Summit

If you want to call four city blocks a town, you can call it Summit, Utah. At least that's what the good folks up there called it. The only reason I was able to recognize it was the situation of the church against the Frontage Road. Other than that brick edifice the town was run over.

I'd hit the path of the swarm as I went over the point. A million footprints carving a swath of destruction across the desert floor. Nothing stood over an inch tall in this ground. It seems, however, that the Zed do take the path of least resistance, breaking on the high ground.

They left their stench, behind. A few trampled corpses, too. I didn't expect to make it to Summit so quickly, but I was doing the Bear Grylls 'run and leap' through the terrain. I felt stupid doing it, but I had fun.

The outdoors is so quiet. No wildlife, not even a squirrel. I don't hear any birds. I'm just sitting here, watching Summit to see if anything stirs. The heat is like a blanket fresh out of the dryer when all I want is to dive into a cold river. There's that ache - the pain of longing that cannot be satiated. I can almost feel my hair dripping with water. I can't sit here anymore, I have to move. I feel dehydration setting in.

I set out for the church, kicking through dust and debris. Honestly beginning to feel naked out here. The mountains tower, the fields extend to the horizon, and there is nothing to hide behind, under, or upon. It's a good mile and a half to the church, and I want to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

I'm hoping Scotty is there.

Too tired and hot to jog, so I just trudge. But trudging doesn't seem to be getting me where I want to go fast enough. I took my water jug out and shook it. There were about three good swallows washing around in there, almost as hot as the earth I stood on. I took a moment, and decided to wash it down, all at once, and then make for that church. Its steeple rippled in the heat, like a tall white spear waving at me. I popped open the jug and swallowed. Then I took a small amount in hand to rub on my neck and face.

Then I ran.

Five strides later I fell. No, a better description would be fly six feet, and slam into the dusty ground, which seems to have sucked out all the moisture I had just attained. I laid there letting my body catch up on diagnostics.

Breath - knocked out of me. Face - covered in dust. Spine - seems okay. Stomach - intact. Legs - functional. Feet - OUCH! My ankle. I rolled over and discovered the culprit. A simple gopher hole I missed with my eyes, but found with my foot. I looked at the church off in the distance, disgusted that it was the same exact distance from me that it was thirty seconds ago.

My ankle gave me one of those horrible throbs that says something is torn, swelling is in progress, and I will be limping my way to whatever fate awaits me. In the meantime . . . dizzy. Head is still hurting a little from the crack I gave myself a few days ago. Combine dehydration, concussion, and one monster of a twisted ankle in the 100 degree heat, and you've got one toasty Martin. I lay down, breathing the burnt earth smell around me, and note with a chuckle that there is a bird in the sky. Right above me at about 700 feet, circling what may well turn out to be lunch.

Whoop. There goes my stomach.

Ugh. What was I thinking? They say in situations like these people die because they lose hope. I am too hyper to lose hope right now, and this situation is just too stupid to amuse me any less. But the kind of pain I feel fast absorbed my positive outlook on life, turning the desert sun brightness of this world dark. Melancholy set in, and I can feel myself growing sorry.

Ah what the hey . . . I haven't had a good cry in awhile.

So I wail like an injured animal. That seems to draw my circling bird a few hundred feet down from the atmosphere. He continued circling. And now he has friends.

I really am in trouble. Not only am I incapacitated, in pain, and now draining of hope, but I am crying. That's more water out of my impoverished reservoirs. But I can't seem to help myself. The sobs just get stronger. I think about life before Zed. I think about this big, beautiful world thrown into chaos. I think about the Marines I saw die, the scavengers that allowed themselves to be no better than animals, watching movies on the big screen, driving cars, feeling safe at night and . . . blast this fetching heat! Air conditioning! Remember that? I weep all the harder.

And then I just felt stupid. I turned off the tap, and worked myself into a sitting position. The ankle is swollen pretty good, starting to turn sickly colors of purple and red. I looked around, for something akin to a crutch, but there is nothing. The church is over a mile away.

I assess.

I stay out here, I die. I crawl to the church, I may survive.

Tough call. The thought of crawling over a mile through this terrain ticks me off. Hot. Just hot. So I laid on my stomach, the ankle tweaking in protest. I push myself up to my knees, and crawl. It isn't long before my breath comes faster. I am squinting to avoid too much brightness, as my head is still hurting. My stomach is sympathizing between ankle and head, making it that much more difficult to focus. I don't even look up, or look back as I work my way toward my goal. I don't want to see how far (or not far) I have come. It's just one hand in front of the other, and curse the pain.

I reached the shoulder of a road, panting. This is good. There is only one paved road in this town. I sit on my side, and look. The sun is blaring at me, stabbing my corneas, but I can make out the steeple. Looks like a clock tower. It is only three blocks away.

Three blocks of me crawling like a  . . .

Branch.

Oh thank the heavens. It was a branch. I reached out and grabbed it. It seemed tall enough. I used it to lift myself to my feet. It fit beneath my arm, a bit dug into my ribs, but otherwise it was good. I used it as a crutch, and hobble the last few blocks to the church.

Someone has sandbagged the whole thing round the parking lot. There's barbed wire. I see no sign of life until I hear a gun cock. Up on the roof. I feel the barrel pointing at my head.

"You have quite the drive, young man." says a male voice, "That was a feat crawling through that desert."
"Happy I could entertain." It hurts to yell.
"I have a soft spot for wounded creatures," said the man, "Make me care enough to help you."
I had all sorts of retorts in mind, none of which could answer the twisted logic of this person. So I decided to give him another show. I dropped my branch, attempted to step on my twisted ankle, and went down to the blacktop with a sharp intake of breath.
"Alright, alright . . ." he says. I saw him disappear.
He popped out beneath the steeple, gun in hand, and walked toward me.
Someone else appears from the church. They lead me through the sandbags, and into the surprisingly cool interior of the church. My relief is so heavy, I almost start to cry again. They guide me down the dark hallway to a carpeted gymnasium. They sat me on a table.
"Go get Maggie, would you Burt?"
Burt left.
"What's your name, bud?"
"Martin." I answered, "Have you seen a guy, about my age, with a pretty young thing with black hair?"
An older lady came in just then. The man with the gun scowled, not at me, but in my general direction. My heart skipped a beat, but that hurt, too, so it went about its normal rhythms.

