Last Woman (3 page)

It was the longest night of my life. Perhaps because I went into the truck before the sun had set. Afraid to leave and venturing out only to use the portajohn.

I didn’t hear any crickets or cicadas, only the buzz of flies. They didn’t sleep. And as the night grew darker, the moon hidden by the clouds, the flies swarmed to the light of that truck, covering the windshield.

I’d smack my hand against it, they’d buzz away but would return shortly after.

It became tiresome trying to read those reports when the first one was at the bottom of the stack. I spent time shuffling the papers, putting them in chronological order from top to bottom. The only thing that remained in the same spot was the note that Wilkes wrote about getting his watch to his mother.

I left that on top. To me that was heartbreaking, knowing that the young man, even in his illness, at the end of his life, was thinking about his mother.

How would his mother feel knowing her child was sick and there was nothing she could do? As a mother myself, I took some sort of comfort in the fact that my own son and daughter, my own husband didn’t have to face the horrors of whatever wiped out our city.

His name was Jason Wilkes, and he and countless others kept me company in the truck all night.

Jason, whether
he was in charge or not, signed each and every report.

SSG Jason A. Wilkes. Whatever the ‘SSG’ meant, I didn’t know and it didn’t matter. To me he was Jason Wilkes.

His wallet was in his duffle bag. He was thirty-one years old, brown hair, blue eyes, lived in North Carolina, his license was expiring in a month and it looked by the picture as if he had a daughter.

One government issued credit card and a wallet with three dollar bills and jammed packed with useless receipts.

Well, not useless. They told me about him. Where he ate, what he bought, where he was. I looked at each one of them, trying to understand the man who thought about his mother when he was at death’s door. The man who took time every day, several times a day to fill out reports and make notations. The young man who had such a hard job.

He not only noted rations, but he and the other soldier, Stevens, were the men of the dead.

There was more at that desk than just reports. Off to the side of the desk, stacked up were boxes of tags. Blank tags, like the one on my wrist.

Jason probably filled it out.

More than that, next to the desk were boxes of Wallets and billfolds, identifications cards secured with rubber bands. All items retrieved from the deceased as they were banished from their names and given a number.

Because none of the credit cards or cash were touched in the wallets, I assumed Jason Wilkes was ambitious. Perhaps
he was intending to use the identification cards and licenses to write down and record all the names of the dead. Or maybe even family notifications. Whatever the reasons, boxes were there, and I grabbed one to rummage through.

I leafed
through each wallet, each license, taking my time, and looking at them. It wasn’t just something to do, it was my homage. It was what needed to be done.

I’d lift a license, look at the picture. “Theresa Lange. I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

Next.

“William Jameson. I’m sorry for what you went through.”

Every license in that box.

Every piece of identification represented a body that was part of a huge mound inside that stadium. But unlike me, they didn’t sit up and say, “I’m alive.”

Their light of existence was over, snuffed out and reduced to the desecration of a mass grave of countless dead.

Was that who they were? Did they deserve that?

No.

For their families, for them, and their suffering, even if it was only me doing it, for one moment they weren’t a casualty. They were more than a body in a pile, more than a number, they were a person with a face, a life, and they were being acknowledged and remembered.

I jolted awake from some sort of dream that immediately escaped me. Peering down to the Wilkes’ Watch it was only nine a.m. My mouth was dry and my head hurt, those were the least of my physical worries.

I felt bad. Weak.

My legs were rubbery and my stomach kept flopping. In my condition, I didn’t see myself walking from the city or making any great distance. Not until I got my strength back.

Returning to the military camp was always an option, but going on the assumption that I wasn’t, I took the supplies I needed, the clipboard, and other things, and placed them in Wilkes’ duffle bag.

It was heavy and I suppose I could have left behind some water bottles, but I didn’t know what happened to the city. Did people wipe out stores in a panic binge for survival supplies? I knew what the city was like before a snow storm, and I didn’t want to take any chances.

I also took something else. The keys to the supply truck. While I couldn’t see myself driving it, I needed it to be an option.

There was a bright side to the morning. Only a few bodies floated down the river. Was it the last of the bodies or were they done dumping them?

The dark side and discouraging signs were the bridges I could see. One was completely barricaded, the other destroyed.

To get out the city, eventually I had to cross a bridge.

The closure of the bridges had to be on April 26
th
. Wilkes wrote they arrived on the 20
th
, and noted that they dealt with panic on the 26
th
when lockdown went into effect.

Lockdown. Quarantine.

I learned a lot about the first few days.

Beatrice Wilson was the first body to arrive at the Stadium grave. At least I assumed that. Wilkes had etched her name with the hash tag symbol and number ‘one’ on the report that stated the arrival of the first bodies.

He was trying to keep track. He really was.

The stadium was located in what was originally a depressed area, converted into a riverside cultural section.

If people were alive, if there were signs or newspapers, surely, I’d find them if I wandered out.

My plan was to stay close to the stadium. Making it my retreat point if I fell ill again.

I needed a focus, a goal, to wander aimlessly wasn’t really good. I wasn’t out looking for food, however, I didn’t rule out shoes or clothes. I needed those.

Focus One
- I wanted to find out more of what happened. From what I had gathered in the reports, some sort of event occurred that caused people to die in masses, actually waves, numbers on the reports as well as the number of reports increased with each day.

However, nothing Wilkes wrote said what it was. Why would it, they were reports on the current status or situation. Or rather distribution and graves.

Focus Two
– People. While I didn’t need them, I wanted to find people. I was alone, I didn’t want to be alone nor did I want to move forward out of the city alone. On a survival scale of one to ten, I probably ranked a two. My biggest venture into survival was when the power went out for two days and I didn’t have air conditioning. My answer to that was a hotel.

