Project Pallid (28 page)

Saturday
passed and there were no new revelations, only panicked alarm from the
broadcasters who offered up no solutions and only increasing reports of The
Whitening’s spread. There was no word from Mom, and there was no answer from
Catee, either.
 
I called her again
and again, but got nothing but rings and voicemails. I asked my dad to bring me
to town to check in on her and, in spite of his concern, his own loss won-out,
and my pleas fell on deaf ears. We didn’t speak much else that day, about
anything really, especially my mom, as we continued to prepare our pantry for
the impending lockdown; the rise in incidents was only growing faster and
faster.

I
considered slipping away and taking my bike the eighteen miles to Catee’s
house—to see if she was there and waiting for me. But sensibility kept me
home. With the rising attacks across Madison, already spreading to its
suburbs—Platsville included—it would’ve been suicide.

But
it didn’t stop my dad from venturing out.

Mindlessly
working alongside me and crossing paths at the top and bottom of the steep
staircase, we exchanged few words.

“Headed
into the garage,” he declared.

“What?!”

“I’m
headed to the shop.”

“For
what!? Why??? They told us to stay inside unless it was an emergency!” I
reminded.

“Got
to make sure it’s secure. Locked up tight. What, with those whackos running
around, I don’t need to go losing all my tools.” The thought that maybe he
wasn’t headed to the garage at all flashed through my head. The possibility
that he would head to Damariscotta, to try and talk Mom into coming home, was a
definite one, but it was one he’d never admit to, even if I prodded for it.
Then again, maybe he
was
headed to work. Either way, it was an
opportunity for me to jump on the bandwagon.

“Take
me with you.” I said, more than asked. “Let’s go by Catee’s house and pick her
up.”

“No.”
His response came without waver.

“But
Dad! She could be all alone right now! She could be depending on us! She might
need me!! We can’t just leave her there!!”

“No,
Damian,” he repeated. “I’m going alone.” Placing an armload of folded cots on
the ground, he rose and headed for the stairs, and stopped only briefly to
unnecessarily adjust the light bulb that swung, suspended overhead. “You get
those set up while I’m out.”

“Dad,
you can’t just—

“Damian.
You take care of business here. I’m not taking you out of this house. I’m not
putting you in harm’s way. You’re all I’ve got left,” he said, “and I’m going
to see to it that you’re safe. Conversation done.” And before I could rebuttal,
he added, “And I already planned to stop by the Laverdiers’ place while I’m in
town. I’ll check it out. And if she’s there, I’ll bring her back with me. Seems
like we’re going to have a couple extra beds anyhow.”

“Thanks,
Dad!” I jumped to my feet, threw myself at him, and wrapped my arms so tightly
around him that they might’ve touched had they only been a few inches longer.
His responsive squeeze was tight. Almost suffocating. My face squished into his
chest, and I breathed the scent of his cologne. Or aftershave. Something. A
spicy, signature scent I’d always associated with him—one that might
still linger there, on the mound in the corner, if I throw myself down, wrap
around it, and squeeze him now like I did back then.

But
that’s crazy.

This
is crazy.

And
I can’t live like this anymore.

PART II

FIND THE LIGHT

May 11
^th:
Day 10

I
don’t realize what I’m doing until I’m spitting out a mouth of dirt that’s
caked my tongue and coated it in a layer of mud. When I wipe away tears with
the back of my hand, gravel scrapes the side of my face, and it leaves my skin
raw and wet.

The
dirt is hard-packed beneath me, and it caves very little to the man who lays
just inches below as I push myself to wobbly, shaking feet. It’s all like a
dream. Some horrible nightmare that I can’t escape, that keeps me trapped down
here like some post-apocalyptic cockroach.

I
haven’t paid as close attention to counting the days as I did before my dad
ransacked the pantry. Has it been one? Two? Have any passed? It’s all a blur of
timelessness as I fumble around in the filtered light of the rising sun. I know
my pocketknife’s still here—somewhere—I’m just not sure where I
threw it after I pulled it from his eye.

