Dead Lucky

A few days ago I would have enjoyed standing out on our sixth-floor balcony in the mild autumn weather and warm midday sunshine, but now I'm watching for those fiends to come back.

An old lady in the street below me stumbles among the bodies, as though she's stoned, but she's blinded, another casualty of the virus. I hear a noise and look off in the distance. I know that she heard it too because she turns her head in the direction of the car that's careening towards her.

Ask me how can I stand here and watch what's happening and do nothing to help and I won't have an answer, except to say that I'm scared. I want to yell to the old woman, to warn her that the car isn't going to stop, but I don't because I don't want the brutes in that car to know we're up here. I don't want them to come looking for us.

I hear the car's engine race just before it slams into her, hear the thud as her body absorbs some of the car's momentum. She's airborne for several long surreal moments before she bounces off of a parked car like a rag doll.

 It sickens me, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that her troubles are probably over, and that nothing I could've done would have made a difference. The first time I saw them kill somebody, I wanted to make them pay for it, but now I'm just glad it's not one of us out there, and I can't remember when I crossed that line.

Now, four of them are out of the car walking among the bodies. When they find a live one, they beat it so viciously I can hear the sounds six floors above them. It reminds me of a documentary I saw as a child that showed seal hunters killing baby seals with clubs. The commotion startles a flock of crows feeding on the bodies, the raucous sounds they make as they take flight mingling with the laughter of the car people. I go back inside and close the balcony door to shut it out because it all leaves me feeling helpless, frightened, and nauseous.

For all the scary talk about new diseases, and virulent mutations, and drug resistant strains, no one saw this coming, and by the time they realized what was happening, the virus had spread too far. So many people are blind and need help now that there aren't enough of us left with eyesight to care for them. It's death that answers their calls for help.

I go sit on the couch because I need some rest. I hope that the exhaustion I feel is from stress and lack of sleep, not the onset of the virus. I haven't slept much since my wife Mary got the fever because I'm consumed with anger thinking about her lying in the bedroom burning up with a fever that will take away her eyesight, when others, like those murderous bastards outside, are some of the lucky few who are immune to the virus.

I think about the people who were out of town when it hit. So many people travel these days and so many people tried to flee. I wonder what happens to the ones who wake up blind in unfamiliar surroundings with no one to help them. And all those hospital patients out there; what happens when they call for help and no one comes?

So I think the ones who were at home when the fever hit are the lucky ones, because even if they're blind they can find food. Then I remember the electricity. There won't be any heat with the electricity off. The water pumps must have backup power, but they'll stop soon too, and when the clean water's gone, diseases like cholera and dysentery will sweep through the cities claiming their own victims.

And what about people like me who can still see? We're doomed to witness the horrors that lie ahead for the ones who are blind, so I think the ones who die are the lucky ones. But that thought leads to madness, because then I think about killing Mary. I contemplate the act, wondering how I would do it, wondering if I could do it. And would it be an act of mercy, or an excuse to rid myself of her because she's a liability? I'm sure I could escape the city on my own, but I'm afraid I won't make it if I bring her with me. I'm angry for thinking of leaving her. I get up and look for something to do to drive these thoughts out of my head.