The Breakdown of a Family

Held together by an invisible thread

Each family has its own order

Each member

A necessary knot

Don’t downplay

The importance of a link

With one knot undone

The others begin to unravel

A mother is a central knot

Tied twice, no three times!

But if rot takes hold on the string

If rot starts on the first tie of the mother

The rest of the string is weakened

They feel the mother unwinding

Feel the slack in the family line

Each knot

Will become undone

No matter how much care is taken

Not to stir the loose ends

Even those at the end

Tied far away on purpose!

To distance their strong, fancy knots

From becoming ruined

Ah, those artists forget the elements

That takes a thread and weathers it away

From loose ends long ago untied

One knot undone

Is the breakdown of a family

Chapter Five

It’s calm when I wake up, too calm. I hear birds chirping through my bedroom window. The sun is streaking through the blinds onto the carpet. The only difference between today and last week is the sound of people cutting grass and going for a drive with their windows down is absent. I walk downstairs to find Brian and Dad with dark circles under their eyes sitting on the couch.

Brian goes off upstairs after a tired kiss on the cheek, and Dad starts making coffee. Thank God for gas stoves. Even with the power out we can boil water and make coffee with a lighter. I do not think I could live without coffee, despite the number of grounds in it today I drink it greedily. I tend to get headaches when I stay the night at a friend’s who doesn’t drink coffee. They wake up, they want to talk to me, and I just want to punch them in the face until I have my cup of delicious black liquid.

The hours pass until late morning, and finally Mom makes her way downstairs. Her green bathrobe swishes as she hobbles down slowly. She never looks up at any of us until after she sits down and closes her eyes for a few minutes at the kitchen table. She has a cup of extra watered down coffee for her sensitive stomach and sits with her hands on each arm of the chair; her eyes are shut and she breathes with her mouth open. I sit on the guard couch and watch the morning heat up with my coffee cooling down in my hands. Despite the pile of corpses in the back left corner of the yard, it is a beautiful day. Mom’s gardens in the backyard are blooming. The alternating red and yellow tulips lining the fence are complemented by the daffodils in the center of the back fence. Right before her last chemo treatment she weeded and mulched everything. The project took her a whole slow week and a half even with help from the rest of the family when we were home. A few years ago it would have taken her a day.

The scent of Lily of the Valley reaches my nose from the garden that lines the back of the house. I hear Mom get up behind me. She is moving faster today. The chemo must be starting to leave her system at last. She gets up and goes to the little pantry and starts pulling out granola bars and water.

“We need emergency packs,” are the first words out of her mouth. She is always organizing and rearranging so this is a good thing for her. It’s normal. If she packs for us we can be sure that we will have everything we need and then some. There is now a stock pile of mini tissue packs, travel toothpastes and deodorants, granola bars, jerky, sunscreen, bug spray, a few can openers, any type of allergy or pain medication imaginable, bandages, and even gauze that I didn’t know we had all on the counter along with many other items by early afternoon. All of our current backpacks and a few from elementary school are lying emptied on the table of weapons, one for each of us just in case we have to dash out of here.

Brian and Carl make their way downstairs when the sun is high. Dad fries up bacon and sausage, and there are scrambled eggs and orange juice to be downed before they go bad in an ever warming up fridge. The milk has been thrown away already even though no one opened the fridge after the power went out. For dinner I am sure we are having all the other perishables that are barely clinging on in the warming up freezer and fridge.

After we all eat to our heart's content, except for Mom, who has a few bites of egg whites, orange juice, and a handful of large pills one at a time, we get ready to get the wood we need from the neighbors. I take the post upstairs with my .22 pointing out the window at the end of the hall, and Brian and Carl head through the fence gate. I spy out my window at the house where the horde came from last night. The back door hangs open casting a small shadow on their grass in the sunlight. The rest of the house looks plain, boring: white, cookie cutter, no gardens, and black shutters against white curtains. All of my muscles are tight, my finger posed on the trigger. I can feel the cold steel just barely grazing my flesh. The dry, stinging pain with the need to blink comes, but I can’t without fear I’ll lose my sighting. However, there is nothing, thankfully. They bring back enough wood to patch the damage and more in a few trips. They casually walk to the neighbor’s half built shed and back, and the house stays still. I keep my eyes peeled anyway. If something were to happen to them because I got lazy I could never forgive myself.

