The Escape

When you were standing in line at the grocery store, playing the Zombie Apocalypse game, you never factored in how long forever really is. You didn’t consider the tedium involved in trying to make life livable once the novelty wears off. You didn’t realize the psychological toll that comes with the end of the world.

There was a point in your imagination where that last zombie finally crumbled to the ground, when the last brain-infecting super-bug finally couldn’t reproduce, and on that day, you saw the clouds part, the rain stop. The mentally exhausted survivors opened the front door and took those tentative first steps out to the street, relieved that everything was finally over. People cried, everyone hugged, and cities were rebuilt.

In the game, it was all adventure and looting. Building your safe zone was simply competing over who could build the best mousetrap, and the people that withstood the longest won. The how-to-survive game was like playing at summer camp, and for the first several months you could almost convince yourself that the whole thing was camp. You didn’t have to follow Mom and Dad’s rules anymore; you followed Camp Zombie rules. You weren’t stealing food; you were scavenging. You weren’t willfully destroying property when you modified the fences; you were building a front-line defense. Icing on the cake was being able to shoot zombies, like a video game put out by the most advanced graphics company.

At first, it was the best thing ever. There was more adventure than you could ever dream, and it was real. You just didn’t think about the fact that the camp wasn’t ever going to end; you would never go home again.

Or, rather, I didn’t. I didn’t think about how the days and weeks would drag on when things like food, water, and medicine were so much harder to find than I thought they would be. The brutal realization that there were no more laboratories developing new medications, and no company putting corned beef in tins was fixed in my brain every time we went out looking for supplies. It was like we were dying, slowly, in this new world; just running out of stuff to live on. Many times, the zombies were the least of our problems.

I really didn’t consider any of this.

Life was much harder than I had planned on it being. When we arrived in Idaho, I figured that we’d plant a few things, set up a safe zone, and all would be good. It wasn’t. I understood quickly why Derek wanted to get moving on his compound idea the minute we turned up at Kristen’s house. Sustainability was already going to be a challenge for them even before we moved everyone from our little complex into their home. With so many more mouths to feed, it quickly became a losing battle. There was just so much we didn’t know. We didn’t know, for instance, that corn was a pain in the butt to grow. All that planting, so much space, yet it only yields a couple ears a stalk, and then that’s it. We had some things that had bigger yields, like tomato plants, and sure, when you’re hungry a tomato is better than a poke in the eye, but there’s not exactly a complete nutritional package in one little fruit. Sometimes, after eating the same damned thing for the millionth time, I would weigh just how hungry I was, knowing that there was only one option that day. Not a single one of us could be categorized as healthy, but we were alive. I worried some nights about how much longer we could keep going if we didn’t do something to drastically change our situation. The zombies certainly weren’t going away, and even if they did, what of it? There was no one left to restock the grocery shelves, there were still no factories making new antibiotics. There was no light at the end of this tunnel, no win for those who hang on the longest. The old Earth was gone, that was our new reality. And we inherited all the disease and devastation left in the wake of her demise.

The finality of an extinction level event was so, well, final.

A New Hope

We had to move on; it was as simple and as horrifying as that.

We had been living with Kristen for several months, and while we were grateful for the refuge and the security provided by having so many people together, the crowded house weighed heavily on everyone’s patience. Arguments over stray socks being left on the floor sometimes went near nuclear. The division of housework assignments led to endless wars between the older kids and teenagers; it was always unfair. Naturally, no one wanted kitchen or bathroom duty, cleaning up after others. I laughed at them as they fought over the chores, knowing that they were the most guilty about leaving the rooms a mess. They ripped through rooms like small tornadoes clad in muddy boots, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. Sugar packets were torn open and dumped, coffee cups knocked over, crumbs scattered, and dishes left unrinsed. Since they chose to ignore their own disasters, they lost any hope of learning empathy for those with the difficult job of setting things right.

Whenever opportunities to go out for supplies came up, there were always ample volunteers. If nothing else, it was an excellent way to get space and distance from the others. It was a chance to things we needed, add new guns and the several crossbows that would become a part of our regular defense arsenal. It was also a chance to be able to bring home new cans of food and hunt for fresh meat. The returning party was always welcomed home like a band of heroes, and as they unpacked their finds, they were as popular as Santa Claus.

The longer the run was estimated to take, the better, and there were always people that wanted to go. To keep it fair, we created a lottery. A folded scrap of paper was thrown into an old bowler hat for each volunteer, and one was marked with an X. Whoever drew the marked slip won the chance to choose their team and hit the road for a run. There we all stood, once again, ready to take our chance. My hand reached into the hat; I closed my eyes as my fingers danced around the identical folded squares. I caught one between my index and middle fingers and pulled it out. We waited to open them until after the draw was completed and everyone had a square in their hands. A collective breath was taken and held as we unfolded our squares. I stared at my hand for a moment before it fully sank in that my paper was not blank. I touched the X and gasped before I squealed with joy. I pulled the X. I really did!

