Hopeless (After Z-Day Book 1) Read online

  The refrigerator is more than half empty because my family shops for groceries on the weekends, and we haven’t restocked in a week. There’s also no chance that I’m risking a trip to the supermarket this weekend. Or any other weekend in the foreseeable future. This will eventually become a major problem. With food for at least a month, it feels like a far-off problem right now, but I know I’ll have to deal with it eventually.

  Part of me hopes the zombie apocalypse will end by then, but the movies I watched taught me that, unlike a normal pandemic, once zombies take over, there’s no going back. There’s no vaccine to protect you from zombies. What a sobering thought.

  To distract myself from a downward spiral into hopelessness, I brainstorm other essentials I’ll need. It’s like the thought experiment we had to perform in school: if I could take anything with me to a deserted island, what would I bring? Except that this is no longer hypothetical. My decisions could mean the difference between life and death. What are the most important items for survival after food and shelter? Flashlights and batteries? A first aid kit? Tools? Blankets? Most of those items are in the garage.

  I clean my plate, wash my hands, and head there. The garage adjoins the kitchen, with a door leading from one to the other.

  During the day, I don’t need to turn on the lights in the garage. Narrow windows along the walls to the left and the right let in enough light to allow me to see, but at night, any light from inside travels out to the world, signaling to anyone within sight of our house that someone is here. Normally, that isn’t an issue, but normally, I don’t need to worry about an undead horde craving my flesh and brain.

  When I enter the garage, the sight of Chris’s car sends a spike of hope through my chest. He’s home!

  Then I remember that he didn’t drive when he went out. His best friend, Stu, picked him up and gave him a ride. The disappointment crushes me, reminding me once again that I’m alone.

  Pulled by the need to bask in my brother’s memory, I walk to the driver’s side of the car. It’s a twelve-year-old Honda, a four-door sedan that my parents handed down to Chris when he got his license. The driver’s window is open, and I stick my head inside. I take a deep breath. The scent doesn’t smell like Chris, but it reminds me of him. I detect the odors from fast food and gym clothes, barely masked by a layer of car freshener. It brings back memories of the times he drove us to school or when he had to give me a ride to a friend’s house because my parents were too busy to.

  Chris’s school backpack is still in the back seat. Classes ended last week, and he went out two nights ago to celebrate his first Friday night as a high school graduate. This is supposed to be his carefree summer and also our last summer together before Chris leaves for college. Now he may never get to live out those dreams.

  I pull myself away from the car and resume my original purpose for coming into the garage.

  Against one wall are my father’s tools. Hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and saws hang from pegs or sit along shelves. An orange and black toolbox occupies the lowest shelf. Opening it reveals three tiered trays holding an assortment of screwdrivers and wrenches. There’s even a hammer in the bottom tray. Smaller compartments hold nails and screws. This is a perfect set of tools for me.

  Further down the wall are two flashlights. I switch on both of them and take the one that shines brighter, which is also the one that feels sturdier. I go back to the kitchen and set the toolbox and flashlight on the counter next to my phone before returning to the garage.

  It takes me a minute to find spare batteries for the flashlight. I wonder if I’ll need batteries for anything else. Unfortunately, my phone can’t use the batteries that are on hand. Neither can my laptop. I wind up grabbing a pack of spares for the flashlight.

  What else do I need?

  We store gardening supplies next to the tools. I don’t see a need for any of them. The rake and the hoe might act as effective weapons against normal people, but they won’t hurt zombies. The hedge clippers have sharp edges, but I’d rather have a sword in that case. Too bad we don’t have a Samurai sword in the house, not that I’d know how to wield one.

  The next section of the garage holds cleaning supplies and the washer and dryer. I briefly debate whether I’ll dare to wash my clothes, or will the noise from the washer and dryer attract zombies? I have enough outfits to last a long time if I don’t change every day. Yet another essential I’ll have to ration. If I’m desperate, I can always wash my clothes by hand in the bathtub and then hang them to dry. As for the cleaning supplies, I’m not sure if I need them. It’s possible that I could make something useful with the chemicals they contain, but for now, I’ll leave them here.

  The rest of the garage contains odds and ends that we can’t fit elsewhere inside the house. I rummage through some boxes but don’t see anything useful. Nevertheless, I’m satisfied with what I have so far. It’s a good start. Just as importantly, my search serves to refresh my memory of what else is in the garage if I should need something later.

  I return to the kitchen. On the counter, my phone vibrates, a short burst of motion across the laminate surface. I hurry to pick it up and see who’s contacting me.

  It’s Chris. My brother is alive.

  Day 2 AZ, 12:44 pm

  Are you there? That’s all Chris’s text says.

  I reply, Yes, I’m at home. Where are you?

  I wait for the dancing dots that signify he’s typing a message in return, but my text doesn’t elicit a response. Worried that the problem is on my end, I repeat my question.

  Chris remains silent. I dial his number, praying that I’ll have better luck with a phone call. However, my call goes directly to voicemail.