“Stack the wood outside, boys,” Mom says as I come down the stairs. She is standing in the doorway hole. This is where she has been since she finished making her packs, and all she has been doing is tutting about the hole as if that will fix the damage.

“Uhh, no,” said Carl. “Kinda need it inside. We are blocking ourselves in, not out.”

“Well, I want to clean inside first,” she says without looking up from the pile she has swept on the floor in front of our gaping hole.

“I just cleaned it last night, Mom. Besides, we are in a zombie apocalypse, pretty sure they don’t care if they eat messy or clean people,” I say.

And just like that the switch flips. “You kids just don’t get it, do you?” She puts her hands on her hips, dropping the broom to the floor with a bang. “I am tired, I don’t have time to argue.”

“We aren’t trying to argue, Mom. We are trying to save time,” I say. I am annoyed. Why does she worry about silly things like a clean floor during something like this?

“Mom, we are the zombie experts,” Carl says.

“Oh yeah? Have you been in an apocalypse before, Carl?” Mom says.

“In video games and in my mind,” comes his sly reply.

“Mom, I think you need to calm down,” I say.

“Don’t fricking tell me to calm down!” She turns a bony finger at me.

“Well, that escalated quickly.” I turn to the stairs and walk away up to my room.

She follows me, of course. I am peeved that she is following me, but it also means she has her spit and fire back, a huge change from the past week. I run up the rest of the stairs and shut my door more loudly than I intended. Footsteps come slowly but determinedly up the steps. I lock my door with a click. Why I am not really sure, the scenario always plays out the same.

She tries the door handle and starts banging immediately, not knocking, banging.

“Zoe, you unlock this door right now!”

She begins to kick it when I don’t reply. It’s getting embarrassing with Brain downstairs, so after a few moments I unlock it.

She comes in, furious. Her baggy robe is swaying side to side as she steps right into the center of my door frame, declaring her dominance. I know locking her out has made her temper rise farther faster, but I stand my ground, almost like I am facing an attacking dog. I honestly feel that this is stupid, and I know her getting irate so fast is the chemo’s fault. It took her temper to a new level. Her mind has changed.

“You are so disrespectful! If we are going to be stuck in here it should at least be clean. I am tired of your shit, Zoe,” a little bit of spit flies off her lips. She doesn’t even notice.

“You are being ridiculous, and Brian is here. Do you really have to act this way? You are the mother after all.” Bad choice of words.

“This is my house, you are the child. I will act however I want in my house.”

“I’m the child that saved your life, remember?”

“I do, Zoe, and I appreciate that. I want to clean. I am scared. Some normalcy would be nice. I love you, but your attitude sucks. I raised you with more respect than that.” She sounds endearing for a moment.

“I was being respectful…to my brother. I think he’s right. We kind of need to board up fast and from the inside.”

“You two always gang up on me! He’s an asshole and you’re a bitch, I swear!” and the biting sarcasm is back. I’m not really hurt anymore when she calls me a bitch, more or less just annoyed by it nowadays.

“Takes one to know one, Mom,” crap, shouldn’t have said that.

She walks toward me and raises her hand to slap me. I block as her hand comes down. She is very weak. I barely push her to the side and she stumbles; it gives me enough time to quickly walk out of the room, not run because that would show that I lost. I grab my keys off my dresser on my way out. I hear her regain her balance as I jog down the stairs. If I talk to her again I’ll do more than just shove her off of me. Dad always said I got my temper from her.

Brian and Carl are nowhere to be seen as I run out the hole. I get to the evergreen bush on the left side of the house and grab the fifth of vodka I hide there for when I want to go out with friends to celebrate being a senior. Then I jump the fence and run to my car. The neighborhood is still dead quiet, save for a few birds.

I see Mom appear at the side gate as I start my car. I back out of the driveway and see her yelling something as I pull away. I don’t know why I am doing this; it isn’t my first argument in that house, but I just have to get away. I need to get away from Mom, the sickness, the damn world ending because my own world ending before just wasn’t enough! In the rearview mirror I see Brian, Dad, and Carl appear by her side looking confused more than anything. I don’t care, God I am so angry. How dare she try to hit me. I did nothing wrong, that incredulous woman.

