Notes From the End of the World (11 page)

Chapter 15

December 18

Cindy

Seeing Audrey looking like she does makes me sick to my stomach and to my heart. Since the end of school Friday, things have gotten much worse. She’s sick and still trying to hide it. Dad’s still jabbing her full of
Phalanx, but I know he can see it's not working. Still, like Mom, he’s pretending we’re all going to live happily ever after.

Half the time, I just want to puke.

Aside from seeing Nick in the hallway, my only other bright spot is Mr. Carlton’s class. But even he’s lost
something
—the thing that made me squirm in my seat the first part of the school year. His “spark,” as Mom calls it. He hasn't shaved in at least three days and bruises have set in beneath his eyes.

“Why do you think we're still coming to school?” he asks once the few of us who are still bothering to show up get settled.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Nobody wants to answer—saying it makes it real, just like I’ve said before. But finally, I answer because Mr. Carlton looks so used up that I don’t want him to have to say it.

“It's because we are all living in denial, Mr. Carlton.”

“Okay, Cindy. I think you’re right. But why?”

I bite my lip, trying to think of the right words, but from the back, Darius Williams beat me to it. “Because it’s a defense mechanism. If we don’t tell ourselves everything is going to be fine, we’er all going to go crazy.”

“What’s left of us, you mean,” Bree Anders whispers.

“My mom says it’s the part of the five stages of dying,” Darius continues. His mother is the psychologist at Palm Dale Middle. “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”

Mr. Carlton nods. “I think you guys are right. Do you think we are coping with the N-Virus as society as a whole or separately?”

“I believe each person deals with it differently,” I offer. “I mean some families haven’t been hit as hard as others. Most of us are still in denial, just like Darius said.”

“Exactly,” Darius agrees. “And there are others who have lost nearly everything. Those people are probably experiencing anger.”

“Just say it, D-Dog. They’re damned pissed,” Cole Jagger chimes in from the seat just behind me. “My dad’s sick, and wandering around in The Pastures like one of the
Walking Dead,
and that makes me pissed.”

I turn and glance at him. I don’t think any of us knew. He’s always been a quite tough-guy, a little more mature than the rest of us.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing it does nothing to help. If my dad was in The Pastures, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be sitting in this stupid, nearly-empty classroom.

Cole nods. “Thanks. It’s not like I’m the only one, but still…”

Does he mean Audrey?

“Either way,
I’ve decided this is a free day,” Mr. Carlton says. “You can do what you want to. Choose to read whatever you want, take out your iPads and watch a movie. Or we can just talk for the hour.”

Avery Adams says, “I’m going to watch
Dawn of the Dead
on Netflix. We can learn more from that than we can from Shakespeare.” He’s such a horror and sci-fi geek, I just assumed he already knew what to do in the event of a zombie uprising.

There's a rumble of hardy agreement. I spend most of the hour looking out the window, to the empty courtyard. It’s drizzling, cold, and overall pretty shitty outside, but better than trying to read something that doesn’t matter or talk about things that we can’t control. Or worse, talk about stupid things that no longer matter.

At the end of the class, Mr. Carlton hands out a week’s worth of reading and discussion assignments. “I don’t know why you continue to come here—it’s dangerous. Shit, (I’ve never heard a teacher swear before, but extraordinary circumstances and all that…) you people blow off school for snow flurries around here, but show up during the zombie apocalypse. We’ll meet on Scype on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 1:00. I assume everyone can get Scype, correct?”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

“The numbers and information is on the assignment packet.”

“Can I be naked?” someone from the back of the room asks. A male voice—typical.

“Try to be fully clothed,” Mr. Carlson answers, “at least from the waist up.

***

Things hit the fan out in the hallway just after lit class, when Audrey sort of lumbers passed, looking more than a little out of it—she’s especially tired today, she mentioned in the car on the way to school. She insisted on driving, but I’m thinking it’s not such a great idea to ride with an almost-zombie. I don’t mean to sound cold, but sometimes, I feel that being cold is the only way a person can adapt and survive this.

