Chapter I: Stay Awake
"Damn it!"
I sat up suddenly, painfully - bolt upright in my bed, drenched in a cold sweat, snatched from the feathery promise of sleep by fear, rippling through my every nerve. I was simultaneously, it seemed, both alive with panic and dying of anxiety.
I had forgotten to submit my assignment.
Tossing the covers back, I leaped across the tiny dorm room to reach my laptop, keyed in a title, clicked 'submit,' and then watched the numbers in the top right of the screen roll over to tomorrow. Or today, I supposed. A veritable tidal wave of relief swept over me, and I sighed.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Chloe, my roommate - musician, beauty queen, friend to small children and animals - had murder on her mind, it was evident from her expression. Her eyes glinted from a small opening in a mountain of blankets, and what little I could make of most of her face was twisted in a snarl. "It is midnight, bitch, in case you hadn't stopped to consider that the world is actually populated by people besides yourself, who might occasionally enjoy sleeping during the middle of the night." She rolled over forcefully, facing the wall and muttering further expletives.
Her anger didn't bother me too much. Midnight-Chloe was a whole different beast in contrast to Daytime-Chloe. The latter was ebullient - all smiles and sweet words. But past ten o'clock most evenings, all pretence of true congeniality simply dissipated, and I was left with this growling, spitting, downright unpleasant excuse for a best friend. Luckily, Chloe often went to bed far before this creature could make an appearance, leaving me to quietly while away the hours in the common room downstairs, or even in the library - hammering out papers, reports, essays, article analyses, and just generally keeping up with the news. As a journalism major, my primary focus was on current global events, and my mind was always tuned to the Next Big Thing.
Chloe was a music major. She had a voice that moved even me to glistening eyes (not full-on crying, God - I'm not a complete sap), and she played the piano as though she had been practicing since the womb. Her goal was to become a world-famous musician, and during one of our Typical College Nights, when we would pop something cheesy into both the DVD player and the toaster oven, we'd dream big and aloud about our futures: I would travel the world as a foreign correspondent, publishing a few books here and there, learning new languages and trying all manner of crazy international cuisine. Chloe would tour the globe as a first-class, completely-and-utterly-in-demand pianist and singer, performing at royal weddings and accompanying the Rolling Stones when they decided to try something a little different ("Picture it, Rye - me, Mick, a Steinway, and Wild Horses"). Every now and then, our paths would cross and we'd meet up in some fabulous European hideaway, bustling African city, or lush Asian island. We would drink something fancy, talk about our lives, and recall when we were just two broke college students trying to eke out identities and build futures in a cramped dorm room in downtown Atlanta.
That's what I tried to focus on as I shook my head and crawled back beneath my covers, completely spent from my brief but overwhelming panic, grinning slightly at Chloe's wrath. It was endearing, really - akin to that viral video we'd watched last week, of a baby trying to mimic her mother doing jiujitsu - a feint, a ruse, an adorable fiction.
TO: dmgilbert atlanta
FROM: 22485546 atlanta
SUBJECT: Final assignment proposal
MESSAGE: Good morning, Dr. Gilbert: I'm just writing to let you know that I've selected a topic for my final assignment, due in December. Recent reporting on various news outlets and from several online sources chronicling the bouts of what is speculated to be a new flu strain have fascinated me lately. The public's response to these occurrences has also been of interest. I would like for my current events project to focus largely on a regular exploration of the issue, as well as an investigation into the various elements therein: public health; homeopathic vs. clinical remedies; health education; rural vs. urban treatment options; and so on. Several religious websites have also been posting blogs and releasing statements connecting this strain with the "end of days." While most of it may eventually be seen to be just another sensationalized, flash-in-the-pan sort of situation, I think that that in and of itself speaks volumes about the power and responsibility of journalists to circulate accurate and rationalized information to the public. I will be composing this project in journal form, and will be handing it in just prior to the exam on 8 December, the second due date you proposed. I hope this meets all of your expectations, and if you have any concerns or recommendations, please let me know.
