Notes From the End of the World (14 page)

Chapter 20

Cindy

February 15

So, Nick’s mother is gone. My sister is gone. We’ve lost grandparents and stepparents and friends. Teachers we’ve loved are missing. Our lives have gone from planning our goals and dreaming about our futures to just trying to make through the next day.

Maybe I should consider myself lucky—my parents are still here with me. Every morning I wake, stare up at the ceiling over my bed and say a stupid little thanks to who ever or what ever is in control of things. Things have been strange since Audrey left us. Even worse once Nick arrived. We avoid her room. Dad cleaned it well enough to removed most of the odor, then closed it up, locking it and then hiding the key from me and Mom (like we’d ever want to go in there now).

Nick spends most of his time sitting on the floor, his back against the end of my bed, sketching. He hasn’t said very much about losing his mother, and I’m not ready to push it. Instead, we listen to whatever comes on shuffle on my iPOD, and he shows me how to draw things—monsters, fairies, animals. I could draw for one hundred years and never get much better than I am right now, I’m afraid. Nick’s patient with my lack of artistic talent, but he’s also extremely distracted. Even when we start making out, he stops before we get very far. He’s being careful, but there’s a part of me that feels a little hurt. That’s the silly teenaged girl in me who refuses to mature. You’d think witness society crumble would make me grow up a little quicker.

The house stays dim, although the day is bright and crisp. We’ve boarded up all the windows since he fled his neighborhood and told us about the soldiers. Then, we spray-painted the “CLEARED” symbol on our front door to make them think our place has been searched and emptied of survivors.

Two night ago, we also moved in the cover of shadow and painted that same symbol on the rest of the front doors along our street—both those belonging to abandoned homes as well as those that are still inhabited. Maybe the soldiers will bypass our neighborhood, at least for a while.

Mom is like a ghost, passing from room to room. She appears for our scraped-together meals, and rations her remaining booze. She says little, and her eyes wear the permanent brownish bruises of a woman who will never recover from what she’s lost. I feel as though she’s already gone, just like Audrey was during her final days in the house. Dad is holding together as best as he can. He’s given me a gun to keep near me at all times—his paranoia over the government has become as bad as his fear of the infected.

And much to my mortification, he’s also presented Nick and me with condoms.

“I remember what it was like to young,” he says, shoving the box at Nick, whose face turns as red as a stop sign. “Don’t be embarrassed. Be careful. But don’t take this as a blessing to start screwing every chance you have.”

“You sound like a PSA, Dad,” I mutter, hoping to alleviate the shame. It doesn’t.

***

February 18

Nick

I never dream about Mom, Miles or Micah. When I dream, it’s about Dad, and he’s here now, and he knows what to do about surviving this epidemic. He’s there like he’s never left, level-headed, unafraid.

“I’ve seen the worst there is, Nicky. I’ve seen death. It’s not as bad as people claim. You get through it,” he says, his dream-voice lilting and worry-free. “Some things are worse than death.”

When I wake, I’m alone, unsure of where I am, darkness as thick as a blanket. I sit up and remember where I am—the sofa in the home of my former girlfriend/current Shambler and current girlfriend/possibly last girl on Earth.

I want to go upstairs and crawl into the bed with Cindy, but don’t get any ideas. I just need to be near someone. When I’m down here, and everyone else is upstairs asleep, I feel I’m the only one left. Deep in the middle of the night, I believe I hear the moaning and screaming of the Shamblers. I hope I’m just imagining things, otherwise, they’re coming up to the house at night. Like they smell the living inside.

***

February 22

Cindy

“So, do you think anyone will actually eat this?” I say, holding up a tiny can of potted meat. We’re inside Mr. Howard and Mr. David’s kitchen. Amazingly, most of the abandoned houses in Sawgrass Flats haven’t yet been looted. Maybe there’s a sense of community left inside the few of those who remain. But you’ve got to be realistic. I hate doing this, but these people are gone—they’ve fled or become infected. Either way, they’ve left behind the things they don’t want or need.

Nick peeks around an open cabinet door. “I think it’ll taste like caviar if we get hungry enough.”

“I hate caviar.” I wrinkle my nose and toss it into my backpack. Nick turns and kisses me.

“You’ve never had caviar,” he says, smoothing my hair back from my face.

“Still. Fish eggs? Come on.”

Mr. Howard and Mr. David’s place is immaculate and the scent of the expensive aftershave Mr. Howard always wore still lingers. Daylight pours through the sheer drapes, making the home warm and inviting. On the refrigerator, there’s photos of them at Niagara Falls, and on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. There’s also a note, a reminder of a doctor’s appointment, and a big, flowery greeting card that says, “To my best friend and lover. Together always.” They were happy, and now they’re both gone.

