Notes From the End of the World Read online

  Notes from the End of the World

  Vol. 1

  ISBN: 978-0692300251

  First Edition

  Published by E-Volve Books

  Copyright ©2014 Donna Burgess

  Cover illustration copyright © 2014 Donna Burgess

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Notes from the End of the World (a Novel)

  My name is Cindy Scott. I’m sixteen years old and I’m going to tell you how the world ends.

  Chapter 1

  April 30

  Cindy

  Maybe I’m stupid for running, but what have I been doing for the last nine months, anyway? Running. I need to run. It’s the last thing I have left of my old life. Everything else has been taken—my parents, my friends, my school. My future.

  It's warmer now, and my breaths come hot and damp. I found Dad's iPod in his office and now Springsteen blasts into my ears. I wouldn't have listened to Bruce before, but I do now because it reminds me of Dad and Mom. I’d better enjoy it. The battery is showing low.

  Sometimes I wonder what happened to Bruce. And Zac Effron and the incredibly hot guy from Vampire Diaries. Are they dead? Are they …changed? Are they running around a doomed neighborhood pretending life is still normal, too?

  Common logic indicates that I need to be able to hear them coming. Shamblers are slow, but they can be surprising. Especially when they move in droves. But I know them by their smell. Death has this distinctive stink. It floats up like rancid garbage. It smells…feverish. And no matter how much I smell it, I never grow used to it.

  During the brief hours when the Internet and electricity is on, Nick and I printed out a map of Sawgrass Flats from Google earth, and traced out running route. We then determined where we could strategically place weapons. Just in case.

  Behind Mr. Law's house, we left a pair of hedge trimmers. A block over, we stood a short, sharp spade next to Mrs. Billings' garage. Another block farther along, we left one of my softball bats behind the rose bushes at Mr. David's and Mr. Howard's elegant cottage. David was meticulous over those roses. There’s nothing left but a tangle of thorny vines now. I’d heard that David had to kill Howard. After that, he vanished. I assumed he killed himself, too. He always said he couldn’t get along without Howard.

  I’m quick enough to sprint between weapons, if necessary. I haven’t had to yet, but luck has this dumb way of running out, doesn’t it?

  The morning sun is bright and dew glistens like shards of glass on forgotten lawns. A little dog peers at me from behind a thick oak tree. He trots along with me, keeping up but staying back, timid of humans now. When I turn, he darts away.

  Farther ahead, I step over the remains of another little pooch that’s been dead for over a week. Every time I run, my eyes are drawn to it. Maybe on a subconscious level, I’m trying to see how it changes, how decay really works. It’s an amazing thing, really, rot. Does it work its way in from the outside or is it the other way around?

  How I’ve always loved my neighborhood. It’s the only place I’ve ever known. The only place I’ve ever lived. I love the big oak trees that line the curving roads. Kids at school used to say I live in a "richy" neighborhood. Maybe so, but it no longer matters. Who’s rich now? The ones who have food? The ones who still have someone to love and to love them back?

  The people in the Flats were like family, seeing each other every day, coming and going. A wave or a nod or a quick chat about school or track or soccer. The houses are nothing but caves now. Big, empty, brick caves. Normally, everyone would’ve had the lawns decorated for Halloween. Neat Halloween trees and Jack-o-lanterns. Mr. Graves (of all people) would’ve set up a mock cemetery in his front yard, complete with Styrofoam tombstones, creepy gauze cobwebs hanging from the trees and a couple of hands plunging upward from the earth.

  Ironic.

  By Halloween last year, the N-Virus was beginning to wrap its stinking fingers around the heart of Palm Dale. Mr. Graves had decorated anyway, but later at the community Christmas pow-wow, he mentioned how he regretted it. Mrs. Graves had turned by January and went to the Pastures soon after.