"You seriously need to stop doing that." Chloe dumped her favourite red leather bag at the foot of her neatly made bed, and then sprawled atop it.
I looked up from my laptop. "What do you mean?"
My roommate rolled over to face me, resting her head delicately on one hand. "Oh, sweet child o'mine, you know exactly what I mean. Making my damn bed! It's creepy, Rye, really creepy. Like you're my mom or something." She shifted again, staring up at the ceiling now. "Actually, come to think of it, my own mother never made my bed this often. If at all."
Shrugging, I pushed back from my desk and took a long draught of my now-cold coffee. The vanilla creamer had separated at some point in the six hours since I'd poured it, and, though unpleasant, the experience did earn me that little jolt of caffeine I would be in sore need of by the time it kicked in. This current events journal was soundly kicking my ass. I expressed as much to Chloe.
"Yeah, well, if you spent less time cleaning up this room and making other people's beds, maybe you'd have more time to keep up with your scary-ass updates about the coming apocalypse," she said with a smirk, intended for me but aimed at the ceiling. "And don't you have a date tonight?"
Shit.
Remington Jarrett, also known as RJ the Destroyer (for reasons I could simply not comprehend) was a star on the college football team, a marine biology major, a weekend animal shelter volunteer, and - according to Melissa, Chloe's friend from choir - an absolute catch for me. "I swear, babe, you won't regret it," she'd assured me a week ago, when she'd somehow managed to orchestrate an entire semi-blind date with very little consent on my part. Chloe had encouraged her and threatened me, tossing around phrases like, "you're basically a cavewoman" and "college experience" and "getting some." Apparently, RJ himself was a big fan of virginal Neolithic nerds, because he'd "jumped" at the chance to go out for coffee with me. Fortunately, I'd been able to convince him, through Melissa, that we should choose a place downtown, rather than Jitterbug, the campus café I slogged away at a couple hours each week. Somehow, though, my desire to visit a Starbucks had been transformed into a full-on dining experience, and he'd booked us a table at an Italian bistro three blocks away from the place I'd had my heart set on.
I groaned and started to make excuses: I needed to work out; I hadn't showered in two days; my journal wasn't going to write itself, and I wasn't nearly halfway through my editing duties for that week's edition of the campus newspaper.
In response, Chloe strode over to my desk and pulled me up by the wrists. Subtlety was not her forte. "Listen to me, girl - you live in this room, the library, and the lit department. You do nothing but pour coffee, read old dead guys' writing, and search some seriously scary websites for doom and gloom all day long. This is college: you deserve some fun. And there is a hot young man over in Wheaton Hall getting himself all Axed up for a dinner with you, a dinner he's willing to pay for, just for the chance to spend some time with you." Her face softened as she chucked a thumb under my chin, the most maternal gesture she possessed. "You are smart and funny, you are resourceful, but self-denial ain't charming, sweetheart, so get your butt in that shower and wash your hair - Cinderella's going to the ball."
Entry 3
Earliest reports are difficult to locate and too vague to truly understand once found. There are reports stretching back to mid-spring of strange flu symptoms occurring in more northern regions, even a few from Europe. Towards late spring, things become firmer and more obvious, growing in intensity and frequency over the summer months. And yet turning on the evening news today, both international and national, I was surprised to see only a byline on the international channel, just a one-sentence acknowledgement that flu numbers were increasing all over the world. They call it a new strain, but make no mention of any casualties or specific symptoms. One of the stranger elements of this coverage is to be found in the true gaps of information. Like any good detective, I've tried to infuse some diversity into my perspectives, and so have subscribed to a few email lists from religious/spiritual websites and blogs that have in some form acknowledge the Disease, as I'll be referring to it from hereon out. What I receive varies, but one particularly concerning statement came from a nondenominational Christian network which simply sent out a brief message advising their subscribers to heed the warnings of Luke 21:36 - "But stay awake at all times, praying that you may have strength to escape all these things that are going to take place, and to stand before the Son of Man." When I emailed their director of communications asking for a more illustrative quote for this project, I received only this response: "Pray."