We tried to do things as a family here and there, partly to reconnect, but also to feel normal for a little while. This trip was exactly what we needed. Driving around in the extended cab truck felt like we were regular people just going on vacation. When we camped out under the stars, we weren’t running for our lives; we were just camping. We felt like we were alive, not just surviving. I savored every trip we took together. This particular run had a lot riding on it. Sure, we were going to be looking for food, we always did, but this time there was more. We were going to scout out our new home. The night before the run, we sat around the kitchen table with a large map unfolded in front of us. We speculated and discussed promising locations for our new place. There were a couple of super tiny towns that had a lot of potential, especially since they sat next to an indicated creek. We paid attention to how the waterway moved near the roads and came up with several prospects. If we came up blank this time, then we would go another day and look in other directions. For now, though, this route seemed promising, and I looked forward to the road ahead.

The plan itself was simple: we would take over a small town. When we came to Wilsall, Montana, we knew we were on the right path. Home to a once popular rodeo, an ancient looking grain elevator, a rustic auto shop, and a mini-farm complete with a long greenhouse still intact, it seemed perfect. From the main road we could see a few houses, and they were absolutely beautiful, rustic, yet modern at the same time. I would have liked this place even before the end of the world; too bad that it took the apocalypse for me to find such a gem.

We stumbled on Wilsall quite by accident. There was no indication on our map that this place r existed. It was marked with just a little number which we had no way of identifying; those details had gone missing long ago. We were driving along Highway 89 through Montana, and came upon a creek that ran near the road. We drove on, spotted a few houses, and figured that there would be a bigger settlement just ahead. But we were shocked to find that there wasn’t an anchoring town. Trent turned around to drive through the area again, thinking maybe we missed a turnoff. Excitement flashed in his crystal blue eyes—a spark of joy that I hadn’t seen in a while.

The town was a tiny blip of a place. It had boasted a population of less than two hundred people before the zombies came, and was definitely a no-Starbucks town. The main street had a rustic bar that looked more like a bank, and a mercantile; in fact, Wilsall looked like it was straight out of one of Drew’s history books. This little place was located in a valley in the middle of the state, which made the temperatures mild and stable. This regulated climate would make for a more hospitable place for both people and animals.

Even calling Wilsall a village was a bit of a stretch; places like this were usually listed as census designated place more than actual towns, but it was going to be our town, no matter what it used to be labeled in the before days.

The creek bordering our new homestead would provide fresh drinking water, a commodity more precious than gold to us. With the construction of a few irrigation canals, there would be space for ample farmland land, and even a place to keep livestock. It was just about perfect, with one exception; there was not a useable, secure border existing anywhere in the proximity. Fortunately, we knew a little something about security, and with a place that small and some teamwork, it would be easy enough to pull off.

We decided to stay one more night before heading back; we didn’t want to chance driving in the inky darkness with our headlights blazing away, advertising that we were going down that road. Now that fall was here, the nights grew longer and were getting chillier. We made our campsite in the bed of the truck so we didn’t have to sleep on the ground. We laid out a foam pad hoping the metal from the bed wouldn’t wick any heat from our bodies. I wished we could have had a campfire burning to keep us warm for the night, but that was a risk that Trent and I didn’t want to take in such a small group. The fire could attract many things, like wild animals, zombies, even unfriendly travelers. Not to mention if someone or something came and knocked an ember out of the pit, there would be a huge risk that the forest would burn to the ground right then and there. With no fire crews or forestry service, there would be no stopping a raging inferno.

Zombies tended to thin out at higher elevations, and I was so grateful for that. Their natural path, aimless wandering, favored going downhill. I wondered if this was just easier on them or if they were guided by some weird instinct. Of course you couldn’t count on them moving downhill; we could never totally let down our guard, but we could relax a little more if we were stayed higher and were careful to keep our presence concealed. If the zombies knew there was food waiting, they happily walked up the hills, so our best defense was to work hard at making sure they didn’t know that we were even there. We still saw stragglers on our scouting missions, just not in the concentrations there had been in the low lying areas.

Trent had visibly aged over the last year and a half. His glasses, held together in some spots by electrical tape, hid the lines around his eyes. However, at night, when he slid his glasses off and placed them next to the bed, I could see that the world had been resting on his shoulders all day, tattooing lines of exhaustion and worry on his face. I think the only reason why his hair wasn’t showing the silver lines that mine was, was that he kept his head shaved. It was easier, maintenance-wise, he had told me once. I think he finally cut that way because if it had gotten any longer, he’d have ripped it out. His muscular body had become more defined, partly because of weight loss and partly due to the physical exercise we all did. His arms and face were golden brown from constant sun exposure.

