Nightmares

Previously, in Part 5: School Days

Part 6

Dear Diary,

I’ve been thinking.

Hey! I don’t need any smartass remarks out of you! (You’re an inanimate object, subject to my whims, after all.)

But, yeah—it’s an iffy thing. And it hurt.

I decided I deserve to cut myself a break over being off my game the last few days. I’ve been up for maintaining the generators and keeping the food safe. At some point I’ll be able to eat again, and I don’t want to have to worry about it.

Also—I want a big credit check-marked off in my favor for not puking in my mask.

You have no idea—lucky you. You don’t have eyes to see what I’ve seen.

I Wish I hadn’t seen.

So, I haven’t slept much. But I did fall out for a little while last night, and I had the most horrible nightmare:

I was walking; I could see my feet, my steel-toed boots covered with surgical booties. I was wearing a mask and gloves.

When I looked up, I could see the old barn clearly. The corn and wheat in the fields around it were gone. There was nothing left but acres of corpses.

I wanted to stop. I wanted to turn and run away.

I kept walking, into the field.

Marigold flowers had cropped up everywhere, growing between and through the bodies. Empty eye sockets sprouted stalks with blossoms waving in the breeze like bulging eyeballs on springs.

Horror-stricken, I walked past blank faces; those with eyes stared upward at nothing, slack jaws agape, lips blue and cracked.

I looked up, unable to bear looking at them. Near the barn, I saw the first living thing I’ve seen in days—a bull.

He raised his head and stared at me. I could feel accusation rolling across the field at me. “It wasn’t me,” I whispered.

I started walking again, watching my step, watching the bull. I wanted to feel an affinity for the animal—I’m a Taurus, after all.

But, no. All I felt was his hostility, aimed across acres of marigolds.

I was compelled then to look down and really see the bodies on the ground.

Mom and Aaron lay side by side. Aaron was clutching a handful of those hateful malodorous blossoms. Suddenly, his head turned toward me. Blue lips stretched into a grimacing grin and he lifted the bouquet of flowers, offering them to me.

I recoiled.

“These are for you, Mommy,” my little boy croaked in a voice quite unlike his own.

I screamed. I looked across the field, where the bull was now charging at me, head lowered menacingly.

“Nooooooo!”

I may never sleep again.

There’s a darkness in me; I always knew it. Why else would I flinch at the sight of a windowless white van? Why else would I carry mace? Why else would I be scared to let my son ride public transportation to school like many other children have done for years?

More importantly—how else could my subconscious conjure up such a horrible dream?

My dear little book pal, I have to shake it off. I have things to do. Places to go; people to see.

I told you, I have been thinking.

When Dad died a few years ago, Mom decided she didn’t need a big car anymore. She sold the old SUV and bought a Fiat 500, a little box of a car that seats four people—not comfortably, if you’re taller than five feet five or so.

Not an issue with Mom or me. She’s taller than I at five-two, and I will confess—only to you, Diary, dear—I lie when I say I’m five feet tall. I didn’t quite make it.

The car is the color of pink Champagne. The size, shape and color are pretty damned near unique, and there’s not another like it in town. That’s why I’m so sure I haven’t seen it. Even the burnt out hulks at the school are just too big.

The thing is a hybrid. With no charging stations around now, Mom would have to use gasoline. It’s got a small tank.

See…I just don’t know how far she could get if she headed west.

Mom is a planner. But she can fly by the seat of her pants as well as anyone—where do you think I got my mad skills?

I know what I’d do, if I was in her place. I’d get a bigger car. Load it up with as much food as possible. Then I would head for the hills.

Once upon a time, Mom had a mother of her own. Grandma owned a small cabin in the woods about a hundred miles away. We used to go there in the summer when I was little. After Grandma died, it belonged to my mother’s older brother.

As far as I know, it still belonged to him when the world ended. If I was Mom, that’s where I would go.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

Sue me. I think I’ve been in shock from day one. Besides, I was afraid she was here in town somewhere. Or maybe I hoped she was—here with Aaron, alive, well and safely hidden.

But I can’t find the damned car!

What to do, what to do? It’s a conundrum, pal.

On the one hand—I have no idea whether they made it out of town. That tiny car could have been smashed flat. I might have seen it and just couldn’t recognize it.

Aaron! Mom!

I hope that’s not the case. But if it is—wouldn’t it be crazy to leave behind all the food and resources I have here? It’s not a treasure trove, but I think I can get through the winter.

This heat is a fluke, you know. Winter is coming. The corn and wheat were nearly ready for harvest a few days ago, and it is late in the season. First snow usually hits before Halloween. It won’t be long.

On the other hand—if they made it out and I have a way to find them—shouldn’t I go?

Ugh, I hate making decisions!

What scares me most is that I might not remember how to get there. I was really young the last time we made the trip. Did I pay enough attention? It’s not like I can just pull up GPS on my phone.

You’re right. There might be a map at the gas station. Good idea!

(I’m losing my mind!)

I know, for sure, it’s a hundred miles, more or less. Mom and Dad always mentioned it when we were traveling.

I’d have to find a bigger car. Lots of good coolers to put dry ice in—I think the Sporting Goods is still intact.

I’m scared green.

If I can make it there, great—I’ll have food to offer when I get there. If I can’t make it, I can always come back here.

Damn, I don’t want to leave the generators running unattended. But if I don’t, the ice will melt and the food I don’t take with me will spoil.

I don’t know why I’m even thinking this far ahead. The first thing I have to do is look for a bigger vehicle. Not a truck—I want to be able to lock everything inside, just in case. But for sure, something bigger than my little car.

That’s going to take some doing. I totally lucked out finding the one I have. The damages out there—it’s not pretty.

The plain fact is, I have no idea what roads are going to be like—most of them here are a disaster area. Remember, I had to walk over to the school. I have to walk most places.

If I don’t have something big, with good tires and some power, this planning is going to be moot.

Shit.

You know what? I’m hungry.

Yeah, I’m surprised to hear it, too.

I’m going to grill myself a hamburger.

Take that, you awful bull!

I found an old book by Erma Bombeck the other day. Mom liked her; said she was funny. I could use a laugh. I’m going to read until it’s too dark to see, and then, by God and sonny Jesus, I am going to sleep.

Pray, Dear Diary, that I can do that without dreaming.

No more nightmares. Please!

Tomorrow I car shop. And then we'll see.

Coming soon, Part 7: Anna Pottage and a White Van

This story is the 6th in a continuing series. You can read the rest of the series here:

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

Part 4:

Part 5:

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