Olivia Bennett

 

When do we stop counting the days? Is it when they no longer have meaning? Or, is it when so many of them have passed us by, that it’s no longer useful to count “since” something happened, and more useful to just accept that the clock never stopped ticking? A healthier approach might be that there is no before, during, or after. There’s just life, and each moment that passes.  

But accepting that is hard. Living a lie is almost easier sometimes. For us humans claiming to be the most adaptable, highest form of evolution is a joke, because I sure don’t adjust very well sometimes.  

First, it was whispers. That’s how it always starts. Those whispers turned to hushed conversations, conversations turned to gossip, and within a matter of weeks, the discourse had risen to a shrill scream. It was hard to miss. I remember in the beginning when it was all just “haha-fun-quarantine-times” and “this will be over soon if we all stick together”. Despite all the false positivity, I still found myself up late at night, checking CDC and WHO data on infection and death rates, reading articles and opinion pieces, and scrolling endlessly through social media. “Doomscrolling,” if you will. It almost feels like self-harm: filling your brain with negativity until it explodes, and then acting surprised when it does. It’s like a trainwreck. Difficult to look away from.  

I don’t know how it began. I just know that it did. The world cracked at the seams long before science had any real answers to give us. I bet if Science Herself came up to me and gave me all the whys, the whos and the whats behind all this, I’d surely spit in her face.  

Some people called it the Second Black Death, since those infected and reanimated bled the color of night. Still, others called it God’s Wrath. I’m not sure what I believe it is. Not that the virus cares either way. It will persist despite our protest and disbelief. I aspire to be as tough-as-nails as that.  

That’s the thing about zombies. They just keep on coming, unless you hit ‘em where it hurts. I suppose we’re like that too. Perhaps we’re the disease, the infection that Mother Gaia can’t get rid of. Like dust, she can’t shake us off her moss-laiden shoulder.  

At the beginning of this whole thing, a significant amount of people killed themselves. Especially after the numbers about the survival and recovery rate came in. I can’t say I blame them for offing themselves, though. Not really, when nearly every second of this new world is filled with endless reminders of death.  

So naturally, it’s hard not to think about death all the time. Not in an “I want to die” sort of way, but we’re up to our neck in death around here. In the past year and a half, I’ve watched two people close to me die. They didn’t go quietly either. Rotting, reanimated corpses are practically our unfriendly next-door neighbors. I’ve sent countless undead back to the earth. So I’ve been forced to think about my own mortality a lot. But so far the only thing I’ve learned is that even if you live to 95 years old, life is still tragically short. And that the only thing we can be certain of is that . . . death? Well, she does not discriminate.  

That fact becomes abundantly clearer as my partner Roman and I find ourselves staring down at the top half of a zombie, clawing and seething up at us.  It—no, she—couldn’t be any older than sixteen. Her eyes are cloudy and cataracted, staring at nothing, yet she smells us anyway.  

“It’s your turn,” he says. We take a step back as the zombie hisses, spitting foamy saliva at our feet.  

“C’mon, babe. Do I have to?” The zombie trails black, sticky guts behind her.  

“Yes,” he insists. “Remember, I killed the last one?” 

I blink, remembering the moment from last week. Someone had tied a half-mangled zombie to a tree, ropes cutting into the rotting, gelatinous flesh. I was surprised that it stayed tied up so long, surprised it hadn’t just ripped off its own arms and eaten through its own ankles in order to get free.  

Either way, Roman and I were walking in the woods near Bailey, and heard this awful, bloodcurdling yell. Howls and screams of pain and agony. At first, we thought it was foxes or coyotes, since they tend to make particularly disturbing calls, but after following the sound, we discovered the zombie tied to a tree. That was the first time we ever heard a zombie make sounds of distress. The same sounds that a human might make.  

Begrudgingly, I pull a knife from the holster around my ankle. I stare down at the zombie for a moment—black, dried blood crusted around her hanging lips, tattered and dirty clothes, exposed bone on her arm—and I can’t do it. I think, why? Why do I have to do this? Why am I the one still alive, left to put someone else out of their misery? 

I bring the knife down into her skull, until the blade touches the asphalt below. I stand up, and it’s over. I don’t take any pleasure in it.  

Now that that’s over, we get back to walking along the deserted road, weaving through abandoned vehicles. Roman takes out the binoculars from his pack and looks out over the nearest town and sighs. “I’m sorry about earlier.” 

I blink. “Me too.” Our words are short and clipped – for function only. I suppose now isn’t the time for mushy sympathies. We’re in need of many things – a propane tank, gasoline, and water. When we’re camped out near a water source, gasoline isn’t a huge deal. But when we’re on the road too, all three become a necessity.  

