Notes From the End of the World (12 page)

Dad brought out the big, artificial Christmas tree from the attic. We hadn’t used it since Audrey and I were small, always choosing to buy a fresh tree instead. I hate that Christmas is like this, I hate that nobody cares about it. It doesn’t matter if they are religious or not. It’s a holiday about family, and every family I know right now is broken. Or at least splintered.

I miss the piney scent of last year’s Christmas tree. Now it seems like everything has the stink of rot around it. I go outside and it’s there, hanging on the cool air. I stay inside and I can smell Audrey…
decaying
…and she’s not even dead yet.

Nick gave me an early Christmas gift. It was a painting of a bold-looking Cindy Scott riding a silver dragon. It’s quite lovely, but it’s not me. Not by a long shot. I gave him a jump drive full music—indie stuff, vapid 80s music and even some “hippie” music, as he calls it. I hadn’t expected him to give me anything, and I backed up that collection of music before I gave it too him.

It’s not like I was able to make a trip over to the mall for holiday shopping this year, you know.

Peace, love and all that shit. Those same peace freaks are the ones beating the hell out of each other for a gallon of gasoline or a carton of eggs.

People really suck, it turns out. Living and dead, they all kinda suck.

***

***

January 3

Cindy

Christmas came and went, and so did New Year’s, but we decided to not bother. Maybe it’s morbid, but Dad’s too tired from his shifts at the hospital, Mom’s too drunk, and it’s just too hard to make myself smile when I’d rather scream.

It’s been two weeks since we stopped attending school, but maybe that’s okay. Audrey isn’t in the physical or mental state to continue on. I would’ve felt like an asshole going without her.

If you’ve ever had someone you love who is dying of a terminal illness, you know it doesn’t matter how much you love them. At some point, when things get really ugly—for them and for you—you’re realize you’re just ready for it to be over.

What you loved was the “normal” them anyway. Not the diseased them. That’s what’s happened with Audrey.

I hate that I feel this way, but I can’t stop it.

Anyway, Audrey is becoming one of the—a Shambler—and the longer she sticks around like this, the tougher it is to remember how she was before. Sure, she was a bitch sometimes or maybe ever most times, but I loved her. I
still
love her.

I don’t know what to think now. She’s failing quickly. Mom and Dad go to her, but Mom’s afraid of her and Dad just goes in to shove the needle into her arm. That vaccine does nothing more than drain our finances. Audrey’s college funds are gone and mine are almost gone.

She screams and thrashes against the wall. I worked up the nerve to go into her room a few days ago—I’d not seen her in about three days. She was sitting on the floor, wearing only one of Dad’s oversized t-shirts, rocking back and forth. Her hair hung in greasy, bloody strands, covering her face. She was holding a tube of bright lipstick—a shade of pink that looked good in summer when Audrey was tanned and perfect. She’d smeared it all over her mouth and up on her cheeks, a weird girly version of Batman’s Joker.

Worse than that, blood and what may be shit, judging from the odor, had been wiped all over one wall like some kind of disgusting mural.

“Audrey?” I whispered. “Do you need anything?” My voice shook, fighting the urge to retch.

“Hungry,” she rasped. “So fucking hungry, but none of you give a shit.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but there’s nothing to say. I back out of her room and close the door behind me.

Chapter 17

January 5

Cindy

It was one of those screwy dreams that only come when you’re first drifting off. In it, I think I’m juggling a soccer ball, knee to knee, instep, instep, again and again. It’s so easy in my dream world, like there’s no gravity and the ball is filled with helium. I laugh at my incredible new skill (I’d never been an expert at juggling), the sound of the ball striking my knees—a dull
twack, twack, twack.

But the sound gets louder, faster, no longer in time with the motion of the ball.

“Cindy. Cindy. Open up,” a voice enters the dream.
Nick.

I jump awake, acutely aware that I was asleep and dreaming. It’s Saturday evening. The sky is just becoming dark, but sleep has been so fleeting lately. Audrey rants incoherently at the top of her lungs and wakes me a couple of times a night.

“Cindy.”

I glance at the window, bleary-eyed and confused. A pale face stares back. I gasp, my heart lurching, because it’s only Nick. His breath fogs the glass, and he smears it away with his fist.

I unlatch the window and push it up, a rush of cold air touches my face. “What the hell? You scared me to death.”

“Sorry.”

I stand there, awkward and unsure of what to say for a moment. Finally, Nick asks, “Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.”

Nick laughs. “I guess we all have.”

“Why are you up here?” I ask.

“I tried the door, but nobody answered. I didn’t think you all were out at the mall.”

“No. Dad’s probably at the hospital. He’s been staying there a few nights a week. Mom must be asleep.”
Or passed out.

Nick pulls a bottle from the inside of his ski jacket and holds it up, rather proudly. “Come out here.”

“Isn’t it cold?” I ask, but I grab the blanket from my bed and climb out onto the roof.

