Still Shaking

How many movies have I watched where things like this happen? Enough to make me wish that I really were in a zombie apocalypse. There I said it - zombie. What else could that guy be? His blood was already congealing before Dad shot him. From what I understand of human physiology, it isn't possible for your blood to do that, and for you to be alive.

What am I saying! Zombies, seriously? That was my eighth full-body shiver today. 

Last night I boarded up the windows with Dad. He tried to go buy more bullets like the police officer suggested, but he couldn't get out of our subdivision. Military had blocked it with two APCs. I asked Dad to take me so I could see them, but he said no. So this morning I walked there with a steel pipe in my pocket. 

There are now three APCs (awesome looking things) and a tank. Though the way they make tanks these days it was kind of hard to recognize. They're all stealth looking, sharp angles.

"Go back home, kid." said this big soldier when he saw me.

"What's going on?"

He signaled me to come closer. Then he led me off to the side on Mr. Partridge's front sidewalk. "There were three incidences on this street last night. I can't say anymore than that. No one from this subdivision is allowed to leave."

I almost pointed to the grove of trees 100 yards off to ask if he'd blocked the footpath that led to the next subdivision over, but then thought better of it. A back door is a good thing to have in any sticky situation, and my shrunken scrotum told me this was just a few drops of sticky from an otherwise overflowing barrel. (Sorry Mom) But seriously. You can't even describe the feeling.

We stood there and stared at each other. His face twitched as a drop of sweat ran down his cheek.

"So how long have you been in Cedar City?" asked the soldier. I saw his name was Hammer. Fitting.

"All my life."

"Is it always this hot?"
I shrugged. "Where are you from?"
He smiled for half a second. "We were transfered in from Alaska."
I shivered as the thought of dropping to my death in a glacial fissure crossed my mind, "Cold."
He nodded. 

I felt we had gone off topic so I politely asked to speak to his superior officer. When I wouldn't leave or take a hint, he relented and fulfilled my request. I was approached by a man in a tie. He said his name was Paul. He shook my hand, a little too quickly. 

I stuttered a little, not sure of what to make of this business person in the midst of military might, and not sure if I was being had or if this guy was really in charge. He looked scared to be out in the open.

"Paul," I said finally, "I need a pass or something for my Dad to go into town and pick up . . . some supplies. Can you help me?"

"Yes Martin." he said, somewhat relieved that the problem was so easily settled, "What is his name?"

"Martin."

"So you're . . ."

"No." I replied to the obvious question, "Our middle names differ."

"What's his?"

"Joseph."

"Alright." he said, and then shuffled away, "I will send Gunnery Sergeant Hammer back with your pass." He paused midstep, "One day or one week?"

When the hell did they declare martial law in Southern Utah? I thought. "One week, please." Paul nodded and half-jogged his way back to where he'd come from. 

A few minutes later I had my pass. It felt like holding gold. When I brought it to Dad he had that look on his face that asked, "Are you serious?" Instead of a thank-you I got, "I don't want you going outside alone, Martin. I don't want you going outside at all if it can be helped."

Thanks Dad. 

I don't know who was more nervous, me or Dad, as he opened the garage door to back out the Blazer. He leaned out the window, "Close the door as soon as the hood clears the garage." I moved over to the switch and watched. As he backed into the driveway I saw the city below. There were fires out there, towers of dark smoke obscured by the heated air. Their mottled shadows danced over the landscape. My heart dropped even further.

He was gone for two hours. I was about to go look for him, struggling against the surprisingly strong protests of Mom when I heard the garage door open. He got out looking a little haggard. His face was stone, his brows knit together. There were flecks of what looked like blood on his shirt.

"What happened, Dad?"
He shook his head.

He had a few boxes of rounds for the rifle, and some 9mm rounds for a gun I don't know about. He only had a few snacks, and a bruised apple. He took us all in the living room. We kneeled and gave thanks that, even though the Supermarkets were empty, our stomachs would not be. 

Remember what I said about infrastructure collapse? It seems its happening. I won't be needing Dad's stern looks to keep me confined to this house from now on. In the meantime I've been working on my cool head. I know that, in my father, I have a great example. He may weep for what happened today, but he knew to hold it in until the proper time. What a stud.