  Paralyzed by fear of missing another message from my brother, I stand at the counter watching my phone until I lose track of time. I forget the items I brought in from the garage. There is only me and my annoyingly silent phone, which only fuels my unanswered desire to hear from Chris again.

  I would have spent the entire afternoon rooted to the kitchen floor if not for the pounding on the front door. It scares the living daylights out of me, scattering every other thought from my brain. I don’t dare move, hoping that by ignoring it, whoever is at the door will leave.

  That isn’t the case. Another flurry of knocks breaks the silence, three loud raps of knuckles on wood. There is something urgent about this interruption that is unlike Tristan Carpenter’s banging on the patio door.

  “Help me! Is anyone in there? Can anyone hear me?”

  The voice throws me for a loop. Zombies can’t talk, can they? No, I’m pretty certain they can’t. This can only mean there’s someone alive at the front door.

  The anticipation of meeting another person prods me into action. I go to the living room, where there is a large window facing the front of the house. If I take a peek through it, I’ll be able to see who’s at the door. I position myself at the far edge of the window and, using two fingers, nudge the blinds aside just enough for me to view outside without revealing that I’m here.

  A man in ruffled clothes waits on the front porch. His shirt is partially untucked from his pants, and both shirt and pants are dirty. He looks to be in his twenties or thirties, a full-grown adult but younger than my parents by at least a decade. I don’t recognize him and don’t know how he got here because there’s no car in the driveway, but judging by the condition of his clothes, I assume he arrived on foot. He looks impatiently at the front door, then knocks on it again.

  He suddenly turns around, and his body freezes. I follow his line of sight.

  From the direction of the street, a mass of bodies ambles up the driveway. There are at least ten zombies. No, a dozen. Fifteen. More appear from around the row of hedges that separates our property from the road. Every zombie within a square mile must be here. They see the man and hasten their pursuit.

  I have to let him inside before he’s killed.

  Before I can move, however, the man bolts. He runs toward my side of the house, and I think it’s because he sees me through the window, but then he does a one hundred and eighty-degree turn and dashes away in the opposite direction. The zombies also change their course to follow. The man rounds the corner of our house, disappearing from my view.

  I leave my post at the living room window and move to the family room. Standing behind the same patio door that Tristan tried to break through yesterday, I now spot the man running across our backyard. He is no longer trying to find help from within the house. His only concern is running away from the chasing zombies as fast as he can.

  A moment later, his first pursuers come into view. The zombies trail the man at differing speeds, but fortunately, he is quicker than even the fastest one. The man increases his lead over the undead herd with every step. The zombies are unwavering in their pursuit, however. One by one, they follow him across our backyard.

  The man plunges through the bushes at the back of our property. I can only see him from the waist up as he weaves his way past the thicket. Then he disappears into the trees beyond our yard. The zombies diligently follow, crashing through the vegetation with less grace than the man exhibited.

  When the last zombie leaves my sight, I relax somewhat. But not completely because I don’t know for sure if all of them followed the man. Given how fast he ran, some of the zombies may have lost his scent, or whatever it is that the undead use to track the living.

  I check outside the house, moving from window to window, looking out at my surroundings but careful not to give away my presence. It isn’t until I return to the living room window that I spot a stray laggard.

  It’s a girl. Or at least she used to be a girl. She looks like she’s a couple of years older than Tristan, and she still wears the same yellow flower dress t
hat she had on when she turned into a zombie. A hairpin hangs loosely from her hair on one side of her head, but it manages to keep her golden curls in place. The matching pin on the other side is long gone, leaving her hair on that side an unruly mess.

  Right now, the girl stands motionless in front of our house. Her body is turned to face the direction in which the man ran, as if she started to give chase but gave up interest. There is no indication that she’s aware I’m here.

  For my part, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Part of me is afraid that she’ll see me if I move, although there’s no reason to believe that. More than anything, I’m intrigued. I’ve yet to see a zombie standing so still. I had a close up look at Tristan, but he was trying to break through the patio door at the time. This zombie girl isn’t threatening. She even looks peaceful.

  I wonder how long she will be able to stay in the same position. I don’t imagine that zombies get bored. Nor do they get tired.

  I wish I had my phone with me so that I can take a photo or a video. Then I remember. My phone. I’m supposed to be waiting for a response from Chris.

  I leave the living room and return to the kitchen. I tap the screen of my phone and breathe a sigh of relief. Chris hasn’t replied. How ironic that I should be thankful for the lack of a response when what I want is to hear back from him.

  I compose another text to my brother. A minute after waiting fruitlessly for a reply, I call him, only to be routed to voicemail. Chris may be out of range of the cell network’s coverage. Or he may be hiding in a place where he can’t answer.

  The important thing is that I received a message from him, which means he’s alive.

  I go back to the living room, bringing the phone with me this time. Still curious about the zombie girl, I activate the phone’s camera. I want to take a photo of her. Holding my phone in one hand, I use the other to part the blinds.

