Hopeless (After Z-Day Book 1) Page 2

  Day 1 AZ, 8:00 am

  My parents’ alarm clock blares loudly enough to wake the dead. I slam a palm down on it, shutting it off. Thank you for letting everyone know that it’s eight o’clock. My parents must have set it before they left the house last night.

  In the sudden silence, the ringing echoes in my ears. I worry how far the sound traveled. Parting the blinds enough for me to see through them, I scan the surroundings on this side of our yard. The lawn is empty up to the tree line that marks the boundary of our property. There’s no sign of movement. No sign of zombies.

  I check the back and front yards from the other rooms on the second floor, moving in a clockwise circle from the study to my room to Chris’s room, skipping the bathroom that I share with my brother. All is quiet as far as I can tell. The alarm didn’t draw the walking dead to our house.

  To prevent the same episode from happening again, I inspect the other clocks. Only my parents had set an alarm. I use my phone if I need an alarm, and I’m pretty sure Chris also relies on his phone instead of his clock.

  My stomach growls, and I realize that I’ve been up for over an hour without breakfast. Despite my stomach’s warning, I don’t feel hungry. However, I remember what my father used to tell us about his time in the military. Eat when you can because you never know when the next meal’s coming. It sounds like particularly wise advice at this time.

  I go back to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Am I supposed to fill up on proteins or carbohydrates? I don’t remember. I settle on having leftover meatloaf because it’s tasty, pairing it with an apple for supplementary nutritional value. I also pour a glass of orange juice for good measure. When I activate the microwave to reheat the meatloaf, I fear that it’s too loud, so I shut it off before the timer starts beeping.

  I eat my breakfast at the counter and check my phone as I chew. No new messages or emails have come in. Well, there’s one from someone claiming to know the secret to a miracle weight loss program that she’s willing to reveal if I sign up for her newsletter. How is it that spammers survived the zombie apocalypse?

  Next, I grab my laptop and check the news. I see more reports of the carnage from the past day. The authorities urge everyone to stay indoors. Even if you exhibit symptoms, they warn, don’t go to a hospital because they’ve been overrun. Zombie outbreaks have decimated most medical facilities, resulting in the tragic loss of almost all health care professionals and patients at those locations.

  No one knows yet how this all started or what the infected are capable of. Social media, on the other hand, is full of clips of zombies in action. I watch horrifying videos of the undead overtaking city streets around the world. In one, an injured man in Barcelona hobbles away from a horde of chasing zombies, but he isn’t fast enough. They catch him and… Thankfully, the bodies of the infected block what they do to the poor man. The person who recorded the video, stationed several floors above street level, can only string together what I assume to be expletives or prayers in Spanish as he watches.

  It doesn’t take long for me to get my fill of zombie clips. Frankly, seeing Tristan Carpenter was enough for me. I don’t need to witness what else has been happening around the world. For one, what if the same thing happened to my family? I pray that Mom or Dad or Chris didn’t suffer the same fate as that man in Barcelona who couldn’t escape the sea of zombies.

  The meatloaf no longer looks so appetizing to me. I throw away the half that I don’t finish and force myself to swallow a few bites of the apple before discarding it too.

  My phone rings. I snatch it from the counter and check who’s calling. It’s Max.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Sara, have you been watching the news?” His voice quivers. It doesn’t match the calm tone of his text messages from earlier.

  “I’ve been reading about it.”

  “Do you think it’s real? I mean, about the zombies?”

  With as steady a voice as I can muster, I tell him, “I’m afraid so, Max. I saw one outside my house this morning. He was the neighbor’s little boy.”

  “A zombie?”

  “I think so.”

  “My God.”

  The conversation fades into silence. When it’s apparent that Max isn’t going to continue talking, I ask, “Did you try contacting anyone else?”

  “Yes, I texted people I know, but no one has replied yet. My phone calls haven’t been getting through until just now.”

