It’s been over a month and a half since I’ve been at work. Our office, which is a payroll service, has pared down to only two employees—usually there are six of us--just to keep things operational. I only had one month of paid leave, and now I’ve been using my accumulated sick days. I think I had about three month’s worth because I haven’t been sick that often in the nine years I’ve been working there. With all the free time I’ve had, you’d think I’d visit with friends more, but I’ve been reclusive. I’ve been overtired and stressed from my “marital conflict”.
On the weekend, I went over to Grace’s instead of the coffee shop. I decided it would be nicer to see her away from work, plus we could visit longer than just her 15 minute break. She offered to come over to my place when I called to invite myself over for coffee, but I made up a lame-o excuse that Joel was still home from work because of his leg being infected. I told her he was grouchy and I’d like to just get out of the house for a while, if it was okay with her. Being the good friend she is, she welcomed me over for coffee and butter tarts.
Grace and her husband Corey are considering taking their sons, Mitchell (age 6) and Sammy (age 3), to where they have a cabin by Bonnet Lake, an hour east of Bromley. Her and Corey would just take time off work and get out of town. I told her about Jamie Robinson and her family staying at their cabin in the mountains, and Grace agreed that it’s probably a good idea.
“I’m terrified for my family,” she said with tears. “This is not just the flu we’re dealing with anymore. This is bullshit is what it is!” She suddenly yelled and jumped up and stared out the window. She sat back down after she rinsed her face in cold water at the kitchen sink. “I’m sorry, Katherine, but this seems unreal and I don’t know if I can handle it. I know you’ve believed it all along, but I just couldn’t! I saw Paul Mennings yesterday.” That made me almost choke on my coffee.
“What? Where?” I asked.
“After work I took the garbage out to the big bin behind the building. I went to huck the trash bag over the edge when I heard something moving inside the bin. It took a lot of courage, but expecting a cat or something, I took a quick peek and almost shit myself when I saw Paul sitting on a pile of bags at the bottom of the bin. He was tearing them open and when he heard me gasp, he got up and tried to get out, but the bin was empty enough that he couldn’t reach the top. That’s the first time I’ve seen one of them, Katherine. I believe it now. I really didn’t believe it before yesterday.”
“What did you do?” I asked her.
“Called the cops. What else? I sat in my car with the doors locked until they got there, which was only about five minutes. Four cops in these weird rain suit things showed up in a van, and used one of those things with the loop on the end that dog catchers use... you know.”
I nodded yes, urging her to continue.
“They put it on him, then literally pulled him out of the bin by his neck, then dragged him to the back of the van and lifted him again by his neck to put him into it.” She looked haunted. “One of them slammed the bin shut and put a padlock on it and slapped on one of those biohazard stickers, and then they just drove away.”
“They never even got a statement from you or anything? I guess what difference would it make?” My stomach was starting to reject the coffee and tart.
Quickly changing the subject, Grace said, “You and Joel come with us. We’ll all just stock up on a shit-load of groceries and stuff, lock up our houses and just get the hell out of here!” Grace pleaded.
I explained that Joel was not well enough to travel. I couldn’t bring myself to tell even my best friend that I had my zombie husband locked in my basement. Everyone thought he was just healing up from the dog bite and couldn’t walk well so that’s why he wasn’t back at work yet. His boss didn’t mind him taking extra time off.
“Well, when Joel goes back to work, you come out to the cabin and stay with us. I think we’re going to leave this Friday, right after work.”
Oh, Grace. You don’t know how badly I wish I could go with you.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Poll #5 Results
If you had friend/family that was a zombie, you would:
1) Keep them locked up in a basement or attic;
2) Put them out of their misery;
3) Muzzle them and let them go free;
4) Shut the lights off and hide when they come knocking.
1) 50% 2) 50% 3) 0% 4) 0%
So you’re 50/50 on how to deal with the infected ones you love. Interesting. I’m torn between both too, but just can’t bring myself to lose hope that there’s a cure.
1) Keep them locked up in a basement or attic;
2) Put them out of their misery;
3) Muzzle them and let them go free;
4) Shut the lights off and hide when they come knocking.
1) 50% 2) 50% 3) 0% 4) 0%
So you’re 50/50 on how to deal with the infected ones you love. Interesting. I’m torn between both too, but just can’t bring myself to lose hope that there’s a cure.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Breaking News
It finally happened. The local news made an announcement last night that as important as it is to get your H1N1 shot next month, staying home and safe from "the reanimated" was even more important (how vague is that?). They said that becoming "reanimated" is not a normal side effect of the flu, and may not even be related to it at all. People are to call the police immediately if they see one of "them" wandering or menacing.
