The Last Safe Place: A Zombie Novella (2 page)

“How did this thing get onto the island? They can’t swim. They don’t have the coordination for it.”

“Maybe it walked.”

“Across the bottom of the harbor? It’s not a flat surface, and it’s not an easy climb onto the island. The storm walls are steep.”

Doc nods. “But on the southern and eastern shores there are rocks.”

“These things aren’t mountain climbers. They don’t have the dexterity. What they do have is the brainpower of slugs.”

Doc shrugs. “I don’t know.”

If the island isn’t safe anymore then I’ve got three hundred people to move. Most of them are weak, starving, angry, and I’ve got no place to put them. Plus, there’s June. The move could kill her.

It’s too early to make that call. I need to see what’s going on across the water. I hoist the bat onto my shoulder. “If these things are changing, we need to know.”

He nods. “You’re going mainland.”

I want to say something tough, maintain the badass image people like Doc hold me up to. But I can’t. It’s all I can do to keep from shaking.

When I can speak without my voice cracking, I tell Doc, “We go see Reginald. First I need to go check on June.”

“How is she?”

“Dying, still.”

*

The sun is out. Beautiful day, pending doom aside. I shield my eyes and cut across the parking lot to Craig Road. It’s the long way around but I want to take a look at the shore. Make sure there aren’t any more of these things walking around. The road is quiet but that doesn’t stop me from peeking over my shoulder every few minutes.

I pass people on their way to work, to tend the water farm on the east side of the island or the sanitation facility at the south end. They nod or wave or say things to me. I smile and acknowledge them but I’m too distracted to even notice who’s walking past me.

My building, the largest of the four and closest to the island’s southern end, is just coming to life when I reach it. There are people hanging laundry out windows, kids in the fields cutting down the high grass. Across the water the Freedom Tower catches the glare of the sun, still unfinished.

Miss Olsen is on her knees, hands dug into the earth, tending to the vegetable bed outside the entrance. Her gray hair pokes out from under a sun hat and her eyes are shaded by obnoxious plastic sunglasses. She looks up at me and says, “Those kids were out here again last night, talking until all hours. When are you going to do something about it?”

I stop, breathe deep, respond through clenched teeth. “I did do something. I told them to keep it down and they listened.”

“They’re still too loud.”

“There are dozens of empty apartments in this building. Why not move to one further away from the quad?”

“It shouldn’t be up to me to move because you don’t want to do your job.” She gives me a hard look, but then catches a glimpse at the smears and chunks of grey matter still clinging to the baseball bat dangling at my side. The stern face melts.

I shrug. “The kids are fine. Let me know when they break a law.”

She mutters something at me. I turn back and tell her, “The world ended, so maybe calm the fuck down and be happy you’re alive. How about that?”

She scoffs. “I’m going to file a complaint.”

“With who?”

She says something else but I ignore it, head inside.

That wasn’t professional, but some days these people grate on me.

If June were well, I’d take her someplace lightly populated where we could ride this thing out alone. Someplace I didn’t have to worry about people who think the world is still turning, and only around them. If I didn’t owe a couple of chits to karma, that’s exactly what I would do.

The lobby is empty, save the folding table and metal chair we use as a makeshift desk. The rook is manning it. He thinks I don’t remember his name because I call him rook. He doesn’t get that he needs to earn a name.

He’s a ball of nervous energy; tanned, shaved head like Sophia, with a body like a featherweight. He’s got a round face and an easy smile. Ask him to do something and he’s off before you finish the sentence.

When he sees me he jumps up from the desk and salutes, says, “Morning, Sarge.”

“Don’t salute me, kid,” I tell him. “We’re long past that bullshit.”

He looks disappointed and I keep walking, but then stop and call him over. “How are things?”

“All quiet, sir.”

I poke my finger into his chest. “When I get back down here I want Sophia waiting for me. Have someone replace her on watch.”

“Yes sir. Can I ask what’s wrong?”

“Nothing to be worried about,” I tell him.