  I pass the Jensen's place—the prettiest home in the Flats. Like many of the other homes, their front door sports a messy red spray-painted “CLEARED.” The windows above the porch are broken out. Someone else must be around, lying low. Maybe watching me as I pass. Switching off my music, I jog along, even more watchful now, because sometimes the living are worse than the dead. Guardsmen, police, soldiers and scavengers are a rare sight lately, but still, it’s best to take no chances. People you could trust a year ago are the ones you now have to avoid at all costs. They’re the ones with the guns, so they’re the ones with the power.

  I stop, bend at the waist and suck clean, cool air. Another. And here it is—that smell. That stink I’ve come to know so well.

  Straighten up, I slowly turn and look around. To the right, I spot the Shambler. He might’ve been somewhere around middle-aged, if he’d lived. He’s wearing stained pajama pants, no shirt and no shoes. His gray hair sticks out from his head like a frizzy halo. The bones of his chest glint through the rotten, moss-colored tatters of flesh.

  I learned quickly I could determine how long a Shambler’s been a Shambler by the size of its smile. The dead have these perpetual smiles created by the lack of lips. Lips are the first things to go after the virus takes hold. The hunger grows so strong, they just eat them off.

  I’ve seen it firsthand, that nightmarish, desperate hunger.

  I dart to the left and double back toward the Jensen’s place. Despite the lack of decent food, I’m quick. But the Shamblers are quick, too, and this one is on me in an instant, the stink of his breath wafting up from behind. He grabs my ponytail, but his grip is no good because the pads of his fingers are gone. I slip away as his teeth click together loudly, a near miss at the side of my throat.

  I’d left a short-handled pickaxe near the Jensen’s back patio, but it’s so far away. But I need to get there before Mr. Pajama Pants has me for lunch.

  I leap over the little garden wagon, turn and shove it back toward the Shambler. He stumbles, growling loudly, but it only slows him down a step, maybe not even that.

  “Shit,” I mutter. The pickaxe is there, ten feet away, but suddenly I’m like some dumbass chick from a horror movie and I fall on my face. Mr. Pajama Pants takes advantage of this and snatches at my flailing leg. Rolling over, I kick straight out, connecting with what was left of his face. It’s like kicking a cardboard box; there’s no weight there, nothing of substance. But the kick is good enough. As I mentioned, I was a soccer player before the end of the world and my kicks aren’t weak.

  The Shambler’s head flies back, his neck cracking audibly. I might’ve cringed, but I’ve heard worse in the past year.

  Either way, it gives me the time I need to get to that pickaxe.

  I grab it up and spin back toward my friendly neighborhood Shambler. Steeling myself (isn’t that a comic book line), I raise the pickaxe, ready.

  Mr. Pajama Pants lunges at me, his stupid mouth wide open, his teeth looking huge without lips to frame them. I wait for the exact instant and then plunge the pointed blade of the axe forward. It sinks into his eye—all the way in. The eyeball pops like an old tomato and splatters on my face and hands. I shove it harder and he
stops moving altogether. The smell of rancid blood fills my nostrils and I turn my face away, searching for a clean breath.

  If you’ve seen pretty much any zombie movie, you know you need to aim for the head. The brain has to be destroyed. That’s rule number one. If you can’t remember that one, you’re not going to get very far.

  Pajama Pants thrusts his arms at me one last time and then sinks to his knees. He’s done and I’m done with him. I let go of the axe and plant my foot in his chest, shoving him backwards. Then I step over him, plug my earbuds back into my ears, and start running again. Nick’s usually with me, so of course, the day he’s not is the day I get a visit from a Shambler. Maybe it’ll be best to keep it to myself.

  Chapter 2

  Seven months earlier

  Cindy

  “I saw you checking out his ass,” Melissa says, quickening her pace to keep up with me.

  “You’re not supposed to notice,” I tell her.

  “Hard not to. You’re practically drooling.” She falls behind again and I slow, allowing her to catch up. For me, running is as easy as breathing. I’ve been on the cross-country team for the past two years, and have played soccer since I was eight. Not so much for Melissa, who looks awkward in her heavy jewelry and overly dressy top that is not made for doing much more than shopping.

