One Weird Day

Rescue

Even with the blinds down, the flickering light is hard to miss. There's no electricity in this dark neighborhood but this single candlelight.

I park in front of the house and wait while the undead residents shuffle about, attracted by my arrival. The locked doors let no smells out, and the tinted windows allow no view inside, so they gradually lose interest and leave. I wait some more, then grab my gun and get out.

Across the lawn, up the stairs, and here I am, standing on the porch, knocking.

"Open up," I call. "Please?"

As I look over my shoulder, a couple of ragged, dark figures are already moving towards me across the road. I raise my hand to knock again but pause as the sound of furniture being moved comes from inside the house. They must have something heavy against the door.

The shadowy figures behind me reach the lawn when the door opens.

I slip into the dark hall and stop to catch my breath while the man barricades the door again. The hall is messy and so is what I can see of the living room, with food wrappers and empty bottles everywhere. The smells confirm that no cleaning took place in a while.

The man turns around. He looks wild with his long, uncombed hair and a bushy beard. He squints at me, then grabs me by the arm and pulls me into the living room, closer to the light. I don't struggle. I've seen enough of such lone survivors to not expect any manners.

He stops by the mantel on which the candle is burning and stares at me, taking in my gun, my uniform, my very existence.

"Officer Marta Garcia," I say. "I'm here to help you. What's your name?"

He just blinks, so I continue.

"I'm a part of a governmental rescue mission. We're gathering survivors to be transported by military ships to an offshore marine base."

"There's no government." His voice is rusty. "No more ships. I heard on the radio. Lately, there's even been no radio."

I shrug. "I'm not saying things are great, but as you can see, I'm here, and so is the ship. It sails in the morning. I've been driving around the area, looking for survivors. You're lucky I've spotted your candle. Are you coming with me?"

He blinks. "What, you expect me to just leave everything behind and go with you?"

I look around. "Doesn't seem like much to leave."

He lets out a dry cackle.

"How about my home? My life?"

His gaze catches briefly on the pictures on the mantelpiece. I step closer to look. There're a man, a woman, and a little boy on most of the photos. It takes me a moment to recognize the man. He didn't have a beard back then.

I point at a picture. "Your son?"

He nods. I don't ask what has become of the boy. He's not here, so the answer is obvious.

"Did you have children?" he says.

I press my lips together to suppress a nervous twitch. Yet he's told me about his son, so I owe him some frankness.

"Two girls. Alejandra and Regina. Were about to enroll in college."

His eyes soften a bit. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. This is too painful to talk about.

"I must go." I take a step back. "I'll let my superior know about you staying here. They'll likely send another mission in a month or so. You can decide by then."

"I've decided," he says. "I'll go. Just give me a minute."

He runs up the stairs, leaving me alone with the photos. I study them some more to the sounds of stomping feet and slamming drawers from the second floor. Then, I knock them down on their faces, one by one. There won't be anyone to look at them now.

He returns a few minutes later, carrying a stuffed backpack.

"Now," I say, "we run. You go into the backseat. I keep my ammunition in the front."

"Fine." He nods. "Let's do it before I changed my mind."

We make it across the lawn unobstructed, swift and silent like two shadows. He's slower due to the backpack, so I slide into the driver's seat and slam my door closed by the time he reaches the car. I can see in the rearview mirror how he fumbles with the handle of the van's side door before sliding it open. Then, he screams.

I look in front of me, counting flowers on the steering wheel cover. The scream cuts off abruptly. It never takes long. The girls go straight for the throat. Then, I just sit there, listening to the familiar growling, tearing and chewing noises.

After a while, I look at the rearview mirror again. The messy shape on the ground doesn't even resemble a man anymore, just a heap of disconnected bloody pieces. The girls are all over him, skinny, dirty and mad. Yet they're still my girls. I still love them.

More shadowy figures stumble towards the van, so I know we're out of time. I knock on the glass separating the driver's cabin from the back of the van. The girls jump in immediately and begin scratching at the glass, trying to get to me. Always trying to get to me.

I pull at the rope under the seat, closing the back door, cutting us away from the bloody feast that resumes outside. Inside, two distorted, bloodied faces remain pressed against the glass, trying to bite me through it. I run my fingers over them in a caressing motion. One day, someone will invent a drug to fix them. Until then, it's my job to keep them alive.

I'm just not the kind of mother to let my kids go hungry.