Roman reaches inside his pack and grabs my trusty baseball bat, wrapped in barbed wire and stuck with 6-inch nails like a voodoo doll. I take it by the handle and give it a toss, feeling the weight. It settles in my grasp with comfortable familiarity.  

Roman smirks at me as he puts on his backpack. “It’s been a while since we’ve raided, hasn’t it?” 

“Long enough,” I say. Things still aren’t okay between us despite the apology, but we’re a unit, and we both recognize that working together is more important right now.  

We walk up towards the gate, casting our eyes to both sides, seeing where the fence ends. Our Border Collie Zeus wanders alongside us, sniffing every little stick and bug and leaf he can. Sometimes I think Zeus lives the best life ever. Unburdened with the awareness of being human. Unleashed like his wild ancestors, yet he never has to hunt for his food (unless he wants to, which he certainly does sometimes).  

We scale down the steep, grassy hill that the exit was built into. I run my hand along the chain-link fence until it abruptly ends with long, metal support poles, diagonally stuck into the ground like tent pitches. We walk across the grass and onto a debris-littered road. A large, sun-faded sign tells us that we’re in a town aptly named Sunnyland. 

“Well, that was easy,” I say. 

As we walk along the road, I can see why the exit was blocked off. All of the roads leading into the town are unusable. There’s an overturned garbage truck that’s spilled its contents like roadkill. The wind has blown the debris further away, and loose scraps of paper, empty wrappers, and cans roll across the glass-littered pavement. Roman siphons gas from abandoned cars on the shoulder. I squint against the harsh sunlight, and the puffy clouds that cast moving shadows along the plains and valley. It’s there alright, but the town looks dark, still, silent. There’s no hum of civilization, which I can hear even in the smallest of towns. 

It takes about ten minutes until we reach the first buildings. We have to maneuver past more fences and roadblocks, both intentional and not. Sunnyland is run down and decrepit, predictably so. It looks just like every other small town we’ve been to, chewed up and spit out by time and weather and tragedy. As we encroach upon the dusty, boarded-up buildings, I hear it. The low, grinding sound of zombies groaning. High-pitched scraping as they drag their feet on the floor and dirty, chipped nails along any exposed surface. 

“They’re everywhere,” I whisper. 

Roman puts up his hand, and I stop. “I’m hungry, we should stop and eat before we do this.” 

I nod. We sit with our backs against a brick building, some kind of warehouse or something.  Roman pulls out a myriad of snacks, and I take out two sandwiches we made earlier.  

He sighs as I hand one to him.  

“What?” I ask.  

“It wasn’t about you,” he says, his deep, resonating voice barely inching above a whisper.  

I groan internally. “Can we talk about it?” 

“What, specifically?” 

Grumbling, I eat the rest of my sandwich and shove all my shit back in my backpack. “I don’t know, maybe the past twenty-four hours. Maybe everything we learned about the Safe House. Maybe how you went apeshit after our propane tank was stolen.” 

Roman pauses, looking up at me, but I’m already packed up and ready to move. I know it’s bad, but I’m bristling for a fight. I don’t want to fight with Roman, but I have all this anxious energy and pent-up stress that needs to go somewhere. It’s either that or cry.  

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk about it as it happened. And maybe I did overreact,” he says. “But I’m just under a lot of stress—” 

I raise my eyebrows. “And you think I’m not?” 

“No—” he starts, but by his tone I can already tell there’s more. I don’t let him finish because I unhook my baseball bat and start walking down the main drag of Sunnyland.  

“Where are you going?” Roman asks. Maybe this is unfair of me, but I feel like I’m going mad.  

“To smash some shit,” I say. In one kick, I bust down the rotten wood door. Tens, if not a hundred zombies have been locked in this warehouse for God knows how long, and the stench hits me before I even see them. But the noise has drawn them close already. Several try and push through the narrow doorway, but not before I crush their skulls like eggs for breakfast. Blood as sticky and black as ink spills onto the dirty pavement.  

“What the fuck are you doing?” Roman shouts, but he’s already got his machete drawn.  

I push forward into the warehouse, dim yet illuminated by tall, cloudy windows that let in filtered sunlight. I twist a silencer on a pistol before I aim and fire. A zombie’s head explodes near us.  

“Is this about what happened in the car?” Roman shouts. He’s got two zombies on him, slashing and growling. Another one with scraggly blond hair jumps on my back, and I slam my shoulder into the wall before the zombie can get one on me. There’s a horrific crack, and the small woman slumps off me.  

“Maybe it is a little bit,” I say. I climb on top of a crate to have the high ground over a cluster of four zombies.  