She’s doesn’t say anything, which is definitely not like her. Audrey is the center of attention, no matter whether she’s in the hall, the class, the mall, or on the sidelines. As I mentioned, her bitch-posses is down to only two, and those two seem to be backups—clone cheerleaders who were cast to understudy roles from the beginning, and eager for an opening in the main, bird-brained clique.

“Look at her. She’s turning in into one of them, and yet she’s still here.” Tommy says, when she’s just out of earshot. Still, it’s loud enough for everyone else to hear,

Everyone else includes Nick, who pushes me aside before I can stop him, and maybe I wasn’t going to stop him, anyway. Before I know it, he and Tommy are on the floor rolling around like maniacs, fists flying, sneakers kicking up.

The crowd tightens around and I push forward. Nick is straddling Tommy’s chest, but I need to stop him before he gets hurt—Tommy outweighs him by at least twenty pounds, so in a moment, the momentum will change. I’m just amazed Tommy’s asshole clone entourage (similar to Audrey’s bitch-posse) hasn’t tried to intervene. Funny how a little thing like an epidemic changes peoples’ behavior.

“Don’t, Nick. He’s not worth this. He’s not worth anything!” I shout.

I tug at his arm, but he shrugs me away. I could’ve been a baby, for all I was doing to stop him. His fist connects with Tommy’s mouth, and blood comes slow and thick.

“Stop it now, you two idiots!” Mr. Carlton snatches Nick off of Tommy, and then pulls Tommy to his feet by the front of his shirt.

“Look at you!” he snarls, planting himself between them. “You have no idea how stupid this is.”

“You as good as killed her, you shit!” Nick says, glaring at Tommy.

Tommy lunges at Nick, but Mr. Carlton shoves him back, although he barely comes up to Tommy’s chin. “Enough.” He turns to Nick. “Both of you.”

Tommy smiles, revealing a mouthful of bloody teeth, and the little hairs on my arms prickle. For a moment, he looks just like he’s infected. I shiver, and then touch Nick’s shoulder. “It’s doesn’t matter, Nick. Not anymore.”

Nick turns to me, the rage still evident on his face. “But it does…”

“No. It doesn’t,” I whisper, taking his hand. I lead him away from the stupid, staring Palm Dale High School leftovers.

***

Ten minutes later, I realize I’ve left my phone on my desk in Mr. Carlton’s classroom. I never do that—forget things, but my mind’s been going in circles since we learned we’re no longer required to show for class. Another nail in the coffin of normalcy, I suppose.

The shit’s gettin’ real.
Someone said that once, trying to be funny. Looking back, it’s not funny at all. Besides, the shit’s been real for months. It was real the day that first infected rolled into the E.R., whether we wanted to believe it or not.

Mr. Carlton is bent over his desk with his face in his hands. He jerks his head up, startled when I enter, and drags his palms across his eyes.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Mr. Carlson. I forgot my phone.” I feel awkward, having caught him crying like that.

“No. It’s fine, Cindy.”

I hurry to my desk and snatch up the phone, dropping and spilling my bag in the process. “Shit,” I mutter, bending to scoop up everything. Then I add, “sorry,” my face growing hot. What the hell? At the end of the world, I’m going to worry about swearing in front of my teacher?

He’s watching me, his face weary, making me feel even more self-conscious.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. I hurry back toward the door, wanting to get out of there. Never have I wanted to get away from Mr. Carlton. Before the N-Virus, I was sad when his class was over every day.

But I stop and turn back to him. “Mr. Carlton, are you okay?” Yeah, that was a stupid thing to ask—people who’re caught crying typically aren’t
okay
.

“I—uh—no,” he stammers. Then after a moment he says, “My fiancé contracted the N-Virus. She turned six days ago.”