"Hello." said the lady. She was pretty. I smiled.
"Thanks for letting me in." I said.
She handed me a cup of water. It was cold. I couldn't believe the difference that made as I drank it. I was feeling better already. She was quiet as she checked me out. She noted the cut on my head. Poked around my neck, stomach, and legs.
"Mike," she said, "Could you get his shoe and sock off? Then go fetch me some ice in a bowl." She looked at my foot, "A big bowl. Please?"
Mike, the man who had been pointing a rifle at my head, nodded. He was deft with his hands, but it still hurt like a mother getting my shoe off. He set them on the table next to me, and walked out.
"You have ice?" I asked, then shook my head, "Listen. Have you guys seen a young guy, brown hair, blue eyes, with a young lady about my age walk through here?"
She scrunched up her brow, too. I was starting to think that had significance.
She smiled, rather painfully, "We saw them." she said.
"Oh!" I smiled.
"They were just two blocks down. Mike was watching from the roof. We were out front, piling some sand bags. The girl collapsed. When we went to help, he waved us off."
My heart sank.
"He stood over her. She stopped breathing. We could see it."
I didn't want her to go on, but I had to know.
"Mike cocked his rifle. The young guy looked up, and shook his head. He pulled out his own pistol. We looked away."
Mike returned with the ice in the bowl.
"Thank you Mike." she said, "We need to get him to one of the classrooms so he can sit and soak."
That sounded so incredible I almost forgot Scotty.

We hobbled into a room off one of the hallways. She sat me in a cushy chair, and plopped my foot in the ice. The hot to cold transition was a little too abrupt, and I hissed.
"Mike," she said, "Could you bring some water and some more ice. I think our guest is a little dehydrated."
Again Mike consented and left.
"Subservient fellow." I said.
"Bishop Mike." she said, shrugging her shoulders. She eased my foot into the ice, from which, all of a sudden, sprang joy.
I was a taken aback by the title. Bishops are basically the presiding authority over the individual churches throughout the world. They lead the meetings and such. Sniper Mike didn't strike me as the Bishop type.
"So he just sits up there and guards his stewardship with a .270, huh?" I asked. Mormons like it when you use words like stewardship.
She just smiled at me.
"My friends?" I asked.
"Right." she shook her head, "Sorry. The young man, he shot her. When we turned around he was walking away. Burt went after him, and a couple of the other members. They couldn't talk him into coming."
"Why didn't you just drag him in?" I asked.
She looked at me, that same sad smile, "When he came back, Burt said he was thinking the same thing. But the look in the kid's eyes, and the loaded gun . . ."
I nodded. The silence stretched on. I felt sad, again. Sick. I reached down and got some of that ice from the bowl. I rubbed it on my neck and over my aching head.
Mike came back in with a whole pitcher of water and a glass full of ice.
Ice. Couldn't believe it. They must have a generator.
"Which direction did he go?" I asked.
"Parowan." said Bishop Mike, "A day ago."

I sat back, "What's the plan."
They looked a bit confused at that.
"I mean for me." I said, "I don't want to take up your time, or cost you supplies."
They both smiled at that. Mike leaned down. He looked me in the eye. There it was. I could see it now. That comforting kindness, and unconditional affection. He was a Bishop. "Martin," he said, "You'll stay with us until Maggie says you can go. Then we will take you home."
I wanted to yell out No! I'm going to find Scotty! But I just nodded.

"Daisy?" I asked.
"The girl?" said Maggie.
"Yeah."
"We buried her behind the church."
Ah man. Now I could be left in the room alone. They both seemed to sense it. Mike walked out with a nod, Maggie went to follow. She turned around, "I'll bring you a cot." she said, "Her name was Daisy?"
I nodded, feeling tears coming.
"That's good to know." she said, "The boy didn't give us a name. Now we can mark her resting place."
"Thank you." I said.
Maggie closed the door.
I looked down at my ankle, swollen and purple within the blessed embrace of water and ice, and wondered what my family was up to.
Wondered if I really wanted to know.
Wondered where Scott went.
And wondered when something would resolve for once. It felt like none of this could possibly end. I hope I'm wrong.

What Can A Hunt Reveal?

Whilst Mom and Dad slept, and Beth hid in her room from heartache and loss, I stole away. That's right. I'm outside again. I'm looking for Scott. I can't let him do this. She's already dead, and he . . . well. I have a feeling he wants to be dead, too.

I left a note. It went somewhat like:

I'm going to find Scott. I love you, and will return in one . . . fleshy pink, breathing, smiling, talking piece. Speaking of piece, please enjoy the peace while I am gone. I know I've been horrible lately.

Forgive me.

Martin

Then I set out, leaving by the backdoor as always, into the bright sunshine of mid-day. It hurt for just a minute. I had a gallon of water, and a 40 oz bottle. A personal First Aid kit like they taught you to make in Scouts. My nine. Plenty of ammo (I think), food enough for three days, a sleeping bag, bedroll, and tight clothes. I am not wanting for a hat thanks to my plentiful ginger curls.

A pair of sunglasses would be nice.

I tried my best to crinkle and crunch my way through the dead lawn to the backlot. My plan was to find someplace inconspicuous and high because I honestly had no idea where I might even begin to find those two. Heaven knew how long Daisy had left of life. Scotty has his own weapon, though whether he'd be able to kill her after she turned is debatable.

Or at least those were the thoughts meandering through my all-too-busy mind.

When I reached the backlot that crept precariously down into my little grove of trees I spotted footprints, and breaks in the foliage. They were probably mine, but I followed them anyway. One trail branched off to the North, and judging by the condition of the trail - one clueless teenage boy, and one petit teenage girl, walking side by side with . . . Daisy on the right. I jogged after them, following the trail as best I could.

