The Undead Situation (3 page)

In time, desperation for entertainment even forced me to read through a mind-numbing trilogy called Twilight. Apparently there was a fourth one, but I was not interested in trekking down to Barnes & Noble for it.

* * *

How did I get Pickle?

Let’s start with this: the average lifespan of a ferret is about seven years. For personal reasons, two years prior to Judgment Day, I decided I needed to get a pet. Seven years seemed reasonable, seeing that it wasn’t too long, but long enough to gain some life experience.

So, on March 9
^th,
I found myself in a pet store looking at albino ferrets. Much to my chagrin, they were fresh out of normal ferrets, but hey, I’m not racist. I appreciate all breeds.

After I brought the tiny girl home, we found ourselves quick companions. She wasn’t afraid of me, appeared to love me despite my strange habits and unusual personality. She was the perfect woman. She didn’t ask questions. Or speak. Or take up space. Like I said, the perfect woman.

* * *

Sometimes I wondered how other people were handling the end of the world. I doubted most people took things the way I did. (Over the years, I decided my apathy about the whole thing probably meant I was an anomaly, and I came to terms with that.)

Early in the crisis, my undead neighbors had left their televisions on maximum volume. My sound-proofed walls could barely buffer the nonstop noise, since it was coming from below and both sides of me. If it wasn’t for the power outages, I would’ve gone crazy. Francis would call, wanting to discuss the latest on the undead situation. He told me the experts were debating constantly over whether the undead were human, or if they retained memories or some of their personality when they turned.

“I reckon they don’t, Cyrus.”

“I don’t think so either. People need to stop fantasizing and get real.”

“Dead
is
dead.”

I scoffed at some of the earlier attempts to quarantine the living dead to study them, find a cure, and make things okay. There was no cure. This was it. The end. Didn’t anyone understand that? The walking dead were walking dead, and they didn’t have an ounce of anything human in them anymore.

Every zombie out there was probably a loved one at some point. People who didn’t want to put a bullet in their loved one’s head were the instigators of the problem, in my opinion. If everyone saw things for what they were, there wouldn’t be a problem.

I imagined the survivors of the initial outbreak hovelling in offices, homes. They were alone, and it must have been driving them mad. What I enjoyed as solitude, they probably thought was mind numbing horror.

They had no food, no water, and no weapons. Most likely, they were slowly dying, fearing an animated corpse would consuming them soon.

The differences between them and me were astronomical. I was alive because I wasn’t like other people. If I were, I’d be one of those men who wished he weren’t alone during his last leg of existence.

If I were one of those men, I’d be dead.

* * *

I mused over my lack of fear toward the living dead. While lounging on the floor of the living room, gnawing on a protein bar, I wondered why I couldn’t muster up an ounce of anxiety.

The undead were terrifying. At least, they should be. I’d seen so many of them, falling apart and ghoulish. They chomped their crusty, blood-rimmed mouths and thick, strange liquids came out. Some of their stomachs were so distended from gorging on human flesh they exploded, leaving organs and entrails hanging like jewelry.

Their collective stench was putrid. At the very least, I should have felt nauseous when the breezes from Puget Sound carried their scent through my opened windows.

Upon finishing the bland protein bar, I crawled over to the dining room table, reaching up for candy. My hand returned with a bright orange, rectangular package. I made my way back to the living room and collapsed onto the spot my body had warmed.

As I savored the two Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Pickle slinked down the hall and over to me. I caught her beady red eyes looking at me.

“How about you? What’s your position on all of this?”

She climbed up my shoulder and onto my chest, where she perched righteously and eyed my candy. The rodent had a taste for candy, which I occasionally indulged. Being the terrible pet owner I was, I let her have a quick nibble before popping the rest of the chocolate in my mouth.

Some things never changed. Her sense of entitlement was one of them.

My peace, uninterrupted for so long, was abruptly broken. Rapid firing of an MP5 came from behind the AM/PM down the street. It was unusual to hear gunfire these days. My attention captured, I leaned against the railing of my balcony and watched as a tactical-gear-clad figure bolted around the corner of the building.

I couldn’t determine a gender; but no woman could’ve made it this far by herself, so I decided to think of it as a ‘he.’ The man stopped after a couple of yards and looked around for threats. Another gust of wind steered through the street, kicking up paper around him.

Occupying the end of the T-shaped road was the AM/PM, and from either side of it shuffled packs of zombies, undoubtedly lured by the seductive sound of gunfire. The MP5 let loose again, but without aim, so the ammo was wasted. Turning, the shooter ran down the T with a great burst of stamina I admired. The living dead joined their flanking attacks together to form one column. Some of them moved faster than the others, breaking clear from the slower ones.

They must be eager, I thought.

While they made their slow and steady advance to lunch, the man made like a rabbit and raced down the street, undaunted by the weight of his supplies. Soon he stood underneath my balcony, looking up. I could see the shiny reflection of the world around him in the visor of his helmet. And then I realized ‘he’ was a ‘she.’

The woman ripped off her riot helmet to reveal a shaved head, but her face had youthful, pretty curves. Not like I cared. I just noted it, was all.

“Help me!”

I chuckled, amused she was speaking to me, amused that a woman was running around bald, with a gun.

“Why? You seem to have a good grasp on the situation.”

She shoved another magazine of ammo into the gun, pointed it at me. My smile faded.

The pending storm I prophesized had arrived. Rain trickled at first, but turned into a downpour quickly, drenching her and me both. Still, she refused to look away, even as fat droplets of water found their way into her eyes.