“You’ll be warm soon enough,” Nick tells me, but I know he means from the liquor. Too bad.

I’d never been out there, on the roof, because I’m afraid of heights, but the slope is slight and it’s not too bad. The moon is fat and silvery, and cold sharpens my drowsy mind quickly. It feels as though I haven’t been out in days, and I suppose I haven’t. Dad and Mom have decided that it’s too dangerous to get out and run. The treadmill is a royal drag, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, it’s only for a short while.

I’m still telling myself that. But it’s becoming more difficult to buy into it.

We sit there staring at the nearly deserted neighborhood, huddled close under the blanket, and quickly I’m warm all over expect my toes. Last year at this time, the Christmas lights would’ve still been twinkling in the clear night in the waning glow of the holidays.

But this isn’t like last year. The houses are dark and the little fancy-assed English-style street lamps that line the street seem too dim, creating heavy shadows that are prime hangout spots for Shamblers and other dangerous assholes.

“You know it’s dangerous out here, don’t you?” I say.

“I was careful.” He looks straight up at the sky. “Cops are as bad as the Shamblers. Cruising around, ready to hassle anyone who’s out.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to be out. You could get bitten. Or killed.” I want to scold him, but the fact is I’m glad he’s here. “Or arrested.”

“I’m not sure which would be worse.”

“Me neither,” I agree.

He twists the top from the bottle and takes a drink. “Here.” He offers it to me.

“What the hell is it?” I ask, holding the bottle up toward the scant light. “Vanilla-flavored Rum?” I smell it first—not bad, but overly sweet. I take a cautious drink, expecting the harsh burn that comes with whiskey. Not that I drink a lot of whiskey, but I have tasted it a couple of times. Nasty.

This stuff was nothing like that. I take another, longer swig before passing it back to Nick.

“Careful,” he tells me, laughing. “It’s sneaky.” He takes another drink. “You know, I heard the military has been rounding people up. Not just the carriers, either, but well people,” Nick says. “I’ve heard that they’re killing people. Just like at the school, but more.”

I shake my head. “That can’t be true. At least I hope not.” Another drink. It’s going down a lot easier now.

“I think it is. I overheard Miles on his cell. They say it’s the only way to contain the virus. Killing everyone who might’ve been in contact with the carriers.”

I open my mouth to say something, but Audrey starts up her screaming again. The dull thrashing sound of her pounding, and throwing herself against the wall thumps like a broken drum.

“Shit,” Nick half-hisses, half-whispers. “Is that—“

I cut him off. “Yeah.”

He sits upright and presses his face against his knees. He folds his hands over the back of his head like he’s trying to stop block out the sound. “I can’t believe things are like this.” His words are muffled against the fabric of his jeans. “My grandma. Audrey. It’s just so shitty.”

I stroke his back, feeling his back moving with his breaths. “I can’t either. It’s like a nightmare that I can’t wake from.”

We drink in companionable silence while Audrey finishes up her screaming fit. This one doesn’t last as long as usual, and I’m relieved. She’s not here any longer—there’s only this angry, hungry thing living inside her room, living inside her rotting flesh. I wish it was all over.

“I was going nuts at home,” Nick says. “I never really liked school. It was boring and most of the kids were jerks. But now…it’s like there’s nothing. At least school was something. You know? Mom cries a lot. Miles claims he’s working double shifts, but I suspect he’s only patrolling because it gives him a chance to act like a dick without suffering the consequences. (Little sister) pretends Grandma will get better and we’ll just go pick her up from the Pastures like nothing ever happened.

“Yeah. I know.” I laugh. “I actually miss some of those jerks. Even dumbass Jake Wylie.”

“Really?” Nick asks, his eyebrows raising.

“Well, no. Not really.” I giggle. The rum is taking hold. My head is swims pleasantly and things don’t seem as dire as they had an hour ago.

Nick laughs despite the tears shining around his eyes. “Yeah, you do. We all do. Even those annoying asshats are better than this.” He nods toward the empty street.

The lights flicker on and a halo of mist shimmers around each one. The houses are so quiet, so empty. Sawgrass Flats is half populated now, if that.

“Do you worry about it?”

Nick turns to me, frowning. “What ‘it?’ I worry about everything now. My family. Well, not Miles because he’s a dick, but Mom and Micah. I worry that things will never be the same, I’ll never go to college, never marry, never do the things a normal guy should do.”

“That’s what I mean. Never having the chance to do the things you want to do.”

Nick tilts his face upward toward the clouding evening sky.

“I guess there’s no more waiting for the right moment,” he whispers. “Those moments are too fleeting.”

“You’re right.” I reach over and place my hand on top of his. Despite the fact that my heart feels like it’s going to jump right through my chest, I feel bold suddenly. He doesn’t pull away.

“Don’t get mad, Nick,” I say. Then I do it. I lean close, and I kiss him.

His mouth is cool, soft. At first he doesn’t react, and I immediately wish I hadn’t done anything. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I was just…surprised.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me, and his lips are warmer, his tongue pressing against my tongue.