Rock. Lost them on this rock. I marked where I was so I could find my way back to it, and circled outward from there. I picked up their trail 20 yards out, and moved on.

It was hot. It smelled like death and desert. I began to walk again. After a few more yards I was trudging. A boulder ahead provided some shade. I took out my gun, and sat.

Hot. Just hot. It makes me wonder how they're coping. We hadn't rummaged through the supplies to see if anything was missing. Didn't have time to do it myself. Scott took all he had left from his house when he moved in, so I know he wasn't headed back there.

I swallowed some water, and thought. I thought how much I missed cold water.

Must have been thinking too deeply. The coolness of the shade, a slight breeze, hydrated, and cozy all sent me off on a bit of sleep. I only woke because a half-Zed was grasping at me over the rock, the sway of his hand casting an irregular shadow over my eyes.

I grabbed the arm, which snapped, and slammed the beast onto the hard desert pan. I wasted no time caving in its skull with my foot. Some zombie juice leaked into my shoe. I grimaced, disgusted. I turned back to the North. I was on a little rise above the valley. Down on I-15 I saw a row of vehicles heading south toward Cedar City, the sunlight glinting off their windshields. I got up on the rock and watched.

Big trucks. A couple of semis. Troop carriers. Military. The cavalry is coming back to town. I felt no relief. In fact, it scared me to see them coming back. We were more scared without them, yes, but we were also free. Dad and I salvaged some really good stuff from the neighborhood and surrounding areas without having to worry about martial law shoving a gun in our faces. That swarm really cleared us out, cleared out the scavengers, cleared out the military. I felt for those Marines that disappeared. We still don't know what happened to them, whether they had survived or died. I shivered when I thought of them turning and joining that swarm. Ridiculous. There had to be a million Zed in that group.

I suddenly remembered what I was doing. I jumped off the rock and gained the trail again.

"Where are you guys going?" I asked. The trail meandered through the foothills, north. I made a plan while I walked. I couldn't have been doing more than three miles an hour. Scotty and Daisy had to be going slower. I mean, I've never been bit, so I don't know how it feels to be infected. If it's like the flu, or something, it has to be slowing her down.

I'm thinking I'll cover as much ground as possible while the sun is up, find a hole to hide in for the night, and start again at dawn. The sun won't be up for long. A couple more hours.

At this point I am grateful I decided to go on foot. If I had taken the car (if it would have started after all this time) I would have missed the trail, got involved with the caravan, and either been shot or detained.

I was getting too hot. I started hunting for my hole in the ground. I decided higher was better. I went up, and found a good vantage point. I was able to wedge myself between two boulders. I watched the sun set, feeling more free than I have felt in a long time. Nature was sucking the stress out of me, the bad feelings, the worry, the mental weariness. I could feel it seeping into the rocks, and the dirt, and the sagebrush. The wind was taking it away.

Zed could have been crawling up the hill toward me, gaping maw, ragged teeth, hungrier than they had ever been, and I still would have slept like a stone. I was gone. Dreamless sleep.

I woke in the darkness, smelling the desert sand, breathing the warmth of the rocks. I was tightly wedged, a little too tightly. The rocks must have shrunk. I was stuck! I felt something brushing at my ankle.

Heart rate - explodes. I started wiggling, kicking . . . I think I may have been squealing, too. Something groped at my ankle. I started getting myself out of there fast. I exploded out of the hole, slammed my head off of something - that turned the darkness white, I went to my knees.

I woke up on the ground. For a minute, I thought I had dreamed of Zed attacking me while I was stuck in a crack in the rock, but then I remembered I went to sleep in a crack in the rock, and I was no longer in that crack in the rock, and my head hurt. I went to my feet, looked around.

No zombie.

I started feeling my ankles, legs, head . . . which was stupid because it was dark. I couldn't have seen anything anyway. I went to my knees, and listened, trying not to breathe, my heart thundering in my ears. I was scared. I was beyond scared. It was dark, it was quiet.

After a few moments, there was nothing.

I laid back down on the open ground, and pulled my sleeping bag over me. I was out again in no time.

Dreams. Nothing but dreams. Restless, endless dreams.

When I woke up I was rubbing wounds. The sky overhead was light. It was beautiful. But as I looked to the west the sky was still black and full of stars. I quit rubbing my wounds, and gaped like an idiot. It was so beautiful. I swear I watched the blue sky crawl to the horizon and hide the stars. Amazing.

I bandaged some good scrapes, packed my stuff, and took one last look between the boulders. On the other side of the hole, I'm not joking you, was a Zed arm. Just the arm. One stiff, mummified, hand in a claw zombie arm. I shuddered, and for a minute I was incredulous. A couple months ago if I had found an arm in the wilderness, I would have run away from it, called the police, and locked my doors for fear of the mutilating murderer on the loose.

Stupid, these paradigm shifts. Perceptions changing.

The thing that really crawled up my spine, and caused the hairs to rise on the back of my neck as I headed north again was the possibility that, late last night, that arm was in possession of a hungry Zed, and I was that much more lucky to be alive.

Beneath My Nose

I've lost control. I've lost faith. I feel like I'm losing my mind. What kind of joke is this thing they call love?

Doesn't matter.

Today I'm going to lose someone.

It began with a contentious morning. I woke with a headache, which is always a bad sign. Dad was worried. He said I wasn't hydrating like I should. I told him I was tired of taking a leak every ten minutes, and stormed off. I don't like hurting the man. We're all lonely here. Who else do we have but each other? And here I am being a jerk.

I went up the ladder to the second floor making a racket so everyone could know that Martin was unhappy, especially Daisy. She needed to be put in her place, whatever that means. Even though Mom is quiet, and inherently timid she rules this roost. Dad has a strong character, but it's Mom who commands the army. Her subtlety is something I admire. In that respect I never could comprehend this place everyone talks about. But suddenly Daisy needed to be in hers.

I reached the top floor, and caught Daisy leaving Scott's room. I paused. That devil fire raged up inside me.