  His words hit me like a brick. I’m talking to Max, which means I can contact my family again!

  “Sorry, Max, I have to go. I need to try to reach my family.”

  I hang up without waiting for him to acknowledge. My fingers immediately tap out the number for Chris’s phone. It rings, an improvement over the last time I called, but no one answers. When his voicemail picks up, I ask him to call me back as soon as he can. I call Mom and Dad next, but they don’t answer either. I leave them similar messages.

  I wrack my brain to come up with the names of the couple they had dinner with last night. Their numbers aren’t stored in my phone, but I’m able to look them up on my laptop. Unfortunately, they don’t answer my call either. Neither does Chris’s girlfriend or his best friend. I don’t know who else to try who may know where my family is.

  What if Max’s family and I are the only people in our town still alive? I call Max back, and he answers after the first ring.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry about hanging up on you like that.” I wait for him to reply, but Max doesn’t say anything. “You there?”

  The silence continues, and I’m about to hang up in case we have a broken connection when he says, “This is real, isn’t it? We’re living through the zombie apocalypse.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I can’t reach anyone, Sara. The only person my parents have heard from is my uncle who lives in the middle of nowhere in Kansas. Do you think everyone else is dead?”

  I think back to the casualty reports I read. “No, definitely not. There are still people reporting the news, for instance, and there are still updates to my social media feeds.” Never mind that I follow hundreds of people, most of whom I don’t know in real life. The fact that they are posting means they’re alive. However, it doesn’t mean that my family and friends are.

  Something Max says triggers another thought. “Max, where do you live?”

  He doesn’t hesitate to give me his address. I look it up on a map site. His house is about five miles from mine, and, as I suspect, it’s at the far edge of town. Like mine.

  “Remember your uncle in Kansas who lives in the middle of nowhere? He’s alive. What if nothing has happened to us yet because you and I live on the outskirts of town? My nearest neighbor is half a mile away, and it looks like you’re as isolated as I am.”

  “Is that why I haven’t seen any zombies?”

  “It could be.”

  “Does that mean as long as I stay here, I’m OK?”

  Tristan Carpenter’s unnatural face flashes across my mind. His family lives a mile away from us, but he somehow found his way here. “Not completely. But it’s got to be better than if we lived closer to town or somewhere more densely populated.”

  Is that what happened to my family? They chose the wrong night to go into town, and they paid for it with their lives?

  “Sara,” Max says, “Are you going to be all right by yourself?” His voice isn’t as shaky anymore, like he’s come to grips with what’s happening. “Do you need help? We can come get you if you’d like.”

  Part of me wants to take him up on his offer. There’s safety in numbers, and I’d feel more secure around Max and his family than by myself, even if I barely know them. However, I can’t ask him or his parents to drive five miles and back for me. Especially through town, where who knows how many zombies are in the streets.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine here. I want to stay home in case my family shows up.”

  “I understand. Good luck and keep in tou
ch. I want to know you’re OK.”

  “Same here, Max.”

  We hang up, and my only company is silence again.

  I told him the truth about waiting for my family to return. I want to believe that they will, that they’ve somehow survived what’s happening out there. If I don’t leave this house, it means I haven’t given up on them. They may show up at the front door any minute. Greater miracles have happened.

  Day 1 AZ, 9:45 pm

  I spend the rest of the day doing research, and the time passes quickly.

  I start with the CDC, the country’s authority on infectious diseases. To my surprise, they actually have a web site dedicated to preparing for the zombie apocalypse. It’s not meant to be serious, but zombies qualify as infectious disease outbreaks after all. The site includes, among other things, lessons for teachers to help their students prepare for zombies. I wish one of my teachers had taught us how to deal with the undead.

  Most of my research, however, consists of binge-watching zombie movies: “World War Z,” “Zombieland” and “Zombieland 2,” “Shaun of the Dead,” and the first three episodes of “The Walking Dead.” I skip movies that are too scary or too gory for me, even if they’re classics. I conclude my marathon with the lighthearted “Warm Bodies.”

