Does not seem to matter right now. As I write the house is filled with a resounding moan that is the culmination of a myriad of Zed as they pass by outside.
Last night around 3 AM the usual pop* pop* pop* of local gunfire, a sound I have learned to fall asleep to, became an incessant, and surprisingly piercing rattle. It was consistent until 8 AM, when it began to taper off. Through the fading echoes of gunfire we could hear them.
A moan like a great wave pushed through the city until it crashed on our ears. The footsteps, the crashing of clumsy feet, hundreds of them, and finally the scratching on the walls. I, along with Scott and my family have taken refuge in the hallway that divides the level. No one has dared look outside. The frightening thing is, should we have the opportunity to use all of our ammo before we perished, I know we could not make a dent in the population surging outside.
There must be thousands.
Thousands of creeping hands, snapping jaws, and rotting, walking carcasses of human beings. It has been so peaceful the last couple of weeks with the Marines having their shooting party every evening. It is sobering to be tossed back into reality.
Geez, the Marines. That's got me thinking of all the boys at the camp. I still hear the report of gunfire, but it's sporadic, and from different parts of town. Nothing heavy, just small arms. I never thought I'd be one to know what is firing, and when, but the reports I'm hearing are definitely Marine issue firearms. Here and there I'll hear one of those 9 mills, but mostly it's the military. Some really stupid part of me wants to lean out my window and clean out the streets with my piddly little pistol, but we cannot draw any attention to ourselves.
This is awful. No one is talking. I'm running out of things to say.
I have to pee. Dad just handed me a bottle and told me to go in the hallway closet. I'm half tempted to take the ladder into the attic. Even though there's ten feet, and a room between me and a city full of Zed, I feel like they are just on the other side of this hardwood floor I'm parked on. Their rotting fingers scraping at the wood beneath me, straining at the fresh meat that is my rump.
I'm standing now, just so you know.
Geez. If those things break into the house and overwhelm our puny defenses, is that really the last word I want to leave to the world? No.
Seventeen years on this earth, and I know how I feel about things. I definitely know how I feel. I'm not sure I understand, or know anything. But I have an opinion. With so much to write about; politics, rights, the bloody history of mankind, war, apathy, and selfish ambition - all I want to tell you is to stay close to your family. Love and people are the only thing that matter in this world God has forsaken.
Or is it the other way around . . .
If you pick this book up, if it survives into mankind's unknown, and uncertain future, just know that the consequences of being free - free to love, free to express, free to be and do what you want - is the possibility of dying at any time, in any manner, by anyone. Security is an illusion, community is a fact. Let those around you take care of you, take care of those around you, and remember we are all in this mess together.
Before this disaster Mom used to isolate herself in her books, and her online world. Now she cannot wait to see Mrs. Stewart, and visit with the other ladies in the neighborhood. She lives for the nights out. It's inspiring seeing that money, possession, and profession no longer hold sway over who is better than whom.
The way I see it we are all stuck in our homes, isolated, and scared to death that Zed is going to smash in and kill us. No manner of wealth or status protects us from them. They do not look upon a mansion and feel envy. They feel hungry, and Mr. Vanderbilt is just as juicy of a treat as I am, or Scotty is. There are many things this pandemic has done that will be recorded in human history. It will be called many things. The greatest thing I have seen so far is a huge reality check.
Suddenly every person is willing to die for his neighbor, and every life is so much more valuable than it has been within my lifetime. Scott's survival means more to me than any shirt on my back, shoes on my feet, or game in my hand.
"Do you like your journal, Martin?"
It's Mom. She has been scooting slowly toward me since we all took shelter in the hallway. One precious inch at a time. I sit down.
I smile at her, a little nervous at the loudness of her voice. She whispers, but I am paranoid that it will carry.
I nod, and take some time to show her how many pages I have filled. At first her look is quaint. It's like she is saying, "Oh that's nice, dear."
But as the pages keep flipping a look of amazement comes on her face. That is what I was going for.
She signals to me in that special way we humans have, of communicating simple, but layered messages with a facial expression and a pair of hands. She wants to read some of it.
I give it some consideration, giving her a suspicious look like, "You just want to pry into my business." Then I give her the easy smile, and hand the book over, encouraging her to read.
She scans over the words. I can see she is checking the prose, rather than the content. How well the words flow, if there is a beat - a rhythm. For a blissful moment I cannot hear the moaning, the rumble of a thousand feet, or the scraping on the walls. She flips through the pages, catching snippets of the content. With a satisfied nod of the head she closes the book, and places it carefully into my hands. Her eyes glow, and she wears a smile I know well.
It's the smile that says, "I can't be more proud of you."
I smile back and hug her. She holds on to me with a fierceness that surprises me. In that moment I count the dates in the journal, and realize with just a little bit of shame that today . . . I lean back, and look into my beautiful Mother's eyes and say, "Happy birthday, Mom."
At first a tad bewildered, the truth dawns on her as well. She laughs silently, and mouths, "It is my birthday, isn't it?" I nod, laughing with her. Tears come spouting out of her eyes as she laughs harder. We've attracted attention.
I signal the rest of the family to gather round. We make the announcement together in a breathless whisper. Beth lights up. "Happy birthday song!" she breathes.Together, in whispered tones, Zed trudging around beyond the walls, and for the wide world the end seems just around the bend, we sing happy birthday to my Mother. Then we promise gifts. She embraces each of us, even Scotty. When she comes back around to me I say in her ear, "Today I know we will survive. Because God would not take us home on such a wonderful day." She hugs me harder, and I can feel her crying.
She says she loves me so much. We huddle close together, all five of us, and wait out the swarm.
It's going to be days before that smell goes away, but the memory of this birthday will stay with us forever.
- Happy Birthday to my own Mother, LeNae. I dedicate this post to her -
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