A MA rated short story by Melisa Peterson Lewis

A day long ago, the apocalypse began. We didn’t understand this was the end of the world right away. There was fear, confusion, and factors unknown, but we survived the COVID-19 pandemic, serious turns in government affairs, recessions, global warming, and glaciers melting. War. How could we have known that the end of days would be the result of the dead coming back to life? We were thrust into a comic book. Only no one was turning the page. The world crashed.

Barbeque is something I miss every day. Now, when I catch the scent of cooking meat, I know someone is burning the dead or the undead. It has been sixteen years since the world lost power and running vehicles. There are no doctors or pharmacists to fill prescriptions. We are on our own.

Casual acquaintances disappeared. Loved ones and families perished. The voices of children playing basketball outside a tight-knit court vanished. Those of us who lived in the city, like I did, turned to the countryside to escape the growing numbers of infected trying to kill us. For the first time, I learned to work the land.

Dirt under my fingernails became hard-packed. At first, it bothered me. I’d take my pen knife and dig out the crud, going so deep under the nailbed that I would cut myself and bleed. It was ridiculous. But there was much for me to learn.

Edible vegetation was a serious gamble for many who didn’t study foraging, which I’d bet was less than two percent of the world population had that sort of education. We were at a loss for what to eat. Often, we’d rely on canned food when we could rummage through a house, but that was soon picked through and gone. Like Neanderthals, we had to guess.

Friends became guinea pigs as we tested mushrooms, greenery, and berries. I feel so stupid now. I could tell the difference between the poisonous Jerusalem cherry and wineberry now, but the old me would have eaten a yew berry. Luckily, I didn’t encounter any when I was half-starved and hallucinating.

Grubs became a delicacy and something we enjoyed roasting over a fire. They were bitter if not cooked, but I don’t always have the luxury. Insects of various types became easy protein snacks. We would need a lot to sustain us, but in certain seasons, it was easier to flip a rock than hunt a deer. The wildlife were hunted by us, but also by the undead.

Hat trick. I took out three undead in one day. The fewer undead were around, the better our chances. This holds true for hunting game and not being hunted as game. Once communities formed, we would devise crews to go find pockets of undead and wipe them out before they got too close to our homestead. We would lose people on those days. Not every time, but often enough. Starving, accidental poisoning, and being killed by the undead weren’t the only ways we perished.

Infections from a cut. A tiny little cut from a rusty nail could fester into a blood infection that once would have been cured by penicillin, but as I mentioned before, there are no pharmacies to run to. No doctor to write a prescription or emergency room to visit.

Jennifer was someone I loved deeply and met after the world ended. We met when I was recovering from a fall off a ladder. I was lucky to walk away with a sprain. I didn’t think I would find someone after losing everyone I cared for. I was a hollow shell of a human running on instinct I didn’t know was possible. The goal was not to let the end of the world also end me.

Kindness was all she gave me, which kindled something new inside my broke soul. Jennifer made me understand that I was no longer the puppet I used to be. For the better part of the day, I would stare at a computer for a job I hated but paid the bills. Then I would go home, overweight, bored, and assumingly tired. I turned to shit food and television to ease life’s discomforts. Discomforts! What a laugh.

Laugh. Cry. Sex. Jennifer and I would never have met or fallen for each other in the old world. She was strong and mouthy. I was weak and pathetic. I convinced her the person she slept next to was not the same person from before society collapsed. She never believed me.

Mom would have liked her if she’d made it. I’ll never know what happened to her or my dad, but their house was empty when I got there, and they were too old to run far. My sister was with me briefly, but she couldn’t block out the constant crisis, which drove her mad.

Numbness was the only way. The only reason I kept moving and stayed alive was because I turned off my emotional processing. Jennifer awoke it in me again. I should thank her, but I also hate her for doing it. I processed grief for the first time, and it’s never left. I wept for the people who were gone and the world that will never return.

Open a can of Coke if the can hasn’t eroded. The fizz would be gone, and most of the sweetness, but the smell of it would take me back. Sixteen years. We have young adults in the community who have no memory of what the world once was. I pity them. I envy them.

Personal space, or lack of desire for it, is driven by fear. I have been alone, but those who cluster in smaller communities tend to have a better chance of surviving. There was a period when I went four months without speaking to someone. I had no idea how much time had passed until a community took me in, and I realized how badly I needed others. We are more resourceful together. But there aren’t too many of us left, so we can’t be too picky.

Quick to trust my gut in every situation, including people. I’ve been part of more than one community. The last had Jennifer until I couldn’t stay there anymore.

Remember when things were good? I’m not talking about the old days when I could go through a Starbucks line and order underwear to be delivered to my doorstep. It was Jennifer. Goddamn Jennifer. My relationship with her seemed to have no limits. We shared everything. Our pain, joy, curiosities, and our bodies. It turns out I wasn’t the only one she was sharing with.

Seasons passed, with Jennifer and I together. We stayed warm together in the winter and put cool mud on our mosquito bites in the summer. I was convinced this was my forever person. How could someone go so long caught in love only to have that other person stray? I had no warning.

Tomatoes. When I was carrying buckets of tomatoes to be boiled down into sauce, I heard grunting coming from a shed. I thought it was a goat who trapped himself inside. They are slippery beasts, after all, and we’d always find them in strange places. It was not a goat. It was Jennifer with someone else. She didn’t stop when she saw me, but she began to cry.

Ultimately, I decided to give her time to explain herself. What had I done wrong? Did I push her away? As mentioned, there aren’t many of us these days, so finding another Jennifer seemed impossible. I was desperate to keep her. I begged for her to stay with me. She did not.

Venom seethed within my blood. I couldn’t understand why she’d done this to me. Why be with someone else? Why not tell me it was over? I considered leaving for another community, and eventually, I did, but not until after I sought closure with Jennifer.

Wet, hot blood dripped from the knife I used to slit her throat. I’d killed before, but never something like this. It was always to survive. I’d convinced myself that I was doing that. If Jennifer lived, I would think of her every day and try to find my way back to her. I couldn’t be in that trap, that perpetual loop where I stalked her until it was me who died.

X marks the spot where I dragged her body into the woods to bury her deep in the ground beneath the pine trees. Cutting through the tangled roots was difficult. It took hours longer than I anticipated. I threw her body inside just after dark, crying as I did. Then, I tossed the knife and several of her belongings into the hole and filled it in. No one would find her.

Yesterday was the last day I spent with the community of survivors. It seems my plan to rid the world of Jennifer was selfish. There aren’t that many of us, right? I took another life from this world, and it has caused me daily regret. I didn’t want to be haunted by it anymore, so I made plans to join the largest community left.

Zombie is a stupid fucking name for what I am now, but I am undead. And that’s all I’ll ever be. It was intended to end my suffering. I didn’t know they could think and that I would slowly replay all my memories while I stumbled around the earth, hoping one of the living will end me for good.