fiction: cold pluto, part two
I lived in a small, two-bedroom cottage on the outskirts of town, a lot different from your large house that sat on a hill with a pool in the backyard and the giant garden your wife wanted. You didn’t really want to be so extravagant, but you always wanted a pool as a kid, so you splurged a bit. But I was far enough away from the hubbub of city life, but close enough to a gas station, to the pharmacy and grocery store. The TV stations clicked over to the Emergency Broadcast System and played the same message over and over. The radio turned to static. The phone lines started to click off; when I called work all I got was a busy single, when I tried to call my neighbors, nothing. I was too afraid to go outside.
The last I heard from my father, he was coughing and swearing about the kids next door taking his ripe tomatoes. I cried as we spoke, but he told me that I was still being silly. It was just a cold, he was fine. Take a lot more than the flu to bring him down. But that was a month ago and I can’t reach him at all. Ziggy snuggles at my side when I cry myself to sleep at night. He licks my face a whimpers
After the news station finally cuts out, the anchor woman coughing, blood oozing from her nose, her frizzy hair and sad smile, I decide to drag my futon mattress to the attic. I take the flashlights and little weather radio, left at my house years ago by an ex-boyfriend. I assume that he’s dead too.
I start going through my old Girl Scout books and a parody book about surviving a zombie apocalypse. I haven’t actually put that out of my mind yet. Just like people never think it’s the end, people never expect the undead either, until they’re wandering aimlessly in the streets, fumbling at front doors. I’m not taking any chances.
During the day I stay downstairs, rationing water, cooking little meals. It’s only a mater of time before the power goes out too. At night I hide, pulling the door to the attic shut tight, no matter how much Ziggy scratches.
I check my bible for signs of the end and wait for the angels and Jesus.
:::
A week after moving into the attic, the power finally flickered off and I decide I’m going to hit the road. The power lasted longer where you were, which is why I drove as far as I did before seeing you.
If I’m going to die, I don’t want to be scared and hiding in the attic, like some sort of crazy shut-in. My car was almost full the last time I was outside. I’ll drive as far as I can, maybe find some other people still alive. There’s no way that I’m the only survivor.
I pack a backpack and duffel bag with as much food as I can. I have jugs of water to put in the trunk, bags of batteries and the flashlight. Ziggy watches me, slowly wagging his tail. “We’re leaving buddy,” I announce. He tilts his head and stands.
For the first time in weeks, I unlock the front door, slowly crack it, and pull in. a breeze hits me in the face. I gasp as if the disease will enter my lungs and kill me instantly. It takes a few deep breaths and counting to ten before I step out on a shaky foot. I’ve packed t-shirts and jeans, a few pairs of shorts. Lots of socks and underwear, a few bras. Deodorant and shampoo, soap. In case I find a lake or some place safe to shower.
I pack the car and then put the leash on Ziggy and lead him out. There are cars in the street, doors wide open and people hanging out of them. Buzzing flies and some rats.
“Hello?” my voice is so quiet though that I don’t think anyone would have heard me.
No one answers anyway. My stomach swells, my throat quivers. Tears sting my eyes. “Come on, Zig.” I opened the car door and he jumps in. I start up and pull out of the driveway, wistfully staring at my little house and yard. The roses that I planted in honor of Mom who died five years ago. I’m sort of glad that she died before all this. In the hospital they gave her lots of pain killers and it was quick.
I keep the gun in my purse and the extra bullets in the glove compartment. I didn’t really want a gun when Daddy got it for me right after college. But he said living on my own, one day I might need it. Southern fathers thought like this. You understand, you’re from Texas and had a shotgun on you when we met.
I keep the windows rolled up as we drive, just in case. Ziggy sticks his nose to the vent and wags his tail, as if we’re just going to the park. I’m glad that he doesn’t understand.
:::
Ziggy seems to be having the time of his life, but I’m crying almost the whole way out of the state. At the cars on the side of the road, of the fires and wrecks. I see dead bodies at a gas station, on park benches and in front lawns. I tried to drive during the night, but I get so tired. So I pull the car just off the road and sleep in the back seat under sheets with Ziggy on the floor, the gun in the front of my pants.