Behind us, Audrey grunts, and slaps the windows with her open hands. Does she know what’s happening? Does she even remember who Nick is (was)? I break the kiss and stand, my balance iffy because of the drinking. Nick jumps to his feet and grabs my shoulders, steadying me.

“Told you the rum was a sneaky bastard.”

I take his hand and lead him through my bedroom window. Audrey’s growls and cries grow slightly more muffled, but I can still hear her. I dock my iPod, hit shuffle, and Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane” fills the room, melancholy and hopeful at the same time.

“Old stuff?” Nick says. “Are you sure you and Audrey are from the same parents?”

I don’t have a reply because anything I say about her now is pretty shitty. She’s turning into a walking corpse and I just kissed her boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend. We lie back across the bed, taking turns with the rum again listening to the music, listening to Audrey’s fit in the next room. I know what I should feel, and what I do feel. The two aren’t even close, and I take Nick’s face in my hands and kiss him again.

He responds with his mouth and his cool hands, and the press of his body against mine. My mind swirls with the drink, and I wonder if I am having an incredibly vivid dream.

I’ve never gone further than kissing with a boy. Nick has his hands under my shirt, sliding over my bra, lacing his fingers under my bra. I tense and he must sense it.

“Sorry,” he tells me, and his hands are gone.

“Why?” I ask. “Tomorrow we might me dead. We might be like Audrey and the rest of them.”

“No. Don’t say that, Cindy.” He props up on his elbow and looks down at me, his perfect face half in shadow. He pushes my hair from my face and smiles. “We’re not like the rest of them. Don’t forget that. Do you hear me?”

He leans close and kisses my nose. “We’re drunk.”

I smile. “So?”

“So, I should get home.”

Nick kisses me again, the way a guy who has no plans of leaving might kiss. But in a moment, he’s gone, vanished through the window and into the unpredictable suburban night.

***

***

January 18

Cindy

It’s around 10 o’clock when something flashes past my bedroom door. Knowing Mom’s been “asleep” for hours, and Dad is likely at the hospital under the guise of helping people, something in the pit of my stomach does a funky flip-flop when I realize who (or what) it is.

I put aside the sketch pad half-f of drawings that Nick gave me the other night, but I keep the pencil in my fist as I slip out into the dark hallway.

“Audrey?” I half-whisper, which is stupid since Mom’s not waking for anything (except maybe another glass of wine), and Audrey isn’t answering. I flip on the light. I haven’t seen Audrey for nearly a week. Dad places sedatives in her raw ground meat—beef, turkey, pork—whatever we can get our hands on—and slips it into the door quick like he’s feeding a raging lion. Once he knows she’s out, he enters her room and jabs the useless Phalanx into her vein like he can’t see what she’s become.

There’s a slug’s trail of black-red blood and ooze on the hallway floor and along the walls here and there. It stinks of decayed meat, and I would puke if I’d eaten anything tonight. With Mom in her state, and Dad staying away as much as he does, I get away with not eating most nights. The muscle tone in my legs has diminished, and my clothes are looser, but nothing major. Yet.

Something in my brain tells me to go as light as I can stand on what little food we have left. Besides, I can’t eat when I’m scared, and I’m scared nearly all the fucking time lately.

Just like now.

My hands shake, and I call Audrey again. The pencil is sweating in my fist.

Then I hear her moaning. Not those fake zombie-groans like on
The Walking Dead
. It’s more of a mournful weeping sound, if wild animals could weep. That’s the sound I’ve learned come from the Shamblers—that sad moaning and screaming. Enraged, frustrated, starved screaming.

I’ve become used to both coming through the walls of Audrey’s bedroom.

There’s a dull thumping noise, and I realize she’s stumbling down the stairs. Part of me wants her to get outside. That would take the weight of taking care of her off my back. A cop or a soldier would take her out and this would all be over.

At least Audrey’s chapter would be finished.

I jog down the stairs, careful not to kill myself on the slick mess my sister’s leaving behind on the floor, and see her crooked, spidery shape silhouetted against the wintery moon glow pouring through the kitchen windows. At first, I can’t tell whether she’s facing me or looking outside.

“Come on, sis. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

She groans softly and turns toward my voice. Her face is hidden behind a thick, tangled veil of dark hair.

“Audrey?”

Her head jerks again and again as if there’s a broken hinge in her neck. In the quiet of the house, there’s the faint splatting sound of blood or waste leaving her body. Her odor is rancid enough to make my eyes water, and I try to breathe through my mouth—something I’m growing more accustomed to.

Then for a few moments, Audrey becomes perfectly still. The jerking stops. The groaning stops. There’s only that dripping sound.

I mouth is so dry, and my heart is pounding like something is going wrong with
my
body.

I open my mouth to speak to her again, but she suddenly drops her head back, turning her face to the ceiling.

She shrieks.

The shrillness of her voice is inhuman, like a siren blaring directly into my ears.