Dead Sea

    I forgot about the shopping carts and ran home. I saw more zombies but stayed out of their reach. They lurched out of alleyways and stumbled out of houses and apartment buildings. 1 didn't see anybody else who was still alive, but I heard a woman screaming. Couldn't tell where she was, and in truth, I didn't stick around long enough to see. When a rat skittered by me and disappeared behind a parked car, I nearly screamed. I didn't know if it was dead or alive. I wondered if I should consider myself lucky to be alive, or cursed because I wasn't dead yet. Of course, if I were dead, I'd be a zombie. I wondered if they knew-remembered- who they'd been. If there was such a thing as a soul, was it still inside them, conscious and staring out through those dead eyes, unable to act as its body was hijacked?

    Then I decided that I wasn't ready to find out yet.

Chapter Two

    Once I was safe and sound back inside my house, I checked to make sure nothing had come in while I was gone. I renailed some thick boards over the front door. It wasn't totally secure, but it would be enough for one night, as long as I kept quiet and didn't alert anyone else to my presence inside the house. Too much pounding would allow the zombies or raiders to hone in on my location. In truth, I couldn't have continued barricading myself inside even if I'd wanted to. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and started crying as I hammered twelve penny nails back into the heavy wooden planks. Delayed shock. Mental breakdown. Maybe a little bit of both. But deep down inside, I knew that I wasn't crying for Alan or anybody else. I was crying for myself. I've never been one for self-pity, but I felt it then.

    I was alone again.

    Deciding I'd be safe enough, I resolved to finish the job in the morning. I felt exhausted and weak and dirty. I tried to remember the last time I'd showered, and couldn't. Washing up with a sponge and a bowl of rainwater just didn't cut it.

    In the darkness, I ate a can of fruit cocktail. I didn't have much of an appetite, but I forced the fruit down anyway, even the chunks of pineapple, which I hated. Why is it that when you open a can of fruit cocktail, regardless of the brand, there's always too much pineapple and not enough cherries? Of course, I don't guess there will be any fruit cocktail for a long time. If humanity ever does get back on their feet, we'll have more important things to worry about first. As I sipped the juice from the can, I thought about all the groceries I'd left behind on the street. Sooner or later, I'd have to go out again. It was either starve or forage. Day or night-didn't matter when I went. The danger would be the same. Tonight it had been Alan. Next time it could be me. But I didn't want to think about that just then.

    Naked and sweating from the late summer heat, I collapsed on top of the damp, dirty sheets. The pillowcase stank, even with the stench from outside creeping into the house. The pillowcase smelled like me-of dirt and grime, hopelessness and despair. I had no way to do laundry, and water was too precious to waste. I lay there, tossing and turning, thrashing around. I couldn't read in the darkness, and I didn't want to risk using the flashlight. There wasn't really anything to read, anyway, even if I had been willing to use a light. Just a stack of past-due bills and shut-off notices and a few out-of-date magazines for which there'd be no follow-up issues. It's amazing how the feature articles in Time magazine and Newsweek, the stories that had seemed so important, become meaningless and trivial. Distant, as if they were ancient history. I had an iPod and the battery was still good on it, but I couldn't listen to it without somebody else to stand guard. With the headphones on, I wouldn't be able to hear if someone-zombie or otherwise-tried to break in. (Alan and 1 had slept in shifts, even during the day; making sure one of us was always awake and on watch.) 1 couldn't read, couldn't listen to music, and didn't want to think. Add in the sweltering mid-August temperatures and the fear and uncertainty I felt. I was fucked. I didn't think that I'd be able to sleep, but eventually I did. Fitfully.

    I don't remember dreaming. Not that night or any other night, either. I've never been able to remember my dreams. I used to get this weird sense of jealousy when I'd hear other people tell me about their dreams. Most boring shit in the world, but I was always fascinated by it anyway. Wondered if my own were the same. Even their nightmares held me spellbound. Now, all I had to do was look outside. East Baltimore was crawling with nightmares, and there were plenty of them to call my own. Stinking, rotting corpses ran amok in the streets, leaking fluids and shedding body parts. The gutters were thick with offal. Between the smell and the danger, it's a wonder I slept at all.