garage for when I’d need it. My mother had a fit when she saw the wood, so I didn’t nail it to my window until it happened.
“You’re twenty-three years old. When are you going to look for work? What the hell are you doing with your life?” she would say.
I had graduated with honors from the university. But a degree didn’t matter, because I wound up living at home, with no job. To make matters worse, in her eyes, because I was all into the survivalist thing, she pretty much thought I needed therapy.
I’m an only child, and cancer killed my father five years ago. However, if he were alive, he would have supported me. He would have believed my prediction about the pandemic. When birds attacked people in Europe, and then those same people began attacking other people, he would have known something was up. He wouldn’t have questioned it when the government quarantined certain areas. He would have believed, as I did, that the problem would eventually come to Waterbank. But he distrusted the government as much as I do, so he would have insisted we rely on nobody but ourselves. After all, he’s the one who taught me how to shoot a rifle.
Then, in my neighborhood, it finally happened, and it began with Janet Carlson, followed by the entire Molson family. Government officials showed up, standing around on corners with their big guns. They told us to stay indoors.
Soon we got the 411 on the victims. Janet Carlson got bit. Then every member of the Molson family got bit. In fact, rumor was the Molson family ate one another. Pretty fucked up.
They never told us if Carlson and the Molsons are roaming Waterbank, looking for humans, or if the government shot and killed them.
My mother, however, refused to face reality. She knew there were zombie sightings; she knew what happened to Janet Carlson and the Molsons, but she believed the government would take care of it.
On the day it happened, she said she wanted to sit outside in the sunshine and garden. “I need to get out of this house,” were the last words I ever heard from her.
It wasn’t the first time she refused to stay in, but nothing had happened the couple of times she had gardened before. The government told us where we could and could not go in Waterbank. If we left our homes, we were restricted to guarded paths.
I never saw zombies on those paths. I realize now, subconsciously, I had convinced myself things might be okay, that it was safe to spend time outside as long as the government protected us. And, on the afternoon it happened, it was such a sunny day, and the sky was so clear and blue; things just had to be all right. But they weren’t all right.
After my mother was attacked by zombies, and I locked myself in my room and got the wood up, it all hit me. I curled up into a ball on my closet floor and cried and cried. I left it to use my bathroom, but then I would crawl right back in, balled up, twisting a strand of my long, auburn hair with one hand and grasping my rifle with the other.
A few times, I heard banging on the front door. But the banging was always followed by screaming and growling. Lots of screaming and growling. Even with the closet door closed and my hands over my ears, I could still hear the screaming and the growling.
Sometimes, I’d drift off to sleep, but not for long. Once, I dreamed my mother opened the closet door, and she was standing there, all rotted and smelly, except her eyes were still green.
I stayed curled up in my closet for days. I didn’t eat or drink anything. I was content to just sit there, weak and dehydrated. But something told me to get up, to plan my next move, to survive. I could stay in my room, but my supplies won’t last forever.
I wish I could talk to someone about losing my mother. I wish I could reach my friends and my relatives. But my mother is dead, and I’ve been unable to contact my friends and family. I don’t even know if they’re dead or alive.
What I do know is I’ve been locked in
“You’re twenty-three years old. When are you going to look for work? What the hell are you doing with your life?” she would say.
I had graduated with honors from the university. But a degree didn’t matter, because I wound up living at home, with no job. To make matters worse, in her eyes, because I was all into the survivalist thing, she pretty much thought I needed therapy.
I’m an only child, and cancer killed my father five years ago. However, if he were alive, he would have supported me. He would have believed my prediction about the pandemic. When birds attacked people in Europe, and then those same people began attacking other people, he would have known something was up. He wouldn’t have questioned it when the government quarantined certain areas. He would have believed, as I did, that the problem would eventually come to Waterbank. But he distrusted the government as much as I do, so he would have insisted we rely on nobody but ourselves. After all, he’s the one who taught me how to shoot a rifle.
Then, in my neighborhood, it finally happened, and it began with Janet Carlson, followed by the entire Molson family. Government officials showed up, standing around on corners with their big guns. They told us to stay indoors.
Soon we got the 411 on the victims. Janet Carlson got bit. Then every member of the Molson family got bit. In fact, rumor was the Molson family ate one another. Pretty fucked up.
They never told us if Carlson and the Molsons are roaming Waterbank, looking for humans, or if the government shot and killed them.
My mother, however, refused to face reality. She knew there were zombie sightings; she knew what happened to Janet Carlson and the Molsons, but she believed the government would take care of it.
On the day it happened, she said she wanted to sit outside in the sunshine and garden. “I need to get out of this house,” were the last words I ever heard from her.
It wasn’t the first time she refused to stay in, but nothing had happened the couple of times she had gardened before. The government told us where we could and could not go in Waterbank. If we left our homes, we were restricted to guarded paths.
I never saw zombies on those paths. I realize now, subconsciously, I had convinced myself things might be okay, that it was safe to spend time outside as long as the government protected us. And, on the afternoon it happened, it was such a sunny day, and the sky was so clear and blue; things just had to be all right. But they weren’t all right.
After my mother was attacked by zombies, and I locked myself in my room and got the wood up, it all hit me. I curled up into a ball on my closet floor and cried and cried. I left it to use my bathroom, but then I would crawl right back in, balled up, twisting a strand of my long, auburn hair with one hand and grasping my rifle with the other.
A few times, I heard banging on the front door. But the banging was always followed by screaming and growling. Lots of screaming and growling. Even with the closet door closed and my hands over my ears, I could still hear the screaming and the growling.
Sometimes, I’d drift off to sleep, but not for long. Once, I dreamed my mother opened the closet door, and she was standing there, all rotted and smelly, except her eyes were still green.
I stayed curled up in my closet for days. I didn’t eat or drink anything. I was content to just sit there, weak and dehydrated. But something told me to get up, to plan my next move, to survive. I could stay in my room, but my supplies won’t last forever.
I wish I could talk to someone about losing my mother. I wish I could reach my friends and my relatives. But my mother is dead, and I’ve been unable to contact my friends and family. I don’t even know if they’re dead or alive.
What I do know is I’ve been locked in
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