I hated gnocchi, and I hated that I hated gnocchi. I felt like I should like it, as much as I prided myself upon my wide-ranging palate, perfectly adapted to the life of a future world traveller. But the sight of the little potato dumplings filled me with a profound aversion, always had, and so the fact that, during the first ten minutes of our date, RJ the Destroyer ordered a plateful slathered with mushroom sauce just struck me as a terrible omen for how this experience was going to go down.
"You're a journalism major?" he asked, downing an entire glass of red wine. Was he supposed to order red wine with pasta? Wasn't there some sort of sacred rule about red versus white, depending upon the meal? I couldn't remember any of that and it didn't matter anyhow. I wasn't going to turn twenty-one for another three weeks, and RJ had proven to be something of a stickler for propriety, sanctimoniously informing the waiter that I was under the drinking age and would be imbibing only Coke or Pepsi, whatever they had. Mutinously, I'd grabbed the waiter's arm and ordered a chocolate milk instead - if RJ was going to treat me like a little kid, then I was damn well going to get a chocolate milk out of it.
He wasn't all that bad, though, and after an hour, I found myself warming to the ways in which he simultaneously met and disputed every kind of football jock stereotype the world had ever conceived. He was far from a moron, was passionate about his major, and looked at the game as merely that, a game. "It's a stepping stone only," he confided while scraping away the last bits of his gnocchi. "I'll play here for a few years, and then head to grad school, hopefully in Hawaii."
I couldn't help it; I was impressed. "What drew you to marine biology in the first place?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious about my petulance in ordering the chocolate milk, regardless of how delicious it was. There's nothing sexy about holding a sturdy glass full of chocolate milk, that's for sure. Even the Coke would've come in a more elegant vessel.
RJ smiled; it was the first time I'd shown any true engagement since he'd met me at the doors of Jasper Hall. "Honestly? I like fish."
Was he shitting me? I couldn't quite figure it out, so I laughed anyway. It felt good to laugh, to just have nothing else on my plate besides fettuccine and a boy who wanted me to smile. We started chatting in earnest and I forgot about that essay for my Shakespeare class, forgot about the fact that I hadn't been to the gym since Tuesday; even my apocalypse journal was pushed from my mind. The Disease, which had honestly been starting to niggle me and keep me awake at night, was gone, gone far away, and all that existed in the world was delicious pasta, chocolate milk, and RJ the Destroyer's perfect grin.
Entry 8
I am honestly growing concerned, and so are the reports. I interviewed an anonymous nurse at a local hospital two days ago, who confided that the flu is rampant, and that patients are being treated in unconventional ways. His statement is recorded verbatim, below: Doctors are resorting to old remedies, like real old-fashioned stuff. There's a bad fever that comes with it, that's something they don't mention on the news. And there's a lot of secretiveness about the people that have died. I've heard of some in Arizona and California, and a buddy of mine in Colorado says he's heard a couple of people up there died of it, too. But I'm not really sure. Patients with this strain are being kept in isolation, and aren't recorded on patient sheets by their names. They're being assigned code numbers, at least in this hospital, usually starting with an M or an F to signify their sex, and then two digits for their birth year, followed by a string of other numbers that none of us at this level are really sure of. Nurses are rotated like crazy, on ridiculous rotations, and they only selected a few after an interview process to actually work with these patients. I'm not one of them, a lot of this is just stuff I've observed or been told in confidence. But I'm telling you this because I think the public should know. The news is downplaying it; it's bad and it's getting worse every week. I don't think there's antibiotics invented yet for this shit - oh, sorry, kid, my bad.
In the dream, I'm dead.
Well, not quite dead. Not all the way dead. I'm still wandering around, my skin in tatters and my teeth tumbling out. I walk and walk and walk, and I never go home.