As she took a step into the hall his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She squeaked, then twirled around. I ducked even lower. The house was dark enough I didn't present much of a silhouette. He pulled her to him, and gave her a . . . not-friend kiss right on those perfect lips.

Oh the denial came. The pain. The anguish. I climbed slowly back down the ladder, like someone had placed 100 pounds on my shoulders. My legs shook as I touched feet to floor. I could feel Dad watching me as I walked past. I went into the garage.

Terrible acoustics in here. I couldn't wail or scream at anyone. Quietly, stupidly, I unbarred the door and walked out. That full sun hit my headache like an icepick to the brain. Instant nausea punched my guts up right through the mouth.

The tears came. I ran.

Geez I ran.

I ran to the only green left in this valley, that haunt of woods my Dad and I had trekked through when all this started. I just wanted to be alone, maybe throw some rocks, and dip my head in the stream until the cold numbed my skull. That was if the water was clean. I don't know why it wouldn't be with everyone dead or missing. No one left to pollute. I reached the shade of the grove, my breath ragged in the windpipe. It was burning. I needed a drink, some peppermint, anything to rid me of this taste. Fifty yards in I came to the stream.

It smelled clean, like fresh earth after rain. I breathed the smell. It reminded me of Daisy. A dream. Stupid kid. Of course it was Scott. Good looking guy, sweet, suave, and genuine. Guilt. I felt terrible. Since she walked into my room I hadn't been genuine at all. Here I was, sitting on the banks of this stream, the dappled sunlight lighting the scene enough to hurt, but not enough to aggravate my head. And all around me the peril of the walking dead. My senses were destroyed, or hypersensitive, my emotions whipped into a frenzy, my ears were ringing . . . how was I supposed to know.

*snap*

The world froze. Something stepped on that stick. I rose to my feet. Too quickly. The thin canopy overhead swirled. I went to a knee, and reached for my gun.

No gun.

I reached for my sock.

No knife.

I patted my back pockets. Nothing. Stupid!

Think! Think!

So hard to think.

I scrunched my eyes shut. Stick. Sharpen the stick. No knife! Sharpen on rock. What rock? All sand! Break it for a sharp point.
Stick. Stupid, nauseous, angry, bitter, contemptuous, scared, with my pulse pounding through my skull I found a heavy bough and kicked it in half. It came away with a sharp enough point. My choice was to run. But where? I didn't know if that sound had come from behind, ahead, to my left. I stood and waited, fighting the urge to vomit.

*snap*

The bough felt heavy in my hand. I could do some damage with it. I looked down the trail I had come through. A figure moved toward me, clearing the branches out of its way. My vision blurred. I couldn't see it. I waited. I was going to face it head on. I didn't feel like hiding. I swallowed bile.
"Come on." I seethed, "Make me bloody. Guts all over the ground. Come on." Anything but this.
The figure cleared the last bit of brush.
Zed.
An old one, his skin a dark purple leather pulled over his skull, an eternal grin on his face from lack of lips. In the fold of one eye socket I caught a glint of flesh. Maybe it still had an eye. An eye I could stick this bough into. I shook my head.
It opened its maw, and made toward me, arms reaching, clawing. The remains of its left hand were skeletal, brown, and sharp. He had a weapon of his own.
I stood my ground.
All the frustration, confusion, and aggravation came to the surface. I screamed a primal scream from a part of me I never knew existed. I almost laughed when the Zed seemed to back off for a second, and consider the situation.
I charged.
I blacked out.

What a blissful nothing. Time stopped. The rage ceased. My mind closed like a door. After a few moments I heard some thudding, and knocking.
I came back to my senses, covered in brown muck and beating the corpse of the Zed into a disgusting pulp. Its bones protruded from what was left of its flesh. The skull had been caved in. He was nothing. Brown pudding.
I was breathing hard, my pulse hammering through my body. I backed away, and sat hard on my butt. My headache was gone.
A crashing through the brush caught my attention as Daisy ran into the clearing. She stopped, gasped when she saw me, sitting on my haunches, my gore-covered bough beside me like a scepter of death. She jumped when she saw the corpse.
Still breathing hard, I smiled at her.
Suddenly it didn't matter she was making out with Scott. In an instant I had forgiven her. I felt no more worm in my guts, no more confusion. Actually it was quite clear.
"You never did like me, did you? Not like that?"
Her eyes wide she looked at me. I could hear the ten different things she wanted to say whirling behind her eyes. All she managed was, "No."
I nodded, "I'm sorry. I was stupid." I put my hand out to her, "Hi. I'm Martin."
She wrinkled her nose at me, smiling. I forgot for a second I was covered in Zed guts. I looked down at my hand, then down at the congealing mess.
"When I get upset in the future I can just go find one of these and beat it to goo."
She laughed.
"Come sit with me." I said.
"We should go."
"Please." I waved her over. She sat a few feet from me.
I smiled, "What are you doing here?"
"We're all looking for you. You just stormed off. You don't even have your gun, do you?"
"No." I answered, waving the stick at her. I looked at the Zed for a long time. "We all die." I said.
She seemed upset by that remark, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Sitting out here, where any Zed can get us. It matters very little. We're all dead anyway."
"That's morbid."
"Sorry." I said. I heaved a sigh, out of relief more than anything else. The adrenaline was still coursing through my veins, delicious, satiating - relieving. I smiled at her. I couldn't help it.
"Scott's my best bud." I said, "He's kind, strong, pure . . ."
I saw the tear fall from her cheek before she sniffed. Once again my mind went into high gear. He had hurt her, he had broken up with her - she actually had feelings for me . . .
"What's?" I asked.
She shook her head. Then dropped the neck of her shirt, almost exposing a full breast. I saw then.

