<\/p>\n
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\u2019s no longer useful to count \u201csince\u201d 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\u2019s just life, and each moment that passes.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019t adjust very well sometimes.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n First, it was whispers. That\u2019s 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 \u201chaha-fun-quarantine-times\u201d and \u201cthis will be over soon if we all stick together\u201d. 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. \u201cDoomscrolling,\u201d 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\u2019s like a trainwreck. Difficult to look away from.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I don\u2019t 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\u2019d surely spit in her face.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Some people called it the Second Black Death, since those infected and reanimated bled the color of night. Still, others called it God\u2019s Wrath. I\u2019m 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n That\u2019s the thing about zombies. They <\/span>just keep on coming, unless you hit \u2018em where it hurts. I suppose we\u2019re like that too. Perhaps we\u2019re the disease, the infection that Mother Gaia can\u2019t get rid of. Like dust, she can\u2019t shake us off her moss-laiden shoulder.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n So naturally, it\u2019s hard not to think about death all the time. Not in an \u201cI want to die\u201d sort of way, but we\u2019re up to our neck in death around here. In the past year and a half, I\u2019ve watched two people close to me die. They didn\u2019t go quietly either. Rotting, reanimated corpses are practically our unfriendly next-door neighbors. I\u2019ve sent countless undead back to the earth. So I\u2019ve been forced to think about my own mortality a lot. But so far the only thing I\u2019ve 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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.\u00a0 It\u2014no, she\u2014couldn\u2019t be any older than sixteen. Her eyes are cloudy and cataracted, staring at nothing, yet she smells us anyway.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s your turn,\u201d he says. We take a step back as the zombie hisses, spitting foamy saliva at our feet.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cC\u2019mon, babe. Do I have to?\u201d The zombie trails black, sticky guts behind her.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d he insists. \u201cRemember, I killed the last one?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019t just ripped off its own arms and eaten through its own ankles in order to get free.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Begrudgingly, I pull a knife from the holster around my ankle. I stare down at the zombie for a moment\u2014black, dried blood crusted around her hanging lips, tattered and dirty clothes, exposed bone on her arm\u2014and I can\u2019t do it. I think, <\/span>why? Why do I have to do this?<\/span><\/i> Why am I the one still alive, left to put someone else out of their misery?<\/span><\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I bring the knife down into her skull, until the blade touches the asphalt below. I stand up, and it\u2019s over. I don\u2019t take any pleasure in it.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Now that that\u2019s 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. \u201cI\u2019m sorry about earlier.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I blink. \u201cMe too.\u201d Our words are short and clipped – for function only. I suppose now isn\u2019t the time for mushy sympathies. We\u2019re in need of many things – a propane tank, gasoline, and water. When we\u2019re camped out near a water source, gasoline isn\u2019t a huge deal. But when we\u2019re on the road too, all three become a necessity.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Roman smirks at me as he puts on his backpack. \u201cIt\u2019s been a while since we\u2019ve raided, hasn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cLong enough,\u201d I say. Things still aren\u2019t okay between us despite the apology, but we\u2019re a unit, and we both recognize that working together is more important right now.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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).\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019re in a town aptly named Sunnyland.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWell, that was easy,\u201d I say.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019s an overturned garbage truck that\u2019s 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\u2019s there alright, but the town looks dark, still, silent. There\u2019s no hum of civilization, which I can hear even in the smallest of towns.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019ve 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.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re everywhere,\u201d I whisper.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Roman puts up his hand, and I stop. \u201cI\u2019m hungry, we should stop and eat before we do this.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I nod. We sit with our backs against a brick building, some kind of warehouse or something.\u00a0 Roman pulls out a myriad of snacks, and I take out two sandwiches we made earlier.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He sighs as I hand one to him.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt wasn\u2019t about you,\u201d he says, his deep, resonating voice barely inching above a whisper.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I groan internally. \u201cCan we talk about it?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat, specifically?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Grumbling, I eat the rest of my sandwich and shove all my shit back in my backpack. \u201cI don\u2019t 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.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Roman pauses, looking up at me, but I\u2019m already packed up and ready to move. I know it\u2019s bad, but I\u2019m bristling for a fight. I don\u2019t want to fight with Roman, but I have all this anxious energy and pent-up stress that needs to go somewhere. It\u2019s either that or cry.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHey, listen, I\u2019m sorry we didn\u2019t get to talk about it as it happened. And maybe I did overreact,\u201d he says. \u201cBut I\u2019m just under a lot of stress\u2014\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I raise my eyebrows. \u201cAnd you think I\u2019m not?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo\u2014\u201d he starts, but by his tone I can already tell there\u2019s more. I don\u2019t let him finish because I unhook my baseball bat and start walking down the main drag of Sunnyland.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhere are you going?\u201d Roman asks. Maybe this is unfair of me, but I feel like I\u2019m going mad.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cTo smash some shit,\u201d 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat the fuck are you doing?\u201d Roman shouts, but he\u2019s already got his machete drawn.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019s head explodes near us.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIs this about what happened in the car?