TO: allstudents atlanta
FROM: admin atlanta
SUBJECT: Classes Cancelled
MESSAGE: Due to emergency measures being initiated in the City of Atlanta beginning tomorrow at 6am, students, faculty, and staff of Atlanta University are advised to check evacuation procedures to be found at the links below. We advise calm and rational behaviour, even under these extreme circumstances. We thank you for your cooperation.
At first, things seemed normal. The news still came on each night at six, but it was a pared-down affair with no commercial breaks. The reporters were sombre, grim: they showed us maps with outbreaks highlighted in a brilliant, gleaming yellow. Down in the common room, I put an arm around Chloe and pulled her in close. Despite the mountains of scary shit that had been heaped upon us over that past week, Chloe's glassy eyes and silence were absolutely terrifying to me. She was as biddable as a small child, following me around and submitting to my daily ministrations - as I entreated her to have some soup, to wash her face, as I tucked her in each night. When I was finally sure she was asleep, I kept up with the journal, but it was different from before. Less of a chronicle of work completed and more of a diary. I wrote about Chloe, about my attempts to contact my family up north, how sick and tired I was of canned soup.
Before, my Wednesday mornings had gone like this: at half past seven in the morning, my alarm clock would blare. I'd shower and get dressed in the communal bathroom at the end of the hallway, then make my bed as quietly as possible and sneak out, backpack and sneakers in hand. I loved campus that early in the morning: quiet and dewey, completely cut off from the bustling downtown just beyond our gates. It took me precisely eight minutes to walk from Jasper Hall to the student centre, where I would pick up a coffee and a muffin from Jitterbug. RJ the Destroyer would sometimes meet me there, and we'd chat as he walked me to the communications department, housed on Rose Avenue.
With the outbreak, my Wednesday mornings began to go like this - like every other morning, I'd startle awake after grabbing a few hours at some point during the long, dark night. Checking on Chloe was my first priority. Usually, she was awake by seven. I would take our ration cards downstairs and across the quad to the depot, and would bring back whatever food I was given back up to our room. It took me between fifteen minutes and an hour each morning to persuade her to eat some stale cereal, a bruised apple, or a bagged salad. Most of the rations had come from the supplies discovered in the various stores of the college cafeterias. "We can't be too picky, hon," was my usual refrain, a little morning mantra as I wheedled and cajoled my fading friend to eat something, to eat anything.
Really, we were lucky it was just the two of us; in some cases, entire families had been crammed into abandoned dorm rooms. That we were situated on the sixth floor with the broken elevator had probably worked in our favour in this regard. My daily thrice-repeated trekking of those stairs was doing wonders, however, in keeping me in shape, despite the fact that the college gym was only to be used by the soldiers who were keeping us safe.
I was grateful for the militia, whose order and firepower had done a significant amount towards generating somewhat of a sense of tense calm in the midst of a world I was now more sure than ever was falling apart at the seams. News reports stopped within nine days of the instatement of emergency measures, and that drove me insane. I was a girl who thrived off information, and being so cut off from it was pure agony. I admit to getting short even with Chloe during this time.
"Damn it!"
A dark stain bloomed across the blue carpeting of our dorm. "Shit, Chloe, why the hell would you do that?" I tossed the now-empty styrofoam bowl in the general direction of our overflowing trash can, and then hurriedly attempted to staunch the spread of the overturned soup with a sweater plucked from a swollen pile of clothes next to my bed (the sixth floor could only do laundry on Saturdays).
There was no response, but I was beginning to get used to that. Her silence was deafening, disturbing, but at least I could rely upon it. At least she was there. We had both tried to get home in the early days, when the rumours of outbreak and evacuation had first begun swirling. But I hadn't been able to make contact at all with my parents, besides a few panicked emails, and Chloe had only one garbled phone call to show for her efforts. All she could gather was that her father felt it would be safer for her to remain at the college, where she could be protected by the militia. He promised her he would try and get to the city. When she tried again a few days later, there was nothing.
And then they shut the phones off for good.
