Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Since the Sirens (2 page)

She looked around at the wider world. Her backyard was immaculate
of course, with crisp cut grass, well-tended flower beds, and a
beautiful hedge separating her backyard on both sides from her less
tidy neighbors. Her children and grandchildren took turns coming over
and caring for her property. She loved the time she got to talk to
them about all their problems and just be there for them. She
cherished those visits and looked forward to them each week. And they
thought they were doing her the favor!

She saw no neighbors, which wasn't terribly unusual. Most of the
kids and many of the young adults would probably be inside on their
video games or whatever newfangled technology was out these days. Or
they could all be inside suffering like Angie. That thought was left
hanging as the grasshoppers played their music for her.

“Those police called a few hours too late. I let Liam go out
today without a care in the world,” she said to herself after a
few minutes of reflection. “I need to get back inside so he has
a safe place when he returns.”

She would have to save herself. She was very comfortable with the
notion, as it would prevent her from becoming someone else's problem.
She hated depending on others for things she could do for herself.
Even worse was depending on others for things she HAD done herself,
but was physically incapable of doing now.

I'm starting to feel old. Finally.

She had no guns or other weapons, and even if she did it was
unlikely she could successfully hold a gun and use it. The thought of
her lifting a shotgun and heroically reentering the house would have
given her a laughing fit on any other day. Today it just made her
mad.

She thought if she were ten years younger she might be able to
sneak to the front door, open it, and lure Angie out the front while
she walked back in through the back door. Today, just walking to the
front would probably give her a heart attack, and running from the
angry nurse on the return trip would probably kill her, one way or
the other.

Perhaps there was something in the garage she could use? Could she
make it out there and back?

Do I want to go there?

3

She had mild difficulty getting up out of her chair, but the
banging on the window did give her extra motivation. Soon she was up
and walking down the walkway to the garage. Out of habit she looked
at the bird bath and made a mental note to ask Angie to add more
water. She quickly caught her mistake.

At the far end of her small yard was her one-car garage. A small
wooden structure she seldom visited these days. It was painted a tidy
white, had a sloping black asphalt shingle roof, with a tiny window
on the rear wall as well small portals on each of the sides. The
walkway led down the center of the yard, but snaked to the right side
of the garage as it neared. When she reached the service door she
made a horrible realization—the key to the small door was
hanging on a wall inside her house! Martinette had never cussed her
whole life, it just wasn't her style. Instead of cursing, she prayed.

Because she was already there, she looked into the garage through
the tiny window in the middle of the door, and saw light. The main
garage door was already open.

It meant more walking, as she had to continue down the path, open
the small metal gate to the back alley, and then turn left to access
the front of the garage. It was then she noticed almost all the
garages on her block had their bays open, many with detritus tossed
as if sneezed out. She and many of her neighbors had been robbed.

Looking in, the previously pristine space was a tornadic blast of
her belongings. Marty hadn't driven in twenty-five years so she
didn't even own a car, but Angie's car should have been sitting in
front of her—it had been taken. So had anything else of value.
The boxes of power tools. A couple of the grandkids' fancy bikes. The
Snowblower. It was June for heaven's sake.

It's only stuff. It isn't important.

Looking at what was left, she had to find something which would
help her get back in her house. What a mess. Trash cans. Old lumber
scraps. Bags of soil. All manner of car cleaning products, lawncare
accessories, and pre – World War II shovels, spades, and other
old tools she was unable to categorize. Her husband never gave up on
a good tool.

At that moment the emergency tornado sirens began to howl. The
deep and unmistakable wail of the sirens informed all within earshot
something important was happening. It couldn't be weather—it
was a clear day. They were supposed to warn of a tornado, but mostly
the trumpets sounded only during their monthly readiness tests.
Unfortunately for her, one of these siren towers was located just
around the corner—reminding her that though she wasn't quite
deaf, she could still be made to feel deaf by eardrum-splitting
decibels. She wondered how long they would last... Finishing her scan
of the garage, her eye came across something that gave her hope.

A lifetime ago she had her picture taken with her future husband
on the back of a tall black horse. She couldn't remember the exact
year. Maybe 1927? She would have been sixteen or seventeen. Upon
seeing the picture years later her daughter asked when she took up
horseback riding. Marty laughed and said she and her beau were just
posing on the back of that horse; she was tossed up there for just
that one picture. She wasn't a horse person, and hadn't touched one
since.

She allowed herself one unguarded moment to savor that pleasant
memory.

She was fond of cowboy culture however, and she shared that love
with her husband—a man who spent many of his retirement years
painting scenes from the American West. At some point early in their
marriage they spent time at a dude ranch of sorts in Arizona. While
they weren't out rustling cattle, they did stay at the ranch, watched
the cattle being brought in, and were close enough to all the action
to appreciate the lifestyle. It was kind of a lite version of the
full dude ranch experience. It was for those who chose to stay under
a real roof, have access to real running water, and get up at hours
of their choosing.

One of the many things they enjoyed was the roping class, designed
to show guests how the cowboys prepared their ropes to snag a steer
or do their fancy rope tricks for the tourists. Both took to roping
so much they practiced quite a bit that week, and were able by the
end to throw rope, spin loops, and earn a “good job city
slickers” from one of the hands walking by. It was a proud
moment for the pair. They were so enamored they bought a couple ropes
from the place, intending to keep up the training just for fun.

However, when they got back to civilization, they got distracted
starting a family, and had many children and grandchildren before
they even noticed the ropes hanging on their garage wall. They
brought the ropes down once more and tried to recall how to spin
them, but were only modestly successful at the most basic loop spin.
They had a few laughs together thinking of that wonderful vacation,
but the ropes were quickly packed away and forgotten once again.