Most of us are doomed the same fate. Life is so quickly summed up with a few photos, notes and keepsakes. I’m staring too long at those things, and Nick snaps his fingers in front of my face.

“Don’t do that, Cindy,” he says, reading my mind. He opens the fridge, and the stink wafts out. Apparently, the electricity has been shut off in this house for weeks.

“Shit! Close it,” I cry.

“Wait,” Nick says. “Check this out.” He holds out a can of Coke. “There’s a six-pack in here.” I hold open my backpack, and he places five inside. The other one, he opens, and takes a long, greedy drink.

“Here.” He holds out the rather warm red can. I take a long gulp, savoring the sweetness. It feels like it’s been a year since I had anything so sugary and wonderful.

“There’s some things, too.” I lean in next to him to take a look, shining my light in for a better look. In the little shelves on the inside of the door are Hershey Bars—six of them, three with almonds and three without. There’s also pudding snacks in vanilla and butterscotch flavors.

“No wonder Mr. David was so chunky,” I say.

“I guess,” Nick agrees. Then he pulls out a large can of Redi Whip. “I wonder what they did with this?” He raises his eyebrows and leers at me, but even when he leers, he looks kinda hot.

“Let’s not think about it.” I push the fridge door closed.

We search through the rest of the kitchen, and then move from room to room, looking for anything we might be able to use in some way. We take batteries from remotes, just in case they might have a little juice left and candles—these guys must’ve loved scented candles.

But when Nick gets to the master bedroom, I stop him. “Let’s just leave that room, okay?”

“How come?”

“Just a little act of respect, I suppose. It’s none of our business.”

Nick shrugs and moves away. “Okay.”

We hit three more houses on the street before dark starts to fall. Of course, daylight or darkness makes no difference to Shamblers—they’re not vampires. But darkness definitely makes it tougher on the living. Get a Shambler on your trail, fall over a lawn chair or sprinkler head, and that’s that. They’ll have their rotting teeth into your throat before you can say, “Oh, shit.” Worse, using a flashlight is a dead giveaway to the living.

The take from the other homes is scant. More candles, a can of tuna in oil (yuck!), two packs of ramen noodles, a box of microwave popcorn (only good when there’s electricity), a couple of envelopes of Kool-Aid—cherry and grape. Cheese with a skin of mold that can be cut away, and saltines that are only a little stale. And the best find of all—a big bottle of Jaegermeister, still three-quarters full.

“I think we should keep that one to ourselves,” Nick suggests.

I agree. If Mom gets a hold of it, it’ll be gone in a night.

***

February 25

Cindy

After a funky dinner of Ramen noodles and canned tuna, and canned pineapple for dessert, Dad calls us into the den. Mom’s moping around because her wine supply is getting low, and maybe I should offer her the Jaeger, but decide against it. Not so much out of selfishness, but out of concern. She’s drunk round the clock, lately. Running out of booze might do her some good.

After weeks of not noticing him, I realize Dad’s looking so weary that my heart breaks. The circles under his eyes are deep and he’s lost a lot of weight. He stands in front of a dark television, and the room is lit with the candles we scrounged from the other houses on the street.

So, it’s the dreaded family meeting. I imagine Audrey there, smelling of pot and Blue Light perfume—too heavy—Mom and Dad pretending not to notice, hair a mess, me hating her because she got out for a few hours and lived without being someone’s daughter and someone’s sister. I’ve never had that, and I guess when I do, it’s not going to be so pretty.

Dad takes a drink of one of the last Coors Lights he has in a cooler of melted ice. He makes a face, and I can’t say that I blame him. I’ve tasted Coors Light and Bud Light and a few others, and it’s all shit. But sometimes even shit makes you feel comforted, I guess.

“Okay. I looks like we’re going to make other provisions in the coming weeks,” he says. It sounds too formal. I want to tell him he’s not talking to an audience, just me and Mom and Nick. There’s no selling us.

Mom sips what she has left and looks so unhappy that I want to get away from her.

“Is leaving our home the answer, Ben?”

“If what Nick says is true, the the only option. I’ve been reading on the internet about what’s happening in our neighborhoods. The military isn’t being discriminatory. I don’t know why, but I can’t afford to take the chance.”

“So we run away, then? Leave our home like a bunch of cowards?” Mom slurs.

“You have a better idea, Meg?”

I want to take Nick’s hand, go upstairs, and hide until all of this is over and things are normal again. School’s open. Soccer’s stressful. Audrey’s a bitch. If I’ve learned anything it’s never complain over the little nuisances. There’s always somethings worse out there, whether you believe it or not.

