“It’s a safe room,” she said. “It’s where I stayed the first three weeks of the end of the world. The door slides right into the wall. Can’t even tell it’s there. Neat, eh?”
Eventually I gave in and crossed to the shadowy entrance. Once inside, the lantern lit up the rather big area. Unlike the panic rooms I’d seen in movies, this one appeared to be a normal, albeit plain, bedroom. Its walls were painted off white, and it had a two person table and two cots. Against one wall were shelves with—surprise, surprise—food, camping equipment, and an array of medical supplies. The floor was wood, but most of it was covered with a dark green rug. A kitchen area was set up on the small table, where I began my soup cooking.
I never got used to eating soup cold. Too goopy and tangy. Heat took the unpleasantness out of the experience. Dr. Banks watched me as I meticulously peeled the labels off the metal cans, popped their tops, and set them on the burners.
My pack and gun felt heavy. While my soup heated up, I shrugged the pack off and sat on the opposite cot from her. She rifled through a blue Tupperware container full of plastic packages.
She ran through some medical questions. Did I have a fever? Did I feel weak? Was the wound swollen? I knew she was trying to figure out if I had an infection or not. I figured I did. The wound hadn’t been closing and smelled foul. I bandaged it whenever I could, but the damn thing kept splitting open if I exerted myself too much.
We made snappy comments and jokes about zombies while I ate my soup. Dr. Banks’ sense of humor was on par with my own. Another slew of remarks flew between us when she told me to slide my pants down.
“Enough talk. Let’s take a look,” she said.
“That’s forward. At least you took me to dinner first.”
“I’m a doctor, you dimwit. Do you think I haven’t seen it all?”
“Right. How could I forget?”
Dr. Banks gave me a stern look after peeling my old bandage off. “It’s infected.”
“What’s with the accusatory tone? I don’t have any medical experience. How would I know?”
“Look at this,” she said, pressing against the edge of the wound. “It looks awful.”
I winced, moved to bat her hand away and cease the pain, but then I pulled back. “Can you fix it?”
Her blank stare was answer enough.
Her meticulous cleaning and stitching of the wound was more painful than getting it. But I couldn’t help but feel grateful.
“What’s your name? I never asked,” she said
“Cyrus V. Sinclair. The V stands for…Vexed.”
She tied and clipped a stitch. “Is that so?”
“I’m not sure why you’d help someone you just met. Show them you have endless resources in your basement and offer to fix their leg. I feel like there is a catch and I just don’t know it yet. I’m vexed because that’s the last thing I want to deal with right now.”
“I’ve been alone a long time. Haven’t you?”
I’d been by myself my whole life. Until I joined forces with Gabe and Frank, then met Blaze, that is. I went to say my trademark ‘I don’t care if I’m alone,’ but stopped myself when I remembered why I’d come to Samish Island in the first place.
“Being alone wasn’t a problem until I met the right people,” I said. “When I wasn’t invited to parties in junior high, my grandma said, ‘Cyrus, how can you be upset about something you’ve never even experienced?’ When I rode my bike past one of those parties, it disgusted me. There wasn’t anything to be jealous of, but I never would’ve known had I not seen it for myself. She was right, though. I didn’t know I was alone until I experienced meeting someone like me. Better than me.”
The old woman had finished another two stitches by the time I finished. “That doesn’t sound bad. Would you rather you never met anyone that changed your world?”
By then I couldn’t be stopped. I’d never told
anyone
as much as I had already told her. My only friend Frank died before I could discuss love, or who I was becoming, with him. I’d been stewing in my own confusion for too long.
“I don’t
know
. I used to be so different. Nothing fazed me. I was indifferent. But all it took was
one person
to make my life a rollercoaster. It was easy to be a total hardass when I was alone. Now it seems like all I do is second-guess myself. If I hadn’t let that stupid, manipulative girl into my apartment and saved her life, I’d be the same guy. Lately I’ve been thinking life would be a hell of a lot better if no one had changed me.”
Dr. Banks’ stitches were neat and professional. The wound leaked blood onto the big cotton pad she’d set under it. She began dressing the stitches without a word, and I kept going.
