Homeward Bound

I remember the van blowing through the red light, and the explosion of steel and glass crashing together as I hit him broadside before my foot could even reach the brakes. I remember the white hot pain in my right leg as the force of the crash bent it at an impossible angle against the steering column and the sickening snap of bones breaking. And I remember the paramedics working feverishly to stem the bleeding where bone protruded from my shattered leg and inflating a splint to steady the injury before they loaded me into the ambulance. I think I passed out from the pain, because things get fuzzy after that. I’m now looking out of a shoe store window at chaos on the streets without any real idea how I got here.

A man runs past me with a 5 gallon bottle of water bouncing on his shoulder. A woman screams as she is surrounded by a group of homeless-looking men who advance on her menacingly. Shots ring out as a man dressed in a business suit draws a handgun and starts shooting into the crowd of men surrounding the woman. Another old man is chased by two teenagers into the cigar shop across from me, and it sounds like they are beating him to a pulp as I hear the crash of furniture and anguished cries of pain. I try to dial 911 on my cell phone, but all I get is a mechanical female voice announcing that all circuits are busy. WTF?! There are no police anywhere. I need to get away from this madness - from everyone. And I’ve GOT to find my family!

It’s only a mile back to our house - hopefully Cindy and our 3 year old daughter are still there. It’s the only place I know to gather our senses. So I start working my way back while there’s a lull in the hysteria. I slip out of the empty shoe store, hugging the buildings so no one can surprise me from behind. I feel like I’m living one of those action movies I like to watch. While I’m no Jason Bourne, hopefully I learned enough to survive this situation. My pulse pounds in my ears until about a block over, I reach a shortcut through a little wooded area that opens up behind my house. It will be slow going with my bad leg, but it’s suicidal to be out on the streets any longer.

I’m not alone as I shuffle through the woods. I can hear the muffled movements of other refugees, even if I can’t see them. My nerves are on edge as I listen for an ambush from of one of those murderous lunatics. It’s August, and it’s hot, and the kudzu is thick as these alien vines tangle on everything from my feet to my watch to the glasses on my face. I can smell the sticky sap collecting on my sweaty skin as I tear my way through it. Panic rises as I feel like moth becoming ensnared in a huge spider web. I will pay for this later – I’m sure some of these vines are poison ivy. But I’m in too much of a hurry to worry about that now.

I reach the little creek that runs behind my neighborhood. There’s about four inches of water tumbling over algae covered rocks that will be treacherous to navigate with my bad leg. I start looking around for a fallen pine branch that I might use as a crutch so I can balance a little better crossing the stream. I realize I should’ve grabbed something sturdier from the shoe store, but I didn’t think about it then. This is the type of poor planning that’s going to get me killed if I don’t pay more attention. I’ve got to be analyzing everything, thinking ahead, and fighting the tunnel vision that the panic churning in my gut is imposing.

I am concentrated on my search until I’m startled by the crash of tearing leaves very near me. A shadow flits through my peripheral vision off to my left. We both freeze, silently trying to decide if we are friend or foe - each fearing the noise of any acknowledgement might attract unwanted attention.

The other shadow turns out to be a woman, 30-something, with her hair in a pink scrunchied ponytail, wearing sky blue capris, bright white Converse sneakers, and a matching white handbag perched in the crook of her left arm like she was waiting on a cashier to hand her a receipt and a BOGO coupon. Her plain blue tank top remained neatly tucked in despite the heat and the foliage. She was the stereotypical soccer mom, and even more out of her element than me. She sized me up as well, and must have decided that with my startled look and bad leg I was no threat. She sniffed haughtily and turned on her heel away from me, continuing on her way with that white handbag swinging crazily on her elbow. She tiptoed gingerly over the rocks, careful to keep her pristine white shoes dry and with a bouncy little skip the entire surreal image dissolved behind a curtain of green.

I barely had time to resume my search for a suitable crutch when I heard the ‘zing’ of a bullet along with the crack of a rifle round from behind me. Looters? What could I have that they would want?! I needed to put some tree trunks between me and these unseen snipers. I got on my belly, wriggling and sliding hand over hand on top of the rocks across the little stream. Even in mid-August the water felt chillingly cold. As the water washed over my bad leg, a cloud of crimson tinged the water downstream. I must be bleeding again – I’ll need medical attention soon. But first I need to find safe cover or that won’t matter. I drove my tired body deep into the twilight of the shadowy canopy of mature pine trees on the other side of the creek. Thick brush gave way to a silent carpet of perpetually damp pine needles as the adrenaline wore off and my steps slowed. I didn’t hear any more shots, so I must have lost them. I pondered for a moment the type of person who fires on a complete stranger unprovoked. I still have no idea what madness has gripped my world, but I’m too tired to dwell on it. Cold, wet, and exhausted, I sit back against a 100 foot pine and sleep instantly overwhelmed me…

I awake to the hoarse siren of cicadas as twilight is just descending. I can see the twinkle of security lights through the trees – that would be my neighborhood. The house off to the right with two lights on one corner and only one on the other would be mine. One floodlight has been burned out for a couple of weeks, and I keep forgetting to replace it. I head toward my back fence. I’m glad we didn’t go with the 6 foot privacy fence Cindy has been asking about – I would never be able to get over that. But our little 4 foot chain link fence was navigable. It was a bit ugly as I pretty much just dumped myself over the top of the fence, but I don’t care – I’m finally home!

