She sat back in the chair, staring into her lap. Her fingers began to pluck and worry at the hem of her tank-top.
“You know,” she said quietly, “there was something about all of this...
situation...
that really unnerved Jesse. As big of a bad-ass as he was, the dead just gave him the creeps something awful. He couldn't bear being couped up in the house, waiting things out, you know? He was itching to know what was going on with his friends, his family. For all of his fear of them, I think he would have rather been outside facing the zombies than hiding from them. He felt he had to
do
something, you know?”
She turned her head and pierced me with those eyes again.
“Artie, I'm at that point. I need to
do
something.”
“Well,” I said slowly. “It sounds like we're going to have to start by making a trip to your gun safe. And you teaching me how
not
to shoot like Woody Allen.” I almost said “shoot like a girl,” but the gun was within her reach, after all...
As I dragged the step ladder over to the fence, I looked down and at the corner of the garden lay Jesse's pistol.
“Hey, look!” I blurted, and reached down to pick it up.
“Hold on there, Tex,” barked Jackie and reached around me, grabbed my arm and held it still. “We want to be careful with it, don't we?”
“Yes,” I breathed, feeling foolish.
“Yes we
do
,” she said gravely. “Do you see that switch by the rear sight?”
I nodded.
“And do you see that red dot there? Yeah? Okay, flip the switch down to cover the dot. Good. Safety is on.” She gently pulled my arm down to my side, then away from my body.
“For now, this is the only way I want to see you holding this. I would pop the magazine out but these are troubled times we live in, my son. I may have hot-dogged it over the fence with a gun jammed in my pants – quit giggling, this is serious – but I was in a forced retreat with a 9.5 pucker factor and not exactly in a happy space. If you're going to learn about firearms, you
are
going to be in a happy space. Comprende?”
I nodded, afraid to move my arm at all. “So what type of gun is this?” I asked.
“That sir is a Beretta M9, also commonly called a 9mm.”
“Ah,” I said, and resisted any lame gangsta pop-a-cap-in-yo-ass remarks. I wanted to be able to find the happy space and take it seriously.
“Okay. We going to stand around all day, or are we going to scale that fence?”
“No sir. Yes sir!”
“Jesus. Fine Gomer, let me go first. I want to be in the house in case you fall over the fence and shoot yourself.”
She wore and old t-shirt of mine, but no shorts or pants in the house really fit her so she continued to wear her pair. None of my mom's shoes were big enough, so she wore an extra pair of my running shoes. They were too big for her, but that was okay since all we needed was to get next door so she could get her own. Plus, the bandage on her toe – which thankfully wasn't infected - could use the room. Her ankle seemed to be much better and she barely limped when walking. She held her pistol out to the side and clumped up the steps of the ladder and peered over the fence, moved up a step and peered along the property line. She waited, then gave a sharp whistle. She cocked her head, listening. Gave another whistle, and listened.
Finally, she turned to me and shrugged – then frowned as she looked around the yard.
“This your idea of landscaping, Artie?”
I looked back and saw all the bottles and cups I had set out the day of the storm. Most of them had blown over, but a few were still propped up and the coffee can looked like it may have had a good amount of water in it.
“It's a hobby,” I said, and was rewarded with dimples.
“Here,” she held her gun out to me. “Safety is on, but just hold onto it by the barrel if you please and then hand it to me grip first.”
After I took the gun, she went up another step, bent and grabbed the top of the fence, placed her bad foot on top, then swung over bracing her good foot against the other side and dropped from view. All the time we had been in the backyard, she had pointedly ignored the garden. I wondered if she was glad to have a fence between her and it now.
“Okay,” she said. “Not bad for a cripple.” Her hand waggled over the top of the fence. “Gimme. The gun.”
I did as I was told, then her other hand waved. “And yours. Good. Your turn, boyo.”
I climbed the ladder and swung over. Stuck the landing. She stood in her yard, smiling with the guns held lightly out to her sides.
“Here we are,” I said.
“Here we
are
,” she repeated.