My
hand runs across it, just under the edge of my cot, and I grip its cold, steel
tightly in my palm. I flip open the blade to consider possibilities … and
finalities … before I turn my bed to its side. Four-notches. Four days added to
my first week down, and things aren’t getting better. They’re only growing
worse. What’s next? Who’s next? My mom? Catee? Nicole? Who else am I going to
have to defend myself from? Who else am I going to have to kill? What
difference is two fucking days going to make?

I
stop short of carving another notch, and the frame of the cot’s in my hands and
overhead. I hurl it at the three others that sit, unscathed beside it, and they
crash and bang against each other to create more noise than I dared make before
in my more rational mind. But I’m not rational anymore. I’m stir-crazy. Or
maybe I’m just crazy, now. I can’t take it anymore! The dark. The uncertainty.
The loneliness. My dad, rotting in the corner! It’s all rotted me away and I’m
not—I’ll never be again—the same guy I was when I first took to
hiding.

The
rage boils and burns inside me, and the only thing I can do is unleash
it—to let it out where it has the freedom it needs. To let it exist where
it can’t hurt me from inside anymore.

I’m
across the room and the cot’s back in my hands before I can rationalize what
I’m doing. Its taut fabric becomes a sail, and it fights the wind and tries to
stop me as I swing the frame forward and into the wall, shattering it to pieces
that bind limply together with dark green cloth.

I
grab another, and I’m screaming like an animal as I smash it against the other
wall. Again! And again! Until there’re only two splintered sticks in my hands.

I
grab the third cot and run with it to the empty shelving, swing, and make hard
contact that smashes the wooden frame to pieces. It feels good. It feels
primal. It feels like what I’ve needed to get out for so long, that I savor
snatching up the fourth and repeating the assault on my rock-walled
fortress—angry at it—loathing the unused excuses for beds, and
imagining it’s Him I’m destroying instead.

Panting,
hunched over, and hands to knees, my head’s a kaleidoscope of colors that whirl
in and out in a prismatic display of emotion. I don’t know what came over me,
but it feels good. Invigorating. Untamed. Almost as animalistic as they’ve
become. It’s what I’ve needed to find all along to be any match against their
mindless rampages, and I resolve to be done with being timid and afraid. I’ve
let my own monster free from its cage, and it feels good.

Screw
my countdown.

To
hell with the wait and see.

Today
is my day, and I honestly don’t care if I live or die anymore. I refuse to be a
victim, and I won’t be a hostage any longer.
 

It
only takes a couple minutes to find the piece that’s right for me: a jagged
stake that’s almost 5’ long. It’s pointed at the tip, and it feels strong
enough. I swing it around and slice it through the air to gauge its range and
weight. It’ll do. Compared to every option beforehand, it’ll have to—at
least, until I find something better. A gun would be nice, not that I’ve ever
fired one before or that I’d know the first place to start. Still, I’ll learn
fast enough, if I can get my hands on one.

I’m
not sure what I’ll find up there, so I do what I can to pack myself full,
without weighing myself down too heavily, and gather the things that might come
in handy. I grab my backpack, long useless and lying on the floor, and I stuff
it with rations: crackers, water, jerky, and a few other essentials. I pack my
pocketknife, too, along with a couple more wooden stakes—their handles
already wrapped in duct tape that I found among the shelves’ scattered
contents. I stand them upright in my backpack and zip it as best I can before I
sling it over my shoulders and take final surveillance for anything useful that
I might’ve missed.

It’s
hard to go. It’s hard to leave the recesses of what’s protected me for so long,
but I know in my head and heart that I’m not safe here anymore. That if there’s
ever going to be closure to all this madness, I can’t keep locked away,
trapped, and counting the days before I’m just another of its victims.