  As far as trustworthy sources go, the moves aren’t that reliable because they contradict each other. For example, the way the zombies behave are all different. Some shuffle slowly while others can run faster than the living. They also possess differing degrees of intelligence. You can fool some zombies by acting or smelling like one. Some detect prey through movement, so you can evade them if you stay still. I can’t decide which movie’s rules to follow if I meet another zombie.

  The movies agree on two points though. Zombies have an insatiable thirst to kill. Whether it’s to feast on brains or to spread the zombie virus or just because zombies are mindless killing machines, the result is the same. Don’t try to reason with a zombie because you can’t talk it out of wanting to kill you.

  The movies also show that the best way to kill a zombie is to shoot it in the head or to sever the connection between the brain and the rest of the body. Zombies may not be alive, but their brains are still vital organs. Shutting off the brain is the key to permanent zombie death.

  Given that the films are fictional, unlike the zombie apocalypse that is now playing out around me, I take what I learn with a grain of salt. However, I take away a couple of pieces of valuable advice. If I ever encounter a zombie, I will run instead of talk to it. And if I can’t run away, I will try to kill it by dealing a fatal blow to the head.

  Which poses the next problem. The weapons that initially come to my mind are useless against the undead. A knife or baseball bat may slow one down, but they won’t stop a zombie for good. As for mace or pepper spray, I may as well spit on my attacker.

  What I need is a gun. Fortunately, my father owns two. Dad has worked in an office for the past fifteen years, but he’s still an ex-soldier. You can take the man out of the military, he says, but you can’t completely take the military out of the man.

  Dad keeps two handguns in a safe in the study. No one would know there are weapons in our house unless they know where to look. My father rarely takes the guns out of the safe, but because they exist, he made sure the rest of us know how to handle them. It’s been more than a year since I last went to the range with him, but shooting isn’t a skill that I quickly forget. Dad says I’m a natural, which is a gross exaggeration of my abilities. I’ve also never considered the compliment to be worth much, but I can see the benefit of gun know-how now.

  It takes me a moment to recall the combination to the safe, and even then, the first time I spin through the numbers, it remains locked. On the second try, the heavy door opens. Inside the safe is a stack of documents. My parents’ last will and testament, the deed to our house, birth certificates, and other papers important enough to lock up. Resting atop the documents are two black cases, which I take out and set on the desk.

  I lift the latches and open the lid to the first case. Inside, a handgun rests on contoured foam padding. A Glock 17, polished to look like new because my father believes in keeping his guns in pristine condition. Opening the other case reveals a Glock 19. As the slightly smaller of the two, the Glock 19 is meant for me and Mom, but I can shoot either gun. I’ll take both.

  I check the magazines. The Glock 17’s magazine holds seventeen rounds, and the magazine for the Glock 19 holds fifteen. They are both full. Thank you, Dad, for always being prepared.

  I don’t know how many bullets I’ll need, but from the movies I watched, running out of ammunition is a real risk. Since they aren’t in the safe, I wonder where Dad keeps the extra bullets. I hope they’re in the study because I don’t want to search the house for them. Not only would it be akin to finding a needle in a haystack, but if I turn on more lights, they may attract zombies.

  Starting with the desk, I go through each drawer. I don’t find any ammunition, but I come across a letter opener and a pair of scissors that can act as weapons. I discard them after weighing their effectiveness, however. If a zombie gets close enough for me to use either one, I’m as good as dead. Next, I check the bookshelves. Tucked at the end of a row of books is a shoebox, which strikes me as strange because it doesn’t match the rest of the shelf. As I hoped, it contains the objects of my search. Within the shoebox are smaller boxes, each holding fifty bullets arranged neatly into rows. I count four boxes, totaling two hundred bullets. I place the shoebox on the desk next to the gun cases. I continue exploring the rest of the study but don’t find any more ammunition or useful weapons.

