Eating: The Breakdown of a Family

Transformation

Transformation

There once was a man from Michigan

Who dreamed he was eating his wife's hand

He forgot who he was

While snacking on his cuz

What fun this man had in zombie land

Chapter Four

We all sit in the living room watching the news, save for Dad who is frying up venison and boiling lima beans for dinner. I try texting Brian's phone a few times after I find my charger, but there are no responses. I pray he just left it at the school.

The front storm door is dead bolted, the back door in the laundry room has a tall dresser (which was a pain in the ass to get down the stairs) from my parents room pulled in front of it, and all first floor windows have furniture stacked in front of them as Mom refuses to let Carl nail boards into the walls despite his eagerness to do so. All the curtains in the house are drawn, and each of us, except for Mom, has a gun close at hand. I have a Ruger 10/22, Carl a Remington 1100, and Dad a Mossberg 500.

A collection of other odd weaponry has accumulated up on the kitchen table: two rusted machetes along with my new one, kitchen knives, a Barrett crossbow, an old ax, a tomahawk, and for some reason a banshee bat that I'm pretty sure Carl made out back one day and kept hidden from our parents in the garage until now. Mom gives him an open mouthed stare followed by a glare when he brings it in the house. I have a knife in all of my pockets, my large Cold Steel thrower is attached to my black belt, and my small Smith and Wesson three-blade set on the floor by my feet. Carl is sitting at the kitchen table with a wet stone, sharpening the rusted machetes. Maybe we are a bit over prepared, maybe this will stay under control, but then again it is always the unprepared that die, and the Marksons' are not people to give up easily.

Dinner is quiet and eaten in the living room in front of the carnage and science on the flat screen. Eventually, we leave the television on, but turn our backs to the gore while we finish eating. I force the food down knowing I might need it, but having a hard time swallowing as I think about Mr. Tanks lying dead on the school floor still. Mom gives up on dinner after a few bites and disappears upstairs, dragging her blue blanket with her up the steps. We all go to bed in our rooms that night one by one, with a gun by the bedside, but there is little noise. The neighborhood is hiding in the quiet, like a child in hide and go seek. The only sound is a lone dog bark a few streets away. I lie in my bed, turn onto my stomach and fold my hands.

"Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." I pause a moment to collect my thoughts. "God, what has happened? Are the gates of Hell overflowing or what? This isn't supposed to happen in my lifetime. Maybe in a thousand years when I'm dead and gone, and my beliefs won't be seen in front of my eyes. They are supposed to be easy to believe in like a kid believes in the Boogie Man because he never sees him."

"I really hope, God, that you have a plan because this is simply not cool. As a matter of fact, this is straight up bull. Like I didn't have enough to deal with. Just last week Mom and I were talking again, and now this? Six half-life days of Hell, and on the seventh day they rest? I sure hope so, God... I don't want to tick you off. I'm sorry, God. Whatever I have done, humanity has done, I'm sorry, make it stop." I feel tears in my eyes. I close my eyes until they subside. My face feels hot. "Please protect us. I don't want another Mr. Tanks episode. Please...oh, God, let Rebecca live, let Brian be safe. I haven't heard from him yet. Bless this household, and please let Mom one day live a cancer free life. Amen."

I stare at the ceiling, thinking. I wonder where Brian is. I miss him, and it takes all my mental strength not to imagine Rebecca turning into a zombie and ripping out his heart. Sleep comes with worry, but sleep comes hard when it does.