Mom scowls and doesn’t reply. Finally, I break the awkward silence and ask, “ So, what do we do?”

“I’ve been looking at heading to the mountains. Mike had a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They never used it because his kids didn’t like it up there. They went a few times, but there was no internet connection and the cell service was spotty, at best. Those things don’t matter now. What does matter is that it’s way off the beaten path. With food, wood for heat, and the basic necessities, we could make it up there without worrying about the government coming in and taking us out.And the population is so low that the infected shouldn’t be an issue.”

Mike was Dr. Jacobs, his kind face a million years in the past.

Nick squeezes my fingers and sighs. “So, how do we get there?”

“We pack all we can and travel at night,” Dad says. “We get out of town and then we stick to the back roads.”

“But how do you know where Dr. Jacobs’ place is? We’ve never been up there,” I ask.

“No. But he gave me a few things before he turned.” Dad moves to his battered briefcase. He flicks open the latch, and then removes a crumpled maps that looks to have been printed from a computer, and a key on a corkscrew keychain.

…just before he turned…

Is he wandering around, a drooling monster in the Pastures now?

“We can get there. If we’re careful and smart, we can get there,” Dad says. He unfolds the map and traces a crooked line from the coast of South Carolina to the mountains of western North Carolina. “It’s an easy drive. We’ll travel to Greenville to refuel and gather more supplies, if we can. We’re looking at least six hours on the road, of we’re lucky. Maybe more. We’ll travel at night.”

I cut my eyes at Nick. “We’ve been careful and smart so far,” I say, immediately regretting it. Not all of us have been so lucky.

“It’s a bad idea, Ben,” Mom says, her words no more than a sigh. She runs her fingers through her matted hair, and I know at that moment that she’s lost all hope.

“We must do this. There’s no other options,” Dad says, folding the crumpled map and placing it back into the briefcase.

“Nick and I will start getting things packed into the X5,” I say. “We can do this, Mom.”

Mom doesn’t say anything. I wonder if she hears me at all.

Chapter 21

March 1

Cindy

Mom pretends Audrey’s out with friends. I’m not sure if she believes it or if it’s just her way of coping. Either way, it scares the hell out of me. I believe she’s having some sort of breakdown.

Nick and I managed to find two unopened bottles of red and a half-finished bottle of white for her when we went to gather supplies this morning, but her mood remains insufferable.

“It’s stupid to leave here,” she bitches. “Audrey will be home and we’ll be gone. I’m not going. Absolutely. Not. Going.” She takes a long drink of the red. “Not until Audrey gets home.”

I mention it to Dad, and he assures me she’ll be fine. It’s a reaction to the stress she’s encountered with Audrey’s transformation.

I want to argue with him what we haven’t gone insane yet, so why is she so weak? But he looks so weary that I just nod and let him rest.

Several nights ago, I managed to pry from Dad the reason why he stays at the hospital so long. I’d assumed he was hiding from what our home and our lives had become. Mom’s a drunk. Audrey’s a zombie.

I’m not sure what I am anymore.

But Dad’s told me he has two patients remaining in the hospital. Both are in their final days, but he’s not the kind of man who leaves those who depend on him. He isn’t an oncologist, but all the cancer docs in town are either deceased, changed, or just gone.

Dad and I are close, and some things don’t have to be spoken aloud. He won’t leave these patients behind, but he may end up “helping” them out.

It’s pretty shitty having survived a worldwide epidemic just to be dying of cancer, but things are pretty shitty all the way around, these days.

***

The helicopters are flying over at less frequent intervals now—maybe the “authorities” have become convinced that Sawgrass Flats is a ghost town now. For the most part, it’s true. Nick and I have managed to get enough canned and instant foods, batteries, medicines, and other first aid supplies that will hold us for at least six months. Mom’s X5 has been pulled into the garage, so bandits or soldiers can’t see how’s it’s packed to the hilt with valuables.

It’s funny. I never imagined people might get to the point where they’d kill for a package of twenty-five-cent Ramen noodles.

Once the BMW is packed, Nick and I return to my bedroom. Mom’s passed out on the sofa where Nick normally sleeps, so we leave her. And frankly, I have no interest in seeing her, anyway. Dad’s sprawled on the bed on top of the covers, still in his lab coat, snoring lightly.

“Shhh,” I whisper, taking Nick’s hand, leading him to my bedroom. Nick closes the door behind us, and I flip on the lamp next to my bed.