*

The rubber bands of the paper medical mask snag on my beard. I don’t know that I even need to wear it. My immune system kicked the bug in a few days. That, and my breath gets hot underneath and condenses on my face so I can taste that I haven’t brushed my teeth in a week.

But after watching June these past two months, better to be safe.

She doesn’t stir when I come into the bedroom. I sit on the floor next to her. Only her head is poking out from under a scratchy, grey blanket. Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat. I touch it, light so I don’t wake her up, and it feels like the top of a stove.

Her face is sallow, skin wrapped so tight around bone it’s almost translucent. She looks nothing like the curvy little artist slinging drinks at the saloon by my precinct.

I was a cop with a face like a boot and the conversation skills of a bag of hammers. She fell in love with me anyway. Could we all be so lucky.

There are things to do and I should go but I can’t. Can’t will myself to stand. Leaving means I have to get mainland, which means I may get myself dead. That, or I could come back and the pneumonia could have finally torn through her. I want to stay here, now, with the two of us alive, and that can be enough.

I stare at the paint peeling on the walls. At the tile scored down to the subfloor and the meager pile of canned beans and vegetables in the corner. At the one window with glass on it, and the other fortified with plywood. There’s a leak somewhere. The heavy aroma of mildew hangs in the air. I can smell it through the paper mask.

Sometimes I miss our little house on Staten Island. Other times I
really
miss our little house on Staten Island.

There’s a hand on my foot. June is smiling at me, not without a great deal of effort. She says, “Hey.” Her voice is heavy and low, like she’s working muscles to form the words.

“Hey, Junebug.” I touch her cheek. Still hot.

She rolls over and looks up at the ceiling. “How was patrol?”

“Good,” I tell her. “Uneventful.”

Looking at me again, she squints. “You’re lying.”

“Couple of the kids being loud. Nothing.”

She still doesn’t believe me. She readjusts herself on the pile of mattress pads and exhales, unable to get comfortable. The effort of it saps her energy. She places her hand on her chest and presses, like she’s trying to force the air in.

“Can we please go up to one of the houses on Evans Road?” I ask. “Some of them even have furniture. We could get you in a bed.”

“Remember what you said when we first moved in?” She lowers her voice, trying to imitate mine. “‘I need these people to respect me. And they’re not going to respect me if I go live in some fancy house. If there’s a problem I need to be here to address it’.”

“This is different.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not. You have a job to do. The people here are nicer anyway. I don’t want to live with those people in their stupid fancy houses.” She sees something in my face I’m trying to hide. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

“I have to go.”

June squeezes my hand. “Where?”

“Security drills. Need to keep everyone sharp. I probably won’t see you until tomorrow. I’m going to tell Mister Franklin to keep an eye on you.”

She tries to work herself up to a sitting position, wincing and huffing, and finally gives up. I lean down and kiss her, the paper mask still in place. Even through it, I can smell the rot on her breath. Whether that’s us being out of toothpaste or the infection, I can’t tell. I’m not a doctor. And our doctor is barely a doctor.

I break away from her and go to the window, look down at the road and pretend there’s something to look at for a few minutes. Then I pull off my shirt and root around for a fresh one. The cargo pants and boots will be fine; they’re getting a little grungy and if they’re going to need a wash, I may as well spend the day covering them with viscera.

June lies on her back, looking up at the ceiling, and I take that as a chance to dig through the steamer trunk underneath the window, looking for the shoebox hidden under some spare clothes.

My SIG Sauer P226 is nestled inside. The one I won’t keep in the armory under Fort Jay because this one is mine. The stainless steel body is cold and heavy. I put the gun into the front of my pants, pull my shirt over it. I twist so I can get two boxes of bullets into the pockets of my cargo pants without letting them rattle.

When I turn around, June is smiling. She says, “So do you think you’ll be able to look for some antibiotics?”

“Doc has tried two different courses. Neither of them worked, and that’s all he has.”

“I mean when you go across the water.” I begin to say something but she shakes her head. “Please don’t lie to me. I know you’re doing it to protect me, but please don’t lie to me.”

I squat down on the floor next to her. “I’m sorry.”

“Is everything all right?”