Chloe had stopped talking after that. She regressed, retreated, gave up. She cried without sobbing, weeping so silently and so constantly that her cheeks became chapped and sore. I would gently sponge her face with warm water and a gentle moisturizer that, a hundred years ago, she'd bought for eighty dollars and an argument with me. How ridiculous I"d thought it was back then - such a grand extravagance, when a cheap drugstore brand served me just as well. But by candlelight, I smoothed it over her pretty face, the scent of it remaining on my hands all night long. It was lavender, I think. Or maybe orange blossoms. Who really gives a shit, though, right?
I started sleeping with a knife beneath my pillow.
Ages ago, before the world fell apart, Chloe said, "Describe your ideal man in five words."
Her face was illuminated by the glow of her cellphone; mine by the light of my laptop. It was nine-thirty, almost time for her beastly side to make an appearance, so I decided to humour her. "Five words? Shit, give me a second."
My mind filed through a catalogue of male celebrities and guys around campus. None of them really struck my fancy, with their chiselled jawlines and neatly pressed athleisure gear. I had no real inclination towards the highly polished, perhaps because I was so driven and exacting myself. I demanded, essentially, perfection: my hair had to be immaculate; my grades a flawless 4.0; my room impeccably neat. I trained and studied and worked and woke up early to ensure my makeup was striking that impossible balance between "all field hockey and acne scars covered" and the "natural, effortless look of 'Why, no, I don't wear makeup.'"
And so when I looked at men, I looked for imperfection. RJ the Destroyer was my delightful exception: he had the chiselled jawline; the perfectly sculpted hair; the pricey, sporty clothing. But when I kissed RJ the Destroyer, I did it so I wouldn't feel lonely, wouldn't feel as though I was missing out on anything. Girls kissed people all the time for the same reason, and I was sure boys did, too. Sometimes it just felt nice to have someone warm underneath your hands and lips, to be so close to them that you could hear their laugh bubbling up before it had fully erupted. By this point, we had gone out on three dates, walked to classes together for eight days, made out a few times, and gone a little further twice. He was nice, smelled good, and made me laugh. When I was with him, I didn't think about grades or makeup or scholarships; he walked me to most shifts together at Jitterbug, so I had something to smile about for the next four hours. When we were together, I didn't think about the Disease.
But when I closed my eyes and thought about desire, I saw a different sort of man. Darker, harder, resilient, and resourceful; rugged and rough, the utter antithesis of polished and poised. I saw vulnerability encased in physical strength. How, though, to describe all this to Chloe, who dreamt only of a guy with nice hair and a good sense of humour? She desired stability and spontaneity, sweetness and generosity. How could she possibly fathom my yearning for sharp edges, for imperfection?
She tossed me a candy bar; I took a bite and pretended to ruminate. "Tall, dark, and handsome," I offered.
Chloe rolled her eyes. Her deep brown eyes. "That's three words, stupid."
"Tattooed. And employed."
The pillow she threw missed my head.
2 pillows
2 blankets (1 heavy double quilt)
17 cans of soup (chicken noodle, turkey rice, cream of broccoli)
4 boxes of cereal
9 apples
3 boxes of standard Band-Aids
2 bottles of aspirin
2-4L jugs of water
2 reusable water bottles
1 industrial flashlight
3 packs of batteries
Clothing, assorted (jeans, leggings, sweaters, t-shirts)
2 pairs of sneakers
35 protein bars
1 hunting knife
How does one go about trading on the black market? Especially when said physical market is actually housed in one's old biology lab, hidden beneath the guise of completely legitimate trading stalls, offering foods and simple wars over the table; guns and knives underneath. Oh, and what happens when one's former manager is running the whole operation?
"How much?"
Tracy smirked. "I thought you were supposed to be smart, Riley? Your money isn't worth shit anymore. I need a trade. What do you have?"
Our inventory wasn't worth much. Besides the supplies I kept a list of in my pocket, the ones I kept packed in a backpack, a duffel, and a laundry basket in our closet, we had a variety of now next-to-useless things. Textbooks, scented candles (which we were steadily burning through), makeup, a crap-ton of clothes and shoes. Nothing of extreme value. What could I trade?