The back yard was spartan, but neat – or would have been neat if the grass had been healthy and cut. A boat rested on a trailer next to the garage, and a cherry tree occupied the far north corner. She raised her left arm and said, “Okay, you can take it back now. But you keep the safety
on
. If you
need
to use it, you know how to take the safety off, yeah? I would like to strip and clean it first, so I can't guarantee it'll fire for you. So there's that.”
I took back the M9 and held it down and away from me.
“Awesome,” she said. “I am going to take the safety off
my
firearm, however, and I am now armed and ready to fire. Please stay behind me, to my left. Good. Let us proceed into my
abode
, and be cautious about it.”
As we crept across the patio, she held her arm back as we reached the door that opened into the kitchen. She stopped and gave a whistle, and waited. She repeated this three times until she seemed satisfied that nothing lurked inside. We crossed the threshold into the kitchen, where she paused. I could see daylight peeking in down a hall towards the dining and living rooms. It wasn't clear if it was just an open door, busted windows or the wall had been ripped open from the porch collapse. A faint smell of decay wafted in from up there as well, and that kept me from paying too close attention, afraid of what I might see. The smell could have been Mike upstairs. Or Mrs. Clarke, out there somewhere...
“I would dearly love to get on some clean undies and all,” whispered Jackie, “but I really want to check the safe first – see if they messed with it. I don't know what we're going to do if they buggered it up. We will need more rounds, and I'm not sure if I want you to have the M9 as your primary. Have to think that over.”
We moved into the carpeted hallway and stopped. She looked into a space under the stairs, where there was a gloomy opening and steps leading down to a basement. Directly opposite that was a room and her destination. Sun streamed in where the boards covering the windows had been pried off, and the room was mercifully free of dead people. Dead
animals
, however, were mounted on the walls. Jackie pointed to a buck with a magnificent rack, and said proudly, “That one's mine.”
I never really cared much for the idea of hunting. I mean, if you ate what you shot, fine. In our conversations, Jackie had mentioned if we couldn't find safety in town, we should head out to her father's cabin and hunt and fish. She was half convinced we should just do that anyways, but it was up in Bonner County over in Idaho and would be a hell of a hike (she was also convinced not to try and drive a car up there – people would just try and take it from us). Of course I would have gladly followed her into hell, but didn't relish the thought of killing animals and said as much. That was the only time, other than when she showed up at my bedroom window, when she was clearly pissed at me - until I assured her it wasn't any moral objection. I was just a wimp. She stated that would change when I got hungry enough, and looked forward to me trying venison.
I followed her into the room to gaze at their trophies and she whistled at me.
“Hey,” she said, and tipped her head at the doorway. “Hang back there and keep us covered, huh? Eyes and ears open.”
I sheepishly moved back to the doorway and she gave me smile and a wink, then moved to the safe in the corner.
“Whoa,” I said. “That's a monstrosity.”
“Right?” she laughed. “I'm glad I talked him out of keeping it in the basement – hate to be down there right now. And you think the damn thing cost enough? It also had to be shipped up from Oregon. Jesse couldn't just get one at Costco. Hell no. One of his buddies got one from the same guy and he fell in love with it, so he just
had
to have one too. Has a digital keypad, but you can remove it to get to the key lock – which he was convinced was vital. Afraid he was going to forget the combination...” She frowned sharply and looked down, blinking rapidly. After a moment, she cleared her throat.
“Anyhow. Let's see – yep, they took the keypad off. Looks like they tried to move it. Huh. Hope they got hernias out of it. Lock looks...okay.”
She examined the three spokes that made up the handle and seemed satisfied that it wasn't tweaked.
“Okay,” she said, and slipped a key into the lock and twisted it. The handle spun easily, and she yelled, “Whoo-hoo!” as she yanked on the door.
The smell of shit and piss exploded out of the safe as Mike fell forward and onto Jackie. I jumped, not comprehending what I was seeing. She yelped and fell over backwards, and Mike began to claw and snap at her neck. Her gun began to fire up into his chest, and he bit her savagely on the shoulder. She screamed and brought her leg up to push herself away. I darted in and put the M9 up against his head, but the gun didn't fire. I punched his head, and he bent down and bit into Jackie's inner thigh. She screamed again, had her gun up to his head, but only empty clicks fired from it. I finally flicked off the safety, brought the gun back to his temple and pulled the trigger.