“Oh. Oh, sh— I’m so sorry.” I move closer to him, unsure what to do. I touch his shoulder, feel bone there. I never guessed he’s so thin.

“She came after me. I got home from school, she was there. Bitten, throat gone. Blood everywhere.” His shakes, fighting to hold back fresh tears, and he again covers his face with his hands. “She jumped on me, growling low like some monster from a dumb horror movie and knocked me to the floor, pinning me down. She screamed into my face, but the sound was airy like a whisper because most of her throat was gone. Her teeth snapped at my face, her eyes…” He sighs and slides his hands down his face, then stares at me like he’s reliving every moment by telling me.

“Don’t, Mr. Carlson.”

“Let me. I think I need to.” He takes hold of my wrist, begging me to stay until his story is told. But I don’t want to stay because I know where it’s going. It’s going to the same place Audrey’s story is.

“I squirmed out from under her, and she clutched at my shirt, ripping it, but I managed to climb to my feet.”

The words pour from him like a flood. I doubt he can stop, even if he wanted to. I stand there, his warm, damp hand on my wrist, wanting to bolt from the nightmare he’s creating inside my mind.

“I grab the fireplace shovel from the hearth, a gift from her aunt and uncle when we bought our house, and I hit her with it.” His voice drops low, as if he believes someone else is also listening.

“I hit her again and again, but she keeps coming, keeps screaming that horrible, airy scream.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Carlton.” I stroke his shoulder again. I’ve never been any good at comforting. A wannabe doctor with shitty bedside manners, that’s me. It probably wouldn’t have worked out, after all.

“Finally she went down and stayed and I got the hell out of there. I grabbed what I could—a few photos, my iMac, and haven’t been back.”

“I’m really sorry,” I say again. What else is there to say? I am sorry. I’m sorry for myself, mostly, but I’m just like everyone else.

“Maybe that should be the theme for this year’s prom,” he laughs. “No going back.”

I force myself to laugh with him, yet unable to find any humor in it at all. “I think you’re right,” I agree.

Mr. Carlton stands up and for an instant, I flash on one of the many girly-crush scenarios that played in my mind over the past school year. He puts his arms around me, but none of the feelings I’d imagined in my fantasies show up.

“Take care of yourself, Cindy,” he says, his breath soft against the side of my neck.

“I will.” I draw away. “Scype on Thursday?”

He nods and I leave the classroom knowing I’ll never see Mr. Carlton again.

Chapter 16

December 21

Cindy

Sure, I’d love to have an Andrew Garfield kind of guy show up and save the day—and he can be in those Spiderman tights, if he wants. At first, seeing the illness spread was like watching a weed grow, but weeds get out of control and take over the healthy grass. Before very long, there’s nothing left but the weeds. Everything else is dead or dying.

Sometimes, I look out my bedroom window and wonder what things will be like in a year. Tonight, I notice the house across the street—the Harrellsons—empty and looks like it has been for a few weeks. The Harrellsons was one of those picture-perfect families, a mom and dad, early thirties, with big, capped smiles, two cherub-faced babies, a boy and a girl, both under the age of three. All four with hair as yellow as the sun and a wardrobe of bright Lilly Pulitzer and Lacoste. They were young, perfect, and a bit sickening, frankly.

Still, I hate to see their house abandoned. There’s an ill feeling in the pit of my belly, wondering which of them became infected. Perhaps all of them, and now they are dead or nearly dead, and wondering around The Pastures with their expensive clothing and expressionless eyes. How they loved those children.

Imagining small children, barely walking, white-eyed Shamblers is nearly too much, even after everything I’ve seen.

There should be a festive wreath hanging on their front door.

Through the bedroom wall, Audrey is screaming, her voice like she’s swallowed broken glass. I push my earbuds into my ears, but I don’t turn on the music. I crave silence, but cannot find it, because I hear my heart beating in my ears like a dull bass.