That day, all afternoon, my wife and I watched the news together. At first we thought it was some Orson Welles thing, a hoax. But after a while, she got real quiet. She called her mother, and then she tried to call her brother but couldn’t get through. I started packing up the Land Rover with supplies for the cabin. About six fifteen she got up and put on her coat, and said she was sorry, but that if this was the end she wanted to be with Rich. Rich, her ex-boyfriend. And of course, it was her Land Rover
The Hummer had been a hard purchase to justify to the wife at the time. Way too much car for them, she said. Gauche, she said. And the gas mileage… but it was his bonus money, and it’s not like she didn’t spend her discretionary income on status too. How many Louis Vuitton bags do you need, honestly?
With the sheet metal and fencing welded on, and come the zombie apocalypse, suddenly it seemed to have been an eminently practical purchase. He was designing a sharpened ‘cow catcher’ for the front, and the wife thought it was a great idea.
Both kids came home sick from school Thursday. By Friday afternoon they were so sick she drove them to the hospital, but the ER was closed, swamped. She made them as comfortable as she could at home. The family doctor didn’t answer his phone. The kids died within minutes of each other late Saturday night. The coroner’s office didn’t answer their phone. She dressed the boys in their Sunday best, combed their hair, and laid them out in peaceful repose on their beds. Sunday morning they were up again, moaning and weakly pounding on the outside of her bathroom door.
And now I have seen everything. We found a walled town of about a thousand people, right? Traded some ammo we couldn’t use for some other shit we could. Come to find out there was a brothel in one of those old cheap roadside motels. There weren’t any girls though, not live ones anyway. Freshly turned dead ones chained to beds, those he had plenty, and with muzzles over their mouths. I mean, I’ve seen some nasty goings on the last couple years, but that is some beyond thunderdome type shit right there. We got out of that town quick.
At first it had been fun, an adventure almost. Not that he was making light of it, people dying and all. Though considering how fricking slow zombies are, he didn’t really get how everybody was getting killed. What’s up with that? Can’t people run?
Anyway, now he was taking it more seriously. The Guard armory was handing out weapons and ammo like wheels of government cheese, and he was all over it. Zombie apocalypse survival kit, man. He just wished he’d bought one of those solar iPod chargers before everything went to shit. Life without music was going to suck.
We lost twelve people last winter. Not to zombies, our walls are high and sturdy, and we have plenty of ammunition. We lost ten to hunger and disease, and two to murders over food. Last year’s crops were a complete disaster; we didn’t know what we were doing.
But things are looking up. This summer more of our crops survived. Hunting has been good. Roughly the same amount of canned food, though we’ve had to go further to find it. All in all, our larder is fuller going into the cold weather. And of course there are fewer of us.
I hate you. I go on only out of sheer lust for bloody revenge. I’m not going to give up searching until I find you. I have a baseball bat with your name on it, because a bullet is too good for you. I’m going find you wherever you are, and I swear, I’m going to beat your fucking skull into a shapeless pulp. I just wish I could have been the one who killed you. You made my life a living hell, you self-righteous asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it just because you’re dead now.