No one speaks to me. No one helps me with anything. In fact, the boys don’t even talk to each other anymore. Things are strained and stressful down here. And it smells, both from the makeshift toilet and body sweat. And we’re running out of food, and since we’re not talking no one is rationing anything—they certainly don’t listen to me when I suggest that’s what we should do. And we’re running out of water. Things are screwed. Completely screwed.
The zombies got into the house at day two. We heard cracking as their angry rotten fists finally broke through the wood against one of the windows. Now their moaning and groaning is worse, louder and more insistent. They can’t smell us down here because of the metal door, but they won’t leave. Perhaps they can’t get back out the way they came in, perhaps they know that we’re here somewhere and they know they can wait us out. Who knows for sure? All I know is that if a miracle doesn’t happen then we’re going to starve to death down here.
As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly. I want to wait it out—wait for as long as possible before eating so we don’t go through so much, but since no one else is doing that it seems pointless. Like wading against the incoming tide. I make my way to the little kitchen and root through some of the cupboards. They’re almost empty, just some canned spinach and tuna. I try another cupboard and see packets of dry pasta, but we can’t waste the water to cook it. I grab a handful and try and crunch my way through it but it’s tough and hurts my teeth. I decide to suck on the bland pasta shells while I rummage some more. In the bottom cupboard there are several boxes of cereal, but when I peer inside, they’re all empty.
I grab one of the cans of tuna and a fork and use a can opener to open it, and then slowly devour the flaky fish. It stinks up the kitchen and doesn’t really fill the hole, but there’s goodness in it—that much I’m certain of. A dizzy spell washes over me and I clutch the edge of the small sink to balance myself.
“Are you okay?” I flinch at the sound of Dean’s voice. It’s so cold and empty, and makes me want to cry that I disappointed him so much that he now feels nothing for me.
“Just a little dizzy, I’ll be fine.” I hold back the tears and take some steadying breaths.
I open my mouth to speak, but an explosion—so loud I worry my eardrums may perforate—fills the gap. Dean grabs me and pulls me to the floor, covering my body with his protectively. I scream out as another explosion rocks the house and dust particles fall all around us, pictures crashing to the floor. There are noises above us, things tipping over, ornaments smashing, and I swear I can feel my teeth chatter as another explosion rocks us again.
I can’t contain the scream that escapes me, and I cling on to Dean as if my very life depended on him. Because, quite possibly, it does. But mainly because I miss the feel of other people, the touch and embrace of another human—someone to hold my hand, to stroke my back, and hold me when I’m frightened. Until this moment, possibly my very last moment alive, I didn’t realize how freaking lonely I was.
Malcolm runs into the room. He sways from side to side and clutches a hand to his head, pulling it away to reveal a palm full of blood.
“Damn shelf fell down and hit me,” he yells, and then nearly falls over as another bang rocks the house.
“What’s happening?” I scream, clutching Dean tighter.
“I don’t know, but I’ve got you, don’t panic.”
I feel his grip on me tighten and I burrow my face against his chest and continue to cry.
I’m not just crying in fear of what the hell is happening right now, but in happiness that someone actually still cares about me. That perhaps I’m not completely alone in this horrible world. Malcolm crouches down to our level, huddling closer to us. His proximity freaks me out, since it’s the closest we’ve been since the night he took my virginity, and as he comes closer Dean must sense my unease.
He puts a hand on Malcolm’s chest. “Back up.”
Malcolm scowls at Dean and pushes his hand out of the way. “Pass me a damn kitchen towel for my head.”
Dean does, and Malcolm takes the towel from him and backs away. He doesn’t stand back up, though. Instead he leans with his back against one of the cupboards. The explosions have stopped, and the house has stopped shaking now. The zombies are a different story though. From the sounds they are making, they seem incensed by all the explosions.
“What do you think that was?” I whisper.
“My guess is the hydro plant. It was only going to be so long before something happened to it. Didn’t think it would blow like this, but I guess it stands to reason. Which means we can expect the electricity to go off now. No water, no electricity, nothing,” Dean says sounding worried.
“Shit’s about to get real,” Malcolm replies and leans his head back before closing his eyes.
Dean makes himself more comfortable and I curl up at his side, resting my head against his shoulder. I’m sure he’s going to push me away from him soon, so I’ll take what I can while I can. The zombies upstairs continue to growl and snarl. They sound so vicious and angry, and I dread to think what state they must be in now. It’s been months and they’re still going strong, not giving a damn about their decomposing sorry asses.
“I bet they smell real bad now,” I mumble as the lights flicker on and off.
