Sympathy for the Devil

They dropped the bombs in Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Dallas, and Washington D.C. on Independence Day. It must have been some power move on the part of the President: dropping bombs on the highest infected populations to protect the life and liberty of uninfected Americans.

It backfired.

Chris had put the hurricane shutters up on top of the wooden planks two weeks beforehand, shaking his head and grumbling to himself how stupid this whole ordeal was being handled.

“It’s airborne,” he’d say. “That’s what they don’t get. It’s airborne. More casualties, more z-words.”

Chris and Vanessa didn’t like saying “zombies” because it scared their son, Ethan, and quite honestly, it sounded juvenile. It sounded like they were living in some post-apocalyptic movie.

Vanessa agreed with him, because he was her husband. Not many people did. They thought, a virus like this can't be airborne. Regardless, it was getting scary. She had friends who worked for the state, telling her to take shelter, take care of her family, stock up on provisions.

“Things are about to hit the fan,” her old law school buddy who worked at the Pentagon whispered into the phone one day. “Grab Chris, grab Ethan, grab as much as you can carry, and lock yourselves in an iron box, if you can.”

Vanessa didn't have an iron box. She just had a husband. A husband who she'd found in the near decade they'd been together was usually right about things. She never managed to truly understand how, but he was.

It was quiet when Vanessa opened her eyes.

It was always quiet. Nothing but the slight rustling wind, the faraway moaning and grumbling of strays pressing up against the gates, and birds.

It always endeared Vanessa to hear birds. She supposed she was jealous of them. Maybe the government should have put their effort into making wings for everyone. Zombies can’t fly. They could’ve all been like The Falcon, from those comics Chris liked to read to Ethan.

Like most mornings, she gave herself time. That’s all she had these days: time. Even though she could barely tell it, even though she could barely keep track of the days. She’d never learned how to tell time on a sundial or anything close to it, and she always cursed modern living for being too convenient. The technological advance, that was the downfall of man, not the virus.

She got out of bed, and folded the comforter back over on the side she’d slept on. She fluffed up the single used pillow, and retreated to the closet. She chose a red flannel, some jeans, some workbooks. She chose the little league baseball cap from Ethan’s home team, and she lay them out on the unmade side of her bed. She kissed her fingers, and pressed them gingerly against the soft fabric. She could almost feel him. He was always firm, and warm, and smelled like ink and cologne and that goddamn beard oil his mother sent him every month.

She gave herself a few more minutes, taking a breath, and going back into the closet to dress herself. She’d burned all her suits, and her dresses, and her heels a few months back, with her books. She’d always promised Chris she’d burn her books when she retired.

She thought that’d be when she was 50, at most, not 32.

She frowned. Practicality and comfort were key at this point: jeans, for their durability; a t-shirt, for comfort; a flannel, for sun protection; boots, to step through the gunk that lined the streets now.

A holster around her thigh, for her knife. Another one around her waist, for her gun. And one on her side, for the machete.

The machete was a personal favorite.

The golden locket around her neck was cold when it fell back against her skin as she changed. She used to tease Chris for buying her heart-shaped jewlery, but she'd learned to adore the locket. The tiny, heavy, golden heart carried hers in the picture of Chris and Ethan with identical smiles and bright eyes.

She’d learned to grow her own spearmint, and always thanked Chris’ mom in heaven for sending them so much baking soda. She’d always fought about how much space it took up in the pantry, but considering toothpaste was nearly impossible to come by on runs, anything that could keep her mouth clean and fresh was worth it.

There was a little Captain America toothbrush in the cup by the sink, dried out and faded. She touched it before retreating. She didn’t look in the mirror.

She tried today, like every day. She held the doorknob of the room down the hall in her hand and she turned it and she took a breath, but then she forgot how to release it. Her forehead fell to the wood, and she cried. She cried every morning, as the sun made its way through the rusted, busted shutters, pouring down the hall until it kissed at her face. She cried more, because she knew it was him saying good morning to her the way he always did. It was what he did in the mornings: crawl onto her and kiss her face and whisper, “I’m awake, mommy. Time for a new day.”

Vanessa didn’t want any new days. She told the sun this, but he kept shining for her, bright and golden.

Her cheeks were stiff, skin crusted with tears as she made her way downstairs. Breakfast was a protein bar and water. She thought about it for a moment, and decided to reward herself with an old can of Red Bull she’d found on the last food run she’d went on. She’d nearly screamed when she found a single four-pack of the energy drink. She’d always hated the taste, but it reminded her of law school, of all-nighters with her friends, when her only stress was being called on for constitutional law.

She cracked it open and took a swig. She blinked, staring at the calendar she kept on the counter. Every day, there was a question mark next to the X that would indicate the day. All she could do is have a positive estimate. Chris had been better at keeping the days after everything happened.