“So?” he says a little sheepishly, the lamplight making his pale skin appear warm. He needs a haircut—his hair is nearly to his shoulders, but still thick and silky. I love touching it, and when he climbs onto the bed next to me, I plunge my fingers into it and pull him to me.

He returns my kisses eagerly, his work-roughened fingertips caressing and scratching my cheek.

I’ve been wanting him for days. And whether he likes it or not, Dad’s has all but given us permission to have sex, providing us with a jumbo box of condoms (ribbed for her pleasure, by the way, whatever that means).

“You have that bottle of Jaeger up here?” he asks, after a moment.

“It’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser.”

Nick crawls for the end of the bed like a silly kid, and bounds over to the dresser. He opens the middle drawer instead and begins sorting through my underwear.

“Not
that
drawer, jackass!” I protest, but not before he’s taken out an especially lacy and feminine pair of pink bikinis.

“Wow! Why don’t you wear these sometime?”

I snatch them from him, my face burning. “Because, they feel terrible.”

I’m a cotton boyshorts kind of girl. It’s all about comfort for me. Besides, style is low on the list lately. I don’t want to have to stop and dig my panties out of my ass while fleeing Shamblers.

“They’re hot,” he argues. “Hell, they’re turning me on and you’re not even wearing them…yet.”

“Please!” I shove the panties back into the drawer, then bend down and find the bottle of Jaeger both excited and a little frightened to drink anything that strong.

I unscrew the top and take a long gulp, trying too hard to be bold. The taste is like licorice and Robitussin cough syrup and would’ve been better had it been chilled. Either way, I swallow it without gagging and pass the bottle to Nick. He downs a long drink like a pro. A nice play-off, I determine—he’s no more a pro than I am.

“It’s bad,” I say, looking up into his eyes.

“An acquired taste,” he whispers. Than he leans forward and kisses me, soft and tentative at first, just like the first time we kissed. The sugary drink glues our lips together. I taste his mouth, his tongue, warm and silky sweet, my hands coming up, caressing his chest through his t-shirt. His heart beats so fast that it frightens me at first, until I realize my own heart is beating even faster.

Then he breaks the kiss and takes another drink if the liquor. I do the same, and the flavor isn’t as bad the second time around. I place the bottle on the dresser behind us. My head is spinning already, and my stomach doesn’t feel quite right. Nick kisses me again, his hard body pressing against me. I’m so aware of how he feels…lower. The hard knot there, pushing against my thigh, my crotch. Part of me wants to pull away, afraid.

But part of me wants to feel more of him. I want to know what a boy is really like. I push myself against him, sighing into his hot mouth.

Nick pushes me back toward my bed and I just go, like some silly, mindless robot. I lie back and he is on top of me, his mouth on my mouth, on my throat. The knot in his jeans is larger, burning, desperate. The place between my legs is the same. We thrust against each other, aching more and more. We’re eager, yet frustrated by the confines of our clothes. Nick’s hands explore my stomach under my shirt and bra. I smell his hair as it falls on my face, a mixture of sweat and some kind of men’s shampoo. My fingers move to the waist of his jeans, daring to slip lower, brushing the brittle hairs there.

“Should I get that…box?” I don’t want to say what the box is, for some reason.

Nick pulls back, resting on his hands above me. His face is beautiful in that moment, the light soft and warm orange, his hair too long and falling on his forehead and his cheeks. He considers things for a moment, then bends low and kisses me again.

“Don’t.”

“What?” Why am I so bummed? “Don’t you want to do this?”

I want to do it, to get past it. I want to be beyond the fear and wonder of what the first time holds. I’ve heard so many things—pain, disappointment, sadness. Distance. I want it over with because if it’s not now, one of us might not be here tomorrow.

Time’s limited.

“I’m sorry, Cindy, but not now. Not like this.”

“Like what?” I ask, trying to hide my annoyance.

“Drinking. I don’t want to do this while we’re drinking.”

I’m getting it. Yeah, apparently I’m not superhuman. I get slow when I drink.

“All right,” I whisper.

Nick rolls off of me and we stare up at the ceiling.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“No.” I lie.

His hand finds mine, and he weaves his fingers between mine.

“I want to do this right. Do you understand what I mean?” he says, turning his face to mine.

“Not really, but it’s okay,” I tell him.

“There’s only this one time. I want to do this the right way because it matters.”

It matters.
I don’t know how to respond. So, I just squeeze his fingers between mine and try not to cry. I wasn’t sure anything mattered in the world we now live in except just surviving.

After a while, we fall asleep on my bed, fingers still intwined. Outside, a shambled screams out, and dream it’s Audrey, still screaming through the walls of her bedroom.