“Maybe. I mean, they will get to a point when they stop smelling. I guess they’ll stop rotting, which means they’ll stop smelling. Unless they are going to rot until there’s nothing left of them?” Dean sighs heavily. “Winter will help a lot—the cold, I mean.”
The lights go off and I flinch as we are swamped into darkness. Dean’s hand goes to my hair and he strokes it gently, soothing my ragged nerves.
“I’m frightened,” I whisper, not caring that I sound like a big baby for admitting it. Because I can’t see how things can get any worse, and death seems imminent, so now seems as good a time as any to admit this one small thing. Because I am scared. More so, I’m petrified. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of an apocalypse. I don’t want zombies to have eaten my friends and family, and to be waiting upstairs to eat me. I don’t want any of it. I begin to sob quietly in the dark and Dean continues to stroke my hair, and eventually I must drift off to sleep.
*
“I can’t hear anything,” Malcolm whispers down to us.
His ear is squashed to the door. It has been for twenty minutes now. The lights continue to flicker on and off every now and then, but more often than not, they are off. Regardless, the fact that they are on even for a moment is amazing.
“I’m opening the door,” he says, holding the shotgun in front of him.
“Don’t, please don’t!” I yelp.
Dean’s hand finds mine and he squeezes it. “Open it,” he says to Malcolm.
Malcolm nods and unlocks the door. He takes a deep breath and eases the handle down slowly. I wince, though there is no creak or screech. No zombie dives to get inside, no screams of pain escape from Malcolm’s lips. There’s nothing. Yet nothing is actually just as frightening as something. At least something I can explain—at least partially. The sound of silence that greets us is a new fear altogether.
We head up the stairs, one at a time, but my hand doesn’t leave Dean’s. We exit our underground home and take a moment to look at the destruction around us. Everything is either covered in brownish blood or is broken. We listen for any noise, but are still greeted by only silence.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
Both boys turn to look at me, their eyes widening. I realize from their expressions that I obviously look like total shit, but they have no room to judge. They are both filthy and pale, with patchy beards on their chins and sunken eyes. Clearly they were starving as much as I was, and I honestly never realized vitamin D was so damn important until now.
Malcolm slowly makes his way to the front door, or what’s left of it. Blood is smeared around the doorway, and I try not to touch it as we make our way outside. It’s dazzlingly bright outside, and I put a hand up to shield my eyes. A storm is blowing hard, and snow has covered everything in sight. The only break from the constant white of snow is the smears of blood in it. It’s pretty obvious which way the zombies went—their trail of destruction is evident. But what we don’t know is why they left. And more importantly, if they’re coming back.
We walk as a triangle, with Malcolm leading the way and Dean and I following behind holding hands. We haven’t spoken of what happened—none of us have. Some things are better left unsaid, certainly from my point of view.
The wind whips my hair around my face and the sleet stings my eyes. I tuck my chin down and trudge onward, not wanting to complain. The snow is crazy deep in parts, and we have to help each other to get through it. I hate having to touch Malcolm’s hand, and I know I’m being stupid and childish but my pride won’t let it go.
As we make it to town we stand open-mouthed in shock. Businesses have been burned to the ground, cars are crashed together in mangled heaps. I’m sure there are dead bodies somewhere beneath the heaped snow, and I’m glad I don’t have to look at them. The most amazing thing, though, is that there are no zombies. Not a single one. I can’t even hear their moaning in the distance.
“This is crazy,” I mumble to myself as I continue to survey the scene.
“But where have they gone?” Malcolm says irritably. “I don’t like it. Something has made them leave—either that or I’ve actually lost the plot.” He keeps on walking and Dean and I follow.
Malcolm stops at a car and rummages around inside. He comes out empty-handed, kicks the tire and then continues walking. When he reaches another he looks inside and comes out with a grin and waves a pack of cigarettes. He takes one out and lights it and then keeps walking with more of a bounce in his step than previously. As I pass the car that he got the cigarettes from, I look inside and wish I hadn’t. Inside is a body—or at least part of a body. The torn-up face stares out at me blankly, both eyeballs missing, the lower jaw hanging low and swinging in the wind. I choke on the vomit that builds at the back of my throat.
Dean squeezes my hand and pulls me onwards. “Come on,” he mumbles.
We walk through the ghost town, checking businesses and supermarkets, house-lined streets and the little park I used to go to. But there’s nothing barring dead bodies. We come up to our high school and my breath catches in my throat. We pass the main doors to the school, which swing on open and closed. The loud
clank
as they slam shut and then blow back open is unnerving.