Thirty feet of her past was coiled innocently on the floor of the
garage. What thief would know what the thick rope was for, loop
already tied with the famous Honda Knot, especially here in the big
city? She used a rake to hook it, so she didn't have to bend down to
pick it up. It felt good in her hands, and she savored the memories
of its origin and of the last time she'd seen it. She drew strength
in the thought her husband was helping her from above. She leaned
against the wall of the garage considering how to advance her cause.

“I'll only have one chance. I'm already pooped,” she
said to herself. Below her snow-white hair, sweat was beading
profusely.

She looked around for the one other tool she thought she might
need—the long handle of a broom, without the brush attached.
Easily done. Definitely going to need that.

And she was off, slowly making her way to the back porch again.
The infernal siren was still blaring, adding anxiety to her already
desperate plan. At the halfway point she paused for a rest and
considered whether she shouldn't just go out the front gate, down the
narrow path between her flat and the neighboring home, and just keep
walking until she found help. Forget about Angie for now and just
find assistance. Lots of risk either way.

“Lord give me strength to make the right choice,” she
said to anyone listening. Marty seldom prayed for herself, but now
she allowed herself to ask for a little help. After a minute's pause
she decided her best chance to see this day to the end was to take
charge of her own problems, and recapture her home. Even if she
didn't live through the night, she wasn't about to spend her final
hours on Earth sitting on a deck chair listening to Angie claw away
her kitchen window.

“Please Lord, turn off those trumpets!” It was, for
her, a near-scream.

4

She closed the distance to the back of her house, the rope heavy
across her shoulders, and the broom handle held tightly under the arm
not working the cane. She saw herself reflected on the glass of her
back window, walking up the path with those accoutrements. She
admitted she did not look very intimidating.

Martinette was a survivor in the truest sense, and she plumbed her
memory for strength now. At 99 years of age she was walking happily
between a parked car and a local eatery where she'd gone dozens of
times before—and promptly tripped over a parking curb. She
reached out to catch herself as she fell forward, and unceremoniously
broke both arms. After the surgery to mend the breaks and assemble
the casts she was shipped off to the nursing home. Later, people who
didn't
know admitted they assumed she was going to fade away
and die after such a calamity. Needless to say she fought hard
against the odds and walked out of there six weeks later. That was
five years ago—a lifetime to someone celebrating turning each
and every calendar page after making it to 100. This was a minor
speed bump in comparison!

So on she went, pulling up to the door and window. She tied off
her rope and then took a seat in the same chair she used a few
minutes before. She was winded now and her back was fast becoming a
major distraction. She almost never used pain meds, but using them
now would be justified.

The plan was simple, as it had to be for a woman of her rapidly
declining abilities. She would tap the window with her broom handle
to get the attention of Angie who was now banging on the back door,
hopefully drawing her over to the window one more time. She hoped it
would give her an opportunity to open the screen door, then push open
the main door so it stood open wide, and finally re-shut the screen
door. From there things would get interesting.

As with most major events in her life, this one began with a
prayer.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy
staff they comfort me.”

She tried to stand up and realized her back was nearing its
limits. With great effort she did manage to stand, but this would
likely be her last unassisted “up” of the day.

“As if I don't have enough problems!” No one heard her
over the sirens.

Standing and wobbling a bit, she quickly righted herself and made
for the small segment of brickwork between the door and the rear
window. She had the rope looped over her head, the broomstick in her
left hand, and the cane in her right. From there her best guess was
she could just reach the window with the stick and still be close
enough to the door to open it. She considered whether Angie would
even hear her banging on the window over the din of the emergency
klaxons.

Trust in the Lord.

She let go of her cane and stood unassisted as best she could.
With all her strength she swung the broom handle with both hands. She
had very little arm strength, and her whole body was already taxed to
its breaking point—but it did make a satisfying bang on the
window glass. Was it enough? No second chance to be had, as the stick
flew out of her hands and landed harmlessly in the grass just off the
concrete porch. It was now or never.

She maneuvered herself to open the screen door, and was dismayed
to see how far open she needed it just so she could gain enough
leverage to open the heavier inside door. It was taking too much
time! She gave the door a push and was relieved to see it slowly
swing open into the kitchen. Now all she had to do was move out of
the screen door's path and close it before Angie returned from her
screaming attack on the window. It disturbed Marty deeply to hear
such anger and pain, but it also scared her half to death knowing she
didn't have anything between her and the inside of the house but a
slowly closing and flimsy aluminum screen door.

It latched shut with a satisfying click, but now she felt the
panic rising. There was Angie, flailing to the door soon thereafter.

Oh heavens!

Standing there she nearly forgot what she was supposed to be
doing, but she regained her wits enough to pull the rope from around
her neck and get it into position. She had no idea what to expect of
this plan, as she had absolutely no experience breaking screen doors.
Would the whole thing collapse outward? Would Angie kick it open?
Would Angie accidentally hit the latch to open the door like a normal
person? So many variables ran through her head as she stood inches
away from danger.

And then the screen lining ripped near the top where Angie was
beating it with her fists. This encouraged her to instinctively lean
into the broken screen as if to push through it and try to step out.
As Angie's head came out of the screen, Marty pulled a simple rope
trick that any of those ranch hands would applaud unabashedly, city
slicker or not—she looped the lasso loop over Angie's poking
head and pulled it tight. If Angie noticed it she gave no
indication—but continued trying to free herself of the door.
Marty grabbed her cane and started walking as fast as her orthopedic
shoes would carry her, knowing Angie was absolutely going to make it
outside. It was all part of her plan.