You’re red, soaking wet.
I’m right next to you.
The speakers blare with heavy guitars, and the shelves rumble along with the bass. It’s all he can do to drown out that drone of forever knocking. The beats clash like two warships, and he turns up the volume. It’s earsplitting. He checks for blood and finds only a small clump of yellowed wax.
Jamie’s room is littered with as many band posters as it is with half-empty water bottles. Thank God it’s rained enough to refill them. His bedroom window looms over the front door. The steps are scattered with his scat. What other choice does he have than shitting out the window like the kings of old?
It hasn’t helped to advertise his whereabouts by sticking out that prime rump for those gathered below. They bang, too. Even though he tries to be quiet, they’re still there in a huddled mass.
But they don’t concern him as much as the one at his door. That’s the one that got in. He knows her. Or he knew her. Should he still call her a her? Maybe calling it, it, is better. That makes it easier for him. Not to think of it as his friend’s mom. The same nice lady who would drive them to the theater or always treat them to some takeout afterwards.
She was a single mom. She worked a lot, but she was always around for his friend, like a constant pillar of support. Georgie-boy. That was his friend. He doesn’t know where Georgie-boy is, but he knows his mom, Mary, Mother Mary, is the one banging on his door. Let me in, or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff...
She came around when it all started last week. She was in bad shape. Bites all over. Blood all over. Crying. She couldn’t find George and thought he might be here. It was her last hope. But they got to her first, like a pack of wild hounds.
Jamie didn’t know it yet, not back then. Neither did Jamie’s dad. They tried to help her, patch her up. It happened sometime later that night. He was asleep, up in his room. She was down in the living room, and Jamie’s dad was in his room. They both woke up to her fumbling around. She knocked over a lamp and walked all over the shattered glass.
They came to the top of the stairs at the same time. Jamie called her name, and that’s all it took. She came up the stairs. His dad met her halfway to help. She looked like she would tumble back down with each staggering step.
Jamie’s dad grabbed her. She turned and took a chunk from his forearm. He yelled at Jamie to run, to lock the door behind him. So, that’s what Jamie did. Straight to his room, closed and locked the door in a flash. He expected to hear a knock from his dad, saying it’s okay to come out again.
That knock never came. The one that eventually did is the same one that goes on now. It’s her. It’s always her.
Later the next day, the last day Jamie saw his dad, he caught a glimpse out his window of him running out of the open garage and into the crowded street. He had on what looked like football gear and was swinging a bat. He smashed it right into their heads with loud thuds. Eventually, he went for the legs. This got them down a lot easier.
He ran under Jamie’s window and yelled up. It was maybe the oddest rendition of Romeo and Juliet that has ever been staged. There was even a storm rattling the skies. He said he was OK, but she bit his arm pretty badly. He’s going to the hospital in the next town over to get meds. Just stay put, she’s in the house still, but she can’t get to him. The round trip should only take about twenty, maybe thirty minutes, then he’ll be back with his arm taken care of and will deal with her. Just hang tight! Then he got in the car, backed out, running over a few of the downed bodies, closed the garage door, and sped off.
That was over five days ago. Jamie is worried but holds on to hope. If it wasn’t for Mary and her banging, he might even be doing alright.
But she doesn’t let up. She hasn’t. They don’t sleep. Ever. They’re just in motion when there’s something to be in motion about. The problem is that the ones outside hear his music, that’s trying to cover her banging, which keeps them grouped by the front door. It’s a call and an answer in an endless loop.
He changes the CD. He took his dad’s old collection and stereo. They have the house set up to play everything through Bluetooth speakers set to Spotify playlists. But his dad gave Jamie this big spiel about listening to good music front-to-back. To show his point, he gave up his old collection. Jamie has to admit he’s right. It is something different listening to a full album through, like the artist arranged it to be.
There’s another reason he’s grateful as he slides in the new CD. Even if he wanted music playing all day, Spotify went out with the rest of the Internet a few days ago. It’s like an endless sea of spinning wheels and pages not loading. Nothing works.
The CD player has a radio built-in, and even that is catching nothing but static. For a while, one position caught some music. It must have been a pre-selected playlist that went on until it didn’t. Jamie even tried turning the static up loud. A white noise blanket, but the banging cut through. It knocks into his head like a woodpecker, jabbing him in the ears.
The new CD spins, the digital display shows a number 01, and he cranks it. It’s the one that starts with electrical snaps. The sun went down about an hour ago, but some light holds in the air. The streetlamps start to go on, and it looks like a sloppy play. Bodies stumbling around, looking for their mark, coming in too early or too late.