“Should we go inside?” I ask.
It seems futile after everything we’ve seen so far today, but we need to get out of the cold for a little while and warm back up, maybe get something to eat. Night will be falling soon and we still don’t have anywhere to hole up. The zombies could come back at any time; there’s no saying that this small miracle is permanent.
The boys don’t reply but we start to walk toward the doors anyway. Once inside and out of the freezing winds, things seem even quieter. The storm continues to howl outside, of course, but inside is like going back six months.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, the scent of my school—my old life—filling me with such sorrowful loss that I nearly choke on the pain. Dean tugs at my hand and I open my eyes and keep on walking. The doors are open on most of the lockers, books, gym clothes, and other things in little piles along the hallway. We check some of the classrooms, but find nothing, and we’re thankful, of course we are, but a part of me had still held out some hope for Steph. That maybe, just maybe, she made it through this. It was a stupid pipe dream though: the whole world was dead, apart from me and two boys.
We turn a corner and find ourselves standing outside the gym. Inside I can hear growling and my heart freezes mid-beat. All three of us look to each other, our faces paling, but we go on regardless, though our steps are now much slower. Malcolm looks through the small glass window in the door while Dean and I stand behind, glancing behind us every now and then uneasily.
Malcolm turns back to look at us, a small grin on his face. “This is messed up,” he says and pushes through the door.
Dean and I follow behind him, preparing for the worst. However, the worst is nothing compared to what greets me on the inside. Two zombies dangle from their necks by the basketball hoops, one on either end of the court. Large stepladders lie at the feet of them both—knocked over, I presume.
I look up at a zombified Steph, clutching a hand over my mouth, and I sob loudly, my blood turning to ice in my veins. She kicks out and growls louder, the sound strangled because of the rope around her neck.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t come back for you,” I say, collapsing to my knees below her.
Dean puts a reassuring hand on my back and I cry louder.
Amy Bell gargles and growls loudly at the other end of the gym, her noises igniting some fight inside of me. This is her fault, not mine. Steph would have been with me if it wasn’t for her. Maybe she would have died in the bus crash, maybe not, but at least she wouldn’t have gone out like this.
I stand up sharply and snatch Dean’s gun from him before he can stop me. I aim and shoot as I run toward the emaciated zombie version of Amy. I hit her shoulder, but the rest of the shots go wide, and by the time I’m underneath her, I’m out of bullets. She’s going crazy, black gunk dripping from the one and only wound I caused. Malcolm aims and shoots her between the eyes and she finally stops moving. I turn to find Dean behind me, wrapping his arms around me. I sink into his warmth, losing myself to the months of pent-up pain and sadness.
*
We make it to the hydro plant two days later, after having to hole up at the school as the storm continued to rage around us. Snow was several inches deep, and many trees were brought down by the winds. I’m pretty sure it would have been all over the news if it weren’t for the fact that everyone was dead—some pretty news reporter with red lips and bleached blond hair giving out the news that school was canceled for the day because of the storms, telling us not to travel in the unsafe weather, and to spend quality time at home with our loved ones.
But that isn’t the case now.
As we reach the hillside opposite the hydro plant, we all stare silently at the mob of zombies surrounding the place. This was clearly what made those explosions the other night. Fresh snow has landed all around the plant, but even so the blackened and burnt earth beneath it can still be seen. Smoke still rises from some of the towers from a fire that no longer burns but is cooling down. The sound of the waterfall that runs the hydro plant can be heard in the background, as can a dull humming noise.
“What is that?” Malcolm says, his eyes straying to mine and Dean’s hands clasped together. For a moment he has a look of longing, but then his lip curls in disgust and the look is gone.
Dean watches the zombies for a moment in silence before addressing us both. “I think the explosion has created some sort of frequency which is attracting the—sick. Look,” he says pointing, and I do. I watch as some of the zombies push and shove each other to get closer. Small blue sparks crackle and hiss at their skin as they get too close to the wire fencing surrounding the main plant.
“So that’s it? They’re gone? We’re safe now?” I say, smiling a genuine smile for the first time in months.
Malcolm cocks his shotgun and grins. “Let’s blow these bastards away. Show ‘em whose town this really is,” he says, and runs off down the hill. He gets halfway and then slips to his ass and slides the rest of the way down.
Dean looks at me seriously. “What if they can be cured?”
“The dead people?”
“Yes. Those are our families and friends, that’s our community down there. We can’t just kill them. The government is going to fix this sooner or later, and then what? What happens when they come here and find everyone but us dead?” He turns back toward Malcolm. “We can’t kill them.”