As I drive, I cry. I take back roads through small subdivisions and dirt roads. The streets are void of people, empty cars are on the roads, and I swerve to avoid them, everyone seems to have left or gone into hiding. I see a few bodies crumpled on the ground next to the cars. I can only hope they are dead dead; I can’t handle seeing a dead one right now. What the Hell happened out here? It looks like a Hollywood horror movie happened everywhere but our neighborhood. Houses have their windows smashed and I see Bible verses spray painted on almost every garage door. I need to go somewhere I’ll be safe and alone to cry. The park, I’ll go to the park.

The drive into the park goes at least a few miles back from the main road or any houses. No zombies, no people, just trees. I head that way. I need to drive on a main road for about a mile to get to the entrance. It looks like our subdivision is one of the few places that didn’t pack up and try to hit the road all at the same time. It’s weird though; I don’t see any zombies, just cars and a few torn apart corpses. I avoid looking at the bloody masses, not for squeamish reasons, but in case I find a way to recognize the pulp.

I pull into the abandoned park. The main gravel drive cuts clear through to another side of town. You can walk a seven-mile loop here if you have time to kill. I drive about five minutes into the park’s back parking lot and cut the engine under the shade of an oak tree. The tears are dried up now.

I look out the window into the park. There are thick groves of oak trees where I am, and cobblestone paths on each side of the road for bikes and pedestrians.

I bend my head onto the steering wheel, “God, this isn’t fair! I’m tired of fighting with Mom. I know people tell me it’s the chemo brain that makes her temper worse, but she’s always had a temper, and yeah, I know I’m not the calmest person.” Am I mad at Mom or the cancer? “I don’t know God, help me. Help me, help,” and the tears start again.

“Oh, God I’m so stupid. No. You’re stupid. You. Are. Stupid. Why is any of this happening? Is this some sick trick, God? Kill my dying mother by zombies instead of cancer. God works in mysterious ways crap!” I grab the vodka out of the passenger's seat and take a shot back. It tastes nasty, and the shock of it has my face twisting, but I just don’t care right now. I take another as soon as the shivers from the first swig subside.

I cling to one phrase as I cry, “It’s not fair,” I repeat it over and over. “It’s not fair.”

By the third mouthful of vodka, I turn my radio on. Loud static comes through, no more radio signals, just another reason to keep drinking. I reach into my glove box and pull out my iPod hookup. I put it on shuffle, drink, and cry, “Oh God, it’s not fair,” and I drink until I forget who I am, and the world turns black.

I open my eyes to a pounding noise other than the bass of my music. It doesn’t fit. My music is ungodly loud, when I turned it up that high I don’t remember. I don’t want to move, but I lull my head toward the sound of the pounding. A man with half a face is smashing his fists into the passenger window. I can see the cavity where half his nose used to be. The sinewy muscle is turning brown and crusty on his cheek. His tongue is sticking through the crack in the window I left open. Black, brown blood trickles down the window, and as he presses harder on the glass the half of his face that has been peeled off and dried over begins to break off revealing moist rotting flesh.

I hear more pounding behind me. I turn my head to see two more corpses crawling onto my trunk, with two more walking my way about 20 yards back. I move myself up and I feel nauseated. My head is killing me. I should feel panic. I should feel shaky and hear my heartbeat, but all I feel is drunk-numb. I try to find a knife; it is the only thing I can think to do right now. I reach into my front right pocket. It takes me forever to get it out. I flip it open with my thumbnail, but my fingers don’t want to cooperate, and I drop it to the floor.

I bend to reach for it, and I am stopped because I am still wearing my seatbelt, “Shit,” I slur. I unbuckle myself slowly even though I will myself to move faster, and I reach for my knife again. The zombie keeps pounding away to my left. I finally grab it after a few tries because the initial effort to bend that far was harder than my current physical status can grasp.