I haven't seen too many of the undead around town yet. They're not very fast, so I'm not too worried. I wouldn't want to be caught in a mob of them, though.
Joel stopped eating yesterday. I dropped a chicken down the hole and he didn't even look at it. He just kept staring up at me with those unblinking blood-filled eyes. He used to have such friendly blue eyes. Now they send chills into my soul. And his breathing sounds horrible, wheezy, like he has fluid in his lungs. I have to cover the hole with plastic now, because the smell is horrible in the living room.
I haven't been out much this week, so I think I'll go down to the Tim Horton's and catch up with Grace.
I haven't seen too many of the undead around town yet. They're not very fast, so I'm not too worried. I wouldn't want to be caught in a mob of them, though.
Joel stopped eating yesterday. I dropped a chicken down the hole and he didn't even look at it. He just kept staring up at me with those unblinking blood-filled eyes. He used to have such friendly blue eyes. Now they send chills into my soul. And his breathing sounds horrible, wheezy, like he has fluid in his lungs. I have to cover the hole with plastic now, because the smell is horrible in the living room.
I haven't been out much this week, so I think I'll go down to the Tim Horton's and catch up with Grace.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Cause of Death
I know I’m not a doctor or a scientist, but I didn’t have to be to determine that the Martin’s dog was infected with the same virus as Joel. With the eye (s) and condition of the body like that, it was repulsively obvious.
I’ve been thinking. The way I write my story comes off as cold, like I don’t care that my husband is a zombie. I killed a dog with a baseball bat, and I’ve never killed anything in my life. Please don’t think I’m heartless or have no conscience. This is all too stressful for my brain to compute, and I think I’m just numb right now. It’s my mind’s way of staying sane.
On Saturday morning after I had a good chance to examine the dog in good light (with tripled latex gloves, of course), I fed the dog to Joel to sustain him and to get rid of the corpse. Is that wrong? Our living room has an old vent in the floor, about one foot by one foot. There’s no chance that Joel could ever get through it, but it allows me to watch and feed him (or try to, but he’s picky and will only eat meat—raw or cooked) because it’s straight into the basement. I dropped the dog down the hole and quickly shut the vent grill again then pushed the couch back over it.
The dog is still there today, dammit. That’ll start to stink eventually. Actually, Joel will start to stink, too. Hmmmm.
I’ve been thinking. The way I write my story comes off as cold, like I don’t care that my husband is a zombie. I killed a dog with a baseball bat, and I’ve never killed anything in my life. Please don’t think I’m heartless or have no conscience. This is all too stressful for my brain to compute, and I think I’m just numb right now. It’s my mind’s way of staying sane.
On Saturday morning after I had a good chance to examine the dog in good light (with tripled latex gloves, of course), I fed the dog to Joel to sustain him and to get rid of the corpse. Is that wrong? Our living room has an old vent in the floor, about one foot by one foot. There’s no chance that Joel could ever get through it, but it allows me to watch and feed him (or try to, but he’s picky and will only eat meat—raw or cooked) because it’s straight into the basement. I dropped the dog down the hole and quickly shut the vent grill again then pushed the couch back over it.
The dog is still there today, dammit. That’ll start to stink eventually. Actually, Joel will start to stink, too. Hmmmm.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Poll #4
Do you think cold weather will slow down the infection?
1. Yes
2. No
3. I’m not sure
Results:
1. 50%
2. 50%
3. 0%
So we're 50/50 on this one. I guess we’ll soon find out.
1. Yes
2. No
3. I’m not sure
Results:
1. 50%
2. 50%
3. 0%
So we're 50/50 on this one. I guess we’ll soon find out.
Bad Dog!
Apparently even when undead, dogs still have the instinct to protect their owner’s homes. Last night I made sure the dog that bit Joel wouldn’t hurt or infect anyone else. First I called over to their house (for about the 10th time since Joel got bit--the first 9 times were to tell them to keep their damn dog in their yard) to see if they were home, but no one answered. I decided that if they weren’t home, then they wouldn’t see or hear me when I solved the neighbourhood problem.
I think I must have been half out of my mind with revenge when I stomped over there at almost midnight. I went down the back alley to their house, which is about three blocks north of where we (I?) live. I prayed that the neighbours were sleeping and wouldn’t look out their windows and see me lurking. It was pretty dark, but some backyards had their own little lights and in some places the street lights shone in between the houses. Thankfully our early-October snow was all melted, and that made the ground darker and therefore easier for me to hide, plus the Martins didn’t have a light in their backyard. I didn’t bother with a flashlight because I didn’t want to attract attention. Instead, I used a pair of Joel’s night-vision goggles that he used for night paintballing in the summer. I put them on right as I walked up to the back fence.