Drew may have only been eleven, but he had aged beyond his years. That little boy who was in tears on his grandma’s sofa as we stared at the horrifying television reports had gone away, and I mourned that child. He was too young to have suddenly become so old. I remember worrying that this world was going to harden his heart, and well, it happened. It was better for him, I knew, to grow that tough exterior that bounced off the world and numbed him to the insanity of life in a zombie world, and I understood that in my brain, but my heart just hurt. Our world hurt. We all lived with the constant threat of death or disease, and the only options were to adopt a thicker skin or give in and let it kill us. We chose life. Not everyone did, and I didn’t fault them for that. If it wasn’t for my family, I often wondered if I would continue to choose life. I knew I was spoiled compared to so many others; I still had my closest loved ones, while so many more people had nothing at all.

Drew noticed that I was studying him. He looked so much like his father, and I could picture my husband at that age, although similar surroundings for a young Trent would have included a Boy Scout leader. I wondered if he could read the worry in my eyes so I did my best to smile reassuringly. I tried to maintain the appearance of self-assurance. I hoped that the facade would make life easier, not only for him, but me too. They say sometimes you have to fake it until you make it to get through the hard stuff. Well, this was hard stuff. I didn’t honestly believe for a second that he bought my working at Disneyland face every time I put it on, but I do believe that sometimes it helped. I hoped that he was learning to try to look on the bright side of life, even if it was only marginally brighter.

What, Mom? Drew’s blue eyes narrowed. He eyed me with a bit of suspicion as I studied his shaggy blonde hair. At least the length gave it some weight so it wasn’t overrun by a series of chaotic cowlicks.

He was like me in that regard. My hair did some really weird things now that it was short; I still wasn’t used to its modified length. I’d had a run-in I had with a zombie months ago. My hair was clutched and tangled in its boney hands, pulling my head towards its snapping jaw. Lucas cut me free. Fighting a losing battle with the fly-aways, he had quickly whacked it off. It was definitely more practical though, and it had just enough length to be pulled back in a stubby ponytail.

You need a haircut, I replied.

Drew raised his eyebrow at me in disbelief, and his eyes took on a mischievous spark. Without dropping a beat, he quipped, ‘Cause we’re slated to do a zombie fashion show?

He definitely inherited that mischievous flare and total lack of interest in what the outside of a person looked like from his dad. Drew seemed to have the idea that if he could still see through his hair it should be left alone. With so little choice left to us, this was an easy thing to concede to. I leaned into him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. He obliged me for a moment before he wiggled loose.

With nothing left to do, and the cold wrapping its icy tentacles around us, we slept one last night under the stars before our drive home. We snuggled deep into our sleeping bags, leaving little more than our noses poking out, to try to battle the rapidly cooling air. In the predawn light, while we lay in the truck bed, we heard a frightening noise. Well, I was frightened, anyway. Trent had a look of glee as he grabbed his bow and arrow, peeked over the edge, pulled back the string, and fired. The arrow landed with a thunk; there was an ungodly squeal—an injured animal. Trent jumped over the side, pulled out his knife, and quickly silenced whatever was making that awful noise.

Trent had landed a boar, and by the size of it, a mostly matured one at that. We would have an awesome meal that night. A fresh kill under our belt, we decided to pack up and go home. With the amount of blood that was seeping from the carcass, we wouldn’t be alone much longer. It took all three of us to heft the wild animal onto the tailgate.

When we got back, we called a meeting to discuss our accidental discovery of Wilsall. We decided to make it a dinner meeting; we ate like kings in front of that fireplace.

We were all losing weight. That was one reason finding a compound was so important. If we had more space, we could grow more food, and a larger variety of things. Maybe we could slow how fast the weight was falling off. I had begun to worry that we weren’t too far from having significant muscle loss along with the fat. Who would have guessed that the best diet plan ever was the one where you avoided being eaten?

The adults in the group suffered more signs of malnutrition than the kids did. We all saved a portion of our own meals to give the young ones, and we gave it to them happily. I wondered sometimes how many of our arguments stemmed from low blood sugar and restricted calories.

