Nurse's Aide

  Entry 004:

 

To this day, that was the last time I smoked weed. In a massive bathtub after having sex with a woman I barely knew (and whose husband had been missing for less than twelve hours). The experience (of being high, not the sex) left a sour taste in my mouth. Despite having more pre-rolled joints and a couple extra grams of buds, I couldn’t bring myself to spark up again. I wasn’t immune to a nip of whiskey every nowandagain, but the thought of being high with the constant threat of being eaten alive by the “walking dead” was not such a glamorous one.

But it sure wasn’t the last time I had sex with Daisy Jane Lawless. All the rubdowns of my achy muscles eventually led back to that most primal of acts. And in the three days I spent with her, I received many rubdowns…Though, that wasn’t all that happened. We also conversed and shared stories of our lives before the outbreak. (And, of course, how we came to be where we were upon meeting – but I think I already covered that subject.) Thus how I learned of her background.

She also fed me plentifully. Almost nonstop. At times, I thought my gut might bust. She quantified this by telling me I could use a little more meat on my bones, what with the coming winter and all. (She was right about that…though, I wasn’t with her long enough to build up such a reserve of fat off which I could survive the coming winter. But I managed just fine without it.)

There were guns and bows with copious reserves of ammunition and arrows. I tested my hand at a compound bow. I wasn’t bad. But I still felt wrong about it, as though it would slow me down. I wasn’t practiced with it enough to utilize it properly if (and when) the time should come to put it to use. And it was too bulky to be carried or used in combination with my staff, with which I was already quite comfortable. And I passed on the guns with unwavering stubbornness. I had been trained on rifles when I was a child – and I was quite the natural with them – but I hadn’t ever been able to bring myself to shoot anything with it. (I had a feeling that this would remain so even when my life was on the line.)

Not only this, but her expansive estate had recently become quite the attraction for ghouls. Since our arrival, they had been creeping in from every direction. None made it past the formidable fenceline that wholly encircled the ranch. Only one possessing the proper fob or keycode could gain entry to the property from one of its three access points: the main gate roadside; the side access road that led straight to the stables; or the rear entrance that led directly into the forest. So, had I tested my hand at any of her rifles, not only would the growing horde have been incensed, but it also would have grown ten-fold over the next twenty-four hours. (Even in those early stages of the outbreak, I had already surmised their overwhelming attraction to sound.)

And it was for such reasons that I didn’t accept any of her weapons. She insisted repeatedly that they would come in handy should things get sticky, but still I refused. I assured her (repeatedly) that I was more than capable with the staff, no matter how sticky the situation. It’s true that I wasn’t quite as adept with it as Jacob had been, but I was no slouch, either. I had practiced against multiple assailants and typically came out on top. And with the lumbering agility and speed of drunken sloths, the ghouls posed considerably less of a threat…theoretically.

Despite the relative safety of her expansive property, we were uneasy and always on edge. Every creak of the house, every gust that rattled the windows, every groan of a swaying tree – and more – made Daisy squirm and quake. And every time she squirmed or quaked, I felt just a little more uneasy. (I’m sure she sensed this in me, despite my every effort to keep my composure, which probably fed into her fear.)

I remember waking up one day with an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Perhaps I say this with more conviction now, looking back on it with such clarity. After all, hindsight allows a person to view situations – traumatic ones, especially – far more objectively. (Though, it also heightens one’s subjective rationale and future biases toward particular events or situations – for better or worse.) And in this instance, I’d like to think that I became far more in tune with my instincts after waking up with such crushing foreboding. From that day forward, I listened to my gut…

Farm-fresh eggs and bacon with homemade, thick-sliced toast. I’ll never forget that breakfast. Daisy was bouncing around the kitchen, her hair was a mess and she had a wild look in her eyes. She wasn’t eating a thing, just cooking off all the stored goods that would surely go bad if she didn’t do something with them right then. Her behavior that morning only added to my unease. And I was hardly eating all the crap she was shoving in front of me. Mostly, I just pushed it around my plate. Until, that is, her erratic behavior started driving me mad. I stood and caught her midstride in the middle of the kitchen. I remember the frightened look in her eye, and how she cowered as though I’d raised a hand to her.

“Don’t, baby!” she whimpered.