It wasn’t long after I opened the gate, when I heard the little dog growling. He stood up from where he’d been sleeping on the back doorstep and staggered toward me, his little body emaciated and his once-fluffy white hair clotted with what appeared to be blood. It was hard to tell with the goggles on what exactly it was. I choked back a sob of pity and just stood there, frozen and confused. This couldn’t possibly be the dog that bit Joel. The poor thing’s probably just starving because his family abandoned him, I thought. If it was this tiny mutt that bit him, is it possible his wound got infected afterward from a different source—water, air, soil?
My thoughts were cut short when the dog got closer and I could see him clearly. The left side of his head was dented in (where Joel punched him?) and the eyeball was ruptured and leaking. He smelled horrifically rotten and his saliva was thick and slimy, dripping from his mouth in globs.
It only took one quick blow with my bat to finish his pathetic life. In a very sanitary manner, I double-bagged him in heavy duty yard bags and hurried home. I really shouldn’t have taken his body home with me, but instead thrown it into the nearest garbage barrel.
I just had to see him in the light. I needed to see if his eyes looked like Joel’s and Mr. Mennings’. Until I examined his body, I could not be certain that he was actually infected or just some pathetic, deserted dog.
I think I must have been half out of my mind with revenge when I stomped over there at almost midnight. I went down the back alley to their house, which is about three blocks north of where we (I?) live. I prayed that the neighbours were sleeping and wouldn’t look out their windows and see me lurking. It was pretty dark, but some backyards had their own little lights and in some places the street lights shone in between the houses. Thankfully our early-October snow was all melted, and that made the ground darker and therefore easier for me to hide, plus the Martins didn’t have a light in their backyard. I didn’t bother with a flashlight because I didn’t want to attract attention. Instead, I used a pair of Joel’s night-vision goggles that he used for night paintballing in the summer. I put them on right as I walked up to the back fence.
It wasn’t long after I opened the gate, when I heard the little dog growling. He stood up from where he’d been sleeping on the back doorstep and staggered toward me, his little body emaciated and his once-fluffy white hair clotted with what appeared to be blood. It was hard to tell with the goggles on what exactly it was. I choked back a sob of pity and just stood there, frozen and confused. This couldn’t possibly be the dog that bit Joel. The poor thing’s probably just starving because his family abandoned him, I thought. If it was this tiny mutt that bit him, is it possible his wound got infected afterward from a different source—water, air, soil?
My thoughts were cut short when the dog got closer and I could see him clearly. The left side of his head was dented in (where Joel punched him?) and the eyeball was ruptured and leaking. He smelled horrifically rotten and his saliva was thick and slimy, dripping from his mouth in globs.
It only took one quick blow with my bat to finish his pathetic life. In a very sanitary manner, I double-bagged him in heavy duty yard bags and hurried home. I really shouldn’t have taken his body home with me, but instead thrown it into the nearest garbage barrel.
I just had to see him in the light. I needed to see if his eyes looked like Joel’s and Mr. Mennings’. Until I examined his body, I could not be certain that he was actually infected or just some pathetic, deserted dog.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Latest Info from Jamie Robinson
Katherine! I’m so sorry I haven’t written forever. Again things have been horrible for me. My parents decided to go to our cabin out in the mountains, a.k.a. the middle of nowhere. We’re just in town picking up supplies again, and then they’re forcing me to stay out “where it’s safe”, a.k.a. where there’s no cell service. :( So I guess good news is I’m healthy and alive, bad news is, you won’t be hearing from me often. Hang in there, Katherine!
Jamie Robinson
I wrote:
Jamie! Thank goodness! You don’t know how worried I was about you. Things are worse here than before. My husband, Joel, was bitten by an infected dog (I realize the dog was infected now), and after two weeks, he became one of them. I think your parents made a wise choice to get out of town and stay away from other people.
Take care, Jamie, and please keep me posted.
Katherine
I think I’ll go doggie hunting tomorrow. I have a score to settle.
Jamie Robinson
I wrote:
Jamie! Thank goodness! You don’t know how worried I was about you. Things are worse here than before. My husband, Joel, was bitten by an infected dog (I realize the dog was infected now), and after two weeks, he became one of them. I think your parents made a wise choice to get out of town and stay away from other people.
Take care, Jamie, and please keep me posted.
Katherine
I think I’ll go doggie hunting tomorrow. I have a score to settle.
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