“Then I’m sorry!” Roman shouts over the deafening noise. “I’m not sure what more you want me to do!” He grunts as he pulls the end of his machete out of a skull, broken open like a coconut. 

“Let’s check some storage rooms!” I shout, jumping down from the crate, bringing my bat down hard on a zombie’s skull. It takes the hit, wobbling before falling down face first. I take a breather, glancing around and assessing my surroundings. The adrenaline makes me feel powerful, vibrating with invincibility, like I have some sort of control over my life. Everything feels so uncertain and out of control that I’m desperate. When my relationship with Roman also has its shaky moments, it’s like I can’t take it anymore.  

“Nice job avoiding the topic,” Roman says. His words bite, but we’re both too focused on clearing a path to the back, where doors line the wall. Based on the layout and equipment, this looks like it might have been a production plant of some sort. Sure, we could find a gas station, but we might hit the jackpot here.  

“Oh, you’re one to talk about ‘avoiding the topic’,” I shoot back just as the spiky end of my bat punctures the cheek of a zombie, clad in a tattered workman jumpsuit.  

“Jesus, Amelia! My dad just died,” Roman says. We’re nearly shouting at each other, over the roar of zombies. Thankfully, most of these guys seem more sluggish than usual, as if the prospect of two able-bodied youngins isn’t tempting anymore. Perhaps it’s the leftover dread and monotony of these tragic souls who worked at this place. The soul-sucking grind of late-stage capitalism still hasn’t left their bones. Even after death, some people can’t change. They’re just slaves to a different master now. 

“So this is about your dad?” I ask. It’s meant to be a genuine question, but I can’t help but let my own hurt seep into my voice. I kick away a zombie that’s reaching out for me. I almost feel bad for him as my foot connects with his chest. I feel a crack, but I don’t let myself lament. 

“Of course it’s about my dad!” Roman shouts back at me. “What is all this about for you?” 

Grunting, I swing my bat again. Blood splashes my face, and I cringe when it’s tepid as opposed to warm with life. “It’s about—” Fuck, another one. “It’s about how for the past few days—” Ah shit. I can’t get any words out, because now we’re in the thick of it. They’re too much to hold off now. Grubby hands grab at my clothes, and as the white-hot emotion dims, I see where we are and what I’ve gotten us into. Terror like a cornered animal floods my veins, chokes out any other sense I have.  

“Amelia!” Roman screams over the sudden roar, a throaty gurgle of human suffering. “Over here!” 

I glance over and see that Roman is already halfway up a wrought iron staircase painted bright yellow. It leads up about halfway to the ceiling, to a catwalk that overlooks the main factory room.  

I make a beeline for the side wall, shouldering my way through zombies that claw at my clothes, ripping open holes. This is why we dress in layers, no matter the temperature. The claustrophobia breathes down my neck, but I barely manage to grasp onto the chipping and rusted railing and run up the stairs.  

When I make it to the top, Roman closes a gate behind me. Zombies scream and crawl over each other, tripping and scraping their shins against metal. Roman grabs my hand and pulls me forward, away from the devouring horde. In that moment I don’t have any more resentment towards him. All the built-up conflict from the past few days is gone, and all I can see is him – my partner, my love, the chosen protector of my heart – frantically pulling me along and yelling at me to run.  

Our feet pound against the metal walkway. I’ve completely lost track of Zeus and pray that he’s okay. Eventually, we make it to the end of the walkway that leads into a locked office. Roman takes a piece of fallen concrete and bashes the handle off.  

We rush in and barricade the door behind us. Heaving, Roman and I slowly move around the room, dropping our bags and bloody weapons. We’re in a large, spacious office, but it’s much darker since there’s very little natural light, unlike the main warehouse. Everything’s dusty and the file cabinets have been cleared out and drawers emptied. Meaningless papers litter the floor. 

“Thank you,” I say, wiping off my face with a rag. “For noticing the walkway. For saving me.” 

Roman sighs, and it’s so heavy that all of the dust in the room trembles. I don’t blame him though, sometimes I can be a pain and get us into scenarios like this. “You’re welcome,” he says. I sift through his voice through any ounce of bitterness, but I can’t find any. 

“We should hide out here for a bit, until things calm down,” I suggest. The fortunate thing about zombies is that they’re like children – their ravenous fixation only lasts so long. Now that we’re out of sight and smell, it won’t be long before the zombies disperse. 

“What about Zeus?” Roman asks. He’s rubbing his temples and pacing in front of the big office windows overlooking the warehouse floor. Even through the walls, we can still hear the zombies moaning and scuffling.  

I look out a small window, towards the direction we came from. “Binoculars, please,” I say, holding out my hand. Roman gives them to me, and I search the horizon for a fluffy black and white dog. I see the RV, and sure enough, Zeus has found his way back home intact.  