“So now I’m on this absurd mission to find a woman I knew for a week. And do I have a plan for after? That is if I manage to highjack a boat, cross the Puget Sound, find a tiny island, and find her?
Fuck no
! Because I’m acting without thinking. Letting my
feelings
get the best of me.”
She taped a piece of gauze to my wound then gathered her supplies. After throwing the bloody clothes away, she sat down on her cot and leaned against the wall. I tugged my pants over my thermal underwear.
“Listen, kid. Some people grow up when they’re young and know where they’re going in life. Others, like me, we never find ourselves. Consider yourself normal. You’re finding out who you are now. Maybe you’ll go back to how you were, maybe not. I’m not an oracle, but I am a lady who still gives a damn and has a boat.”
I opened my mouth, not even thinking of what words would come out.
Dr. Banks cut me off. “I get it! You don’t need to keep bitching. I followed you from the moment you came into town. I saw everything. I’m not completely sure you’re being genuine, but it makes sense. You’ve got a long lost love, you need a boat, and you want to get to Fort Christian. Do you think these bony arms could ever row again,? Or these arthritic hands could even grip the ores if the motor went out?” Dr. Banks sighed. “We’ve got a lot in common, Cyrus. We’re both hurt and confused by everything that’s happened. By who we were and who we’ve become. Who we’ve lost along the way. We might not know the gritty details of each others’ pasts, but it doesn’t mean we can’t help each other out. We’re two people trying to set things right against all odds. It’s like a movie, isn’t it?”
Silence. Awkward,
awkward
silence. I regretted my outburst instantly. There I was, trying to be specific about my problems, while Dr. Banks instigated the logical train of thought I usually followed.
She knew I wanted something out of her, and while she related to me, she wasn’t ready to hug me while I cried.
“I’m…sorry, I guess. For unloading all that on you.”
She shrugged. “I’ll admit, I was looking for a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ response, but if you needed to get it off your chest, so be it.”
I stopped looking at her and shifted down so I lay flat on the cot. What was I supposed to do from there?
“I saw Fort Christian in a note a couple houses down. You mentioned it twice. What is it? Why do I need to go there?”
“You said you were going to cross the sound to a tiny island. There’s a piece of land so small it’s not even on the maps. Nothing’s on it. Nothing
used
to be, that is. It was just a daytrip for the locals. Then everyone in town got riled up by the minister at the local church. I’m sure you know the drill. Judgment day, Hell filling up, damned souls walking the earth. At this point the dead weren’t a problem yet. We’re too far up and our population isn’t dense. Minister Encler said he was taking a group of people to the island to hold out and start a new holy regime. Again, you know the drill.
“A few things happened after that. A handful of families left in the first wave. Anyone who stayed behind had their reasons. But one by one they succumbed to their inner fears of damnation. One of the last to go was my sister, Melinda.” Dr. Banks paused. “When Encler left, he said they’d build the island into a safe haven for the worthy and call it Fort Christian. Fort
Cliché
if you ask me. No one has come back. They’re either dead, prospering, or… History shows us what happens when a group of crazies confine themselves to one area.”
The grouped crazy phenomenon wasn’t new to me either, so the worst of what was happening at Fort Christian wouldn’t surprise me. “Thanks for the warning. Was that all I needed to hear to get the boat key?”
It was too good to be true, of course. “Yes and no. I told you my sister is there, remember?”
Ah.
Dr. Banks was about to broker a deal.
“And you want me to bring her back?”
“Absolutely not. Melinda left on her own accord, and if she comes back, I want it to be the same. I only want her to remember me. That I’m still alive and someone who loves her is waiting.”
“Sounds involved,” I said.
“It’s not. You go there and, if she is alive, give her this locket. Our mother gave it to me when she died, but Melinda always wanted it.” Dr. Banks leaned to the side of the cot, reaching underneath to withdraw a fist-sized wooden box. She passed it over the gap between us. “I know we’re strangers. I know you might not do it. I’m not an idiot. After you leave this place, I doubt I’ll ever see you again. I’m asking that you try. If you happen upon her, great, but I’m not asking you to go out of your way.”
“Why even ask me to do it? Seems to me you already think I won’t.”
