Don’t think about the internet’s
distinct lack of access. Don’t think about why sometimes, every so often they
could hear a telephone ringing behind the doors of one of the unoccupied
houses. They never made it inside in time to pick up and answer.
Holiday remembered that phone call in the Home Depot.
“Holiday gonna be Holi-dead!”
At night, as he lay in bed in the dark, sober, his fear was
that the phone next to his bed would ring and that same psychotically cold
voice would begin to rant at him again. What could he do? Finally he’d
unplugged it and gone to sleep.
Frank had said little to him. Not even eventually
congratulating him for the container plan. Instead he’d taken it over, making
it his plan all along.
Only Dante had offered recognition in the form of a slap on
the back. Nodding at the stacks near the gate as sweat ran down his large
shiny black face. Smiling at Holiday.
He feels safe. He‘s glad to be safe, Holiday thought now as
he lay in the dark just before sleep.
It had been a long week.
His eyes closed and finally, he slept.
Ash woke to the sound of a distant, painful cry.
She slept with her window open. They weren’t running the
air conditioners for fear the noise might attract zombies. Most nights held a
nightmare at some point for Ash.
Always the same nightmare.
But tonight, she awoke and wasn’t sure if the cry had been
part of the nightmare. It was silent out there in the still of the night as
she sat up in bed, sweating, heart pounding.
Then she heard it again.
She went to the window.
She listened.
Again the cry. Almost a mournful wail, a plea. It came
from up the hill, in the burned neighborhood of McMansions that once rose above
the Vineyard, beyond their wall of shipping containers. Up the hill. It
sounded like a child. A lost child.
Sometimes a cat can sound like a child, she told herself.
And then...
But you don’t know if it’s a cat or a child.
She dressed, hearing it again. And again.
Outside, the moon had gone down. She took her medical bag,
slung it over a shoulder and retrieved a small OD green flashlight from her
canvas bag of the same color. She turned it on. It only threw red light. As
it should. She unscrewed the lens cap, removed the red filter and flicked it
on again. White light.
She left her aid station townhome quietly, watching Skully’s
chest rise and fall for a moment as she passed him lying on the twin bed
downstairs. Outside, she went to the nearest wall and placed a ladder they
kept on the ground nearby against one of the containers. She climbed it, then
drew the ladder up on top of the hollow metal containers that made empty bass
notes as she walked across the top of them.
Standing still, she listened again.
Nothing.
And just as she was about to give up and go back down and
into to her townhome aid station, she heard the cry again. It was a sad wail.
A painful cry, and there was some soul-deep hurt in it that Ash knew the
medicine she had in her bag could never heal. Up above her, up in the shadowy
burnt stick figure charcoal remains of the McMansions, as Holiday had called
them, someone was lost and in pain. She let the ladder down on the far side of
the wall, and then climbed down into the shadows at the bottom.
She started up the hill, crossed the wide road at the top,
then climbed another hill into the burnt-out remains of the first line of
houses. The smell of burnt plastic and rubber, along with the smoky char of
wood, still remained amongst the ash and stubble. She waded through piles of
ashes and wove around debris where bathtubs and sinks and the remains of
couches and beds, their blackened iron springs jutting wildly in the night, sat
as though oddly placed in empty spaces. Slowly, she made her way up the hill,
climbing blackened terraces and vacant concrete foundations into the heights of
the devastated neighborhood, following the intermittent wail
distinct lack of access. Don’t think about why sometimes, every so often they
could hear a telephone ringing behind the doors of one of the unoccupied
houses. They never made it inside in time to pick up and answer.
Holiday remembered that phone call in the Home Depot.
“Holiday gonna be Holi-dead!”
At night, as he lay in bed in the dark, sober, his fear was
that the phone next to his bed would ring and that same psychotically cold
voice would begin to rant at him again. What could he do? Finally he’d
unplugged it and gone to sleep.
Frank had said little to him. Not even eventually
congratulating him for the container plan. Instead he’d taken it over, making
it his plan all along.
Only Dante had offered recognition in the form of a slap on
the back. Nodding at the stacks near the gate as sweat ran down his large
shiny black face. Smiling at Holiday.
He feels safe. He‘s glad to be safe, Holiday thought now as
he lay in the dark just before sleep.
It had been a long week.
His eyes closed and finally, he slept.
Ash woke to the sound of a distant, painful cry.
She slept with her window open. They weren’t running the
air conditioners for fear the noise might attract zombies. Most nights held a
nightmare at some point for Ash.
Always the same nightmare.
But tonight, she awoke and wasn’t sure if the cry had been
part of the nightmare. It was silent out there in the still of the night as
she sat up in bed, sweating, heart pounding.
Then she heard it again.
She went to the window.
She listened.
Again the cry. Almost a mournful wail, a plea. It came
from up the hill, in the burned neighborhood of McMansions that once rose above
the Vineyard, beyond their wall of shipping containers. Up the hill. It
sounded like a child. A lost child.
Sometimes a cat can sound like a child, she told herself.
And then...
But you don’t know if it’s a cat or a child.
She dressed, hearing it again. And again.
Outside, the moon had gone down. She took her medical bag,
slung it over a shoulder and retrieved a small OD green flashlight from her
canvas bag of the same color. She turned it on. It only threw red light. As
it should. She unscrewed the lens cap, removed the red filter and flicked it
on again. White light.
She left her aid station townhome quietly, watching Skully’s
chest rise and fall for a moment as she passed him lying on the twin bed
downstairs. Outside, she went to the nearest wall and placed a ladder they
kept on the ground nearby against one of the containers. She climbed it, then
drew the ladder up on top of the hollow metal containers that made empty bass
notes as she walked across the top of them.
Standing still, she listened again.
Nothing.
And just as she was about to give up and go back down and
into to her townhome aid station, she heard the cry again. It was a sad wail.
A painful cry, and there was some soul-deep hurt in it that Ash knew the
medicine she had in her bag could never heal. Up above her, up in the shadowy
burnt stick figure charcoal remains of the McMansions, as Holiday had called
them, someone was lost and in pain. She let the ladder down on the far side of
the wall, and then climbed down into the shadows at the bottom.
She started up the hill, crossed the wide road at the top,
then climbed another hill into the burnt-out remains of the first line of
houses. The smell of burnt plastic and rubber, along with the smoky char of
wood, still remained amongst the ash and stubble. She waded through piles of
ashes and wove around debris where bathtubs and sinks and the remains of
couches and beds, their blackened iron springs jutting wildly in the night, sat
as though oddly placed in empty spaces. Slowly, she made her way up the hill,
climbing blackened terraces and vacant concrete foundations into the heights of
the devastated neighborhood, following the intermittent wail
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