“Thank God,” Roman says, exhaling.  

“See, he’s alright,” I say, but now that Roman and I are essentially trapped in a room together, tension simmers again. I lean against the brick and slide down until I’m sitting up against the wall. 

“I’m glad, but . . .” Roman trails off, and he paces the room, clenching his fists. “But, Amelia, why on earth would you—” His voice raises in pitch and intensity, and normally this would provoke icky feelings, but after what just happened, I’m thankful to be alive and unscathed that I do not care if he hollers at me.  

I put up a hand. “Roman, please. Now that we’re here, can we just talk?” 

He breathes, staring out the window, overlooking the factory. “Okay. Then let’s talk.” Roman sits across from me, leaning back against a desk. Our legs are outstretched and parallel.  

Suddenly, I have nothing at all to say. The concerns and bad feelings I had before seem irrational and inconsequential now. Where my inner world once was a detailed detective’s map, it is now a tangled mess. I huff and puff, avoiding eye contact so I can think. 

“I just . . . don’t think we’re communicating very well anymore.” Silence. I think it means he wants me to continue. “Just, after what happened in Grand Junction, and then you just got so upset about the propane tank thing, and—” 

“I need to be able to express my frustration,” Roman says.  

I clench my fists. “Yeah, I know, but maybe in a better way?” 

Roman looks down at the poor quality, thin carpet. “Fair enough.” 

“You know how I grew up. One wrong word and I just . . . fall apart sometimes.” I rub the skin next to my fingernail.  

“I know. I never want to do that to you.” Roman’s voice melts like warm milk chocolate. “I’ve just been having a hard time with my dad . . . you know,” Roman starts, picking at a loose thread. An entire section of the carpet lifts up when he tugs on it.  

“You can say it. He died.” I study the planes of Roman’s face in the dim natural light. Suddenly, he’s not close enough. I lean forward, tucking my knees up to my chest.  

“Yeah. He died.” That’s all Roman says. Maybe that’s all he can say. The words feel like a guilty confession, even though they don’t need to be.  

“Hey,” I say, tenderly. My fingers graze the wiry curls of his beard. “Do you wanna go smash some more zombies?” 

He makes eye contact with me. “Absolutely,” he says. We kiss, briefly, and then stand up. So that’s it, then. We roam around the decrepit office, gathering our stuff. Even though I’ve been with Roman for over three years, sometimes the whole dynamic is confusing to me. Our relationship is back to business as usual. I’m used to both parties being mad for hours or even days, sparing no death glare or silent treatment. So when Roman and I have conflict that comes to a head and resolves itself in a few hours, it feels strange. Like I should still be harboring that seed of anger in my chest.  

“You ready?” he asks, standing by the barricaded door.  

I clip the chest strap from my backpack closed around my chest. “Yup.” We push the desk out of the way and swing the door open. One scraggly zombie has made it up the stairs and past the gate, but he lost his legs, so there’s just a stump of a man and a trail of blood. I look over the railing. All the other zombies have dispersed and continue to roam the main floor aimlessly, groaning and wavering like ghosts. Some have even left through the door we busted down, which is good. Dust catches the fading sunlight. There’s a distinct path of fallen zombies and shiny blood on the concrete floor from where Roman and I brute-forced our way through earlier. 

“You know, it’s probably a bad idea to take our emotional problems out on zombies. They were human, after all,” he says.  

With a sigh, I walk over to the lone zombie, wheezing and snarling up at us, but he’s helpless to stop what’s coming. His eyes are cloudy and streaked like marbles. They gaze around at nothing, searching for fuzzy patches of light. “Well, they’re not anymore.” 

Roman nods in agreement. The zombie, hanging on by a thread, groans and reaches for Roman’s ankle. He brings his machete down hard with a squelch. 

Roman looks over at me, the day’s stress weighing heavy on his face. In that moment, I feel bad—awful. Disgustingly sticky and vile on the inside. Not much different than the finally-dead undead lying at Roman’s feet.  

I walk over to him as the zombies growl and murmur beneath us. We have to make this quick, because if they notice or smell us again, then we’ll have the same problem on our hands. Roman breathes hard through his nose, heaving from exertion. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck. His sweaty hair sticks to my grimy cheek, and I whisper, “I’m sorry.” 

He breathes into me, just once. “I’m sorry, too.” This time it reaches across the divide, stitch by stitch, mending the fray. 

I close my eyes, attempting to escape inside myself. The crushing guilt doesn’t go away, but it’s too late now. We can only move forward and try to be better tomorrow. The way I see it, there’s no other choice but to grow. Because if you stagnate? Well, at that point you might as well just consider yourself a part of the undead.