And maybe the hotel was the answer to finding people.

Where would they go? Aside from hospitals and their own homes, where would they go?

If they were trapped in the quarantine zone, they were either looking for a way out or a way to survive. They’d search for food and water, or be someplace where there were supplies. Stores, gas stations, hotels, restaurants,
bars. There were a lot of bars in the area.

Final Focus -
A way to get out of the blocked city. It didn’t matter how, and I didn’t just want to get out of the city, I wanted to get home.

My home.

A pair of binoculars
were in the back of the supply truck and I deemed them my most valuable find of the morning. On the edge of the river, I used them to check out the bridges. To my west, that bridge was destroyed, so were the ones south of the city itself. But one bridge, the one not far from me that only went into the actual city, that was only barricaded. It made me wonder, that perhaps, the event only took place in town and towards the north side. The place where I stood and the bodies were dumped.

I tried to see the city and it wasn’t easy, what I could make out was still in the distance
but I didn’t notice any movement at all. That didn’t mean there were no people there. That was my goal for the day. It was an ambitious walk, but I had to give it a try. Being around and that close to so many bodies, the stench was unbearable and the flies were biting me left and right.

I carried a sense of hopefulness as I wandered a steady slow pace from the stadium grounds. Away from the river, away from the bodies. Each step made me feel as if I would find
someone that of course, no one would be around the area of the dead.

From driving down to the stadium and museum, I was familiar with a few streets and ones that I was always
taught to avoid. It wasn’t the best of neighborhoods.

There was plenty of empty lots and vacant buildings. The community college was located a few blocks from the stadium, I headed in that direction, knowing if there were people, they could be there.

If that was a bust, I’d keep going to the city.

After crossing over what seemed like an endless parking lot, I made it to a main street and saw the sign for the college.

I had to stop. Even though I had only made it several blocks, my legs were wobbly. I hadn’t a clue how I was going to make it a mile into the city. Stopping and resting, I suppose, or happening upon people. I realized the later wasn’t truly a possibility when I started walking again.

There were absolutely no sounds. None. Just me. No animals or birds. Where were the birds? It was insane how quiet it was, scary too. I didn’t lose focus, I kept my eyes
peeled, just in case some horror novel did come true and vicious creatures would suddenly flock to me from every direction.

Nearly three weeks of my life had been lost, something huge apparently occurred. Somehow, someway, it was announced. Had it been decades earlier, I would have spotted one of those newspaper boxes and had an answer. But no one used those; they drew their information from hand held devices and the airwaves. Whether it was television, radio or the Internet.

None of those were available. At least not where I was.

A block ahead were two fast food restaurants and a convenience store. The sight of them gave me energy, because they were a goal.

My duffle bag was heavy and it dragged me down. Although the big clothes and large clumpy boots had to play a part in my difficulty walking. Getting something else to wear wasn’t an option, there was nothing around.

Hobbling, I aimed for the convenience store. There had to be a trace of something. A newspaper, magazine, hell even a tabloid. As I drew closer I saw them, bodies. Not stacked and wrapped, but scattered about the parking lot of the store.

Not that my pace could have slowed down any more, but it did. How many were there? Eight? Ten? They were decomposing and looked different than the bodies of the soldiers. These people were shot.

I could only guess they were looters.

My God, how long did the city go into despair before it just stopped?

Next door to the store was a McDonald’s, the windows there, like the convenience store, were busted out. Who would want to loot a McDonald’s? At first people probably went for the cash, then as I stepped into the dark convenience store, I saw they grabbed for anything.

Food. Water. Drinks. The shelves were bare. Completely, utterly nothing left. Not a candy bar, can of soda … nothing save a few packs of cigarettes. Which surprised me, I of course collected them. Why not take up smoking? It would pass time and who cared if it killed me. There was a lighter on the counter and I took it.

But I wasn’t there for smokes, food or a drink, I was there for information.

The rack that held the newspapers was turned over, and a few papers were spilled on the floor, most had been trampled on, scattered about by the people that ran in and out. I saw the magazines behind the counter. No one touched those, most of them were pornographic.

Then I spotted the Newsweek, the cover image was that of a man in a simple, cloth respirator mask. I stepped over the newspaper rack and to behind the counter, reaching for it. The headline read ‘
Is Now the Time for Prayer?
’ with a subheading of, ‘
ERDS claims millions in days
.’

ERDS?

The date on the magazine was April 24
th
. Two days before the city was shut down. That magazine was my gold mine. Just flipping through I saw the entire issue was dedicated to whatever this ERDS was. It wasn’t something I could glance at, I needed to read it and to do so, I needed to get out of the dark store and find a place to settle.

That magazine would give me answers.

Turning, my foot caught it, and I did like so many others, made it fan out more, the pages of it scatter about with my boot … a newspaper. The only one with the front page still viable.

I reached down and grabbed it.

It was a local paper and its date was the 28
th
. And it was the last newspaper ever to be printed and delivered in the city.

The newspaper admitted such because under edition it didn’t say, morning or afternoon, it said … last. Last Edition.

A story on the front page claimed, ‘
City Struggles as Death Toll Reaches 80,000’

‘Nowhere to Put the Dead’

That paper was written not even two weeks after I fell unconscious in the bar. Two weeks and that many bodies? I knew, by the magazine and newspaper, I was wrong in my thinking.

There was no one waiting on the other side of the bridge, no help outside the city. If I
deduced correctly, and I was pretty sure I did by a glance, it wasn’t just the North Side or my city, it was everywhere and the bold two word headline on the newspaper said it all.

‘It’s Over!’

And it was.