I looked curiously down at her, and she turned away, shrinking further into herself. I remember involuntarily cocking my head and drawing back, and thinking to myself that I must look like a confused puppy. “Something doesn’t feel right,” I said to her, shaking my head. “I think we oughtta get outta here, make a run for it.” For what, I’m not sure I even knew. I just felt the weight of all our inaction; the property, as safe and secure – and expansive – as it was, had become cramped. Though I had no idea how or what we should be doing, staying there just felt wrong to me.

Even with the clarity of hindsight, I still don’t know what I should have done – or what I could have done. Just running didn’t seem right – still, it feels kind of wrong – but there was something almost romantic about running; just being a man and a woman on the open road, with the entire country out there, waiting to be discovered by us.

So much for all that nonsense…I can tell you, now, that this ideal is quite the opposite of romantic. Especially when the open road, and the entire country along this open road – which is supposedly just waiting to be discovered – is actually ripe with a rather brutal infection. And the only thing it’s waiting to do is devour us all. Though, I am also living proof (for the time being, anyhow) that the open road can be tamed, if not manipulated.

I can’t remember if I finished that last sentence or not, or if the last part of it was drowned out by the explosion and subsequent commotion. But I do remember the frozen tension that filled the kitchen. Our heads immediately whipped toward the sound, as though we could see through walls and locate the source of this sudden ruckus.

Daisy remained rigidly shrunken in the kitchen as I darted toward the nearest window that might grant me a view of the road – and I threw open the curtains. Thick, black smoke billowed from under a truck that was blackened and burning in the middle of the road. The flames licked up the side and poured out the windows. From the way it looked, I can only assume that the interior had been doused in some sort of accelerant and the gas tank had been intentionally exploded. At the time, I was baffled. It was an apparent diversion of some sort, but why here? Why now?

The answer came moments later.

The explosion had indeed created a distraction; the voluminous boom and subsequent fire (accelerant) drew the ghouls away from the property line. It was a fantastic distraction, in a pinch, but I knew that this would only draw more to the scene; any stragglers within a few miles – or more! – would be staggering their way to this place. Worse than this, I noticed that the zombies were catching flame. And this flame was spreading exponentially amongst their ranks. And none of them were fazed by it!

Being my first encounter with flaming ghouls, I was horrified. I had no idea how long one of them could survive before succumbing to the fire, but I knew that before they did, they would be walking torches. Yet another element to fear in what I was sure would become an all-out assault on our sanctuary.

I still don’t know how I missed the gate opening, but I sure didn’t miss it closing. My eyes were wide with fear, and I can vaguely recall having to consciously close my gaping jaw. One of the ghouls tried slipping in at the last moment and its arm was severed when the gate closed on it. Not that it noticed or cared; it went right back to reaching through the vertical, anti-scaling bars (which were tipped with unforgiving spikes for anybody who slipped while attempting to scale this fence) with its one remaining arm.

I only caught a glimpse of someone racing around the house. Even with all the evidence setting in the open before me, it never dawned on me that this person probably lived here. Or that this person, who somehow gained access to the property, was probably Roger Lawless – of the lovely couple Roger and Daisy Lawless. It never occurred to me because, at the time, I still thought Roger Lawless was deceased. So when Roger let himself into the back door, my first instinct was to blindside him.

Bad move.

Daisy saw at once that it was Roger – she probably knew it once the key squeaked in the lock. She shrieked and threw herself at me, knocking my staff away. And still, I couldn’t figure it out.

I yanked hard and shoved her away. She fell on her ass just as Roger stepped inside. I tried to swing, but he was ready – shit, he was probably ready before he even stepped inside. He caught the staff with one hand and socked me with the other. I stumbled back, lost my grip, and fell right beside Missus Roger Lawless.

He caught me once in the gut with a powerful downward blow – the mark from which remained for nearly two weeks. But before he could land another shot, Daisy Jane threw herself over me, screaming “Don’t hurt him!” over and over.

And somehow, it still hadn’t dawned on me who this man was. It even took me a few stunned moments after he spoke to actually put the pieces together. (Hindsight’s clarity makes me want to kick my younger self right in the arse and accost him with diminutive remarks on commonsense, or lack thereof.)

“Who the fuck is this?” he yelled. “What’s he doin’ in my house?”