I don’t sleep much, but enough to keep me rested. I stop every few hours to get out and pee, to let Ziggy stretch his legs. I keep him on the leash the whole time. I can’t risk him running off and not coming back.
It only takes me a few days to make it half-way across the country. I don’t really know where I’m going, just away. Maybe things were better on the west coast, maybe someone had answers. For a few minutes I enjoy the trip, the sights. How blue the sky gets in Kansas, seeing actual buffalo in Oklahoma. But then I pull the car to a gas station in towns that are like ghost towns of the old west. I stay away from the major cities. You laughed when I told you about my fear of zombies, but I wasn’t going to be too careful.
Sometimes all the pumps are empty at the gas station and I panic. I try not to let the gas in my car get under half a tank.
It’s in Nevada where we finally meet. You live there because that’s where your wife is from. She was really close to her family, and you wanted a relatively quiet place to be during the summer hiatus.
I’m driving down one of those roads that’s not the interstate, but it’s not a back road either. Each state has been the same when it comes to the cars littering the streets, bodies hanging out of them and birds and animals picking clean the corpses. I still cry about it sometimes, but at other times, I ran out of tears.
I see your figure walking. A duffel bag on your bag, the shotgun in your left hand. I slow down because I’m not sure if what I’m seeing is real. Maybe I’m dreaming, maybe I’ve gone crazy. Or maybe I’ve been sick this whole time and I’m dying in my living room back at home. You stopped walking probably as soon as you heard the car. I stop a few yards from you and you’re standing in the middle of the street. The gun limp at your side. You drop the duffel and put up your hands.
“Hello?” you say.
I haven’t heard another person in months and I almost want to cry. “Hi,” I say, stepping out of the car. The gun is tucked under my jeans above my ass.
We stare at each other for a while. The sky has been overcast all day, the sun right behind the gray clouds. I’m squinting a bit and you walk closer. “Sorry,” he nods to the gun. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Me either.”
“Are you sick?” you ask, wiping your brow. “I mean, sorry, but everyone…”
“No,” I answer quickly and walk too. “No I’m not sick. You’re not sick?”
You bitterly chuckle. “Don’t seem to be.”
It’s not until we’re standing a few feet a part until I recognize you. You’re an actor-or you were as I know you’ll correct me now. You’ve been in a few movies, on a pretty successful miniseries about the Revolutionary War where you were one of the main characters. I had seen you recently on some medical gig on NBC or whatever, playing the boyfriend who is dying of cancer.
“I’m Cary,” you say and offer to shake my hand.
For a second, I’m kind of star-struck. But that doesn’t last as I shake yours too. Our hands both sweat, but you smile at me. Your eyes are heavy and tired.
“Liv,” I answer, shaking my head clear of my momentary admiration. “Don’t you have a car?”
You shake your head. “I thought on foot might be better.” You shrug. Your attention is pulled when Ziggy starts barking and whining from the car. He’s jumping from the front seat to the back seat. You laugh. “At least you’re not goin’ it alone.”
“No.” I actually smile. I think I would have given up with out Ziggy. “You want to come with us? I can shift him to the back seat.”
You chuckle. “Where you goin’?”
I shrug and flop my arms. “Where ever.”
“Sounds like a good deal.” You get your duffel and follow me back to the car. I hold Ziggy by the collar as he inspects you. Sniffing your pants and hands, giving a slight growl.
“It’s okay, Ziggy,” I tell him and scratch his ears. You do the same and he calms down a bit. He’s okay with the back seat, satisfied to sniff your bag while I start up the car again.
I hand you some poptarts and a bottle of water which you inhale in about ten seconds. “Thanks,” You mumble as you glug and chew.
“How long have you been walking?”
“Few days.”
“Were you going anywhere special?”
You shake your head. “No. I just…I couldn’t stay at the house anymore.” I know that you’re married, but I don’t say anything about it. Your wedding ring shines bright gold against the sun that comes out.