Waiting Out Winter by Kelli Owen

The last of the contaminated died last week, and Nick struggled to accept the parallel truth--the town was free of disease. The parade of unattended funerals was finished, but instead of finding relief, Nick fought the revelation. It felt hopeful, and he had become a pessimist months ago. His logic loomed like a foreboding rain cloud as he reminded himself no one, not even the officials, knew how long the contagion lasted, or if there was such a thing as an immune carrier--and they wouldn’t, until another outbreak showed them. Months of paranoia wouldn’t simply go away with one death, even if it claimed to be the last.
    His dueling reaction continued to battle behind his sleepy eyes. A part of him wanted to walk next door, bang on the boarded windows, and shout to the sky with excitement, relief. But the other part of him knew better than to try to contact neighbors. Everyone had learned last fall that it was safer inside, so most people remained there with their families--or what was left of them--reluctant to trust any evidence, and unwilling to risk going outside if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. If there was any celebration of the final death, it was behind locked doors and plastic-covered windows, in small gatherings of survivors.
    The Kontis family, like everyone else, had been inside for seven months now--a full five months after the buzzing had stopped. The once innocent sound had become an audible omen, and humanity had tuned in to what it was saying. Through the long winter months, Nick had gradually changed from a night owl to a morning person, and was debating the supposed final death and precursory buzzing while he boiled water for his first morning cup of instant coffee.
    As he pulled the hot kettle from the fireplace, before the whistle woke the rest of the family, he heard it. Quiet. Far away. But there nonetheless.
    Nick froze. The trembling of his hands caused hot water to slosh inside the dented tin kettle. That damn buzzing.
    “No…”
    He whispered, as he set the water and coffee cup on the bricks of the fireplace hearth and reached for the flyswatter, which sat collecting dust on the end table. Always within reach, the simple household item had become a tool of survival and there were several in each room of the house. Swatter in hand, Nick stood and attempted to pinpoint the location of the buzzing.
    The sound had stopped. He face began to spread in a half smile, not in recognition of humor but in acknowledgement of irony. He mentally compared the situation to elusive noises his truck had teased him with over the years. Whenever he brought it to the shop or got the tools out himself, the noise would mysteriously stop, making it impossible to locate. But the truck’s protests of age and abuse were nothing to fear—however, the once harmless yet annoying sound now brought unrivaled terror. He exhaled, trying to convince himself it was his lack of coffee and tired mind playing tricks on him, rather than an actual threat after so many months of anxious safety.
    The buzzing resumed and Nick’s chest tightened in response. He looked down the hall where his family slept, unaware of the danger that had entered their shelter. The sound originated in the kitchen, the opposite direction of the bedrooms in the layout of the single-story ranch house. He crept down the hallway, closing doors with a whisper as he went, then turned back the way he’d come. Believing his family was better protected against the intruder, he headed back toward the kitchen. It had been five months since he fought the tiny enemy. He hoped it was like riding a bike.
    As he tiptoed into the dark kitchen, the buzzing echoed in the powerless quiet of the house and fear crawled up from his stomach. He remembered the taste of it and thought back to the beginning.

    Jerry rolled the windows up and pushed the parental control button to lock them, preventing Scott from lowering them again. “Why do you keep doing that? I’d rather deal