Crack. I look up and I find that the two zombies that were walking are now on my car, and one of them is directly in front of my face, beating my windshield with her skull. The force is astounding, she whips her head back hard enough that a chunk of hair gets stuck in a crack she has made and it rips a piece of her scalp off. It dangles down my window as she continues pounding. I stare at her for a second and I can only think of the fact that I own the same light blue shirt she is wearing.

I can’t think clearly; they are everywhere. It’s getting dark; the trees are spinning a mixture of browns and greens like a movie on fast-forward. My hand holding my knife feels like it is spinning even though I am positive I am sitting still. It’s too loud to hear my own thoughts. I turn down my music. Something I should have done sooner. BANG. The zombie on my windshield slides off my hood. I hear birdshot pepper my hood. I hear another shot and the zombie on my trunk goes limp, shaking my little Sunfire as the body slams into the old metal.

I turn out my driver’s side window and see a familiar face against the spinning background. Tom is walking toward my car, shotgun in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He sets his gun down and swings at the zombie licking my driver’s side window and he goes down with a sickening crack of his neck. Blood sprays my view. The remaining two zombies are clambering their way off my car toward Tom now. One has a terrible limp. This is the one that lets out a screech as Tom takes a stand. It makes my head pound. The shrieking hurts even when I put my hands to my ears. Tom steps back to give himself space and loads his gun as he backs away. He takes two shots and drops his empty gun simultaneously with the dead undead. He wiggles his crowbar like a player up to bat. One is still screaming like an infant with colic, and it is limping faster and faster with each shriek. He smacks it in the stomach and then the chest and finally, the neck. It crumples and he continues to go to town on it with unwarranted rage. The ribs of the thing become a bloody pulp.

After about five unnecessary blows he grabs his shotgun from the dirt and walks toward my car. I should probably get out, but I feel nauseous again. I just stare at him in what I can only imagine screams stupid. I can feel my jaw hanging open but I can’t will myself to shut it. He opens my car door, and I tumble out of my car onto the gravel. The alcohol must be leaving my system; I feel the sharp pain of the rocks digging into my knees. I hadn’t realized I had been leaning on the door as I watched him approach.

I look up at him from the dirt on all fours. He looks furious. Then he just bends down and picks me up so I am draped over his shoulder for support. He walks me to the passenger door of my car. I look at the corpse who is wearing the same shirt I own again, and I vomit all over the hood of my car, and again onto the small of her back, covering all of the pretty blue cloth. He doesn’t say a word as I wipe my mouth of the pungent taste and continues walking. He shuts the door for me and gets in the driver’s side.

The moment the door shuts he says, “I’ve never known you to be so stupid, Zoe.”

I stare at him. It was stupid; well turning my music up so loud was stupid. Hiding in a huge wilderness park not so much, at least I thought it was a well thought out plan.

“Going to explain why you are here, Honors student?” He asks. His lips are so thin right now, and almost white he has them shut so tight at the end of every sentence.

“Why are you here?” Is the only thing that stumbles out of my mouth. Then I start to cry. I have no idea why, one of those moments that as soon as you try to talk tears come out, like your mouth was a trigger to your tear ducts. I think I should be over my pity party from earlier, but I’m not. I just bawl my eyes out into Tom’s shoulder as the sun sinks lower. He strokes my hair and waits for me to calm down. I can feel his muscles relax as I cry. The anger is ebbing out of him.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m such an idiot, such an idiot,” I slur, but I can at least control my words and body better than a few minutes ago.

“No, Zoe. It’s okay. You did something idiotic, but you’re fine now. You sound like you’re having a worse day than me. Why the Hell didn’t you start your car and drive away?”

My head is still in his shoulder, but I feel him shift and grab the empty fifth. I hear him sigh.

“I’m sorry; I don’t know. I couldn’t think. I…I still can’t think clear,” I whisper.

“How much of this did you have, Zoe?”

“Almost all of it,” I’m ashamed. I almost died. I never used to drink until my old school counselor ticked me off by saying my reactions were totally normal. How could anything my family is facing be normal? I stopped going to the counselor after that and finally took Lila up on the drinks she had been offering me since our sophomore year. Tom raises his eyebrows at me in the same way a shocked parent would. Then he stops looking at me and throws the bottle out the window and it shatters in the distance.