  I carry the guns and shoebox of bullets to my bedroom. I feel safer knowing that I’m armed, but I don’t know if I can actually pull the trigger in the event of an attack. Before now, I’ve only practiced on paper targets. I’ll have to get over my reluctance so that I don’t end up like the guy in Barcelona who was mauled by zombies.

  One handgun goes on the nightstand to the left of my bed, and the other goes on the right. I slide the shoebox under the bed. I should be able to reach everything I need within seconds.

  The weapons still aren’t enough to make me feel safe. I can use them to protect me if there’s a zombie in the house, but that means the creature has already gotten in. I prefer if none of them make it inside at all.

  Taking one of the Glocks with me, I make another round of the rooms on the second floor. I peer out of every window. With a half moon and cloudless skies, I can see what’s near our house, which is thankfully just grass and bushes and trees. Returning to my room, I lock the door, as if that will mean the difference between life and death should zombies storm past the doors or windows.

  It’s almost my normal bedtime, but I’m not sleepy yet. In the dark and the quiet, my thoughts drift to my family again. It’s been a day since I heard from any of them. I don’t know where they are or what happened to them. Will I ever?

  I call each of them again. They don’t pick up, and I leave messages asking them to call me as soon as they can. When I finish the last call, I realize that this time, I didn’t expect to hear from my parents or Chris. I assumed they wouldn’t answer their phones.

  I need to change my mindset. It’s only been a day since they left, and I can’t give up on them so quickly.

  But the reality is that I’m now living through a zombie apocalypse. Things that used to be important to me—what to wear, grades, gossip—aren’t anymore. Survival is the top priority. If this is my new life, I need to think about what I’m going to do next. Should I stay here at home? Where would I go if I don’t stay? What happens when I run out of food? I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I hope that a new day will somehow bring more clarity.

  For now, I just want to live through the night. I glance at the guns next to my bed. A bullet through the brain, I remind myself. That’s how the movies taught me to survive the zombie apocalypse. I hope I never have to use that knowle
dge, but I have a feeling that I will.

  Day 2 AZ, 11:15 am

  Being trapped inside my house during a zombie apocalypse isn’t much different from being stranded on a deserted island. In this case, a deserted island surrounded by monsters who want to kill you.

  For one, I can only rely on myself. Even my 9-1-1 calls, once I manage to get through to an operator, are fruitless. Emergency responders are too overwhelmed to help, and while they say they’ll look for my family, I know it’s a long shot. Since I’m not hurt, no one is coming. It’s just going to be me. I’m the one who will have to do the cooking, cleaning, repairs, and other tasks necessary for survival. That’s quite a lot to ask of a seventeen-year-old girl who has lived a comfortable, sheltered life.

  My situation is also like living on a deserted island because I’ll need to ration my food. That’s what I spend the morning doing. I go through the refrigerator, the pantry, and all of the cupboards. I inventory everything edible that I find. Then I move food around, arranging them in order of expiration date. I’ll begin by eating the food that will expire soonest and save the longer lasting food for later. By my calculations, I have enough to sustain myself for a month, maybe a month and a half, although I’ll be living on the three C’s—crackers, cereal, and chips—during the last week or two.

  Water may become a problem. Our tap water is potable, but I wonder if that will change in the future, so I fill as many bottles as I can with water while it’s still safe to drink. Then I think, how will I know if the water becomes contaminated? Will it look or taste different? Otherwise, for all I know, I just filled a dozen bottles with poison. If the zombies don’t kill me…

  I shake the concern from my mind and turn my efforts toward making lunch. There’s still some meatloaf in the fridge. Despite my misgivings yesterday, I reheat it. Food is too precious to waste. I pair the meatloaf with melon slices from a plastic container since they will spoil in a day or two. To wash down the food, I drink from a carton of milk set to expire in four days.