“I’m
going now, Dad,” I announce to the empty room. “I’m going for you, for Mom,
Nicole, and I’m going for Catee. I’m going to find them, Dad, and we’re going
to make this right. And when we do, we’re coming back for you, and we’re going
to give you the burial you deserve.” I’m expecting tears, but they don’t come.
Maybe I’m finally beyond them. Past feeling sorry for things I can’t change,
I’m running on sheer revenge now. “I love you, Dad. I’ll see you soon.”

And
I ascend the steps, unhinge his belt, and toss it to the gravel below. I pull
down on the door’s handle with all my weight, and I don’t breathe, I don’t
move, and I hear nothing.

Up
and open, I scramble to the kitchen floor and ease the heavy door into its
frame behind me. Its seamlessness is almost imperceptible, even to me, but
that’s of little consequence because there’s no turning back now. Freed from
the darkness, it’s time I finally face the light.

May 11
^th:
9:17 A.M.

I
haven’t been in my kitchen for what seems like an eternity, and the feeling of
wooden timbers underfoot is as familiar as it is foreign. It’s like stepping on
dry land after weeks spent at sea. My legs wobble briefly, and I stagger two
steps to the closest wall to reclaim balance. Body and mind on high alert, my
eyes look to the ground, and I focus on concentrated breathing to calm my
racing heart and to set my head straight before I attempt to navigate the pale
obstacle course that’s become the floor. I know the consequences of complacency
too well, and I can’t linger for long with uncertainties around every corner.
I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever those might be, and I consider a retreat to
the pantry’s confines, but that’d be sealing my own grave, and I can’t go down
like that. Not if there’s anyone left who’s still depending on me.

This
isn’t my kitchen anymore. This isn’t even my house. It’s nothing like what it
was. This is some sick horror shop, cooked up in the twisted mind of a
grief-stricken lunatic. There must be twenty, maybe thirty bodies, strewn about
like pick-up-sticks and in varying stages of pallid decay. Once a rich brown,
the floorboards are chalky white and coated in the dried blood of the dead.
Pale bodies pile atop even paler ones, partially dressed, partially
rotted—mostly without hair, ears, or fingernails. Emaciated, some are without
fingers and limbs, while others have few visible teeth left in their suspended-open
mouths. My stomach wrenches, but it can’t throw up what it doesn’t contain.

There’re
a lot of people I know there, old and young. Some I went to school with, some
are their parents, and nearly everyone is … was … a Platsville local. There’s
Gail Madden, who ran the only store in town, and my third grade teacher, Ms.
Allen, just below her. My old school janitor’s spilled out alongside them, and
I could go on and on to name almost everyone around me, but why bother? I don’t
have the time or stomach for it, and it won’t bring any one of them back, so I
do the only rational thing I can think of, and I weave a path to the drawer
where Mom keeps her knives.

My
dad was never one for guns, and knives are the best weapons I can think of
besides this stake I carry, jagged end up to protect its splintered sharpness.
It comes in handy to slide an arm and leg or two out of the way, and it creates
opportunities for solid footing as I move through the mangled display of
corpses, toward the cabinets.

The
air hangs heavy with the smell of rotting meat. Flies, seemingly impervious to
the sickness, swarm and fill the air with the audible hum of fluttering wings
as they move from pallid perch, to pallid perch. They land briefly to feed, to
lay their eggs, and to propagate what could now become the dominant species.

I
slide a drawer carefully open to reveal a haphazard array of gleaming metal and
indiscriminately pull what I can from it. Long, short, wide, narrow, it makes
no difference what I grab, so long as they’re sharp, and I load the knives into
by bag with the rest of my rations. And with that, the easy part’s
done—if you can call it that.

I
consider going to my room—to see it for what might be a final time and to
gather what I can for clothes and other memories—but I dismiss it as
superfluous. It’d be a time waster, and it’d only create more weight that I
can’t afford bringing me down right now.