\u201d Roman shouts. He\u2019s 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\u2019s a horrific crack, and the small woman slumps off me.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMaybe it is a little bit,\u201d I say. I climb on top of a crate to have the high ground over a cluster of four zombies.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThen I\u2019m sorry!\u201d Roman shouts over the deafening noise. \u201cI\u2019m not sure what more you want me to do!\u201d He grunts as he pulls the end of his machete out of a skull, broken open like a coconut.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s check some storage rooms!\u201d I shout, jumping down from the crate, bringing my bat down hard on a zombie\u2019s 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\u2019m desperate. When my relationship with Roman also has its shaky moments, it\u2019s like I can\u2019t take it anymore.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNice job avoiding the topic,\u201d Roman says. His words bite, but we\u2019re 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cOh, you\u2019re one to talk about \u2018avoiding the topic\u2019,\u201d I shoot back just as the spiky end of my bat punctures the cheek of a zombie, clad in a tattered workman jumpsuit.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cJesus, Amelia! My dad just died,\u201d Roman says. We\u2019re 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\u2019t tempting anymore. Perhaps it\u2019s the leftover dread and monotony of these tragic souls who worked at this place. The soul-sucking grind of late-stage capitalism still hasn\u2019t left their bones. Even after death, some people can\u2019t change. They\u2019re just slaves to a different master now.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSo this is about your dad?\u201d I ask. It\u2019s meant to be a genuine question, but I can\u2019t help but let my own hurt seep into my voice. I kick away a zombie that\u2019s reaching out for me. I almost feel bad for him as my foot connects with his chest. I feel a crack, but I don\u2019t let myself lament.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cOf course it\u2019s about my dad!\u201d Roman shouts back at me. \u201cWhat is all this about for <\/span>you?<\/span><\/i>\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Grunting, I swing my bat again. Blood splashes my face, and I cringe when it\u2019s tepid as opposed to warm with life. \u201cIt\u2019s about\u2014\u201d <\/span>Fuck, another one. <\/span><\/i>\u201cIt\u2019s about how for the past few days\u2014\u201d <\/span>Ah shit.<\/span><\/i> I can\u2019t get any words out, because now we\u2019re in the thick of it. They\u2019re 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\u2019ve gotten us into. Terror like a cornered animal floods my veins, chokes out any other sense I have.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAmelia!\u201d Roman screams over the sudden roar, a throaty gurgle of human suffering. \u201cOver here!\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Our feet pound against the metal walkway. I\u2019ve completely lost track of Zeus and pray that he\u2019s 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019re in a large, spacious office, but it\u2019s much darker since there\u2019s very little natural light, unlike the main warehouse. Everything\u2019s dusty and the file cabinets have been cleared out and drawers emptied. Meaningless papers litter the floor.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThank you,\u201d I say, wiping off my face with a rag. \u201cFor noticing the walkway. For saving me.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Roman sighs, and it\u2019s so heavy that all of the dust in the room trembles. I don\u2019t blame him though, sometimes I can be a pain and get us into scenarios like this. \u201cYou\u2019re welcome,\u201d he says. I sift through his voice through any ounce of bitterness, but I can\u2019t find any.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWe should hide out here for a bit, until things calm down,\u201d I suggest. The fortunate thing about zombies is that they\u2019re like children – their ravenous fixation only lasts so long. Now that we\u2019re out of sight and smell, it won\u2019t be long before the zombies disperse.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat about Zeus?\u201d Roman asks. He\u2019s 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I look out a small window, towards the direction we came from. \u201cBinoculars, please,\u201d 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.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThank God,\u201d Roman says, exhaling.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSee, he\u2019s alright,\u201d 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\u2019m sitting up against the wall.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m glad, but . . .\u201d Roman trails off, and he paces the room, clenching his fists. \u201cBut, Amelia, why on earth would you\u2014\u201d His voice raises in pitch and intensity, and normally this would provoke icky feelings, but after what just happened, I\u2019m thankful to be alive and unscathed that I do not care if he hollers at me.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I put up a hand. \u201cRoman, please. Now that we\u2019re here, can we just talk?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He breathes, staring out the window, overlooking the factory. \u201cOkay. Then let\u2019s talk.\u201d Roman sits across from me, leaning back against a desk. Our legs are outstretched and parallel.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n 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\u2019s map, it is now a tangled mess. I huff and puff, avoiding eye contact so I can think.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI just . . . don\u2019t think we\u2019re communicating very well anymore.\u201d Silence. I think it means he wants me to continue. \u201cJust, after what happened in Grand Junction, and then you just got so upset about the propane tank thing, and\u2014\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI need to be able to express my frustration,\u201d Roman says.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I clench my fists. \u201cYeah, I know, but maybe in a better way?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Roman looks down at the poor quality, thin carpet. \u201cFair enough.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou know how I grew up. One wrong word and I just . . . fall apart sometimes.\u201d I rub the skin next to my fingernail.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI know. I never want to do that to you.\u201d Roman\u2019s voice melts like warm milk chocolate. \u201cI\u2019ve just been having a hard time with my dad . . . you know,\u201d Roman starts, picking at a loose thread. An entire section of the carpet lifts up when he tugs on it.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou can say it. He died.\u201d I study the planes of Roman\u2019s face in the dim natural light. Suddenly, he\u2019s not close enough. I lean forward, tucking my knees up to my chest.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYeah. He died.\u201d That\u2019s all Roman says. Maybe that\u2019s all he<\/span> can<\/span><\/i> say. The words feel like a guilty confession, even though they don\u2019t need to be.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d I say, tenderly. My fingers graze the wiry curls of his beard. \u201cDo you wanna go smash some more zombies?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n