I held up the rings and bracelets I'd scavenged from my nightstand drawer and Chloe's jewellery box. "You think that's good now?" Tracy scoffed.
Apparently not. Although, to be perfectly honest, most of the chintzy stuff hadn't been good before either, with the exception of the high school graduation ring I'd worn on my right hand, and which I now slipped back on. No point giving up something so small, something that brought back good memories, especially if it wasn't wanted.
I hadn't wanted to do this, but I did anyway: I held up the bag of apples, both pairs of sneakers, and a stack of protein bars. Tracy's sardonic grin relaxed as she appraised my haul. "This'll get you one pair," she offered.
I tensed. "Need two."
She looked me straight in the eyes. I recalled working endless afternoon shifts with her; she'd made me employee of the month eight times in almost two years. At last year's Christmas party, she'd given me one of the bracelets I'd just tried to pawn. "Why do you need two, Riley?"
"Chloe."
Tracy knew Chloe only as my bright, beautiful roommate; my best friend. She'd come to Jitterbug some days during my shifts, order something ridiculously complicated with mountains of whipped cream and chocolate drizzle, and sit at the round table by the window. Close enough that we could chat without me leaving the counter. Sometimes guys would come by and try to pick her up. She was striking, certainly, with her thick, black, curly hair that she kept shining and bouncy. She was fashionable, too - delicate, elegant clothing in soft pastels. Lithe and bright. She was a walking aria.
I swallowed.
Tracy handed me two pairs.
2 pillows
2 blankets (1 heavy double quilt)
17 cans of soup (chicken noodle, turkey rice, cream of broccoli)
4 boxes of cereal
3 boxes of standard Band-Aids
2 bottles of aspirin
2-4L jugs of water
2 reusable water bottles
1 industrial flashlight
3 packs of batteries
Clothing, assorted (jeans, leggings, sweaters, t-shirts)
23 protein bars
1 hunting knife
2 pairs of Blundstone boots
Up, down, left, right, swipe, slash, stab.
Up, down, left, right, swipe, slash, stab. Up, down, left, right, swipe, slash, stab. Up, down, left, right, swipe, slash, stab. Up, down, left, right, swipe, slash, stab.
Rest.
Entry 27
Chloe won't eat. Had been able to get her to eat a can of soup, an apple, and a bar a day. She can't lift her left arm. I washed her two days ago, but she won't let me try again. Very agitated at the mention of it. Possible fever. No thermometer available and can't get her a clinic appt. Scared to mention it to a militia guard in case they assume and put her in solitary or worse. God knows how far ethics extend during This. Keeping her hydrated is main priority.
The whispers started on a Friday afternoon. Out in the hall, I heard them. Tension rippled through the entire building. Chloe tossed and turned on her bed, so I kept the door closed and planned our escape. I needed a gun.
"No can do, kid. No guns, not even here." Tracy's voice was low and serious.
I bit my lip and shifted in my new boots. "Did you hear the rumours?"
Her eyes wandered to the doors. I had come to visit her at what used to be the performing arts centre. A shelter was set up here, and Tracy, because she had been an off-campus student, was assigned a bed. Part of me wished I'd invited her to live with me and Chloe, so that at least I wouldn't have to deal with all this stress alone. At this point, I fully understood that we could not stay there at the college; Chloe was too sick.
Tracy reached out to squeeze my hand in what I'm sure she felt was a comforting gesture, even as she delivered a harsh blow: "They're not rumours. They're true; I've seen them. Somebody brought in from the city, she was sick when they brought her in. She...she turned."
I stared. "What do you mean, 'turned?'"
"I mean, she died first, of the fever and the sickness. They thought she'd gotten sick from a bite on her leg, and then after she died, she turned into...something, and she was alive again, but not the same. She was like an animal, couldn't speak, could only growl and kind of moan. Went crazy, going after everybody in the clinic." Tracy glanced around again and then leaned even closer, practically kissing my ear, so that I could feel her breath right on my skin. "The soldiers are scared. They shot her up, hit her in the head, and that did it."
