Chapter Two
I pass a dozen more infected on my way to the exit by the parking garage. They all give me nothing more than a passing glance before slumping back into a melancholy state of inactivity. It depresses me. Is this what the Earth is going to turn into – a world of lifeless beings like this? I doubt anywhere is going to escape this plague. Well, maybe an island like Madagascar or something. There must be more like me out there somewhere, I hope.
I step outside into the morning air and behold a gruesome sight that brings me to my knees. Bursting forth from the parking garage's exit is a heap of vehicles, corpses and infected, all mangled together in some horrific frozen glacier. I feel like I'm about to vomit again, but I don't think there's anything left in me to vomit. I want to say something to the effect of the horror of the sight in front of me, but there are still live infected wandering the area, and actually a good number of them, and I fear that, should they hear me speak, they will stop being so indifferent towards me.
I walk over to a nearby bench and sit down on it to think. Where shall I go? How shall I get there? My car is in that mess; I won't be able to get it out. Where should I go? I repeat myself. This is nuts, is this the fucking apocalypse? What do I do? I stew the questions in my head for a while, letting them direct me as they please. Eventually I stand up and begin walking towards the nearby interstate. I'll make my way towards my mother's house in the suburbs of East End, and possibly decide how to proceed on the way there.
The sky above me is dominated by giant marshmallow clouds. The sun hides its presence, letting only sliver-shaped rays shine through. It's ironic, considering the hellish scene on the ground the sunlight illuminates. Everywhere you look is death. Bodies, once fleeing in terror, now lay still in pools of their own blood, dried stains on the pavement. Infected wander aimlessly about them. Every intersection is a car wreck. Even nature, the green of the grass and the trees, is being drowned in a sea of red and gray. I feel like a wanderer lost in a complicated desert which is both familiar and foreign, trudging through the perverted cityscape I know and yet do not know. I don't know what I am searching for, only that I am searching for something. It will be comforting, and I will know it when I see it. The colorless creatures that I glide past are ghosts, remnants of the old world transfigured to fit this one. They do not know what they are, or why they are still here. Am I one of them too, then?
The body of a man is impaled on a bus stop sign that had been uprooted somehow and tossed a distance. I recognize him; I had been in one or two classes with him a few semesters ago. I can't remember his name. I keep walking down the silent carnage of Eastern Parkway, towards the part of the city known as the Highlands. It would be a short drive, but by foot it will take me about an hour or two. Even though there are no signs of movement aside from the random bobble of mindless infected, it still feels awkward walking along the street. Damn habits are hard to break. I walk in the grassy median of the parkway. The grass is wet with moisture from the air, and with remnants of the morning dew. My new skin doesn't seem to want to absorb the humidity as readily as it would before. I hide my hands in my jacket sleeves.
As I slowly make my way through the ruined city, I expect to see at least someone still alive, or uninfected, but it's become one colossal ghost town. I don't even hear gunshots or any noises of that sort in the distance; no signs that a resistance is still at large can be seen. I see the aftermath of conflicts, a corpse of a police officer with an unloaded pistol at her side, or broken planks of wood in the windows of houses once boarded up, but it is all in the past. Where is the military in all of this? I ponder the answer for a few minutes until throwing it aside.
I reach the awkwardly designed intersection at Eastern Parkway and Baxter Avenue. There's an animal clinic to my left that I never had noticed was there before. I wonder if the disease affects animals other than humans. No stray dog or cat had crossed paths with me yet. I think of my old dog, Diego, and I think how lucky he was to have passed quietly just a few months before this disaster. The thought of so many pets loose in the world, starving to death because they're domesticated and can't find food for themselves is just too sad. I never was one to be able to hold back my crying. I feel the unmistakable heaving feeling as though my lungs are stretching themselves into pain, that terrible feeling that heralds the tears, but my eyes remain dry. There is no release. I guess I can't cry anymore. My lungs stay on fire.
Only a couple blocks farther and I come upon the remains of what was one of the liveliest parts of town. This stretch of Bardstown Road is lined with all manner of stores and shops, mostly local. Parking lots are hidden behind the buildings, but that didn't stop the streets from becoming a junkyard mess of cars. A black Civic even managed to drive through the wall of the Qdoba restaurant on the corner and get stuck in it. I'm not going to think how it managed that. This area is especially crowded with infected. They seem slightly more alert than the ones I'd seen before. That coupled with their number put the fear of detection back into me. I doubt it will do anything, but I put a wobble in my step as I walk past the deformed, putrid ex-people, trying my best to mimic them.
The Highlands don't look so high anymore. I want to say that terrible pun aloud. I decide to scavenge the stores for things. It's not like there's anyone left for it to be considered stealing anymore. I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought was to pilfer CDs from the ear X-tacy down the street. Not only has the University been the only place I've come across still with electricity, but I've certainly more important things to horde.
Food, for example! Why haven't I thought of food since now? I'm not really hungry, though. That doesn't make any sense. Hasn't it been at least a day since I last ate? I take a short walk to the Kroger store. I should find some food, even if I'm not hungry. The entrance is blocked by a barricade of grocery carts. It takes some work to get past them. Inside is an almost comical sight. Several infected are in their work uniforms and at their cashiers, still. I grab a box of pizza Goldfish from what's left of the crackers and chips aisle and eat a handful. They taste terrible. I check the expiration date – not for another eight months. Great, I think, one of my favorite foods on the planet now tastes like garbage. I toss the bag to the ground, spilling tiny orange fish everywhere.
I spend the rest of the daylight pillaging. I grab a messenger bag from a tiny shop and fill it with supplies from various places – a pocket knife, a flashlight, about three dozen batteries, a bunch of hair ties, and a bag of mini Chips Ahoy cookies just in case my appetite returns, among other things.
When the sun falls, and the sky turns shades of orange and red to mimic the blood stained earth, it begins to rain. It's only a light drizzle, but the ominous raincloud quickly approaching makes me realize I should find some shelter for the night. Carmichael's Bookstore is just across the street, so I choose there to rest. Inside is one infected woman standing in the doorway that linked the bookstore and a Heine Brothers' Coffee together. She seems a bit confused by the front door opening yet nothing interesting accompanying it. In little time the rain begins to pour. After setting my bag down near a bookshelf miraculously not knocked over I peek outside at the storm. The infected outside don't seem to be affected by it in the least. I think to myself how weird that is.
I clear off an area of the small store to lie down for the night. It's been the worst, the strangest, and the most turmoil-filled day of my life, and I'll appreciate the sleep.
But I can't. I toss and turn for hours, until the sunlight has completely vanished from the sky and the only light left is from a battery-powered lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting strange shadows on the store. I'm not sleepy in the least. WHY? I want to shout in anger so badly. Eventually I resign myself to staying awake. I sit up, leaning against a bookcase full of new arrival novels, written by authors that are probably dead now, or worse. I wonder if I should write a book. There isn't much of an audience, but it might be an interesting read. Nah, I never was good at writing. I pull out from the bookshelf the first book I see. "The Gone-Away World", by Nick Harkaway. Sure, why not? The light is just enough for me to see the words on the page. I spend the rest of the night reading stories that will never again have the chance to exist in this world.