POST
PANDEMIC by Susan Buffum
Somewhere
inside me I still possess a shred of decency. I know this only after the fact,
as I’m crouched down beside the greenish water of the river trying to wash the
blood and gore off my grimy hands. I beat a lame, feral dog to death with a
brick. I just kept bashing its head with the brick. It yelped and tried to
wriggle away but some other animal had ruined three of its legs. It had one
white paw. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I'd said each time I’d struck it. “I’m
sorry.” I avoided looking into its eyes. But I can’t avoid looking into my own
eyes as the bloody, agitated water flows away and I catch my reflection on the
surface of it. I reach up and shove my hair back, barely recognizing the
shadowed eyes, the hollow cheeks of the face staring back at me. I can’t
remember when I had a haircut last. My clothes are torn and filthy. I wear them
now until I can’t stand the stench of myself any longer. I’ve been reluctant to
jump into the river ever since that day I was bathing and saw what I thought
were tree branches, birches, drifting toward me. It turned out to be a tangled
mass of rotting corpses, their skin the white of a fish’s belly, bloodless
wounds gaping. Just a tangle of arms and legs riding along the surface, the
bodies a jumble beneath the water. I’d screamed like a girl, paddling and
splashing my way back to the river bank, shivering as I’d hauled myself out of
the water, terrified that I’d become infected by the virus that had killed
those people.
“Jesus,”
I said, shaking my head as I stood up, eyes scanning the hulking mills across
the river. I’d lived in one of those mills last year for about three weeks.
When Lou died, I got out of there. I found another place to camp, alone. It was
still a little difficult back then to find someplace safe. Now, you can pretty
much walk the streets and not see another living soul. It’s a ghost town.
I
don’t know if there are others still alive. I sometimes glimpse figures through
grimy panes of glass, shop front windows that survived when looting became the
means for survival. The only reason to break into a travel agency, a nail
salon, or a massage parlor was to find a clean place to sleep. You busted the
window out of the back door and got in that way, not by breaking the glass in
the front windows. That glass was a barrier between you and them. You hid in
the basement and prayed all night that no one else would break in. People
carried a hammer and lots of nails in their backpacks back then so they could
grab whatever scrap boards they could find to cover over the broken door
windows, to keep others out.
I
don’t go into town much anymore. I wander around the fringes. I sometimes see
dark figures just standing in the shadows of buildings, trees, on porches of
houses where there are no signs of life. If I blink, they vanish; just melt
away into the shadows. I don’t know if these figures I see are real people or
phantoms. I don’t really want to know, but they’re always watching me. Maybe
they’re just biding their time waiting for me to join them. But I’m still
breathing, still surviving.
I
do what I have to do to survive. Like killing the feral dog. I’m hungry. But
right now I feel sick after beating the dog to death. I don’t want to deal with
skinning it, gutting it, hacking it up, building a fire, roasting chunks of it
over the flames, eating it. The thought of that makes bile rise up the back of
my throat.
Right
now, I need to walk among the ghosts. Some of them, I’m pretty sure, are people
I knew back before this all started. My geometry teacher seems to haunt the
open garage of his house on Washington Street. I heard something metallic, like
a wrench fall on the concrete floor once. It made me jump and then run. It’s
better not to know, believe me about that.
I
pause to sit on the steps of the church across from the bank. I’m tired. I
really need to eat something and then get back to my current burrow. That’s
what I’m calling it, a burrow. I don’t like being inside places anymore.
They’re all haunted by something or someone. I’ve heard footsteps, whispering
voices, sudden groans and cries, things being dropped or dragged. Every shop,
every building, office, church, house…every place ever constructed for human
occupation is now haunted by the dead. Tens of thousands of dead people.
Sometimes
I think I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. Stress. Watching your loved ones die.
It’s probably post-traumatic stress. Making street friends and watching them
die. Dodging something you can’t even see, something microscopic and deadly,
never knowing if it got on your clothes, your skin, in your nose, or mouth, or
eyes. It can drive you crazy with worry.
I
saw street brawls over hand sanitizer, people half crazed, armed with knives,
boards with nails driven through them, baseball bats, whatever they could get
their hands on, beating on one another over something they considered a prize,
an item of salvation. I saw the bloodied, battered winner holding their prize
close as they staggered away from the groaning, moaning tangle of bodies they
had emerged victorious from. Less than two weeks later I was steering clear of
the winner’s body lying in the hallway of a long abandoned doctor’s office. I’d
gone in there to see if there was anything left to treat an infected blister on
my toe. I needed new sneakers. These were too small now. I’d found the body by
stench alone. I got out of there fast, afraid that the virus was hanging in the
air. I worried myself sick thinking I was going to die. But I didn’t get sick. I’m
still here.
I
blink sweat from my eyes, brush hair away from my face, and lock eyes with a
woman standing across the street. I don’t know where she came from. It’s like
she just materialized out of thin air. There’s a breeze. It doesn’t touch her
clothes. It doesn’t run its fingers through her long hair. She’s static. Just
staring at me. I flip her the finger. No reaction. A cold shiver runs down my
spine. I turn my head because she seems to be staring not at me, but at
something behind me. From the corner of my eye I see a dark form. With a yelp
of terror, I leap up and try to jump off the steps to the sidewalk, but
something grabs me by the shoulder and I can’t move.