The gun roared and Mike dropped loose and still. Jackie pushed herself all the way to the doorway, blood bright and red pumping from her leg.
“Aw, no,” I moaned, and stripped off my shirt and began to wind it up tight.
Jackie shivered violently on the floor, and looked up at me with terrified eyes. I knelt and began to wrap the shirt above the wound, twisting it tight.
“Aw, crap,” she stammered. “
Son
of a
bitch
.”
I looked desperately for something to jam in the wound, and nothing seemed within reach.
“Let me have your shirt!” I barked, and began to tug at it.
“What – what the fuck for?” she asked.
“To jam in there!” I yelled wildly, tipping my head towards the blood welling from her leg.
“What good do you think the-
that's
going to do, sweetie?”
Jesus, she was shaking badly. Shock, I guess?
“Stop the God damned bleeding!”
“And then what?” she asked.
“Huh?” I asked, and looked into her eyes.
“And
then
what?” she repeated. “Honey, I'm done – I got bit. Twuh -
twice
, no less.”
I stopped pulling at her shirt, but kept my fist twisting the make-shift tourniquet on her leg.
“So?” I pleaded. “Maybe the blood will flush out -”
She brought a hand up – blueish and cold - to press against my chest.
“Artie, you know better. You
know
better.”
“No I do
not
,” I said as tears and snot streamed down my face.
“Just let it go,” she said, and pushed at my hand that clenched the fabric on her leg. “Come on, it'll be easier this way.”
“But you're the best friend I've ever
had
,” I sobbed.
“Oh – Jesus!” She barked out a laugh. “You poor boy – a miserable old bitch like me!”
I couldn't think of any sort of reply to that, so I just cried.
“Look Artie, you're going to have to shoot me in the head – yes, God d-damn it.
Yes
. You'll have to - I don't want to come back like one of those things. You want to see me like that? You think that would
be
me? I would do it only...only. They s-say if you kill yourself you go to hell. I don't know th-that for sure, but I don't want to chance it. What if I get to see Jesse again? Huh? What if?”
Deep in my throat I huffed a low growl of frustration. Of course I knew she was right. Of course I did. But I could not let her go.
She dug and probed until her fingers crept under my hand on her leg.
“You do this for me,” she stated firmly. “You
do
this.”
So I did. I let go of the t-shirt that had tried to stem the blood that wanted to flood out of her femoral artery. Jackie sighed and leaned in against me. I could feel her breath on my chest, her eyelashes fluttering against my skin as she blinked.
“Keys,” she muttered softly.
“What?” I asked.
“Keys. Jesse... Must have had another set made. Key ring. Kept on his key ring. Stupid jackass...”
I reached up from the twist of cloth on her leg and brushed hair out of her eyes, leaving a smear of blood. She twisted her head to kiss my hand.
“Don't...you,” she whispered. “Don't you... give... don't...”
She never finished, but I knew what she meant to say. I nodded, and kissed the top of her head. Her shivers slowed. Her breath became shallow, and I watched as her eyes blinked. And blinked. And blinked. And blinked. And then just stayed open.
If the one thing this journal does is to preserve the memory of the force of nature that was Jackie – albeit a memory that took place over a handful of days and from one person's narrow perspective - then I can die happy. Writing about the short time we were thrown together and of her death took longer than it should have, but if you can't understand why then you're some sort of incurious 'warrior' that likely used these pages for toilet paper or burned them for warmth. Hopefully, you at least got a paper cut.
Did I shoot her in the head after she died? Of course I did. Much later, after I had wrapped her in sheets. Then I added layers of plastic from trash bags duct-taped together – I was going to make it tough even on the worms to get to her. I went through the same dilemma I had with my mother – what would she want to be buried in? And, as I did with my mom, I left her as she was. I liked that she was in a t-shirt of mine. I didn't think I had the right to go through her things or strip her and clothe her again - and I don't think I could have gone through with it anyways. Like with my mother, I found a cold and methodical resolve to shut down my grief and get the job of burying her done.