Tamberlin's Account (6 page)

The car was in the middle of the road, I told him.

He turned to the radio on his shoulder and called something in.

"Do you
need
to get to Wisconsin?"

"I'm heading home."

His shoulders drooped and if he sighed it was too quiet for me to hear, but it was a "sigh" movement.

He told me to go back the way he told me to go and to drive around the car. He told me not to stop, that someone was on the way.

"I feel bad for leaving them. And I'm worried about the little boy. His mom was acting really weird."

Someone will take care of them, he said. The words were right, but the tone was wrong.

I didn't know if I
could
just drive by.

Okay—the lady freaked the hell out of me. She was obviously hysterical or something. But that fragile looking little boy—that bleeding, hurting, desperate little kid?

I was driving a lot slower when I came upon the luggage again. In the same moment the arch of the headlights lit the station wagon. The gate was slightly ajar. They were nowhere in sight. I wonder if someone else hadn't come along. A few different roads came out on the stretch behind me.

I cringe when I feel tires run over frogs on the road- I cringed the same way when I felt those people's things thump-thump under the car.

I never saw them or any reason for the car to have been left in the middle of the road.

I followed the officer's route back to I90-E.

I passed several vehicles on the shoulder. Most were also packed like sardines.

I went to the opposite side of the road to avoid a car that must have recently pulled over because there were several people there. I think I would have stopped if it had been a family stuck out there in the middle of the night, but they were all adults.

And they looked like they were looting it.

And I went by pretty slow because I wanted to see what was going on. They all looked up in unison—their faces were blank and full of energy at the same time. Potential energy. I'd interrupted them; obviously, doing something that was probably illegal at about 2:30 in the morning. The looks said, "Do we want to do it to her too?"

My car was dark—I could see them in the headlights, but they saw me anyway—in the dark, with my lights in their eyes. They looked straight into my eyes.

I called 9-1-1 again, repeating the license plate so I wouldn’t forget it; until I called so many times that I gave up.

I pulled the audio cord out of my dash and turned on the radio. I got static, but I wasn't surprised—I was now four hours away from the radio station Carrie had tuned in back in Hill City. I pressed scan. It ran in circles like a gerbil and then stopped. There was a blip of sound, then nothing. I was going to press scan again, but decided not to. I knew there wasn't anything there. I put the audio cable back in. The speakers filled, somewhere in the first half of the song
Darkness
by Disturbed. I felt the knots start to loosen through my muscles and was submitting to the music.

I screamed when my phone rang. It was Marie again. I answered. She was there.

"Are you okay," I asked.

"How far are you?"

I told her I was about an hour from Sioux Falls.

Then she asked me if I was okay.

What a night I'd had! Ordinarily I would have been thrilled to tell the story of such a crazy night—if I wasn't afraid that the person I was about to tell might have a similar or worse experience to relate.

I said I was fine. I said my radio wasn't getting any stations. As if that summed it up.

She said her husband, Patrick, told her that he'd heard people weren't operating them or that they were being forced off the air.

I thought of one of my favorite actresses, Kathy Bates', character in Stephen King's
The Stand
movie/miniseries—when she gets shot down by soldiers when she tries to stay on the air and keep people informed. I've since thought about
The Stand
a lot.

"What's going on?" I felt stupid to ask.

She didn't know.

So before she answered I added that I felt like we'd slipped into some alternate reality.

She told me she thought all drunks were on the lamb.

I laughed.

I asked what else Patrick said.

She answered with a question.                  

How much had I seen?

I went blank. I didn't really know what I saw.

Then the phone starting cutting out—so she started talking about that. Said something about avoiding towns.

Then she said I should get gas even if I didn't need it. If it looked safe. She said she had less than a quarter of a tank. That she'd tried twice and got too scared to stay and wait.

Then I lost her signal.

"Damn," I said. If I'd had her on the line now and been cut off, that curse wouldn't have just laid there flat—like I dropped it. I would have been frantic.

I pulled over. When I put the car in park, all the doors automatically unlocked. I quickly pushed the lock button and tried to call everyone I could think of, even though it was late.

I thought I had a good enough reason, by then, to justify the call to anyone the early hours might upset.

In the end, the phone never rang anywhere.

No bars. No shirt. No service.

There was a gas station up ahead. I didn't need any—obviously. I drive a small car—not a hummer. But she didn’t say it for laughs.

The gas station was closed. Most would be at this hour. But Pay-At-The-Pump is a night traveler's friend. There were a lot of night travelers.

Lycanthropy? Vampires?

A lot of campers.

A lot of people away from home, enjoying the summer, blissfully unaware that a fiber of normalcy was loose. But we were the exception; few people go a day without checking their email, but maybe they're not the ones that go camping. I don't know. But all of us had cell phones we weren't answering or had shut off. I bet, from people's faces—that they knew a lot more than I did.

I decided not to stop.

I decided something else.

No more cities.

Once I got into Minnesota I'd know more of the roads. I'd skirt every city I could. There were plenty out in the boondocks gas stations with Pay-At-The-Pump. Why mess with the gas station version of Black Friday? You'd think gas had gone below three bucks.

I'm gonna have to call it a day, it's getting late. I haven't really been paying attention. So. No more long stories short.

Oct 25 6:42am

Spitting snow today. I'm getting things in order. I plan to walk into town today and find a muzzle for Mr. Ages. I plan to be gone no more than 10 hours.

It puts everything into perspective, how far can I go in a certain amount of time? How far will I have to go to escape a winter I can't survive?

7:03am

I have to leave Mr. Ages inside, because I'd be too afraid he'd follow me and if he didn't I'd lose my mind worrying about him.

But if something happens to me I'd be sentencing him to death. A horrible and long death. And I don't know what he'd do worrying about me.