Just one more hurdle to overcome. My pockets are empty – I don’t have the keys for my house. The paramedics must have bagged my personal effects for the hospital. I try the back door, but it’s locked. I go around to the front door, but I’m pretty sure that will be locked as well. But maybe I can get in the large bay window up front if no one is home to answer the door.

As I work my way around to the front of the house, there are a dozen people wandering aimlessly up and down the street. They look ragged and worn, trudging along as if they had no place to go. But why? Haven’t they seen or heard about the random attacks going on just blocks away?

Only now does it dawn on me – maybe this is the “zombie apocalypse” we’ve heard about all these years. Is it natural, man-made, or extraterrestrial? How do you catch it? Does it work like all the movies with an infected bite, or something else? Perhaps the old stories were based on some nugget of truth in some obscure outbreak like the first ebola cases. What can actually kill a zombie? I could not see whether those men shot in town succumbed to the bullets or not. If bullets can kill them, does it have to be a head shot like the movies? I need to get into the house before this aimless crowd turns into a murderous mob. I need to get some answers…

As I reach the front of the house, I realize I don’t have to break in. The garage door is wide open and Cindy’s car is missing. I slip inside through the unlocked side door unnoticed by the zombies on the street. Hopefully she left a note for me.

The house looks like it has been looted. The closets are empty, as is the pantry. Cortney’s room has been hastily packed up as well. Toys are strewn all over the floor, but Cortney’s favorite doll and pink blanket are not there. Cindy has grabbed everything, like she believes we will never be coming back. It takes a few minutes to find her note amidst the chaos. On the kitchen counter with the spilled Cheerios is a sheet of note paper entitled “List Of Things I Forgot To Get At The Grocery”. It says “Cortney and I are going to hole up in Sharon’s basement until you find us. There are too many windows in this house for them to get in. Knock twice, then twice more so we’ll know it’s you. Love, Cindy”. The “i” in Cindy was dotted with a little heart like she always does when she signs our anniversary card.

Sharon’s house is just down the block so it won’t take long to get there. It’s a split level with a real basement as opposed to our ranch layout. When we started hunting for a house just after we discovered Cindy was pregnant, she insisted upon a ranch style because she “didn’t want to have to climb stairs with a baby in her arms”. I smiled at the memory of her accentuating her point by stamping her tiny, pregnancy-swollen foot.

I’ll go out the back way and over the fence again to avoid the creatures on the street. Just in time too – I heard the crashing of glass coming from the area of the front bay window, and I assume the zombies have started to swarm the house after hearing me rummaging around inside.

I’m starting to get good at the “fence flop” as I enter Sharon’s back yard. I look around for her two large dogs, who can be territorial and have been known to bite when surprised. I don’t see them, so I go up to the French doors that open into Sharon’s back garden and do as instructed – knock twice, and then twice more. I wait for about half a minute, feeling exposed and vulnerable. I knock again. Finally, I hear movement from inside, and the patio doors swing open. It’s Sharon, but her dogs are with her and the biggest one, Dino, leaps at me immediately. He starts biting and ripping at my arm, shaking his head violently back and forth as Sharon screams in shock and surprise at the speed of the attack.

I’m also surprised by the attack, but I’m more shocked that there is no pain, and there is no blood. Instead, I feel nothing except a growing hunger as I catch the scent of Sharon’s warm, inviting flesh. Sonuvabitch! When did I become one of those things?! Was it in the back of the ambulance? When I fell asleep under the tree? How could I have no idea?

Dino backs away, never looking away from me. In the background, Cindy slips into the room behind the standoff between me and a terrified Sharon flanked by her bristling but tentative dogs. Cindy is holding the shotgun I used to take deer hunting about once every three years. “Clever girl.” I think to myself. Tears stream down her face, and the barrel wanders in little circles as her muscles tremble with the strain of her white-knuckle grip. She looks at me with pleading eyes and shakily whispers the words “I love you.” I try to speak, but there is no breath in my lungs to push the sounds out. Instead, I pitifully mouth the words back to her. She lets out a wounded cry, followed by the muzzle flash of the 12 gauge.

All goes dark, and I am finally at peace. But Cindy has just entered a fresh new hell…