The children amazed me with how adaptive they had been, even Daniel’s little ones. They understood when we said there wasn’t any more food. They were quiet when we said to be; they totally comprehended what was going on and why we were all so tense. Days of fresh meat like this were becoming a rare treat, which was another problem with staying put. Hunting wasn’t always successful, so we had to preserve whatever meat we found to make it last as long as possible. But we were so tired of being constantly hungry, that we chose to make it a party this time, only preserving what we had left over after everyone had eaten their fill. With our bellies full and our thinking cleared by the sudden intake of fats and proteins, we talked about how this would be a fresh start for everyone; that maybe we could feel normal again in a place like Wilsall.

Trent started the meeting, and began to tell everyone about our trip. As he spoke, my eyes drifted over the group and my mind began to wander; I found myself thinking about who were all were; how each of us had changed, and the way we’d all compensated for each other’s losses.

There was something that inspired me to be introspective each time we got ready to move on. We’d started over again a few times since that day that changed everything. It had only been a year and a half since the director of the CDC made his infamous reanimation speech, but we had all lived different, continually changing lives in that time, more than people had ever experienced in the days before the apocalypse. I was no longer that idealistic early 30s girl who was defined in life as that nurse or Trent’s wife or, among my favorite titles, Drew’s mom. Far from it. Back then, there were fewer worry lines around my hazel eyes, less gray in my auburn hair. Back then, I moved with a confident stride, so sure of the world, my family’s future. Now, every movement away from the confines of our walls was made with purpose and caution, and often with dread. Funny how much a girl can age when she lives with a virtual knife to her throat and no sunscreen.

My eyes scanned each expression in the crowd. I studied the intense looks on the children’s faces as they tried hard to pay attention. Daniel would have been proud of his little ones as they sat still, hands folded in their laps. I still missed him. Every once in a while, three-year-old Dalynn would tilt her head just a little when she was thinking about something, and the way her eyebrows knitted together—she looked just like him. When Tomisha, now four-years-old, took that extra step to do a random kindness, like picking a fistful of wildflowers for someone who looked sad, or singing to someone who became withdrawn, the look on her face as she walked away was identical to her dad’s. I watched as Trisha played with them, how she taught them new things. The children loved Trisha and tried to mimic her every movement; they sought her approval in everything they did. Tomisha was close to mastering the art of shoelace tying under Trisha’s tutelage; the pride that little girl had on her face was so inspiring. Trisha was the mother they always should have had, not that woman who gave birth to them then abandoned her family in favor of drugs, coming home only when it served her interests. Not the woman who sold us out to the marauders and shot their father. I was still bitter about Alexus, and I probably always would be. I tried to keep that anger in a locked box, but every once in a while it bubbled to the surface.

I wondered how Mercedes was doing in Scipio, how much Kyle and Annali had grown, and if they were happy. Sometimes while I sat in the window on guard duty, Derek’s rifle propped up on my lap, I would search the roads for any sign of a moving vehicle. Sometimes I even used the binoculars, though not always. It made me sad to stare out over the abandoned highway, finding nothing at all.

As much as I tried to avoid it, I thought a lot about Jody. I missed her. I remembered the hours we spent talking on the roof of the complex. We giggled like teenagers as we baked in the sun, pretending we were sitting poolside getting a tan. She earned a good sunburn and sprouted new freckles for her efforts, while I wore a mild burn that faded into golden brown. I remembered how worried she was about how we would handle Christmas. I pictured the way her eyes seemed to be lit from within whenever Joey was near. She wore her emotions on her outsides like a suit, an ever-changing garment. Her eyes were windows into her soul, and they were incapable of hiding secrets. She was my friend, my sister, and that was a hard title to earn in my book. As my fingers traced the wood grain in the stock of the rifle, my mind drifted back to our parting. I wondered if she was doing okay. I wondered if there was anything I could have done that would have changed what happened in Heartsvale. Would she have left her children to stay with Brother Michael if I had been more vigilant or more insistent? Jody’s four kids were virtually orphaned when she opted to stay behind, and even though Erin put on a brave face when people were watching, the effects of being abandoned by her mother were permanently etched in her face. She had her mother’s eyes, a beautiful, deep jade color, and they had a way of betraying the thoughts behind them. Some nights she would slip out the back door, silently moving into the garden where she would cry for the mom she once had. She tried so hard to keep her brothers and sister safe and protected, but she was just a kid herself. Her arms just weren’t big enough to wrap all the way around them all.

Lacey tried to help fill the void in Jody’s children. She behaved in a gentle fashion, her small hands moved softly as she showed Erin how to take care of a touch of diaper rash on her baby brother or how to encourage him to reach those developmental milestones. Her blue eyes were hypnotic and her soft lips gave smiles freely. When it came to JJ, never had there been, nor will there be, a baby that was as doted on as he was. Whenever he would reach up to grab at her silky black hair, tangling it in his long baby fingers, she laughed sweetly and just let him tug. She was kind and encouraging, and she loved