the owner of this food in a ditch, not even fifteen minutes
ago. That means it isn’t stealing. He’s gone and I know for a fact he was an
old man who had no wife or kids, so the food is fair game. I’m only taking a
little. There’s plenty. Run.” His sentence doesn’t make sense.

“I found this place yesterday. It’s mine.” The
other man says. “What? Run what?”

Mr. Milson sighs. “Just run. We can share
the food. I only need a little bit for me. RUN!”

Is he
telling me to run?
He must be.
Oh God.
The man must have a weapon I can’t see. I ignore the rest
of their conversation and get up to tiptoe across the warehouse just as I hear
feet moving quickly and a noise like a person blowing air.

I freeze and prepare myself for the run I’m
about to make.

Mr. Milson speaks again, “Sorry, it had to
come to this, son.”

I close my eyes. I can’t believe I assumed
it was him who was hurt. As much as I’m relieved, there’s a feeling of
apprehension when I think about getting into the truck with him. He has
possibly just murdered a man.

“Let’s get out of here, in case he isn’t
alone. We can always try this place again later. The worry is it’ll be picked
over, but it’s better to risk it being picked over than risk his friends
showing up and wanting revenge.” His words are hollow and as dark as the
warehouse, but I turn and walk to the truck. “This is nowhere near enough food,
kid. We will definitely be back.” He loads one more flat of food and gives me a
look. He pauses, seeing something on my face that makes him look worried. “I
didn’t kill him, I knocked him out.”

I don’t believe that. I don’t even know
why. I don’t know him well enough to know if he could kill a man or not.

In the dark I listen at the door as he gets
into the truck and shouts at me, “Push the button, run out the side door, and
I’ll swing back to grab you.”

I nod even though he can’t see me. I count
to five before I push it, scared as soon as the noise of the door starts. He
backs out once it’s high enough for the truck to fit under it. I push the
button, desperately wanting to run under the door as it closes, but I don't. I
wait, alone in the dark with the dead man, listening for the sound of the vehicle
coming back around. When I hear it, I leap from the small side door, forcing my
eyes to ignore everything I see but the open passenger door to the truck.

I block out the bloody hands and jerky
steps. I don't see the running feet or the snarling faces. I only see Mr.
Milson screaming, “RUN!” Just like my mother had in my dream that now feels
prophetic in several ways.

I don't see the shadows cast by the moon or
listen to the sounds of desperate biters wanting nothing like they do my flesh.