Timothy Long: Beyond the Barriers

Three pairs of jeans, that’s all I allowed myself. I took down some trusty flannel shirts from a box in the closet and jammed those into the pack as well. Then I added socks, underwear, the basics for survival and keeping warm. I had a pair of thermal underwear as well, which I slipped into a side pouch.

The box of MREs was stuffed in the extra room, the one we were going to make into a child’s room. Now it was filled with all of my accumulated junk. It looked just the way it had when we moved in, cluttered with boxes, but now there was a layer of dust on top of them because I had not been in the room in months.

I took the boxes and moved them to the front of the house. Gunshots popped some distance away. There were just a few a while ago, but now they were coming more rapidly. I thought of Devon and his wife crammed in their home, and for a moment, I considered inviting them to the cabin again.

I didn’t. He had made his decision to stay after all we had seen a few minutes ago. I didn’t have the supplies to become more convincing.

What good would they be if we had to survive? He had no survival skills, and I doubted he even camped. He and his wife were the type to stay in and watch a movie on the weekend rather than go into the woods and pretend they were outdoorsy. They would get in the way, and that was how I made my cold decision to leave them. Stupid common sense.

I had a big hunting knife—the kind of Rambo blade that had a bunch of tools screwed into the pommel. Part of it was serrated to use like a saw, and the rest was long and razor sharp. I tucked this into the back of my pants in lieu of a gun, and felt much more confident. There was nothing like a deadly weapon at your side to help calm nerves.

More pops of gunfire, so I moved everything I needed to the front door. I took a few shotgun shells and loaded them under the weapon, then I pumped a round into the chamber and set it with barrel pointing up at the ceiling, leaning against the wall.

I snatched up the Marlin, chambered a round, and set it next to the shotgun. I felt like I was more or less ready for war, but I would have felt better with my old handgun at my side. The .40 caliber was a powerful gun that would stop one of the zombies on a dime, turn his head inside out, leave him laid out and twice cold.

I went into the tiny garage and looked around for some tools. I found a small pry bar and added it to my stash, along with a tool kit that was neatly organized.

All of this planning was done on the fly. I had never really considered what it would be like to flee my home, knowing that I might never return. There was a deep gnawing in my gut that I knew was fear. Fear of going out there. Fear of leaving everything behind. Fear of never being able to come home again.

I looked around my house at all the things I had accumulated over the years. Well, Allison and I. I glanced at the cheap paintings that adorned the wall; one in particular had a large schooner breaking through a spray of waves. It could have been a bright and gaudy picture like you would see at a library or museum, but the artist had chosen a subtle palette of colors that fit into just about any room. Another fixture to leave. Yet I found myself staring at it for some time before my mind kicked back into overdrive.

I loaded the boxes in the car, and every time I went past Edwards, I tried not to look at his body. I tried to keep my mind on the task at hand, tried to ignore what my eyes would tell me if I gave them a chance. A dead friend. Killed by my own hand. I pushed my shame aside for the time being.

I moved the shotgun to the front seat and put the rifle in the rear with my backpack. I returned to my house for another load of MREs, when I felt the eyes on me. I looked up toward Edwards’s house. His wife’s ghostly face, with its splash of blood, was staring at me through the front window, as she tried to walk through the glass over and over. She would walk forward, rebound, put her arms up for balance, and then do it again. She left splashes of blood all over the glass.

Jesus, Cindy.

I shuddered and grabbed the last few boxes and shoved them in the back of my little SUV. Then I went around the house, unplugged everything I could, and grabbed a charger for my cell phone and one for my laptop. I had chosen the smaller one, the netbook with its long-life battery, and added it to my treasure. It didn’t have a broadband connection built in, but it did have a large collection of porn. If nothing else, I guess I am a practical man.

Devon was nowhere to be found. I imagined he and Lisa were back in their house relaxing, or making an attempt to. Hopefully they would keep their heads and think out the situation. If it were me staying, I would have started boarding up the house first, put something over the windows so none of those things could see in. Then reinforce the front and back sliding glass doors.

With everything loaded, I returned to the house one last time and went into each room to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.

Then I secured each window and double-checked the sliding glass door. A cursory glance under the house assured me the stash of black bags would not show unless someone got right down in there. I wished I had some carpet to cover the spot with, although if someone discovered the carpet, they would probably be more apt to poke around in the space. Why was I even thinking I would come back?

I went to the junk drawer I kept in the kitchen and dug around in the back. There was a picture in a simple frame, and I pulled it out. In the photo, Allison and I were smiling at each other. She was in profile, beautiful, and I remembered the day when we first met, when I swore I would always be a happy man if I could just wake up to her face. Long, blonde curls hung to her shoulders and framed her small face. She had on a bright green tank top that left her shoulders and slim neck exposed. How many times had I touched her there, ran my hand over her skin, and then kissed her neck as we lay together in bed.

Too many to count, that’s for sure. Might as well try to keep a count on how many times we made love, which was crazy, especially in our first year.

My face was nothing special next to her fine features. Where her eyes were a pale blue, mine were brown and deep set. A scar around the right eye gave me a bit of a leer on that side, which was my good side, so to speak. The other had a scar much longer that caressed the corner of my lips, and sometimes gave me a dour look that reminded people of the Joker, or so they claimed. Shrapnel kissed me there during the first Gulf War. I was young, and the firefight we had been in scared me to death. Especially after the burning metal sliced my face open so fast I didn’t even realize it until the pain slammed into me like a mortar.

Short, wiry hair that I kept close to my head. I was balding in the back, and that was okay. When I finally shaved it, I would look like a military man again. Didn’t shave this morning, so my face looked scruffy; that reminded me to grab a toothbrush and shaving kit on the way out.

I pocketed the picture and went to the bathroom to retrieve a black bag and fill it with toiletries.

My cell phone buzzed again, and that reminded me to get the charger from the wall. I had one in the car, and I wasn’t sure if I would even be able to get electricity where I was going. Maybe there was a generator there, maybe there wasn’t.

I snapped the phone up and saw that it was her again. I answered it so I could say goodbye. We hadn’t spoken much since the divorce, since it all went to shit, and I honestly didn’t know what I would say to her if we did speak. It’s not like I was going to wish her good luck in her new life with her new man.

“Hey.”