7:10am

I'm going to get my car back.

5:50pm

It was almost 10am when I got back from Hill City. I stopped at my mailbox. I asked for a mail hold, it'd come the next day, but my newspapers were there.

My driveway wouldn't have had to be very long if it didn't have a wide curve in it. Aesthetics, I guess. A wimpy tree, about 4 feet tall, stood in the enclosed grass center of the curve. My plum tree.

The garage door was nearly open when I reached it. I only had to wait a second. It was attached to the house. I took my purse and newspapers in one hand and had my house keys ready before I got out of the car. I locked it behind me. I'd get my luggage later.

I didn't have to look to unlock the door. I only clinked outside the lock twice before the key went in. My eyes were busy with the newspapers.

I stepped over a FedEx box as I entered.

I locked the door and deadbolt. I put my keys in my jeans' pocket. I never do that. Countertop, by the microwave, every time.
Every
time. Maybe once in every four months would I set them somewhere else. I don't pocket them.

I turned on the TV to try to catch the news. No signal. I was dialing home—the other "home", where parents live.

The answering machine picked up. I hate that their message says they're not home. I had urged my mom not to say things like that because you never know who's calling.

At the beep, I almost wailed, "Where are you?!?"

"Hi mom or dad. I'm home early. Call me as soon as you get this."

Then I said "please" in a voice I hardly recognized. It was throaty and I felt my nerves failing. My mind was reeling. If I cried, I didn't know if I could stop. I needed to keep my shit together.

My thoughts were then, the same as now.

What's going on? Is everyone okay?

And, of course, "everyone" is each by name. When you know who "everyone" implies—you just feel each name. The word is made of each name.

I don't know why, but I called my job.

I got the answering service. Closed at 10am on a Friday?

I dialed again. Same.

I started dialing every person I could think of, again, while spreading out the newspapers in order. It should have been 8 days of papers. I only had four, but someone could have taken them.

Chronologically the headlines and other front page articles were reading like this—oldest to newest:

SICKNESS CONGESTS LOCAL HOSPITALS

BIZARRE: ER Doc Bit by Pulseless Patient

Sheriff's Department Urges Extra Precautions From Home Invaders

CDC ISSUES HIGHEST ALERT

Nat'l Guard and Police Coop to Control Violence

Missouri Doctor Finds Fever in Primates

AIRPORTS AND GOVERNMENT OFFICES CLOSE

Hospital Leaks: Number of Reported Deaths - Tip of the Iceberg

Doctors Say, "Fever cause of hallucinations and hysteria”

GOVERNOR TEMPLE: "We have it under control."

Doctors Now Say: “Just new kind of Rabies”

Government Facilities to Reopen

...Is
this
the way the world ends? Not with a whimper, but a scream?

I mouthed "Christ" and tried to absorb words that were blurring.

On the phone, the first number, I heard the end of a message, "...as dialed. Please check your number and dial again." The next, "...no longer in service..." The phone rattled against me. The ends of the paper made a fluttering sound in the tips of my fingers. My eyes were burning.

I looked  up from the papers. I let go and carried the phone to the kitchen window. I opened the one over the sink, too high for anyone outside of the NBA to reach without a ladder.

I could faintly hear the tornado sirens in town.

Out of the corner of my left eye I saw someone cutting across my yard. I could tell he noticed the distant siren too.

I knocked the metal stopper in the sink when I moved to see him better.

He tried to see me better too. He turned—half his face was gone and the left side of his body was soaked in blood. I couldn't or wouldn't register what he was holding in that hand.

He started for the house. I left the front garage door unlocked for a parcel, the FedEx, that I was expecting to arrive while I was gone.

I threw open the locks and reached the garage door just as he did. He stared into my eyes. I flipped the lock and ran to the back garage door. It was already locked. I just had to be sure.

He was trying the knob. He clawed at the glass. His eyes bugged out as he fought with the knob that wouldn’t turn. Then blood started running from them—his eyes were starting to pop out.

I locked the screen door and locked myself inside.

I don't remember a lot of what happened next. I realized it was later because the sun was on the other side of the house. The underside of my right wrist was pressed into my right eye and my elbow felt like it had pierced my knee. I was sitting by the door.

My right eye ached and had a hard time focusing after having pressure on it so long. My face was wet and sticky with drying tears. I wasn't crying anymore. I just needed a tissue.

I got up and was wobbly. My ass had no circulation and it felt like I had a golf ball in my butt crack.

Then I heard them scratching outside.

I went to the open kitchen window and saw lots (to me then) of them—four—busy bodies trying to get to me.

Only then did it occur to me that I'd blacked out or something—what if they had gotten in?

I didn't know what would happen then. I knew what happened in the movies. I knew I would die.

Or I was pretty sure. But I didn't even know if they
were
dead or if they were demented or something. They were fresher back then, remember, than most of them are now. I didn't want them near me.

I closed the window and locked it. I dropped the blinds.

Was it anybody’s first thought, “
Hey
! The zombies!
Finally
. We knew you’d show up.” Or did they just make excuses and believe what they read in the paper.

On the way back to Wisconsin I'd had others run at my car. I saw them wandering too. I saw them at dawn—the red light coated everything like candied apples—made the world look like Hell.

Red sun in morning, sailors take warning.

It looked surreal, all that red light and the shadows were pure black. I saw them going after people.

I saw what happened.

Otep’s version of
Not to Touch the Earth
was playing. I always thought it was meant to be in some zombie movie. At the moment it was scaring the shit out of me or, at least, not helping.

And I said fuck it to the red light that hadn't changed in minutes - pressed hard on the accelerator and got the hell out of there.

I lasted a month at my house, on my supplies, before I tried to go out. What I thought was essential a month and a week or so before were still in my trunk. And I was too afraid to go into the garage.