She had been bitten. Not deep. Not hard. Only one fanged tooth had penetrated her skin, and that not very far. From that infected spot spread a bright red and purple flower of veins. I got up and walked to her.
"May I?" I asked. Man. Awkward.
I didn't touch her. I meant no disrespect, but I gave the wound a long look. My heart broke. I almost heard it.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
She covered herself, "It means I'm dead. And it means that unless . . ." she choked, "Somehow my brain gets destroyed when I die, I will be coming back. But not as me. Not as me."
"I am so sorry." I said, "I'm sorry I stink." I could really smell myself now. I laid in the stream, just dipped myself in it. It was so cold it stole the breath from my lungs, made me gasp and grunt for breath. I laughed. I looked over at Daisy. She recovered a small twinkle in her eye, gave me a half smile. Better than nothing. I scrubbed my skin with mud. My shirt was hopeless. I took it off and flung it into the forest. I rinsed, my pale, freckled skin going beet red with the chill. I trudged out of the water, saddened, but happy to be clean.
I held a clean hand out to Daisy, and helped her up. We walked into the woods.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
She shrugged, and shook her head.
"What can I do?" she said, fresh tears flowing from her eyes, "If I stay with your family, with Scott, I'm a threat. If I leave the protection of the house, I face them." She stopped, "I don't even know how long this is going to take."
"Well," I said, trying to sound hopeful, "Who's to say it will happen at all?"
"The other group I was with," she said, "Scavengers. Killers most of them. They called this a slow burn. If it gets into your blood, you die. You come back. Period."
That sounded final. I scratched my head. I looked around. I squinted into the distance like I was trying to see something. I sucked at consolation.
"What can I do for you Daisy?" I asked.
"I won't ask anyone to kill me." she said. Then she didn't talk anymore.

When we got home, I watched as she packed her bedding out to the garage. Scott went wild when he found out. He wouldn't leave her. I tried to apologize for being a jerk, but he blew me off. Can't say I blame him. I just stood to the side. He spent the night out there with her. Neither Mom nor Dad held any sway over that decision.
I didn't sleep well. I kept seeing Scott sleeping soundly next to her, while she changed in the middle of the night. She wakes for a second time, sits up, turns to Scott, and has her first meal. I don't know how he did it.
Well, I guess understand a little.

I was wrong. I didn't lose someone that day.

I lost two people. Sometime in the night Daisy left. Scott went with her. It was always quiet in this house, but now it was as still as a tomb. Reality needs to take another vacation. This is hard.

Art courtesy of artboy: http://forum.expressobeans.com/viewtopic.php?f=32&p=765785

With Eyes Of Green

I woke, my head feeling better. Our raid was but two days ago, and already my skull was mending. It's good to be young.

While I cleaned up, and got dressed, my heart fluttered around my rib cage. My cheeks retained a permanent flush. I had this insane excitement to see Daisy. But I didn't want to look like a total tool, nor did I want to trip all over myself trying to impress her.

Well . . . when one feels awkward, one cannot help but be awkward. So I warned her.

"Hey!" I said, complete with a big stupid smile.
She was even cuter in the light. We met in the hallway upstairs, and stood toe-to-toe. I am sure it was the whole screwy teenage interaction.
"Hey." she smiled, "How's your head?"
I just smiled; bigger.
She giggled at me. It was completely stupid.
And awesome.
That's when Scotty appeared down the hall. He smiled when he saw me, and walked toward us. He locked on to Daisy.
That's when I felt a stirring I had never felt before. I moved closer to her. I think it was a bit obvious, because Scott threw me a brief, albeit bewildered look, and continued walking to us. He stood by me.
"Hey Martin."
I shook my head. My smile reappeared. "Hey, man." I was shocked at myself. The smile I wore was icy. Why was it cold? Something was worming through my innards.
"Daisy." he said, "How's Beth treating you?"
"Oh, uh . . ." she scrunched her cute little nose like something was amiss, "I think I'm invading her space."
Scott laughed. The worming creature bared its teeth. I frowned.
"Well," said Scott, "I could move in with Martin while you're here . . ."
"Great idea!" I blurted.
A dozen schemes whipped past my mind. With Scott under my thumb I could have Daisy all to myself . . . Wait. What?
I looked at Daisy. You remember that awkward feeling I had? It had multiplied. I could feel myself behaving like a jerk, but I couldn't turn it off.
"Scott would love to give you his room." I said.
Scotty's smile left his eyes, but remained fixed on his face. I looked him over as he chatted with Daisy, and felt myself hating him. His stupid, mousy brown hair, those cherub cheeks, his round teeth, and the way those dimples sunk into his face like two stab wounds. I flushed with something other than humility.
I grabbed his arm and looked him in the eye, "Let's get moving, bud."
Ice cold.
He nodded, ever the nice guy. I walked into my room, and about slapped my forehead. No. I did slap my forehead, right on the sore spot. That pain ebbed into my skull. As my stomach lurched, Daisy came in.
"Are you ok?" she asked.
I shook my head. When she didn't respond I pointed to my bandage, and mimed hitting myself in the head.
"Well what did you do that for?"
"Feeling stupid." I said.
She giggled again. That made me feel better.
"Can I help?" she asked.
I groaned, "I just don't know where I'm going to put the kid." I said. My room was not the biggest in the house. It accommodated a full-size bed, a closet full of clothes and other crap I hadn't seen in months, a dresser, a tv, a sad looking bookshelf, and about 40 square feet of carpet. I know there's not 40 square feet of Scotty, but he was going to be cramped in here.
"Martin." she said, "I don't think we should move Scott in here."
Scott? I thought. "Scotty." I said.
"Scotty."
"But what about you and Beth? Tensions?"
"There are other rooms in the house." she said.
"On the bottom floor." I said, alarmed.
"No." she said, and pointed up. She leaned in, "There's an attic up there, plenty of space. I could spy on you through the vent in the ceiling."
My heart fluttered. My smile returned. She smiled back at me, plain . . . no. Simple. Wonderfully simple. I knew then this girl could keep a clear head in any situation. It gave me hope. Flimsy hope, but hope nonetheless.
Scotty walked in with his bag, and a pillow and blanket. I went to him. "Keep your room for now, buddy. We will figure something else out."
Scott looked relieved. "Are you sure?"
Daisy nodded, "We will."
Scott left and went to his room, closing the door behind him. She smiled at me, and scowled at the same time.
"Something wrong?"
"No, no . . . I . . ."
"Hup." Dad said as he came in, "Now now. I know you're both responsible young adults, but if the chemicals are still like they were in my day, I would like you to visit anywhere besides a bedroom."
I went flush again. I was kind of glad he said chemicals, and not hormones. Daisy smiled, suppressing a giggle.
"And where are we supposed to hang out, Dad? In the hall? In Beth's room?" I was being a jerk, again.  Now I felt really bad, but I didn't like this positioning. "We will behave ourselves." Oh geez.  I cannot believe I said that. I almost slapped my forehead again. My skull ached, remembering the pain.