Entry 29
Chloe no better. Will only take water. Thrashes in sleep. Fever worse. Don't want to believe what T said, but rumours won't stop. How can it happen? Not biologically possible. Can't come back from dead. New plan for gun.
RJ the Destroyer looked good in a uniform. He passed me a paper cup full of chocolate milk. He looked sheepish and self-conscious.
"It's good to see you," I said softly, and I meant it.
He nodded. "You too."
RJ had volunteered with the militia early on. He had some high school experience with Junior ROTC; he was a hulking football player with a brain - of course they wanted him. They gave him a uniform and two guns: an M3 in his hands, a revolver at his waist. I wanted the latter.
"How's Chloe?"
I shrugged. "Fine." Fevered, thrashing, doesn't know me, probably hallucinating by this point.
"Melissa's dead."
I bowed my head. Funny, flirty, bubbly, matchmaking Melissa. Future paediatric nurse.
"You need a gun, don't you?"
I nodded, and he squeezed my hand, just like Tracy. "Where are you going to go, Riley?"
Nowhere, yet - I just wanted the security of more than one weapon. The knife I'd managed to purchase from a hunting supply store a few days before the evacuation measures were officially started - that was comforting, but I wanted more. Looking back, I don't really know what had made me buy it. Some sort of strange presentiment, perhaps; some little awareness assuring me that at some point in my very near future, I would sleep better with my hand curled around the handle of a menacing blade, perhaps?
Surreptitiously, with many glances about, he handed me the revolver and a box of ammo, both seemingly magicked out of thin air. "It's small but sturdy, just a .45," he explained quietly. "Do you know how to work the safety? How to load it?"
RJ jotted down a few directions and demonstrated both actions three times apiece. I stowed his notes in my pocket and placed the guns and ammo carefully in the bag I'd brought with me, having arrived down at the student centre, where RJ was stationed, under the pretence of obtaining some tampons for Chloe. All true privacy had been erased with the onset of the Outbreak, and so I'd had to explain in copious detail that the reason my roommate hadn't been seen in a few days was because she was currently contending with a particularly rough period, and was in sore need of some feminine hygiene products. The former math professor who'd been put in charge of Supply Station 4 had been mortified by my explanation, wordlessly pouring a dozen tampons in the requested size into my opened bag.
I nestled the .45 inside amongst them, gentle as a baby.
We didn't say goodbye, even though I think we both realized that it might be the last time we would see each other. RJ the Destroyer gave me one last kiss, but there were no words; we didn't really need them. Ours was not a great first love, more just friends who made out occasionally.
And yet, and yet, I mourn him.
"Beautiful building," my mother observed, gazing up at the entire brick-faced six stories. "Beautiful, truly beautiful - you're really lucky, dear."
I heaved my favourite blue duffel over my shoulder. Years of use had faded most of of the accent colours; the handles had been replaced twice, but still it ferried my workout gear to and from the gym, and it had seen me through eight years of field hockey and eleven years of slumber parties. Hundreds of times, Mom had offered to buy me a new one; hundreds of times, I'd refused. "Don't make a habit of getting too attached to material objects," she would advise every time.
"Yeah, it's quite something," I agreed, looking up at this great hulking structure and trying to make it comfortable with the word 'home.' How could it be? When it was so big and I was so small, so young, so eighteen? I was a child, thousands of miles away from home, in a hot southern city where everything from my accent to my hair was completely wrong. Abruptly, I felt the overwhelming urge to throw my stuff back in the car, cling to my mother, and press the gas pedal until we were back in the driveway of our home. I missed my dad. I missed my own room. I even missed my idiotic brothers.