I can’t remember how she responded, as my mind was still trying to figure out the simplest of explanations to who this man was. Why did I waste so much precious time wondering over this, anyhow? Not even I can answer that question…

I definitely remember the sound that the staff made – my staff – when it connected with the back of Daisy Jane’s skull: clonk! She went instantly limp, with me pinned underneath. I was trying to wriggle free when he connected again. I’m not sure if it was this one or the next that killed her…

Looking back on it, I’m reminded of the classic Bond-villain monologues, when the bad guy in the 007 movies (and many others of the same sort) would pause to explain their grand schemes and motives to the helpless hero, which always gave the hero just enough time to work his way out of the jam. After killing his wife, Roger Lawless decided to monologue, figuring I was helplessly trapped.

“Stupid bitch left me for dead,” is how he began. He continued with many more colorful descriptors of her (he liked the word whore more than any other, it seemed). And he told me how he knew she’d fucked me, since she was always trying to fuck hipster druggies like me just to get under his skin. He prodded me with my own staff a few times, telling me he was going to cut off my balls and shove them down my throat and how he was going to bury me alive with her corpse for company – and maybe he’d throw a zombie in as well, so I would have someone to talk to, since Daisy was so damn lousy with conversation anyway.

There was a point in all this nonsense that he did what every Bond-villain eventually does; he turned his back. It was brief, but I was granted just enough time to heave her lifeless body off my midsection, thereby freeing both my hands. When he turned back, swinging my staff with all his might, I rolled down and out, finally and truly free of Daisy Jane’s dead weight (not like it was really all that much, anyhow, but dead weight really can hamper your movement more than one might think).

His heavy swing went errant and his body, which had been poised for impact, went twisting away from me.

Now, Roger was not the largest man by any means. Nor was I the smallest. But he was considerably larger than me and my wiry frame – I’m still not much more than a glorified beanstalk that can walk, talk, and even kill zombies. And – and! – he was wielding a formidable weapon.

With his body uncontrollably twisting away from the force of his swing, I kicked the back of his knee. He dropped, but used the staff to steady himself. I landed another shot to his kidney, followed by a solid hook to the side of his head (I’m pretty sure I got his ear). I landed one more kick to the kidney before he spun out and away. I lunged – like a crazy bastard, I tackled him. I was mad – straight livid. The infection had killed my friends, one-by-one, all in one day. I had been helpless to stop it from happening. Even those I thought I’d saved – including Tom, the poor sod – had died that day. I’d been helpless to stop any of it. And, at the time, I still believed their deaths were directly related to my frequent hesitations and inabilities to fight for my life – fight for their lives.

And now this? Some crazed motherfucker kills his wife without any hesitation, with my staff (don’t you worry, I didn’t let that little fact affect my mental stability), all because he suspected her of abandonment and infidelity? True, she did have sex with me, and she did leave him – though, according to her account, she didn’t purposefully ditch him – but he didn’t actually know this. No, he killed her before she could either confirm or deny his accusations – accusations he never even posed to her, as far as I can recall.

So I tackled him. The pressure of it all gave me the all-out, I’m-gonna-kill-you, fuck-it attitude that I needed in order to get out of there in one piece.

I assailed him with fists, smashing through his feeble defenses to pummel his face. At one point, I noticed he was unconscious. His arms were no longer blocking, his face was a bloodied, unrecognizable mess. I’m not sure how much time had elapsed, but it had to have been at least five minutes – or perhaps as many as twenty…I’m just not sure, not even now. All I know is that I redded out. This was a term I learned from my brother and his crazy friends back in high school. It meant that you were so mad that you were out for blood – you were red with anger, and you wouldn’t settle for teaching your “student” (or nemesis, if not simple opponent) a simple lesson by ass-whooping.

While checking Roger’s pulse, (which was – if only slightly – still beating) I took note of the condition of my hands. My fists were cracked, bloody, and swollen, and my aching knuckles were a pain to bend after having delivered such a brutal beating. And this beating, as it were, rendered my inadequate, exiguous fists into useless, rictus hooks. They were so stubborn to bend that just extending a pair to check his pulse had extolled a grunt and a sad whimper.