“I don’t think there is any helping them. Look at them, they’re rotting away. Who would want to live like that even if they could be cured?” I say in total honesty.
Dean grabs my hand again and drags me with him down the hill, following after Malcolm. We slip and end up rolling the last part of it, collapsing in a heap together at the bottom, but Dean doesn’t let me have any time to recover before he drags me back up to standing and we continue our chase after Malcolm.
We catch up just as Malcolm puts the first bullet into what was once an old man. The rotting body crumples to the snowy earth, black blood oozing out and splattering the perfect snow. Another zombie immediately fills the gap left by the old man.
Dean lets go of my hand and barges into Malcolm with his shoulder, knocking him off his feet. The zombies look at us, some beginning to shamble in our direction, and my fear spikes again.
“What are you doing?” Malcolm yells as he hits Dean in the face. His fist connects with Dean’s nose and a loud thwacking sound can be heard. Dean continues to wrestle the shotgun away from Malcolm, kicking out at Malcolm’s hand until a cracking sound can be heard and Malcolm screams loudly alerting even more of the dead to us. He finally lets go of the gun and Dean kicks it away from him and scrambles to his feet.
Malcolm continues to writhe on the ground, crying out, and I see the damage to his arm now, the odd angle it lies in. The zombies get so far and then stop, and I watch in amazement as they turn away from us and go back to the hydro plant. Malcolm climbs up to his knees, his tears mixing with his snot.
“You broke my damn arm. What is wrong with you, man?” He sobs louder.
Dean paces back and forth, his head clasped in his hands, murmuring something only intelligible to himself.
“There could be a cure,” I say. “Dean said that they could get better, that the government could come and we could get in trouble.”
“Don’t be such a dumb little bitch, Anne. Those things are dead and ain’t nobody coming back from dead.” The irony of his words hits him and he laughs manically.
I turn away, not able to look at him or his damaged arm any longer.
“You better watch your back, girl. Dean is a loose screw. He’ll kill you if you’re not careful.”
I look back to him and then to Dean, who has stopped walking now and is looking at us both.
“You don’t know, do you? He’s been obsessed with you for years. Little freak was stalking you before all this shit went down.” Malcolm climbs up to his feet, grimacing as pain shoots through his arm. “Why do you think I was so intent on taking your virginity?” He laughs again and I look toward Dean. “It had to be you so I could hurt him, make him see who’s the real man around here.”
Dean looks broken, tears forming in his eyes as he shakes his head. “Shut up, Malcolm!” he yells.
“Is it true?” I ask him, my stomach hurting from the new knowledge.
“It wasn’t like that. I…I just…I like you. I’ve always liked you. I just want to look after you.” He looks shamefully away from me. “I love you, Anne. I’d do anything to protect you.”
Malcolm laughs wickedly in the background, the incessant noise making me grind my teeth. “Couldn’t close the deal though, could you?” He laughs again and I turn around to scowl at him.
“What did I ever do to you?” I hiss.
Malcolm grins. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his cigarettes and awkwardly lights one before answering me. “I’m just the black sheep of the family, babe. I’m just fulfilling my job description. He can have you now.” He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. “I don’t mind him having my sloppy seconds.” He laughs again, but stops as I pick up the shotgun from the floor and fire it directly at his chest without a second thought.
Blood colors the front of his chest, and the cigarette slips from between his lips. Malcolm clutches a hand to his chest, his mouth opening and closing as he sags back down to his knees and then falls sideways in the snow. His eyes stare up blankly at me as a final shuddering breath leaves him. Dean’s hand touches my shoulder, and his other hand grips the shotgun and takes it from me. I turn to look at him.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” I gasp.
Dean looks back toward Malcolm’s body, raises the shotgun and fires at his head. It explodes, covering the ground with brain tissue and skull fragments and painting the pure snow a bright red. Dean turns back to me and drapes an arm across my shoulders. He turns me away from Malcolm’s body and we slowly make our way back up the hill.
When we reach the top of the hill Dean looks at me, his mouth pulling up into a small smile. “I’ll look after you, Anne. Always, I promise.”
I look down at the hundreds of swarming zombies surrounding the hydro plant and then at the red splat in the snow from Malcolm’s dead body. I look back at Dean, lean forward, and place my lips on his. He moans against my mouth, pulling me closer as his tongue pushes between my lips and he greedily kisses me back.
I pull away, feeling lightheaded. “I know you will,” I say and take his hand in mine.