Love and other Nightmares

And I was always thankful to the surfer dude for teaching me something I never could have known about zombies before.

So I got myself a little boat—the kind that made no noise and gave me killer arm muscles that no one was alive anymore to be jealous of—so that I could transfer supplies, and then I shacked up for weeks or even months at a time, eating canned food, experimenting with growing fresh fruits and vegetables on in the windowsills and on the deck with limited success.

I read books about survival.

I wrote down the nightmares that weren't nightmares at all, but memories, down in the hopes that it worked to purge them from my system. I worked out. I practiced using a bow and arrow, and worked on my aim.

All in all, it wasn't so bad.

I was alive.

I was safe.

But good God, I was bored as hell.

That sounded crazy to say, but there was no other way around it. I'd been living the same existence day in and day out for two years, since all of this started.

I hadn't talked to another living soul in, oh, seven months, I'd say. He'd been all decked out in hunting gear and stopping in the weapon store for more ammo while I loaded up on every bow and arrow I could find, deciding silent weapons were the smartest choice for me.

We'd shared a short "I thought I was the only one left!" and "Be safe out there!" both of us not wanting to get attached, to risk someone else's stupidity coming back to bite us in the ass if we decided to team up.

I had been driving back from the store when I heard the gunshots. Then the telltale whooshing sound of the zombies coming out of their hiding spots, moving toward the sound.

Against my better judgement, I'd gone in that direction, a part of me wanting to help, not wanting to be the last person alive.

But when I'd gotten there, they'd already pulled him out of his car, had him on the ground.

Our gazes locked.

And I knew what he was asking.

So I'd rolled down the window, took the best aim I could, and sent an arrow sailing into his head.

It was over fast, much faster than it would have been if they got to eat him alive. It took a long time to get to the vital organs. You could suffer so much before then.

So, yeah, that was the last time I'd spoken to someone else. Well, that's not fair. I talked to myself a lot. And the various plants that had survived in the restaurant. I even had conversations with the seagulls who had become my only companions when I went out onto the deck for a little Vitamin D. And, of course, my little rescue pet.

But no one talked back.

I was going to go ahead and call that a win. The only thing worse than an actual physical ailment was a mental one when you were trying to stay alive, maybe ride this thing out to see if the zombies all finally die off, if other countries maybe survived and would swoop in to take in those of us who made it through.

Hope was probably a naive thing.

But I let it keep me going.

Well, hope, and the kitten I'd saved two days before making the former restaurant my new home.

I'd become really hardened to things since the outbreak began. When you saw so much terror for so long, you had to become somewhat immune to it. Which had left me wondering if I was a monster, if I'd lost all my humanity.

But then there'd been this little, skinny, mewling tabby kitten next to her dead mother and siblings. And my heart melted.

I guess you could say I'd felt a certain kinship with her and her loss. So I all but emptied out the cat section in the local pet store for her, brought her home, and made her my own.

Some days, we shared similarly melancholy canned meals with a sort of resigned understanding that it was the best we could do. Others, I would get lucky with a fish net I'd set up, and we would dine on something fresh for a change, treating each morsel like the fine cuisine that restaurant used to be known for.

She was Buffy, for obvious reasons. I often wondered if I would ever come across a little Faith or Willow one day to add to my crew.

It seemed fitting that, even during the end of times, I would become a solitary cat lady, closing in on thirty-five who had an addiction to eating expired icing right out of the container, and reading old, smutty romances in my spare time.

It seemed that would be it for us.

Until one fateful day.

Supply day was the most stressful day of any given month when I chose to do it. Even though I was stocked up, there was this paranoid little part of me that worried I might run out of food or water if I got trapped for a long period of time in the house.