This weak – and fading – pulse reeled me back in from the red and resettled me in the black. With this change, I felt that the bloodlust I had sought was now beset by a First World indoctrination that didn’t condone murder. I just kept reminding myself that I was acting in self-defense. (This was a mantra a maintained for some time – long after accepting the fact that the nation was dead, even.)

Roger lived a few minutes longer. He coughed and sputtered, blood bubbling from his lips. His body lurched underneath me and he vomited to one side. The gory, curdled contents that spilled forth churned my stomach. I had no idea at the time, but what I witnessed right then was the final purging the body does before the infection takes over; before it kills you, they say, and somehow reanimates the corpse. Though, I did suspect that it had something to do with the infection, and decided to investigate.

Sure enough, after minimal inspection, I found a bloodless bite mark on Roger’s forearm, beneath the cover of his jacket. The veins surrounding this wound were blue, and the skin had already begun turning ashen.

I grabbed my staff off the floor and started out the back door. But before I could leave, I heard a choked and watery chuckle. Roger was holding his cell phone. He turned it so I could see the screen; he had remotely accessed the perimeter gates and opened them all. And before I could reach him, he smashed the phone on the tile. Still, I scrambled forth and snatched it up to see if I could make it work.

Go figure: the screen was a useless spiderweb of cracked glass.

I kicked him once and he gurgled another bloody chuckle. I think he tried to say “Go fuck yourself,” but it sounded more like “O flog José.” I kicked him once more, effectively ending his bloody laughter.

Violence was never my thing. Sure, I knew how to defend myself, but I’d never enjoyed doing it before that very moment. There was something about it that almost made me feel some sort of vindication. And it felt good. Truly, honestly, good. I know it sounds horrible, but it’s the truth. I’d always hated men like him, but winning that little bout made me feel alive. Breaking his face felt right.

But I knew to keep these emotions in check. Which is why I didn’t just kill him right then and there. I had to keep some sort of humanity about me. It was only right…

So instead, I decided to let the ghouls kill him. Or burn him alive while trying.

“I hope you like fire,” I said. I laugh at that now; it’s like some cheesy line from a suave action hero in some B-grade movie (or perhaps Bond himself). But that’s how it went. I cheesed up the house with my one-liner and boldly marched toward the front door. I remember detouring slightly to snatch an old battery-powered stereo that was by the kitchen sink. I threw open the front door, whistled like my mother used to, and turned the radio on full-blast, aiming at the approaching horde, most of which were flaming.

Marching back through the house, I glared menacingly over at the bloody heap of Roger Lawless. He hadn’t moved an inch. Well, maybe he’d tilted his head one way or the other, but he didn’t turn as I made my escape.

I didn’t leave out the back. That felt too dangerous now. Instead, I snatched a set of keys off a hook by the door to the garage. With one last gaze over my shoulder, I stepped into the darkness beyond. I fumbled for a minute before finding the light switch.

There was a shiny, white luxury sedan in the first stall. Nothing but crates and power tools in the second stall. And the shape of something that had to be an old Corvette underneath a form-fitting cover in the third stall. The large fob attached to the keys in my hand was clearly indicative of the luxury sedan in the first stall.

Technology, man…this thing was space-age, sci-fi shit compared to my beater back at campus. It didn’t even have a key, just a big, red START button. And the doors automatically unlocked when I walked near it. At the time, I didn’t even realize this kind of shit was actually on the market. (Shows how much attention I paid to cars….)

Anyhow, I gave it about ten minutes before simultaneously punching the START button and the remote for the garage door.

None of the flaming horde was impeding my immediate journey. I made it to the road before any of them got in my way. And, of course, it was on fire. I wanted to plow right over it, but the damn car locked up on me and came to a screeching halt about two feet from the damn thing. Didn’t it know I was in danger! Shit! Don’t stop now! But it did…

And then I forced it to behave. With the zombie climbing over the hood, charring, denting, and scratching the previously unblemished surface. Without its sensors going haywire, I was able to zip out onto the street. The ghoul on the hood went sprawling at the sharp corner. Leaving this tortured property, I turned to see if the ruse had worked. But I felt no gratitude or reward at spying the smoke that was now billowing out the front door.

 

That’s about it for today. My fingers are cramping from the cold (and probably malnutrition). I’ll tell you the rest of this day whenever I can write again – if such a possibility is still in my future. But for now, adieu…