Blog Like It's the End of the World
I can’t believe this is happening. Go figure that I’d miss all the warnings-and for such a mundane, stupid reason.
I’ve been in my usual week-after-school-ends isolationist mode-totally burned out and ignoring e-mail and phone calls, assuming that if I respond to either, it’ll be last-minute administrivia from my chair, or students whinging about their final grades. Turns out, this is a singularly bad time to be out of touch. But you know me, I’m going to find a way to be oblivious.
What was I doing today, instead of listening to NPR? Despite three weeks of pneumonia and a mysterious upper-back muscle tear, I was ready to burn off some negative energy by tackling some long-overdue projects around the house. The garage is a mess. We haven’t really cleaned up since shoving a bunch of stuff out of the way last Thanksgiving prior to blowing new insulation to the attic. That, plus the seasonal dust storms in the Walla Walla Valley, have added a good three inches of dark gray smudge on top of the clutter. I realized that several boxes of stuff need to be taken into the utility room in the house, to clear out room to shift everything else, and made the Better Half tote it all downstairs before he started hammering up support beams for the handy-dandy organizer racks we’ve just purchased for all the tools.
I spent the next several hours lost in the utility room-why the hell do I have all these Christmas ornaments when I hate Christmas?-and only surface when the Heir Apparent brings me my cell phone. “Mom, would you please answer this or something?” he says, in that ever-more-frequent 10-going-on-sixteen tone he’s practicing, “It’s been ringing over and over.” Flipping it open, I discover that I’d missed six calls from roxana and four from sauvagerie, just today-and the total number of calls from them over the last few days is much higher. What the hell? I come upstairs for better reception, leaving the H.A. playing his video game on the big screen, and wonder how the B.H. is doing. Haven’t heard or seen him the whole time I’ve been reorganizing the utility room.
Thumbing the voice mail button, I move through the house and into the back yard to the garage door. “Honey?” I call, wondering in passing why my voice mail is refusing to connect, “How’s it going out here?” Kuri, our Chow/golden retriever, trots amiably along with me, then freezes at the door, a low, menacing growl curling up the corner of his lips.
The front garage door is open, and through the hot afternoon sun, I can make out stacks of things covering the driveway. The car is out there, too-obviously the B.H. was sorting everything into “gardening supplies,” “crap to take to the dump,” “building supplies,” “tools,” and “yard work stuff,” just like I’d asked. The Better Half and the mechanic from across the street are crouched over a pile of something in the middle of the garage, their backs to me. Kuri’s growling goes up a notch and he shows even more of his teeth as both men turn slowly at the sound of my voice.
“Braaaaainnnssss…” A guttural moan from the neighbor guy, as he starts to stand up. The B.H. says nothing, but shifts on his knees, moving oddly, jerkily, as if to block my view of what is lying on the garage floor. Kuri’s growling changes into a shrill, strident bark, and out of habit I wrap my fingers around his collar.
“Um, what are you guys…” I start to ask, when the B.H. stands up as if pulled by a string, and the neighbor guy advances a step, hands reaching out towards me and the dog.
That pile. On the floor. It’s Truman, our basset hound, and he’s been…torn apart. The neighbor guy picks up a little speed, and the Better Half? He’s staying in place, shaking all over like he’s running a fever of 108, but his hands are reaching out at me like claws, like he can’t help himself. And all over his hands…I don’t even want to acknowledge what’s all over his hands. It’s got to be oil, from the lawn mower. Or, he’s been trying to get the grease spots up off the floor. Yeah, that’s it. That’s all it is. It’s definitely not…oh, crap. That’s Truman’s ear in his hand.
I let go of Kuri’s collar in shock, and he launches himself at the neighbor, whom he’s never liked, anyway. Distracted, the neighbor (we’ve never even known his name) turns away from me and aims a fumbling grab at the frantic dog, who is making determined, snapping lunges at his legs, eyes rolling whitely.
I stare at the Better Half. His skin is an odd shade of gray, I realize, and it makes the blood dripping copiously from the corner of his mouth all the more prominent. His teeth grind, then his mouth moves. “Noooo….” he groans, then howls wordlessly. Then, again, “Noooo…”
I am frozen. He tries again, even as he begins to shuffle towards me. “Noooo…cure…”
I swear I see horror in his dulling blue eyes. And something else-he looks at me, then over my shoulder, then back to me again. Almost hypnotized, I turn to see what he’s looking at.
A neat row of tools hangs on the garage wall behind me. Two rakes, pruning shears, a push broom, a weed whacker, a shovel, a bunch of trowels, a regular broom…wait a minute. A shovel. A big, heavy, shovel. And the Better Half is still coming at me, and now the dog has turned from the neighbor to the B.H., and is attacking the person whom his entire doggy universe revolves around, trying to herd him out of the garage and onto the hot June pavement.
Shit.
We've had this talk, after countless movies. But dammit, like I keep saying, we did NOT put "You have to put a bullet in my head if I become a zombie, because there ain't gonna be a cure," into the pre-nup.
About twenty minutes later I realize that I have apparently driven both men out of the garage and down the driveway, and that I am crying and beating the messy pulp that was the B.H.’s head with the shovel, and crying, and flailing, and that the irritating shrill voice I’ve been hearing, weeping “You promised! You promised that you’d take care of me and take me to Apocalypse Camp!” over and over, is my own.
westlund_lang, sabrinanymph, and anybody in town reading this, you've got an hour to show up here and speak in full sentences if you want to come with us. roxana, sauvagerie, and everybody else: I’ve secured the house, and the H.A. and I have loaded up the car. I finally checked e-mail and saw your messages and the map. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the infestation has most certainly hit the U.S.--and it's coming from the West Coast. The infestation is strong here-I think it has something to do with being so close to the Hanford Nuclear Site. Since we're on the edge of town, I think we can make it up into the Blue Mountains, across Tollgate Pass, and onto the back roads of Oregon before the state militia come to “quarantine” my neighborhood. In the meantime, I can tell you that a battery-operated power drill stops the neighbors from clawing at the windows.
We’ve got a lot of open road and mountains to cover, and no real weapons besides other tools, a set of Cutco knives, a lot of matches and flammable household products, Kuri, and the H.A.’s karate gear. I’ll get some fire power if I get a chance, but right now I’d rather get into the Prius and not stop. We’re coming through Utah and Colorado-I hope that my phone works once we get out of here.
You’d better have margaritas when I get there, because goddammit, I didn’t think that man would leave me like this.