  The girl has moved. She is no longer waiting for the man who came to my house. Instead, she walks along the driveway back out to the street. I look past her to see what could have attracted her attention, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps someone drove past our house, or an animal scampered across her field of vision. We often get stray cats, squirrels, raccoons, and rodents of all sizes.

  She reaches the road and continues on until the hedges hide her from my view.

  I make one more round of inspections to check for zombies. The display from every window shows the harmless scenery that surrounds the house. Grass, trees, bushes, dirt, and rocks. There’s no one, living or undead, outside.

  Once again, I am alone.

  Day 2 AZ, 3:08 pm

  I address my loneliness by calling the only person I know who will answer. Ironically, Max is in the middle of watching a zombie movie when I interrupt. It’s research, he claims. Great minds think alike.

  “I got a text from Chris today.”

  “You did?” Max’s voice rises a notch, like he’s genuinely interested in the news. “How is he? What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a short text asking if I was here. I texted him back, but he hasn’t responded. I also tried calling him, but I keep getting his voicemail.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but at least he’s alive.”

  “Yeah, I’m glad about that.” My voice doesn’t quite reflect how relieved I am that my brother is alive.

  “Look on the bright side, Sara. Your brother has his phone, and he’s well enough to text you. He’ll contact you again soon.” It sounds so convincing hearing it from Max that I believe him.

  “You’re right,” I say. Then I tell him about the man who knocked on my front door and the zombies who were after him.

  After I conclude the narrative, Max says, “Wow, you’re lucky. All those zombies, and not a single one was interested in your house.”

  He has a point. It didn’t occur to me that one of the zombies might have broken from the pack to investigate the building in front of them. It’s what a normal person would do. Then again, zombies aren’t like normal people.

  I tell Max, “I think I’m safe as long as the zombies don’t know I’m in here. From what I can tell, they have a pretty simple, one-track mind. That man was the only thing they were interested in. As long as I didn’t do anything to attract their attention, this house didn’t exist to them, and neither did anyone inside.”

  Max agrees with my theory, then adds, “I hope that guy got away.”

  “Me too.” I don’t know what happened to him after he disappeared from sight, and I’ll probably never find out. He ran in the direction of the Carpenters’ house, and for his sake, I hope he didn’t try to seek help there. The Carpenters are more likely to kill him than help him.

  “Hey, we saw some zombies today too.” Max says it like an excited child. “We were upstairs when my mom spotted four of them from her bedroom window. We think they were a family, with two grownups and two kids. They were about a hundred yards away, chasing a flock of geese.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No, we were all huddled next to the window. We barely stuck our faces out. No one would know we were here unless they happened to look directly at the window, and even then, from that distance, it would’ve been hard to see us.”

  Through the phone, I hear a woman calling. Max’s mother, I presume.

  “Can you hold on a second, Sara?”

  Max’s phone clatters as he sets it down on a hard surface, and then I hear faint voices. I can’t make out what they’re saying, which is fine because I don’t want to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  My phone emits a ping. I check the screen as a notification fades, but it remains visible long enough for me to see that Chris sent the message. I suddenly want to end my call with Max, but I also don’t want to hang up on him without warning.

  “Hello? Max, can you hear me?” I call into the phone. The conversation in the distance continues unabated. Max can’t hear me, and I have no idea how much longer they’ll be talking.

  My phone rings again. This time, it’s not a text message. Chris is calling me. Sorry, Max, I have to take this call. I disconnect and answer the new incoming call.

  “Chris?”

  “Sara! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m at home. How about you?”

  “As good as can be expected. Sorry not to have called you sooner. My phone’s battery is down to less than ten percent, so I shut off my phone.”

  Chris speaks hurriedly, as if he’s counting down the seconds until his phone dies. I won’t be able to catch up on everything that’s happened to him in the last two days, so I stick to the most important questions.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask. “Where are you?”

  “I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me,” he says. His breath is ragged, coming in short bursts. The rustle of leaves carries over the phone. He must be walking outdoors. “I’m in Verdant Ridge Park, somewhere east of Overlook Peak, a mile south of Pioneer Trail. We went up to Overlook Peak on Friday. Lori, Stu, and some other guys. Some people were infected with this weird disease, and before we knew what happened, we were attacked. Lori and I hid in a cave until this morning, but Stu… He didn’t…”

  He trails off, and I understand the unspoken news. Stu didn’t survive.

  I’m speechless. Stu has been Chris’s best friend since grade school. The two are nearly inseparable, with Stu a fixture at our house as much as Chris has been a fixture at his. They’re supposed to go to the same college this fall. They’re supposed to be roommates.

  He can’t be gone.

  Chris continues, “Anyway, we’re hiking to the ranger station now.”

  I regather my thoughts. I don’t know where the ranger station is located in Verdant Ridge Park, but now I understand why Chris is huffing and puffing while he talks. “When do you think you’ll reach it?”

  “Soon, I hope. Another hour? It didn’t look that far away when I checked the map, but there’s no direct route, so it might take longer than expected.”

  “What will you do when you get there? Do you want me to pick you up? I have your car.”