“Let
go!” I cry, my heart beating so hard I’m afraid it’ll bust. “Let go of me!”
I’ve already lost it and am screaming, writhing, twisting, trying to wrench
myself free of the hand gripping me, holding me in place. How can something so
thin, so bony and so much like a talon with long, yellowed nails possess so
much force?
I
twist my head around, look up, and yell in terror. It’s a man with thinning gray
and white hair that falls nearly a foot past his narrow shoulders. He’s like a
skeleton dressed in a black robe. “Be still. I am merely offering you
sanctuary,” he says in a deep but soft, raspy voice as if he’s just walked
across the desert. “Come inside. She can’t touch you inside.”
“I
need to go. Please! Just let me go!” I cry, slanting my eyes sideways only to
find that the woman has moved. She’s now on the island between the east and
westbound lanes of the avenue. Closer, I can see the ravages of the virus
carved into her gaunt face. Her mouth gapes open. She’s missing teeth. “Are you
real?” I ask. “Are you a real person?”
“I
shelter the children, I keep them safe. Come with me.”
She’s
drifting into the travel lane now, edging closer. Her eyes look as if they’re
filled with fog. As she steps up onto the sidewalk I nod. “Don’t let her touch
me! Don’t let her take me!”
I’m
hustled up the granite steps and although I am resisting, distrustful, balking,
I find myself being pushed ahead of the man into the foyer of the church. He
lets go of me and I stumble a few feet further inside, then spin around to be
sure she hasn’t followed me in. He’s slammed the heavy, red door shut, turned a
huge, brass key in the lock that he removes and slides into a deep pocket in
his black robe. Then he lifts a long piece of timber that looks hand hewn and
jams it behind heavy metal brackets to barricade the door. There are just tiny
windows in the doors with glass panes laced with diamonds formed by lead that give them a
medieval appearance.
He
turns to me. “Go into the sanctuary and sit down.” I shake my head,
apprehensive now. I don’t like being locked inside a building. “You’ll be safe
enough there.” He is staring at me. I can’t tell if he’s angry or if it’s just
the lines suffering has carved into his face that give him that look. “There’ll
be bread and soup shortly.”
Food.
My stomach is gnawing itself with hunger at the moment. I haven’t eaten in over
two days. Desperation made me kill the dog. That and the fear of starvation
drove me to kill it. “I killed a dog,” I say. He blinks. Ghosts don’t blink.
They just stare at you through dead eyes. “It was crippled.” He continues to
stare at me. I squirm, aware that it’s a sin to kill. “It was suffering. It
wouldn’t have been able to survive. It couldn’t hunt.”
“Go
and find a seat. I’ll be with you shortly.” He turns, goes through an arched
doorway, closes the door and I’m suddenly alone in the foyer. I hear a
scrabbling, scratching sound on the other side of the front doors. That makes
me back up into the next room. It’s like a hall of sorts with a fireplace. I'm
still facing the secured front doors. To my left, through paned glass doors I
see another fireplace, couches. It’s like a granny’s living room in a big old
house. I turn my head to the right and see open, arched, double doors with
windows similar to those in the front door. There is an aisle, pews down either
side, an altar, a stained glass window straight ahead, a cross. I hear
whispers, scuffling. There’s a quick giggle, a shushing hiss. “Hello?” I say as
I slowly approach the open doors. “Who’s there?”
“The
children,” says a woman’s voice from behind me. I spin around. At first I think
it’s the ghost that’s gotten inside somehow, but her eyes, although circled in
purple and gray, are not clouded over. “Go wash your hands. Bathroom’s in that
hall back there. Water runs. Doesn’t get hot though. Come back here after and
take a seat. Food’s coming.” She turns. I have to follow her a ways to where
she’s told me the bathroom is. She goes down a staircase. I catch a whiff of
something that smells like food before turning the corner into another hallway.
There’s a row of doors on the left, two open doorways on the right. I open the
first door on the left and find it’s a rest room. Slipping inside, I walk to
the sink and twist the cold tap. Water gushes out. It’s mesmerizing. I suddenly
remember brushing my teeth, washing my face and hands before going to sit down
for dinner with my family. My family. I bend over the sink gasping, feeling as
if I’ve just been punched in the gut. Whatever happened to my family? I can’t
remember!
I
hold my hands under the tap. Water flows over them. There’s no soap, so I just
rub them together as hard as I can while wishing the ingrained grime to go
away. I'm always filthy.
I
twist the tap off, shake droplets of water from my hands. They look a little
cleaner. There's nothing to dry them on, so I just keep shaking them, droplets
of water falling onto the tile floor as I walk to the door. As I reach for the
handle to tug it open I hear voices approaching in the hallway, a woman and a
man; the man in the black robe whose voice I recognize, but it’s not the woman
who told me to wash my hands.
“He’s
scrawny, but he should feed them when he’s boiled down into a nice soup. Let him
have a bowl of broth and a slice of bread with the others, then I’ll bring him
downstairs, tell him he’ll be bunking in one of the classrooms. He’ll be more
agreeable with food in his belly. He’s an antsy one.”