  I’d assumed morning gym class would be a disaster, but that was until I realized Nick Thatcher was also in the class. Now, having to redo my hair and makeup is a reasonable trade-off.

  Nick runs easy, his strides long and sure. The lean muscles in the backs of his legs flex and relax, his auburn hair swings. For gym, he always wears these incredible red shorts that hug his hiney just right. Watching him makes the forty minutes pass by in a blink.

  Of course, watching (as discreetly as possible, by the way) is all I can do. He belongs to Audrey. I’m just the kid sister, hanging like a shadow in his peripheral vision. He’s nice to me because he has to be.

  The rest of the day is a blur of boredom. It isn’t special, it’s just Tuesday. All through lunch, Melissa chatters about some dumb pop singer I’ve barely heard of. I prefer Indie rock—pop music is just plain dumb. Worse, Melissa’s blonder, tanner clone, Eva Adams, tries to set me up with Jake Wylie, who’s only forty pounds overweight and has a better set of hooters than even Audrey has. This is the second set-up in a month—Mom set me up with a client’s creepy son two weeks ago. She was desperate to get the listing on a big commercial building on the other end of town. The owner’s son, Russell, wasn’t exactly hot and what he lacked in looks he made up in obnoxiousness. To make things worse, I called Mom a pimp, only half-kidding and was grounded from the Internet for two days.

  Russell really knew how to make a girl feel good about herself. The first thing he asked, after meeting me and then meeting Audrey was, “How does it feel to be the sister of the hottest chick in your school?”

  I should’ve kicked him in the balls, but instead I said nothing and faded into the velvet curtains of the Palm Dale movie house.

  The bad experience with Russell aside, hurting someone’s feeling for no better reason than to make a couple of shallow cheerleaders giggle isn’t my style. Screw them.

  I still have two years to go before getting out of Palm Dale. Two long, boring years of listening to the same boring blather from the same boring people every day. Worse, in a year, Nick will be gone to a college a thousand miles away, if he’s smart. Seeing Audrey go won’t be nearly as bad.

  To round out a perfectly shitty day, Audrey complains about dropping me off at the hospital after school, although it’s only a couple of miles out of the way.

  ***

  The first of the infected bursts through the double doors of the E.R. shortly after four p.m. There’s no soccer practice on Tuesdays, so I volunteer at Mercy General Hospital.

  I think I recognize the guy, but there’s no way to be certain. Everything moves too fast—I can’t get a proper look at him. Every time the cluster of bodies around him parts enough for me to see, his face contorts into this enraged snarl. That kind of look isn’t common in Palm Dale. People here don’t become enraged. They get miffed, peeved and occasionally, they get pissed off. But enraged? That’s about as common as a meteor strike. This is fucking scary, tear-your-face-off anger.

  The other thing that hits me, aside from the crazy-person expression, is the color, or lack of color, in his face. It’s a shade of gray that can only be associated with death. Living people just don’t look like that. Even his eyes hold that same lack of color. They’re as pale as the skin on a fish’s belly.

  Maybe he’s a real estate agent or works at the bank. His suit looks expensive despite the condition it’s now in—tattered, wrinkled, the sleeve missing from one arm. He’s also missing a loafer and his long, skinny legs flail wildly on the gurney. Something dark dots his pant legs like spilled paint.

  The stink of roadkill rises from him, filling the narrow entrance corridor. I want to gag, but what does that say about a girl who plans to go to med school?

  Two nurses--heavy-set and usually talkative Jolee and the smaller, but equally exuberant Sara, struggle with Mr. Grayface’s flying arms. Dr. Jacobs joins the fray and is instantly struck in the side of the head by Grayface’s arm. His glasses clatter to the floor, smashing under the wheels of the gurney.

  Jolee cries out as Grayface shoves her to the side. She sags against the wall, her bright red hair coming free of the pretty comb she always wears, hiding her horrified face.

  Sara makes a valiant attempt to secure both arms, but it’s useless. He writhes, shaking her this way and that, until she stumbles backward and falls, her head striking the floor with a dull, sickening thud.