But she stayed in bed for about two weeks after he died, so she might have had some catching up to do.

However, time didn’t matter with no society to construct it, so she shrugged, circled the day it seemed to be, and rummaged around that junk drawer in the kitchen island until she unearthed a candle.

She lit it. She closed her eyes.

When she opened her eyes, she saw them as the picture in her locket. Chris, smelling like ink and aftershave. Ethan, up on his shoulders with a smile like the sun. They were wearing matching baseball caps, and Ethan was tossing his ball up in the air to catch it. He was missing his left front tooth. They smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“Happy birthday, Ness,” Chris said. His voice was low, as if she was forgetting what he sounded like. She frowned.

“Happy birthday, Momma,” Little Ethan said. His voice was louder, but more far away.

When she blew out the candle, they vanished with the small cloud of smoke. She sighed, dropping the candle back in the drawer. She drank the rest of her Red Bull.

The gate around the community Vanessa lived in was high and durable. She was grateful for that much. She stepped off her porch and walked down the sidewalk towards the entrance, her eyes darting into each house with twitching fingers from a lost habit. The once-white paved sidewalk was stained brown in places. She walked around them.

They’d piled up on themselves in the night. There weren’t many, maybe five or six, with some helpless ones growling and trampled. When she neared them, they became more frenzied, grey arms reaching through the gaps in the fence to feed.

Before, she’d been more humane. She'd wonder what their names were, or how they died. When she’d come out to clear the gates with Chris, she’d watch him take the machete to the heads of the dead and she’d reprimand him for not having more sympathy while he’d roll his eyes.

“Look at it,” he pointed at one. It was only half of what had been a woman, crawling on the floor, trying to get to him. “You get caught up in their humanity, and you’re dead. You end up just like that.” He shook his head, and sliced the corpse's head clean in half. Her arm went limp as rotten blood stained the concrete. “These are nothing but monsters, Ness. Once you get that, you survive. Having sympathy for monsters gets you--and the people you love--killed. I’m not letting that happen.”

Now, Vanessa unsheathed that machete, Chris’ initials engraved into the handle. She sliced through the heads of the walkers at the gates. Their bodies fell and joined the pile of unmoving, rotting bodies at the borders.

She wiped the blade off on her jeans, turning the denim brown, and sheathed it. The sun was sitting higher, burning brighter and rippling off the concrete as she made her way around the neighborhood, checking the perimeter. Soon, her flannel was around her waist, and her t-shirt was tied under her breasts, with sweat dripping down her neck as she entered the Johnson’s old garage.

Craig Johnson was their ex-marine neighbor who kept all these old radios in his man cave. His wife had been the first in the community to turn. He’d put a bullet in her brain, than one in his.

Vanessa sat at the table. She fumbled with the dials as she looked for a channel. She sighed when she put the headphones on, and clicked on the mic.

“My name is Vanessa Ainsley. I have a community in Roanoke, Virginia. It’s safe here. There’s food, and running water, and shelter. If anyone can hear me... please, just respond.”

She waited. There was nothing but static. She repeated the message three times on eight channels, and then she went back home.

She bathed. The water was cold but it was something. She washed her clothes off too, and hung them on a line outside her window.

She looked in the mirror now. She’d gotten thin. Her mother would have been proud. Her ribs stuck out, and she could finally see her collarbone. But those stretch marks were still on her belly and thighs.

She sat on her bed, naked, and stared at her wall for what seemed like hours. Until she was numb. Then, she got dressed again, this time putting on that red flannel on the bed.

She went to the room again. This time, the knob turned.

The bed sheets were still stained red, crusted over. The path across the rug to the corner was still there. The E on the wall had fallen off, in pieces on the ground.

The sun had gone down. Vanessa stared at the room. If she closed her eyes, she could see it. Chris’ white eyes, his grey face, his beard stained red; the sick way his jaw twisted as he chewed...

She gasped, so deep and loud. She couldn’t find her lungs.

She saw it with her eyes open. She felt her mouth open, felt it in her throat, but she didn’t hear the scream she released. She felt the gun in her hand, staggered back with the recoil.

She fell to her knees, like she had that night. She clutched now at empty sheets, the way she clutched at her son. She’d tried to save him, as if somehow trying to put his organs back in would bring him back; as if patting his cheeks and screaming at him to wake up would somehow work. She screamed, and she held her little Ethan to her chest until she couldn’t hear herself anymore.

When she was numb and spent, he stirred.

He was no monster. Not him. Not her Ethan. He was just a little boy, with white eyes.

But then he growled and opened his mouth and went for her throat, and she put a blade through his head.

She was humane. She had sympathy.

And now, wiping her face and scrubbing at the rug and cleaning up her son’s room, she was alone.