Nights are the longest. They seem to stretch on into infinity. He does sleep a bit, in bouts, but not through. It makes his eyes feel heavy, and the music seems louder. There is always that rumor that they use endless, loud music as a form of torture. He can understand that, but the knocking is worse, like Chinese Water Torture. That constant drop, drop, drop on the same spot. It gains weight and power over time.
He clamps his pillow over his ears. It deadens the sound a little. He closes his eyes. Everything drones on. He sleeps.
The sun peels his eyelids back. He wakes from a dream. It’s a pleasant morning. Silent and golden. A small wind ripples his open curtains. He can hear his breath, in and out. He yawns, then sits up, feeling disoriented.
He checks his room. It’s a mess. Trash, clothes, and just everything strewn everywhere. It looks like a tornado hit. It’s the water bottles that make him question the otherwise peaceful scene. He remembers they are there for a reason, constantly refilled during the rain. Held out the window until his arm burned. Never enough to quench his thirst.
But wasn’t that just in his dream? A nightmare, really. Full of dead bodies, hunger, and constant, blaring alarms. The rest isn’t there.
He looks out the window. There’s nothing below except for smears of dirt and floating trash. Further down the street, he sees a few people. They look like they’re chatting on the corner. They are too far away to tell for sure. He rubs his eyes, but it doesn’t help make the picture any clearer.
He gets up and stretches. There is no sound. His CD player’s display is a cool black, as is the large-display digital clock that hangs on his wall. He checks his phone. That flashes on, but the battery is down to 56%. He removes the plug, sticks it back in. No change. He removes the plug from the socket, sticks it back in. No change. It doesn’t charge. It looks like the power is out. That usually means a trip to the basement and flipping a few of the breakers.
His dad usually does that, but when was the last time Jamie saw his dad? The morning has brought a fog. Maybe this is the dream? He goes to his door. It’s locked. He unlocks it. He opens it. He steps into the hallway.
At the far end, morning light filters in through the guest room. Or, it used to be a guest room, but now it’s filled with an old sofa, a TV, and Jamie’s PlayStation. That’s where he and Georgie-boy spend most of their time.
He wonders where George is. And now that that thought has passed, he wonders about George’s mom. That wasn’t a dream. She was in their house, half dead. It was she who caused the nightmare. The banging. He looks back at his door. The side facing the hall is smeared with dark stains. They’re cracked and shades of red and brown. Divots and scratches sprinkle the upper half. The lower half carries deep drips and running streaks.
He steps back and bumps into the opposite wall. It sends a dry thud down the hall. She answers and turns the corner from the stairs. Her body looks sunken in, and her face is drained of any blushing color. They dressed her wounds, but her clothes are caked with muck.
She raises her hands slightly, and he can see their condition. Ragged, torn, bones and lumps of meat hanging and mangled. Her jaw drops open under her pale eyes. They look like they’re covered with milk.
She comes toward him. Jamie is frozen for a moment. This isn’t the woman he used to know. Any hopes that this is just a bad dream drain out, along with his bladder. He can’t go back in there. Not back to that. Into his bedroom, a panic room and cage all at once.
She shifts closer. She makes gasps and wheezes through her slouched face. His body moves. He wills it to run past her. To knock her out of the way. To escape. But that’s not what his body does. His body disobeys and flies into that room and slams the door. It throws the lock as her stumpy hands reach the other side. They bang, and bang, and bang, and bang. He slumps to the carpet, a puppet with no will and no one to pull the strings.
The banging goes on for an hour, then it stops. The following quiet is deafening. It makes him come out of his stupor, and he presses an ear against the door.
There is nothing. The hall reverts to its previously peaceful absence of sound. Jamie might be able to hear a faint heaving, but that might just be his chest. It might be her, he can’t tell.
He gets up and presses his hands against his side of the door. He tries to feel through it. To feel if she is just on the other side, or if she moved on and away. He moves his palms over the smooth surface. He gives a single, sharp bang.
She responds with a frenzy. The door shakes on its hinges. She’s still there. He moves to the bed and launches out, but on second thought gets up and shuffles through the top-left desk drawer. He finds his old watch. It’s one of those cheap, plastic ones with a calculator built into it. He doesn’t know if the time is correct on it, but that’s not what he needs.
He plops back on the bed and starts the stopwatch. It runs and runs, ticking away the seconds along with her bangs. He stops it at fifty-one minutes. She falls into silence. He checks out the window, and a few have fumbled to the front door. He restarts the stopwatch, but it only ticks off six minutes until an unseen car engine revving down the road lures them away.
