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Authors: Anthony Barnhart
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No way.”
The reporter continued talking, but then there were screams in the background. The camera-man swiveled around just in time to catch the doorway spilling infected; people ran this way and that, knocking over equipment, hollering, crying. The infected charged a woman and knocked her down, biting at her savagely, tearing flesh. An artery broke, and blood sprayed against the camera. She screamed as an infected business-man gouged out her eye; they ripped off her head and the screams stopped. An infected rushed the camera, it fell, and static. The screen changed, showing a harried news-anchor in what was the Anthony Barnhart
36 Hours
47
CNN News Broadcasting Station. Tears rolled down his face as he said, “I’ve just been informed that we and all other stations will be switching to the Emergency Broadcasting System. God bless you.”
The screen instantly changed to a grayish background with a yellow triangle plastered over it; resting over the triangle were three bold letters, EBN; underneath the letters was the simple yet horrifying transcription: Emergency Broadcast System.
I can’t tell you how long we gawked at that screen, the length of time—
eternity, forever, never-ending torture. I guess each and every one of us had things going through our minds. I don’t know what Les felt, or Hannah, or anyone else who happened to stumble upon a television, but I know that for the first time I realized how terribly pinned we were, how far from escape we had come, how, as we cowered inside the stout home on 25 Rosebud Avenue, how mercilessly close to death we were. And how our world was crashing. I could think only of one thing. We couldn’t expect help. The United States was floundering, from coast to coast, Atlantic to the Pacific, from the border on Mexico and the Gulf of Mexico to the icy wind-falls of Canada. I could imagine terror—nightmares—in Las Vegas, San Francisco, Chicago, New Orleans, New York City. And then England was gone. All of Europe was waist-high in the swarming waters. Africa was being swept up in the tornado, and I imagined the densely-populated Asia, Australia, Japan and the Philippines were sinking like a stone in the sea. And here we were, in the small, unknown Spring Falls, Ohio, a Friday morning school day transformed into a bloody cascade of will verse fate. Les turned off the television, knocking me out of my morbid trance.
“Hannah’s right. We can’t just hole up here. The TV said this was happening all over the place. There isn’t any help coming.”
“So why go anywhere at all? It’s just like walking into a death-trap.”
“Because we’ll starve here.”
“Out there, Les, we’ll be murdered. Which sounds worse?”
“I’m not going to starve to death.”
Hannah murmured, “What about your family?”
Mom. Dad. Ashlie. Even the dog Goldie. My stomach flipped. I wanted to believe they were alive. They were all inside. Yes. They probably locked themselves in. My dad is very clever, very cautious. He would’ve fixed Anthony Barnhart
36 Hours
48
everything up so they would be safe, and also so they could let in refugees.
“How many more people do you think are hiding out like this?”
“A lot,” Les said. “Has to be. We can’t be the only ones.”
“It happened so suddenly…”
“People holed up in business buildings, subways, houses. We’re not alone.”
Not alone. What a lie. “Yeah.”
Hannah got up and went to the window. Her hair gracefully flowed behind her. So beautiful.
“This is so unreal,” Les said.
She stared out the window, and her face fell even deeper. She didn’t say anything. Les ran over to her window, and I peered between the bars of the other one. The bars were very thick, and wrought-iron, too. I was suddenly very happy Jack had been so paranoid all his life. Maybe he saw this coming? Down the street my own eyes saw something. Dozens of the infected coming down the road, walking through lawns, over the sidewalk,
The reporter continued talking, but then there were screams in the background. The camera-man swiveled around just in time to catch the doorway spilling infected; people ran this way and that, knocking over equipment, hollering, crying. The infected charged a woman and knocked her down, biting at her savagely, tearing flesh. An artery broke, and blood sprayed against the camera. She screamed as an infected business-man gouged out her eye; they ripped off her head and the screams stopped. An infected rushed the camera, it fell, and static. The screen changed, showing a harried news-anchor in what was the Anthony Barnhart
36 Hours
47
CNN News Broadcasting Station. Tears rolled down his face as he said, “I’ve just been informed that we and all other stations will be switching to the Emergency Broadcasting System. God bless you.”
The screen instantly changed to a grayish background with a yellow triangle plastered over it; resting over the triangle were three bold letters, EBN; underneath the letters was the simple yet horrifying transcription: Emergency Broadcast System.
I can’t tell you how long we gawked at that screen, the length of time—
eternity, forever, never-ending torture. I guess each and every one of us had things going through our minds. I don’t know what Les felt, or Hannah, or anyone else who happened to stumble upon a television, but I know that for the first time I realized how terribly pinned we were, how far from escape we had come, how, as we cowered inside the stout home on 25 Rosebud Avenue, how mercilessly close to death we were. And how our world was crashing. I could think only of one thing. We couldn’t expect help. The United States was floundering, from coast to coast, Atlantic to the Pacific, from the border on Mexico and the Gulf of Mexico to the icy wind-falls of Canada. I could imagine terror—nightmares—in Las Vegas, San Francisco, Chicago, New Orleans, New York City. And then England was gone. All of Europe was waist-high in the swarming waters. Africa was being swept up in the tornado, and I imagined the densely-populated Asia, Australia, Japan and the Philippines were sinking like a stone in the sea. And here we were, in the small, unknown Spring Falls, Ohio, a Friday morning school day transformed into a bloody cascade of will verse fate. Les turned off the television, knocking me out of my morbid trance.
“Hannah’s right. We can’t just hole up here. The TV said this was happening all over the place. There isn’t any help coming.”
“So why go anywhere at all? It’s just like walking into a death-trap.”
“Because we’ll starve here.”
“Out there, Les, we’ll be murdered. Which sounds worse?”
“I’m not going to starve to death.”
Hannah murmured, “What about your family?”
Mom. Dad. Ashlie. Even the dog Goldie. My stomach flipped. I wanted to believe they were alive. They were all inside. Yes. They probably locked themselves in. My dad is very clever, very cautious. He would’ve fixed Anthony Barnhart
36 Hours
48
everything up so they would be safe, and also so they could let in refugees.
“How many more people do you think are hiding out like this?”
“A lot,” Les said. “Has to be. We can’t be the only ones.”
“It happened so suddenly…”
“People holed up in business buildings, subways, houses. We’re not alone.”
Not alone. What a lie. “Yeah.”
Hannah got up and went to the window. Her hair gracefully flowed behind her. So beautiful.
“This is so unreal,” Les said.
She stared out the window, and her face fell even deeper. She didn’t say anything. Les ran over to her window, and I peered between the bars of the other one. The bars were very thick, and wrought-iron, too. I was suddenly very happy Jack had been so paranoid all his life. Maybe he saw this coming? Down the street my own eyes saw something. Dozens of the infected coming down the road, walking through lawns, over the sidewalk,
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