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apocalypsosWhich is great, because it was due today at 11:45. But then we didn't have class because of the storm, so instead -- thanks to the fact that I finished all my claims for work yesterday and I only have one more assignment to worry about that's due tomorrow at midnight -- I spent most of today slacking off on the couch watching "big Fat Quiz" clips on YouTube. I haven't had a Saturday off in FOREVER. :D
Anyway, here it is if anyone's interested. It's not perfect, but then again I think it's the one I'm workshopping so it doesn't really have to be.
*
The machete was meant for fieldwork. Martha never meant to bring it or anything else from Jim's barn into the house, but a few years back mischievous teenagers broke into some homes closer to town looking for unlocked liquor cabinets or high-priced electronic gadgets. Martha has neither, but better safe than sorry; that was what Jim always said.
Of course, he died when his sleeve got stuck in the protective cover on the thresher and he tumbled in, leaving only his boots and a lament for an open casket behind. Perhaps he shouldn't be an authority on safety, especially from the grave it dug for him.
The kitchen sink is small, white and old-fashioned, meant for chipped family china and yard-sale teacups and dirty saucepans. Whoever set the sink into the sturdy countertop base must never have imagined some little old woman with gray curls like steel wool fluffing around her ears standing before it, her garden-roughened hands calmly scrubbing dried blood from a knife longer than her forearm.
Outside, the wind howls.
The wind, Martha thinks, and a scoffing hiss of laughter bursts past her lips, unbidden.
Toasty summer sunlight spills through the kitchen window, bathing the knife in a golden glow. Martha has a stark sudden memory of her daddy's favorite fire-and-brimstone minister, who would slam his fist down on his podium and threaten his happily trembling audience with the fear of Michael's mighty sword. This must be her mighty sword, this stupid machete, this awful thing she only kept in the house because Jim never bought a baseball bat for playing with the grandkids.
Martha glances at the ceiling, listening carefully for low childish voices or small feet shuffling across the old carpet. But there's nothing, not even a whisper.
She breathes a sigh of relief, then dries the machete with an old dishrag. It's just a big knife, is all. Somewhat bigger than Jim's carving knife, a lot bigger than the steak knives.
Outside, the wind batters against the side of the house, slapping at it like a hundred dead hands.
The wind, she thinks again. This time, the laughter is real. Jim once said her laughter sounded like the wheezy dying breaths of an asthmatic. He wasn't wrong, but he also wasn't very nice about it.
Ignoring the commotion outside, she shuffles toward the stairs. The machete dangles from her tense fingers, laying against her side. Her legs have swelled somewhat in the midday heat, a crisscrossing maze of varicose veins raising up under her skin. Her joints cry out as she takes the stairs. She's tired, so damnably tired, but it's all right. Everything is almost done anyway.
The door to the master bedroom toggles back and forth, in and out. For a moment, she stands at the top of the stairs and watches the room exhale and inhale. Jim set the door in wrong when they needed to replace it once after a small fire in the hallway, and it hadn't closed right since. Jim had to put in a deadbolt just so they could keep it shut.
The grandkids weren't allowed in the bedroom because of that deadbolt. You can get in from the outside, of course -- the key hangs in the kitchen from a rusty hook which is probably a more dangerous household object than the lock -- but Martha isn't one for time-wasting. Retrieving giggling children from the bedroom over and over again is a waste.
She's happier than she should be that the deadbolt hasn't been thrown in her absence.
Martha peers inside one last time, swallowing bile at the distinctive smell.
Sara and the boys lay quiet and still, still.
Martha's breath shudders out of her chest, almost a cough. It's easy to poison someone when the food's run out. If you give them the last of whatever's available – canned green beans cooked impatiently with a dying cigarette lighter – they'll finish it whether it tastes funny or not. And unlike some people, they'll stay dead.
Outside, the wind bangs at the front door, knocking like a living thing.
Martha's grip on the machete tightens as she turns to clump down the stairs. Her cheap slippers muffle her heavy steps.
The front door is shut and locked, a surprisingly sturdy barrier against the baying crowd outside. In her nightmares, they remember how to break locks or shatter glass. In her nightmares, they push through and get into the house and they feed. In her nightmares, she's been dead for months, rotting next to her family.
When she reaches the front door, she resists the urge to pry back the yellowed curtains. She knows what's out there. She pictured that yowling mob as she spiked the green beans with antifreeze last night. Better dead in bed than bloody in the foyer, Martha thinks. Her smirk grows wistful as she unlocks the door and steps out onto the creaking porch.
They swarm around the house like fruit flies, just as brainless and twice as irritating. When Martha shuffles onto the porch, her rounded shoulders set in stone, they sway in place. If zombies could be shocked, they'd look like this. The one she killed last night for practice, a lost loner stumbling around the back porch, hadn't gotten the chance for shock or surprise. Jim always did keep his tools sharp. All it took was one solid whack at its fragile neck.
The zombies spread out before her like a writhing mass of fire ants, hungry and angry, blending into a black heaving mass where the lawn meets the county road. Their low moans rise as they sense food.