Jamie mutters out loud, “So, they’re attracted to sound.”
His own voice makes him jump and starts her at the door again. He arms the stopwatch and nearly holds his breath in stillness. This time it takes all but thirty-eight minutes. She’s still. The door rests. He exhales.
He tries the experiment two more times, each resulting in the same stillness after some time. Each trial plants the idea further into his mind. He thinks there’s a chance. There is a way to escape if he times it right. If he stays quiet enough. If he can think of a way to distract her. A type of sound distraction.
He rummages through his desk as quietly as possible. A few knocks set her off again, but he knows she’ll settle down, so he continues the search.
He finds it, shoved in the lowest drawer on the right, and despite not having charged it in a while, it holds at 38%. The little puck, with its blue light, might just get him out of this.
It takes a bit longer for her to quit. He waits, what feels like an eternity. Then he waits for just as long again. He takes measured breaths and tries to make as little noise as possible. He stalks his room on tiptoes. He changes his clothes. He empties his old backpack. He gathers everything he thinks he could need. He packs it all. He straps on boots, despite the heat. He wraps extra layers around his forearms and neck. He wishes he had a helmet, but a regular ball cap is going to have to do.
The sun slants to the horizon. The day is almost up. It might be a good thing. If he’s quiet, he can sneak into the soon-dark. It could all be to his advantage.
He checks out the window. The coast looks mostly clear. His belly grumbles. He could use a kingly shit, but decides to hold it in. For now.
He sets up his phone. He checks the volumes. He dares to open the door a crack, ready to slam it in case she’s just on the other side.
She’s not.
He leans into the hallway. He steps in low crouches. He prepares. Everything is on, little blue light ablaze.
Jamie throws it into the guest room, then slides back to his and closes the door with a small swoop. He presses play on his phone. The small speaker blares to life at the opposite end of the hall. It screams heavy metal in all its double-bass, chugging glory.
He hears her take the bait and gives it one minute in sixty carefully plotted seconds. He opens his door and squeezes through. Deep shadows paint the walls of the hallway. Her silhouette dances over them through the open doorway. Steps. Held breath. A reaching hand. Jamie closes the guest room door. It clicks. She doesn’t hear it over the music. He’s freed from his room.
Downstairs looks like a murder scene out of a detective series. Things are toppled. There are deep smears all over the walls. One window is broken. It seems like half the floor is covered in glass, and it makes him happy about his choice to wear the heavy boots.
He grabs all the cans he can muster out of the kitchen cabinets and water bottles out of the pantry. He drinks a warm soda. The sugar gives him an instant high that makes his head swim a little. He grabs the small first-aid kit from the junk drawer and finally a large knife from the wooden block on the countertop. Some of it he packs into a second, smaller bag.
It’s not safe. Not for long. Not with that window and Mary upstairs, one unlocked door away. The battery on that speaker will run down. They always do with exponential speed when they’re low.
The garage might be safe, or it might not be. It’s a risk he’s not willing to take, and goes to the shed out back instead. His old bike is there, sitting in a few cobwebs and a layer of unused dust. The tires are flat, but the pump is on the shelf lining the back wall. They hold the air.
Jamie rolls the bike to the wooden gate that separates their backyard from the front. He peeks over. The way looks empty, though he can’t see far past the corner of the neighbor’s garage.
Now or never. There’s no way to tell if it will get better or worse, so he grabs the last glow of twilight. Any minute now, the streetlamps will come on. He’d rather get to some higher ground before then and creep through the low light. He knows the path.
The first stop is a few corners up, where there’s a fast-food joint. It’s a two-story building. To the back side is one of those enclosed play areas for kids. He can climb to the roof from the netted enclosure. He got kicked out once, years ago, for doing the same. From there, he can get a straight view all the way to the hospital.
Jamie leaves the yard, hops on his bike, and pedals in soft pushes. He cruises down the middle of the street. The last of the evening sun filters through the houses. Figures stand in dark masses behind front windows. Almost every house seems to contain its own grouping. He wonders how long it will take until his will be the same.
The right pedal gives, and the chain slides. Not the most ideal place for a halt in his ride. In haste, he flips the bike over to slip the chain back onto the disc. His speed trumps caress, and the handlebars hit the road. The rusted bell snaps and sends out a chunky ding through the houses.
One by one, the front doors are mobbed by the inner groups. They bang to get out. They bang to get through the obstacles. To get to him. They bang and bang and bang until a parade march reverberates down his street.
Jamie stands out in the open. In the middle of it all, quietly trying to fix his bike.