"It's ok Mr. Ashton." said Daisy, "I will see you in the hall Mr. Martin." She raised her eyebrows at me as she slipped past Dad. I looked at the carpet, hoping to get distracted by its immense detail. The thing actually came to life if you stared at it long enough.
Dad came in the room, and sat next to me on the bed. "Are you alright, son?"
"Fine. My head still hurts." Any excuse not to own up to my behavior. "Sorry." I threw in. My knee started bouncing, I just wanted to be out in the hall with Daisy. My ears were ringing. Dad was talking, but I didn't catch a word. That thing was worming through my guts, again. What if Scott was out there? What if he was sneaking his way into her favor, now? What if she had forgotten me, and got lost in his baby blues? He was a bit buffer, more of a solid guy.
Most importantly, what the heck was wrong with me?
". . . We don't know this girl, son." Dad was saying.
"I can make good decisions." I spat.
Dad went quiet. I had never snapped at him. He furrowed his brow, and looked at me. I could see it out of the corner of my eye. I was still staring at the carpet. I couldn't meet his eyes. The carpet rippled and swayed.
"Can I go?" I said.
Can I go? I thought, How about sorry for being rude, Dad. Help me. I don't understand these feelings. I need someone to tell me what is going on. But I just focused on the carpet, bouncing my knee, and wished for him to leave. After a moment he did. He sighed, and left my room shaking his head.
I felt so bad I had become completely turned off to everything.
Fine.
If Daisy wanted Scott, whatever. She could have him. I wasn't going to bend to her will, be her little dog. If she wanted to see me she could come in the room.
That would tell me she cared.
By what, Martin? By breaking Dad's rules?
Dad's rules are foolish.
She's a guest. Her obedience is her survival.
Who is talking to me?
The sense your ignoring.
Dad wouldn't kick her out. If he kicked her out I would follow.
Like her "obedient little dog?" Come on.
I shut that voice off in a hurry.

My head was pounding, now. I thought I should get up, tell Daisy I was just going to lay down and for her to have a smashing day, but I just laid down and turned off my lantern. My dreams of love and romance had been crushed.
I tried hard to forego self-pity. Didn't work.
In a half-sleep I thought I heard rapping on my door. But it just folded into a dream I was already swimming through. I wasn't sure if it was the dream, or reality.
Daisy gave me both a strong sense of hope, and put me in an abysmal state of despair. Ugh. I had it partway figured out. She was very mature.
How old was she?
She couldn't have been older than me. Remember what I said about fawns? This one wasn't a fawn. She was a doe. A full grown, young, supple . . . Graceful, lithe . . . geez. Couldn't stop thinking about her any more than I could stop my heart from hammering.

Two days ago I was hoping Zed wouldn't eat me, or any of my family. I was hoping the Marines weren't in on some apocalyptic conspiracy, and that the source of the infection was as benign as we all hoped it was. I was focused on doing a sketch with Scott and Beth, where I served them at a table and influenced their witty small talk. My goal was to nail the punchline, the one I knew would make Mom bust a stitch in her side, and call every Zed for a thousand miles with her hilarious, howling laugh.
Now I was caught in one heck of a strong, and overwhelming swirl of surreal feelings. I don't think I like this.

I've never wanted to be accepted so bad in my life. I never had to be. Never had to be.

Why does it matter?

Daisy

Why couldn't we hear the screams?

Were there any screams?

Dad and I were exploring the destroyed homes on our street, searching for survivors, snagging supplies, and settling our suspicions. Each home was no doubt empty. Without its four walls the structure doesn't serve a purpose in this environment, and no one wants to be left in the open.

Nor do I.

I was clearing some debris when I spotted a shoe, with a sock sticking out of it. And the sock was occupied.

"Dad."
He turned from his own scrounging and climbed over to where I stood. He and I were both covered in soot, and dust. He looked where I was looking.
"Mmmm." he murmured, "You get that end."

Part of our self-accepted role here was to bury any bodies we found. We had prepared graves in our backyard the day before. I didn't know how many to make.

We lifted a chunk of debris off the body. I kneeled down and threw away some of the smaller bits until I unearthed the body. I uncovered the face, and my heart sank. It was a girl, about my age. Fair. Pretty. Black hair. Her eyes were closed, she had a blue cast to her skin. Dad kneeled across from me.
"Shame." he said.
"I don't recognize her."
Dad shrugged, "Who knows, son. She could have come recently, before the swarm, and fostered with this family. I don't know."
I brushed her hair back, "Why would they not come back for her?"
She coughed.
The two of us leapt six feet in the air, and scrambled backward on our butts.
"Gun!" said Dad.
I fumbled my pistol out of my pocket, and trained it on the hole she lay in. We read each other's eyes. We both expected her to rise slowly from where she lay, twitch, spot one of us, and clamber over the debris to get to our fresh blood. My heart was hammering out a new record for most beats per minute, but my hand was steady.
She did not rise.
She didn't do anything. I signaled to Dad, "Is she alive?" I asked.
He shrugged. Together we crept toward the girl.
"Cover me." said Dad. He reached down and felt for a pulse.
"She's cold." he said, "But I can feel a heartbeat."
I put my gun away. I managed to get my hands under her head, and lifted gently. "What if she has a neck injury?"
"She can't stay here." said Dad, "And I haven't seen any military." That seemed to make him nervous. He rubbed his balding head, and sighed. He kneeled at her feet, and lifted. We propped her on my shoulders. Dad grabbed what supplies we had salvaged, and signaled me to take the lead. It was five blocks to home.
I hoped for no trouble. I knew better. I took my gun in hand, and walked as rapidly as I could.