“No,” I tell her. “There’s some stuff I want to check out and some supplies that we need. I’ll take someone with me and be back soon. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

“I worry about you every time you walk out through that door.” She reaches up and places her hand on my arm.

“You’re beautiful. As long as you’re here waiting, I’ll get home.”

“Who are you taking with you?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Sophia?”

“Probably not. I’ll keep her in charge here while I’m gone.”

June nods. “Okay.” Not even trying to hide the relief in her voice. “You know. Maybe when you get back and if I’m feeling a little better…” She slides her hand on the inside of my thigh.

She knows she can’t follow up on that and that I’d never push the issue. But she also knows how Sophia looks at me. I take her hand in mine and hold it. “Get some rest, Junebug. I’ll be back soon.”

I stand in the hallway and make sure I’m alone and cry into my hands for a little while.

She doesn’t deserve this. It should be me, is what I tell myself every day.

There’s a black trash bag sitting on the floor, just outside the door. I swing it onto my shoulder, rip off the paper mask, and trudge down the stairs.

*

Sophia is waiting. She says, “I spoke to Doc.”

I wave down one of the kids playing outside and hand him the bag. Tommy, I think. He takes the bag and doesn’t ask, just runs south, where we have people to sort through the trash, repurpose everything we can repurpose, then toss the rest into the harbor. It makes me feel a little guilty, but there’s no place else to put it.

When the kid is out of earshot Sophia asks, “How did it get onto the island?”

I set off toward Upper Gov and she follows. “Wish I had an answer. Then I wouldn’t have to go find out.”

She nods. “I’m coming with.”

“You’re staying here.”

“You need me. I know this isn’t just about reconnaissance. You’re going to scout for supplies. You’ll need me.”

“If these things are getting onto the island then I need someone keeping things locked down while I’m away. I don’t trust anyone else.”

Sophia smiles when I say this, her face flushed. That’s all she needed to hear, but she presses anyway, because she doesn’t want me to know she took the compliment. “What are you going to do, take one of the kids? All they’re good for is throwing at the rotters so you can run away.”

“If need be.”

She stops walking. “How’s June?”

“Not great.”

She nods, looks me in the eye. Not like a soldier. She places her hand on my arm and blood rushes around my body. She says, “If you ever want to talk.”

Sophia is beautiful. But I think of June, of her smile, and how she’ll look at me when I find her some working antibiotics. I tell Sophia, “Double the foot beats while I’m away. Don’t tell anyone what’s going on. If anyone asks, say it’s a training exercise.”

She asks, “Who are you taking?”

The rook runs past us. I call him and he stops and turns so quick he nearly falls down. Sophia laughs. I tell her, “That’s my man.”

He looks at the two of us. “What?”

*

Reginald sits deep in his hardwood Adirondack chair, a sweaty glass of lemonade perched on the arm. His head is dipped back and he’s staring across the green, rolling field opposite the Admiral’s House.

Out front, toward the road, is a placard that explains the history of the house. There are placards like that all over the island, installed after it became a park.

The Admiral’s House was built in the Greek revival style, completed in 1843. Historically it housed the island’s top ranking officer, first from the U.S. Army when they ran it, and then from the Coast Guard, when they took it over.

It’s a big, beautiful home with white columns out front and ornate woodwork inside. The house could fit twenty people comfortably. Reginald lives there alone. The joys of leadership.

He’s still staring across the field and I think he’s forgotten we’re here. I’m about to kick him in the shin when he says, “I don’t think you should go.”

“If something about the condition of these things is changing, we need to know.”

Reginald lifts his head up and looks at me. He’s handsome, his dirty-blonde hair flat against his skull, his eyes blue and pale like crystal. He says, “And this has nothing to do with your wife’s condition?”

“Of course I’m going to scout for supplies. If I find antibiotics, that’s a win for everyone.”

“And nobody wins if they’ve figured out a way onto the island. We need you here, keeping things organized.”

“I have thirty men and women. Trained and ready.”

“To defend three hundred people we need every hand on deck. I need you here. You’re barely keeping things under control as it is.”