One zombie was easy. This will be impossible.
"Well, boys," she says, raising the machete high to their growing howls. “Let's get this over with.”
Anyway, here it is if anyone's interested. It's not perfect, but then again I think it's the one I'm workshopping so it doesn't really have to be.
*
The machete was meant for fieldwork. Martha never meant to bring it or anything else from Jim's barn into the house, but a few years back mischievous teenagers broke into some homes closer to town looking for unlocked liquor cabinets or high-priced electronic gadgets. Martha has neither, but better safe than sorry; that was what Jim always said.
Of course, he died when his sleeve got stuck in the protective cover on the thresher and he tumbled in, leaving only his boots and a lament for an open casket behind. Perhaps he shouldn't be an authority on safety, especially from the grave it dug for him.
The kitchen sink is small, white and old-fashioned, meant for chipped family china and yard-sale teacups and dirty saucepans. Whoever set the sink into the sturdy countertop base must never have imagined some little old woman with gray curls like steel wool fluffing around her ears standing before it, her garden-roughened hands calmly scrubbing dried blood from a knife longer than her forearm.
Outside, the wind howls.
The wind, Martha thinks, and a scoffing hiss of laughter bursts past her lips, unbidden.
Toasty summer sunlight spills through the kitchen window, bathing the knife in a golden glow. Martha has a stark sudden memory of her daddy's favorite fire-and-brimstone minister, who would slam his fist down on his podium and threaten his happily trembling audience with the fear of Michael's mighty sword. This must be her mighty sword, this stupid machete, this awful thing she only kept in the house because Jim never bought a baseball bat for playing with the grandkids.
Martha glances at the ceiling, listening carefully for low childish voices or small feet shuffling across the old carpet. But there's nothing, not even a whisper.
She breathes a sigh of relief, then dries the machete with an old dishrag. It's just a big knife, is all. Somewhat bigger than Jim's carving knife, a lot bigger than the steak knives.
Outside, the wind batters against the side of the house, slapping at it like a hundred dead hands.
The wind, she thinks again. This time, the laughter is real. Jim once said her laughter sounded like the wheezy dying breaths of an asthmatic. He wasn't wrong, but he also wasn't very nice about it.
Ignoring the commotion outside, she shuffles toward the stairs. The machete dangles from her tense fingers, laying against her side. Her legs have swelled somewhat in the midday heat, a crisscrossing maze of varicose veins raising up under her skin. Her joints cry out as she takes the stairs. She's tired, so damnably tired, but it's all right. Everything is almost done anyway.
The door to the master bedroom toggles back and forth, in and out. For a moment, she stands at the top of the stairs and watches the room exhale and inhale. Jim set the door in wrong when they needed to replace it once after a small fire in the hallway, and it hadn't closed right since. Jim had to put in a deadbolt just so they could keep it shut.
The grandkids weren't allowed in the bedroom because of that deadbolt. You can get in from the outside, of course -- the key hangs in the kitchen from a rusty hook which is probably a more dangerous household object than the lock -- but Martha isn't one for time-wasting. Retrieving giggling children from the bedroom over and over again is a waste.
She's happier than she should be that the deadbolt hasn't been thrown in her absence.
Martha peers inside one last time, swallowing bile at the distinctive smell.
Sara and the boys lay quiet and still, still.
Martha's breath shudders out of her chest, almost a cough. It's easy to poison someone when the food's run out. If you give them the last of whatever's available – canned green beans cooked impatiently with a dying cigarette lighter – they'll finish it whether it tastes funny or not. And unlike some people, they'll stay dead.
Outside, the wind bangs at the front door, knocking like a living thing.
Martha's grip on the machete tightens as she turns to clump down the stairs. Her cheap slippers muffle her heavy steps.
The front door is shut and locked, a surprisingly sturdy barrier against the baying crowd outside. In her nightmares, they remember how to break locks or shatter glass. In her nightmares, they push through and get into the house and they feed. In her nightmares, she's been dead for months, rotting next to her family.
When she reaches the front door, she resists the urge to pry back the yellowed curtains. She knows what's out there. She pictured that yowling mob as she spiked the green beans with antifreeze last night. Better dead in bed than bloody in the foyer, Martha thinks. Her smirk grows wistful as she unlocks the door and steps out onto the creaking porch.
They swarm around the house like fruit flies, just as brainless and twice as irritating. When Martha shuffles onto the porch, her rounded shoulders set in stone, they sway in place. If zombies could be shocked, they'd look like this. The one she killed last night for practice, a lost loner stumbling around the back porch, hadn't gotten the chance for shock or surprise. Jim always did keep his tools sharp. All it took was one solid whack at its fragile neck.
The zombies spread out before her like a writhing mass of fire ants, hungry and angry, blending into a black heaving mass where the lawn meets the county road. Their low moans rise as they sense food.
One zombie was easy. This will be impossible.
"Well, boys," she says, raising the machete high to their growing howls. “Let's get this over with.”