Their
voices fade as they turn the corner. I stand behind the door, my heart lurching
around. My mind is reeling, but I do know one thing and that one thing is that
I’m not going to stick around and let them boil me down into a broth to feed
whatever is in that sanctuary that they’re keeping alive.
A
minute passes. I can't wait forever. I saw an exit door at the end of this
shorter hallway. I slip out of the bathroom as quietly as I can, walking as
silently as possible on the tile floor toward the door. There's a window in
this door with wire embedded in the glass. “Boy? Where are you? Come along now!
Come eat your supper and then we’ll find you a nice bed for the night. Boy!
Let’s go!”
The
voice is drawing nearer. He’ll be coming around the corner into this hallway in
a few moments. I bolt to the door, bang against the bar but it doesn’t budge, however it’s made a loud noise. The man in the black robe appears at the end of the
corridor near the bathroom door. “Stay away from me!” I cry, pushing again on
the bar, slamming my body into it.
“You
don’t want to go out there, boy,” he says, slowly approaching me. “They’re out
there waiting for you.”
“I
have to go.” He’s shaking his head, coming nearer. Behind him I see something
short, closer to the floor moving and I think it’s some sort of gremlin creeping on all fours behind
him. I’m close to freaking out, close to full blown panic. I’m going to die. I
know I’m going to die right here in this building, that I’m going to be boiled
down to soup and fed to…to…I don’t know what!
And
then the gremlin leaps. The man staggers and stumbles. I yelp, slam harder against
the door because I’m trapped and have nowhere else to go. The bar clicks and
the door suddenly opens behind me. I hear snarling and growling as I’m turning,
ready to bolt outside. But what I see freezes me in place for a long moment. I
look into the large, brown eyes of a mangy mongrel, a snarling, feral dog. It’s
not a large dog, but it’s pinned the man down, one paw on the back of his neck.
The paw is white. I blink. The dog stares at me. Its eyes are clear. It just
stares.
I
could not look into its eyes when I was killing it, when my heart was breaking
because I didn’t want to kill it. “Good dog,” I think before turning and running
out the door, down the long ramp and into the parking lot. I see shadowy forms
coming from around both sides of the church, a swarm of them. I don’t stop, I
just keep running.
I’m
shivering, my teeth chattering as I stare into the embers of the fire outside
my burrow. I’ve buried the carcass of the dog, unable to bring myself to cut it
up and roast pieces of it. My supper was a gasping fish I’d found on the river
bank. I don’t know if it was diseased or not, a carrier of the virus that’s
about wiped out this town. I haven’t seen another living soul in over a week.
I’m not sure if the man in the church was alive or not. He seemed to be. The
women also seemed to be. But I don’t really know what they were.
The
word ghouls runs through my brain and I shudder. The town is haunted by shades,
shadows, ghosts, phantoms, and now ghouls. And I’m scared. I’m more scared than
I’ve ever been before.
I
poke at the embers with a stick. Beyond their red glow I see something dark moving
slowly. I warily watch it, thinking it’s a wild animal come to scavenge the
fish skin and bones, the head and tail I’d hacked off and thrown aside. But it’s
now slinking around the stones I've stacked in a circle to contain the fire. “Go
away,” I say, my voice low. A soft whine comes in response. “I’ve got nothing
for you,” I say.
And
then it comes further around and I see a flash of white. A white paw. “Oh,” I
say. The feral dog I killed has come to tear my throat out. That’s the thought
that goes through my head. It’s followed me and now it’s going to kill me. “I’m
sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” I am sorry. Even though it had been
suffering and would have died of starvation, I’d had no right to take its life.
I’d become no better than a wild animal preying on weaker animals. “I’m sorry.”
The
dog crawls on its belly to me, its eyes on mine. It whines softly in its throat.
In its eyes I see a need as huge as my own, a longing to belong again to
something, to someone. This dog saved my life. Ghost or not, it had appeared in
that church and taken down the man who’d intended to have me made into soup to
feed his…his what? His flock?
“It’s
all right,” I murmur. The dog presses itself close. I can feel it. It feels
real enough, solid, but maybe it’s just because I’m so tired. I’m so damn tired
that I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m dreaming this. I throw my arm around the dog
and snug it closer to my chest. There seems to be some warmth to it. “Are you
tired, Ghost?” I ask. “I’m ready to sleep.” I run my fingers through its matted
fur. It’s as bony as I am. Flesh drawn taut over bones. Fur. Hair. Real?
Phantom? Imagination? Or the manifestation of guilt, fatigue, and hunger?
I
ate a fish. I’m ready to sleep. I would have been dead by now if Ghost hadn’t
found me and bought me the time I’d needed to get that door open, to escape. I
want to sleep, but I need to say this. I need to say it aloud. “Good dog.” The
rasp of a rough tongue across the back of my hand makes me smile as I close my
eyes. “Good dog,” I murmur.
This story is copyrighted and cannot be used without the author's permission. Contact me through the blog or via email at sebuffum415@gmail.com