There were seven of them. They emerged from within the ruins of the biggest house on the block. Between us, Dad and I had fourteen rounds. Two for each skull, if need be. I began firing, but Dad was yelling at me. So I stopped. My ears were ringing.
"What?!"
He was signaling me to move. His eyes were forward, on the Zeds coming at us. I looked around, but the girl was on my shoulders. I couldn't see.
"Just move!"
Move? Move where? I was firing again, dropping the zombies in my path. But Dad was hollering No! No!
Almost immediately I saw shapes coming from either side, out of the corner of my eye. A couple dozen. They were closing.
It appeared that the swarm had left new infected in its wake.
But where were they when we were rooting around the houses? I cannot speculate. I had two rounds left. We were running, now. My center of gravity was so high I was having a problem going faster than a jog.
Dad ran out ahead of me, "Come on, son!"
He jumped into the nearest burnt out husk of a house. I followed. We were climbing through boards, and charred furniture. Geez it stunk. My eyes watered. I had to duck through a hole. Zed was getting tied up behind me. One thing that was in our favor; Zed was all fury, no thinking, just acting. It had a difficult time negotiating anything but the open road.
I took the girl off my shoulders, and cradled her in my arms so I could get through the burned out doorway. I ducked rather carelessly.
The knock to my head sent me reeling. I fell backward, the girl sprawling over top of me. I blacked out. When I came to a couple seconds later, Dad was kneeling over me firing back the way we had come. My head was splitting. Dad was shaking me.
"Martin! Martin!"
"Dad."
He looked down at me, his eyes wider than I had ever seen them. He helped me get the girl off of me, so I could sit up. When I was up I collected the girl, again, and nodded to Dad. Zed was crawling all over the ruins trying to get to us. I hoofed it out of there. A liquid was dripping from my brow. I knew what it was. We stepped out of the ruins, and headed home again.

We had no ammo left. I had dropped my gun back there. For a moment I imagined a Zed picking up the gun and spending the remaining bullets on Dad and me.

But not the girl. Not the girl.

I was dizzy. That was a hard thunk to the head. I was still seeing stars. As each breath tore at my lungs I became nauseous. I stopped jogging, and just walked. Then I just went to my knees.
"They're right behind us, son!" said Dad. He was trying to pick me up. I couldn't move. I set the girl down, and collapsed.

"MARTIN!"
I could smell the earth. Scorched. Tainted with ash, and the slight tinge of death. I breathed it into a dream that seemed to stretch for an hour. I only remember the feeling. It was like experiencing fear and peace at the same time. Like coming to terms.
Scotty called it acceptance. I had accepted something in my dream. I had accepted that Zed had won. It would now count me among its ranks. The peace came from knowing I was done with this world. I didn't speculate like Beth did, that the soul of the person was trapped in the zombie. Dead was dead. Whatever animated these guys, it wasn't a soul. There was an explanation out there.

When I woke I was being dragged by someone strong, but breathing in gasps. I wiggled out of its grasp and fell to the ground.
I turned over and got up on my knees, looking at who was dragging me to my doom.
Scotty.
Dad was up ahead, the girl on his shoulders.
Scott helped me up. I was shaky. Trembling. I have never trembled. I doubled over and threw up. Scott held his hand on my back.
I heard two shots, and smelled gun powder, which turned my stomach even more.
"Almost home, Martin."
My stomach and headache had a strong hold on me. I couldn't move. If I even thought about moving my body screamed at me. I just wanted to lay down and die.
Scott got up under me, and lifted me on his shoulders. "Ugh." he grunted, "You're heavier than you look."
I just closed my eyes, and tried to breathe. After a few steps, some clicks, and another round fired I smelled home. Relief rushed through me.
"Take me to my room." I mumbled.
Scotty took the ladder, slowly but efficiently. He grunted as he rose to his feet, took me to my room, and lay me on the floor.
"Bed?" I asked.
He laughed.
"You're a bloody mess, mate." he said with a poor Irish accent, "If you saw yourself you would want me to throw you straight into the bathtub."
I scowled at him, which hurt. I just lay there with my eyes closed.
"Help Dad." I said, but Scott was already gone.
Mom tended to my wounds, fussing, and tearing up. "Just stay still, honey. Stay still." she sniffed.
I complied. Happily.
I fell asleep again.

I woke in my bed. It was dark. Beth was in my doorway. She startled me.
"Hey." I said. My head was feeling better.
"Hey."
My heart stopped. That was not Beth's voice. This one was deeper, more raspy. I squinted at the figure.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Fine." I said a little too quickly, "Who are you."
My fingers were searching for the knife I kept next to me in bed.
She stumbled into the room. I could tell she was in pain. The light coming in from the hallway caught enough of her face for me to relax. I held out my hands in a feeble attempt to help her. She caught one hand in an unusually strong grip, and sat next to me.
"Holly tells me you pulled me out of the house."
I smiled, and felt tearful for some reason. Another living breathing human being. I could see her face, now. She was a little bandaged, but she was beautiful. Heart shaped face, cute little nose, small but sexy lips, and big brown eyes.
"I'm Daisy." she said, her hand still in mine.
"I, uh." I stammered, "Martin." I shook her hand. Stupid. "I'm sorry. For earlier. I hit my head pretty good." I leaned forward, and put my face in my hand, "For a minute I forgot."
"That's ok. From your head wrap alone, I forgive you. Your Mom stitched you up. Should have a gnarly scar."
"Gnarly." I repeated. I was suddenly in love.
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
"The Motel 8."
I laughed. Stupidly. I guffawed much too loud at her joke. She seemed to like it.
"They have me on Beth's floor. She's a cool girl."
"Yes she is." I said, "Yes."
I couldn't think of anything to say. I just looked at our hands, still clasped together, a dumb smile on my face.
"I just wanted to thank you." she said.
"You're welcome."
She gave my hand another good squeeze, got up, and wandered out. She closed the door gently. I strained my ears to listen for her footsteps. I heard every quiet one, down to Bethany's room. The door closed. A satisfying click.
If I hadn't felt rather like crap, my heart told me I would have been up all night. Instead I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed of pretty brown eyes. What a fantastic distraction.