But I was my mom's little trooper, her Braveheart, so I marched forward into the future with my blue duffel and not a little amount of self-doubt. By the time we'd reached room 645, I was feeling even younger, if that was possible, and definitely a whole foot shorter - why was everyone else so beautiful? So confident? So successful? No one in the rooms we passed en route to mine looked frightened and uncertain. They were unpacking clothing and pinning up posters with all the aplomb of seasoned, professional students. Meanwhile, I was aching self-conscious of the fact that I'd packed my stuffed owl, Harry. What an idiot - how was I going to sleep with him in front of my roommate?
But then I walked into room 645 and saw her for the first time, felt her melodious voice alight on my skin, glowed beneath her welcoming smile and understood for the first time that the building would never, ever be home, but that Chloe would.
A scream in the night.
Footsteps, yelling, fists on flesh. I grab my knife and look out into the hallway. Matt Fredericks is prone on the floor. I know him from my Wednesday afternoon government class. Around him are gathered three militia officers.
A kick lands in Matt's gut.
He curls into it, shrieks again.
Bile rises in my throat.
A second guard kicks him in the balls.
He groans, deep and aching.
I close my door with the quietest click I can manage, and start to pack.
Initially, our escape was fluid, flawless, perfect. I packed up the duffel with as many supplies as it could contain. By some miracle, Chloe was alert and ready, sweating but aware. She watched as I carefully stuffed the backpack with Band-Aids, batteries, aspirin, a few cans of soup, the flashlight, and most of our protein bars. In the duffel, I crammed as much clothing as I thought we needed, mainly a few t-shirts, some jeans, a couple pairs of socks, and a handful of underclothes each. I left the quilt but rolled up two blankets, and had to leave the pillows behind. Those would be better to leave anyway, I reasoned, stuffed under the sheets on our beds, so that if anyone chose to make a shift change inspection at three o'clock in the morning, they would assume the two occupants of 645 were sound asleep.
We had eight cans of soup left, two boxes of cereal, and enough water for a few days. The bigger jugs were gone, traded a few days ago for a bottle of rubbing alcohol. We had four reusable water bottles now, filled with clean water. That would last us for a day or two if we were careful. "You can have the purple one, Chlo," I promised idly. It was her favourite colour.
She let me dress her in a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that I had to zip up for her. I pulled her thick black hair back into a tight bun, the way she'd had me do countless times before, and then slid her arms into the backpack straps. "Do you think you can handle that?"
To my utter joy, Chloe nodded.
I got dressed in much the same outfit, tucking my knife into my jeans as I'd seen in a movie once, making sure that I pulled the edges of the sweater away from the handle, thus making it far easier to obtain in the heat of a fight.
Would there be a fight?
The revolver went in the back of pants (another tip gleaned from extensive viewing of a variety of action films). It felt cold against my skin, but I was glad for it. Grateful.
"Boots now, Chloe," I told her, and helped her slip her feet inside.
We waited for 3:05 AM. Middle of the night shift change. A little bit of chaos as they transitioned by the main window on the south side of the building, by the sixth floor lounge. Leaving the stairs completely free. If we could dash down, we'd make it. Then came the challenge of the parking lot, but I had a plan for that. Run like hell, mainly.
I settled Chloe by the door of our door room when the alarm clock read the hour, precisely. And then I took one last look at home, wishing our beds were made more neatly. A split second before we left, I grabbed Harry off the nightstand and stuffed him in the duffel.
We ran down the stairs; I'm not sure where Chloe got the strength from, but I was grateful all the same. By the skin of our necks, we made it outside to the parking lot. It was then that I heard them, for the very first time.
The dead were walking, milling around outside the fencing installed by the militia. They were greying and fleshy, bloody and rotting, and the smell was positively ungodly. The noise was worse: a buzzing cacophony of moans that struck right through me, the profane din of awakened graves. How could this be? How could the world be like this?
We were surrounded by the dead, in the middle of a corrupt, crumbling military encampment. I had a tiny gun at my waist and a shiny, untested knife in my hand, a sick girl by my side and not a single solitary clue how we were going to escape.
Shit.
Author's Note: Atlanta University is deliberately designed as a fictional college. I chose to do this rather than base it on a real school because I felt that I would then have a little more freedom with layout, programs, etc :)