“Anyone who chose to cling to hope, honesty, and goodness in this world is dead or should be. Like I said, I
know
you might not. I’m asking you because it makes me feel like I at least attempted to reconnect with her. If anything, I’m seeking solace for myself.”
I saw it then, for sure. That inkling of care and hope Dr. Banks was trying to mask with her deceiving façade of smartass meets realist. You feel the hard sting of her words, first.
I don’t care, not really
. Then after, once you listened to the tone, you saw the pained look behind her gleaming eyes.
I do care. I really care
.
Even the hardest of survivors must do it. They have to. It’s a defense mechanism. Show any weakness and you’ll be thrown to the undead hordes, ripped limb from limb for being too nice. Maybe even the crazies do it, but it’s harder to tell. It’s in me, though I’d never admit it to anyone.
The realists in us spoke to one another. We both knew I wasn’t going to do it. I wouldn’t go out of my way because I wasn’t going to try.
“I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything.” I tucked the box into a pocket on the side of my pants, zipped it closed. It wasn’t too much to ask, no, but there were a million factors that could make the task impossible.
I’d keep an eye out. More effort than that was too much to ask.
Dr. Banks showed me a photo of her and Melinda—recent, judging by how Banks looked—but didn’t let me keep it. I committed her face to memory, then she put the picture away. This time the silence wasn’t unbearable. We lay on our cots, consumed in our own musings until we agreed it was time to go to sleep.
* * *
I rolled from side, to back, to side during my effort to fall asleep. My stitches itched. Flashes of blood pumping from Frank’s old leg wound went through my mind. Was it chance, fate, or coincidence that I too got hit in the leg? Why couldn’t I have died like he did?
Dr. Banks informed me she was “doubling down” on some sleeping pills so I wouldn’t keep her up. She said the safe room door would stop an elephant, so she wasn’t worried about any zombies getting in. I declined when she offered me some pills, though I regretted it once she was out cold and I could barely lay still.
Clicking the light button on my watch didn’t help. As hours went by, I grew more nervous. Tomorrow, Dr. Banks was giving me the key to the last remaining boat on the docks.
When she told me about Fort Christian, I didn’t consider how serious the situation there could be. Every time I imagined finding Blaze, she was on an abandoned island. Happy to see me, surprised I came after her. I didn’t factor yet
another
group of crazies into it. They were probably like the lunatics in Startup or the prison leader in Monroe—using a distorted form of Christianity to fulfill their sick need to control people.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my eyelids with the tips of my fingers. A kaleidoscope of colors burst and receded. The stillness in the room was troublesome, memory inducing. With nothing to distract myself, I couldn’t keep the flashbacks at bay.
As quiet as I could, I swung my legs over the cot and began clicking the light on the watch over and over, using it to find the green sleeping pill bottle I saw Dr. Banks using earlier. I doubled down and hoped for sleep to come.
* * *
Heat waves radiated off the summer baked asphalt. The smell of freshly cut grass and pool chlorine was all I could smell. There wasn’t anyone or anything in front of me on the street. Houses, empty and still, lined the road. Robins sang their songs.
“It’s really nice, isn’t it?”
I turned and the world changed. The houses were skeletal, burnt remains of what they once were. Weeds burst from the cracks in the streets. Grass was overgrown. Icy rain misted the scene.
“Forgetting about my brother. My
only
living relative. It must be nice to forget someone so easily.”
Blaze’s teeth were blackened. Her gray skin was flaky and stretched taut over her skull. Milky whiteness washed over her once glinting brown eyes. She smiled.
“He’s as good as dead,” I tried to say, but only garbled noise came out.
“I’m as good as dead,” she snapped. “I
am
dead!”
I tried to take a step forward and reach out towards her, but my body was stone. Behind her, far off, hazy forms drew closer through the rainy mist.
She laughed again. Thick, slimy chunks of flesh swimming in bile sluiced from her mouth, running down her chin. “You’ll be dead soon, too, Cyrus.”
Chapter 22
The room became a sauna overnight from our body heat. Add to that my sweating and thrashing from the nightmares, which made the humid space all the more stifling. When I woke to the grainy smell of oatmeal, I was tangled in sweat soaked blankets and sheets.