In The Wake

It began with two hard thuds against the west wall. The entire house moaned, and popped. The scrabbling against the walls increased, scratching, thudding like they were punching the siding. It became more pronounced. Within five minutes zombies were on the roof, shuffling overhead. Then there were more thuds. These were different, like a slab of beef hitting the ground.

Thunk.

Thud.

Crunch.

Bok!

They walked over us for 97 minutes. I kept track.

I think I know what happened. I think the swarm cluttered up by the garage for whatever reason. They started piling onto each other. Being in a tightly bound crowd of undead, either in the middle of the swarm, or bringing up the rear, they had no choice but to walk over each other. Inevitably they stacked high enough to run over whatever is in their path.

Great. Now that I'm Mr. Observant let me just start screaming. So walls cannot keep them out? Will they inevitably run over all of us? I prayed incredibly hard, and for an intensely long time that the roof would hold.

All the time I spoke to God, I saw limbs, flailing from above, guttural growls, and snapping teeth falling on our heads - no thanks. It's bad enough coming face-to-face with Zed.

After another hour everything went silent. The sounds drifted North, some stragglers brought up the rear, creaking and moaning . . . and slithering. I can hardly write about it.

As soon as the swarm died down I let myself onto the first floor, checked out the boards on the windows - which were damaged - and then creeped over to the breakfast nook. I could still hear scratching, and dragging sounds from outside once I got there.

I was reluctant to peek through Dad's little door, and take a look outside. I put my hand on the little knob, licked my lips, and took a breath. I cracked that little door. It was late evening, soft sunlight outside, but it was still sharp on my retinas. I had to close my eyes to adjust to the brightness. When I opened them again  . . . . . my goodness.

I did not recognize the street. Several houses were destroyed. All vegetation dead, smashed, and scattered all over the ground. I could barely make out the blacktop. I saw something moving, just off to the right. A human hand on the ground. That dropped heart of mine jumped into my throat. I looked hard. I saw the fine-boned hand reach into my line of sight, down on the lawn. It grasped soil, dug in deep, and pulled. The bulk of the body came into view.

Zed. A woman. Half a woman. She was overtaken by half of another Zed, pulling himself along. Several more followed, dragging themselves down the damage path.

I know they are dead. Rotting corpses, the lot of them. But I found this discouraging. Even with half a body; heck, one of them had only a head and arm - they were still mobile, deadly, and hungry. No guts,  but still sporting for blood. I mean, at what point were they actually dead? Gone. Clay?

I fear for my dreams, witnessing this horrible spectacle. You can hear Zed, see them coming, if they walk.

But could you hear a slitherer? Or would she just grasp your ankle as you walked by, and pull you down into her gaping maw? I have learned to be even more cautious, now. I get the shivers thinking about the possibility, at any point in the last couple of months, and all the times I had been outside, that just a step away there may have been one or more of those creatures. The slitherer just waiting to grab me, trip me up, eat me.

I have never had such a strong urge to fly, just hover in the air, above all the madness, dropping down to either crap, or eat. That just brings up all sorts of different speculations, doesn't it? Do they actually eat? If so, do they crap? I tried to imagine what a zombie dump would look like, but just abandoned the attempt when my imagination gave me the answer too soon, and unexpectedly.

"That's fantastic."
Dad had climbed down the stairs. He was wedging the board over the window back from the frame. He was seeing what I had seen - the panes were cracked. A few had fallen out. Some were fractured into small pieces. Obviously his voice was soaked in sarcasm. The last thing I wanted to do was go outside and replace window panes. Sure we were hot inside the house, but the board was enough to insulate us from any cold that got down this far.
"You alright Dad?"
"Just grateful to be alive, son."
I turned to him, "I guess it's too late to make a run for it."
"Run where, Martin?" he asked, "Technically we are in a safe zone. I don't think anyplace else could be more secure. I don't think there is anywhere else worth going."
"I've been thinking about what environment would be worse for the undead. Desert, or tundra." I said, "I figure we are good here. Humans are mostly water, right?"
Dad nodded.
"So we shrivel without hydrating, right?"
"Right."
"Right. Zed should shrivel up, and fall over, laying there like a piece of jerky, withering away like a living mummy. Limbs stiff, muscles and sinew locked in place. Then you just step on their skulls, and go right on walking the desert."
"I wouldn't trust speculation, son. So far these Zacks have been solid, and wet in this climate. We're not desert, but we are not cold by any means. I don't pretend to understand what I have no desire to understand. What we can count on is that if they get cold enough, they will freeze solid. Freeze. Like a Zack-sicle."
"Yeah," I smiled, "But I don't like the cold, Dad."
"You don't like the cold . . ." Dad smiled, "Son, you don't know cold."
"I've been skiing up Brianhead." I answered.
"Yes. In ten feet of snow, but boy, your old man fished up in Alaska. Ice pack, freezing wind, moist air with temperatures averaging 40 below zero. And that's without wind chill. That's cold."
"When did you fish Alaska?" asked Mom, who had joined us on the first floor.
"The winter before I met you, my darling."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"It wasn't any way to pay for a wedding, my love. But it was how we paid for our wedding. I guess I just didn't think anything of it."
Mom got close to him, and squeezed his bicep. She smiled up at him. And that's when I left.

I was tired, stress-tired, where your nerves are fried, and you have the suggestion of a headache in your neck and shoulders, and help me, just behind the eyes. I wanted to sleep while it was quiet. I don't know how long quiet will last. But this quiet enfolded me like a comforter.
I tripped up the ladder, trudged to my bedroom, and fell into the first solid sleep I had had for 72 hours. No dreams. No nightmares.

No.

No. Those would come soon enough. I just have a feeling.

A Swarming Soiree

Remember how the windows are boarded up? The doors barred? The staircase taken out so we are isolated on the second floor, well up from the ground?

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 -