  I run to her and help her to her feet, which is no easy task. Poor Sara has the look of someone who is suffering from a concussion as I pull her away from the melee.

  “You’re in no shape to help them now,” I tell her, stating the obvious.

  Dr. Jacobs somehow manages to fasten the belts across the man’s thrashing legs. Grayface howls and whips his head violently from side to side, saliva, sweat, and blood misting the air.

  “Get him a sedative. Now!” Dr. Jacobs barks.

  Jolee vanishes down the hallway. A security guard dashes past us and throws himself across the crazy man’s torso, forcing him back to the gurney. “Christ! Get those cuffs off my belt and hand them to me,” he shouts. He must outweigh Grayface by thirty pounds, but it doesn’t matter. Grayface flings him away like he’s tossing away a rag doll.

  Grayface then snatches Dr. Jacobs by the sleeve of his labcoat and it’s all over in an instant. Like a rabid animal, he bites into Dr. Jacobs’ forearm. Shaking his head, the madman tears away cloth and flesh. Dr. Jacobs sinks to the floor, blood shooting from his wounded arm toward the ceiling like water escaping a broken hose. His face matches the color of his white coat as he places his hand over the gash, attempting to slow the flow of blood.

  Then Dad’s here. “Get back, Cindy. Don’t come near.” He yanks on a pair of latex gloves and rushes to his friend.

  Grayface’s legs escape the belts. He springs from the gurney and starts toward for my dad. Screaming, I rush forward. I don’t know what the hell I think I’m going to do. Looking back on it, I realize how stupid that was. It don’t matter, anyway. The security guard puts a bullet in the man’s forehead before he takes another step.

  Everything goes quiet. Shock is as contagious as a virus. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I just stand there, staring like a dumb kid. I want my dad, but he’s already vanished down the hallway with Dr. Jacobs, leaving a wide trail blood on the floor behind them.

  Later, as Dad drives home, both of us silent and still a little in shock, that it occurs to be that I watched Dr. Jacobs die today. He isn’t dead yet, but his fate’s sealed. Just like the rest of the world. It’s just a question of time. The N-Virus is no longer news, rumors, and things that happen to other people in other cities. It’s real.

 
It’s everywhere and there’s no hiding from it anymore.

  ***

  Audrey stands in the doorway of my bedroom as if she’s afraid to come all the way in, brushing her hair so hard that I wince with every stroke. She always brushed like that—as if she was angry with her own hair. Obviously, it doesn’t hurt—her hair’s gorgeous. Thick and dark, a sharp contrast to my own pale blonde locks. My hair’s too fine and straight to keep in a proper ponytail. Of course, Audrey’s opposite of me in most ways. She always looks good—even when she’s ready for bed, dressed Dad’s Duke Blue Devils t-shirt that’s at least three sizes too large and a pair of boy shorts. Without makeup, she’s still hotter than I can ever imagine being. I have to put on makeup just to look like I’m old enough to drive. I’d come to terms with that a couple of years ago. Audrey’s the pretty one and I’m the smart one. At least I have something.

  Dad told me once that people lose their looks a lot sooner than they lose their minds. That’s good enough for me.

  “So, you didn’t get anything on you, did you?” Audrey raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Blood? Spit? Snot?”

  I close my laptop and move it to the desk, then sink down on the bed. “No. I didn’t get anything on me. But Dr. Jacobs was bitten on the arm.”

  A flash of sadness crosses Audrey’s face, but it’s gone before I’m sure I’ve really seen it. We’d known Bill Jacobs and his wife Maureen our entire lives. The Jacobs have two sons (who are really cute, by the way) in college. Dr. Jacobs always had grape Dum Dums tucked away in the pocket of his labcoat.

  “That’s too bad.” She frowns. “Do you think he’ll turn into one of them?”

  “I hope not. But Dad says probably. They have him quarantined.”

  “And they shot the guy in the head?”

  “Yeah,” I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a time when I wish I could have an instant memory loss button. I’d lose today and never miss it.