“Help me or I’ll shoot that fucking smirk right off your fucking face!”

Clenching my jaw, irritated by the fact that someone, a woman no less, was telling me what to do, I raised my hand and pointed down the street. A good twenty walking dead made their way toward her. The woman abandoned her request for help, running to the front of my apartment building, flinging the front doors open. I hoped she’d stall long enough for the Zs to get her. It would’ve been a phenomenal sight to see someone so fiery try and knock off so many zombies. But that fantasy was shot down once she disappeared into my building.

Through my DIY soundproofed walls, I strained to listen for her, debating whether or not to let her in. I wasn’t a sociable man, so having company would actually be a downer. I wasn’t a defenseless man, so having her join me wouldn’t necessarily improve my defenses. At any rate, it didn’t take long before I decided if she made it here, she clearly was a human worth living, male or female. Not long after my decision was made, I heard the dull sound of suppressed gunfire through my door. The girl had switched to a revolver. Moments later she was frantically kicking the entrance to my haven.

“Open the door!”

Without further hesitation, I did.

She glanced at me before stepping in. How blindly trusting, but I supposed if I were normal and the threat of death were impending, I would be trusting, too.

“Shut the door.”

“But you wanted it open so badly,” I mocked.

Pointing her little gun at me wiped the smile off my face. After I locked the deadbolts and pulled over the heavy piece of wood that served as extra protection, I turned on her. No one pointed a gun at me twice and got away with it without some kind of retribution.

She had turned her back on me to look in the living room. Quiet as a snake, I came up behind her, grabbing one arm and twisting it around her back. The gun in her right hand dropped, making a small thud as it hit the grey carpet. I twisted harder and harder ‘til she screamed in pain and dropped to one knee. Pressing my mouth against her ear, smelling damp skin and sweat, I whispered, “How does it feel knowing I could kill you right now?”

“It doesn’t feel any different than the past five days, bitch.”

I wanted to kill her for her insolence. I had killed people before. Not many, but even one was unusual compared to normal standards. After being harassed so much in high school (by the bullies who were conflicted on the inside, or so their parents said), I’d strangled one in the woods behind the school. Nicky was my second kill, and when it happened I was unfazed by what I had done. All I felt was relief from not having to deal with bloody noses and black eyes anymore.

This girl, though…this one’s spunk was growing on me. I released her and she sat on the floor, panting. Standing my ground, I rolled my neck around a few times, cracking it.

“You’ve been here less than five minutes and you’re already stressing me out.”

“You didn’t have to let me in.”

“If I hadn’t, you would’ve shot me.” A lie, for I could’ve easily evaded her bullet.

“Sure.”

I laughed and gave her my hand, offering amends. She took it and I hoisted up her light body.

“I’m Cyrus V. Sinclair.” The narcissist within me enjoyed the way my name rolled from my tongue.

“I’m Gabriella. What does the V stand for?”

“Virtuous.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“It was a virtuous act saving you.”

We stood there in heavy silence until I, unaffected by social awkwardness, went into the living room to look out the window.

“We can’t stay here,” she said from behind me. “They’ll get in. They always do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do think so. What makes you think here is safer than anywhere else?”

She was damp from head to toe and shaking. Across her back was a pack with a shotgun protruding. Her MP5 was slung across her shoulder and dangled at her side. The only skin revealed was some of her neck and her head. Everything else was covered by military gear. Who in the hell was she?

I scolded myself for this burst of curiosity over a woman, or anyone for that matter. I’m not exactly popular with women. Why, with having no sex drive or fantasies, I was hormonally blank. Please, call me asexual.

“My door, my apartment. They’re extremely safe,” I explained. “Besides, I’m waiting for someone.”

“A door? I’ve seen them come through door after door. Yours isn’t any different. Waiting for someone? Whoever they are, they’re probably dead.”

“My walls are insulated. My door is custom-made, trust me. The zombies go by sound, but they cannot hear us. They also go by sight. As for smell? I suppose they could smell us out, but I’m very sanitary.” I looked at her. “I suppose you should clean yourself up.”

Gabriella bit her pouting bottom lip and shook her head in true defeat. “I guess if you say so. You’ve been here since it started, so it must be true.”

“It is.”

“You’ll have to leave eventually.”

Keeping my body shielded from the view of any undead below, I moved to the side of the windows and peered outside. The dead were dispersing from the street, but it appeared some had found their way into the building.

“I told you. I’m waiting for someone. I’ll leave when he gets here.”

“Waiting for someone? What dimension are you living in? He’s probably dead.”

Returning my gaze to her, I ran my tongue over my teeth absentmindedly. The previous silence I had been living in was ruined—by the zombies moaning, her breathing, and Pickle’s frantic running behind objects to hide from a stranger. Exhausted by it all, I heaved a sigh. It was best to ignore her comment before we started fighting.

I told her I’d get her dry clothes, but she said she had some in her backpack. After I pointed her to the hall leading to the bedrooms and bath, she vanished for an hour. By the time she got back the sky was dark, thunder rumbling through the lifeless city. Rain lulled me into a sleepy state as I lay on the living room floor.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Gabe whispered. “About your friend being dead.”

“It’s fine. It isn’t unreasonable to think that. But I’m still waiting for him. You can do what you want.”

Dropping the subject, she leaned against the wall. “What do we do now? Share stories of better times?”

I laughed, low. “These are my better times, baby.”