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It’s not like in the movies.
There’s no warning. No whispers or rumors. No tension or unease. No strange events for newscasters to try to explain, for politicians to try to cover up. No reason to fear or to plan. To run and to hide.
There’s no warning.
It just happens, from one day to the next, like a switch being flicked. Only the lights go off, instead of on.
It’s not like in the movies.
The world doesn’t stutter.
It just stops.
ooOOOoo
Sonny and Rafael drove through the countryside, Sonny with his camera to take photos of the fall foliage, Rafael to go antiquing. It was a beautiful October weekend, crisp and cool, with vibrant, sunny days, and nights so cold their breath made tiny clouds beneath the stars.
They stopped at an inn in a town so quaint every view was a picture postcard. But Sonny doesn’t take pictures, and Rafael doesn’t antique. They walk and talk, they kiss and they fuck. And Sonny goes to sleep Saturday night with finger-shaped bruises on his hips, smudging out the lightening ones from the week before.
They wake up Sunday morning, the same Sonny and the same Rafael.
But the switch had been flicked.
And the kindly, mothering innkeeper, who’d fed them pot roast for dinner the night before, tried to take Sonny’s throat out, with her mouth and her teeth, with her hands and her nails, her face already slick and red from somebody else’s blood.
The switch had been flicked.
And Sonny and Rafael’s world stopped.
ooOOOoo
Sonny had had to kill her.
He smashed her skull, but her teeth kept biting and her hands kept clawing. He severed her skull from her neck and her hands from her wrists, but the teeth still clacked and her hands kept moving, like muscle memory gone mad, her fingers stretching and pulling across the floor. He swept them into the fireplace, onto the grate that had held the fire that’d warmed his back only the night before.
Flames enveloped the head and the hands, licked and seared. The mouth and the teeth stopped, the hands and the fingers stilled.
Blood spread across the floor, glistening deep red in the firelight.
Blood spread down Sonny’s face and across his hands, thick and hot.
Sonny had had to kill her, but he crossed himself and prayed for her soul, even as he thanked God for his life. For Rafael’s.
He had had to kill her.
He didn’t know she was already dead.
ooOOOoo
They learn.
They learn that the world stopped. That civilization passed to anarchy in a day.
Phones were on an endless loop of “This call cannot be completed as dialed.” Television and radio produced nothing but the hiss of static, the internet, error code after error code.
Their texts disappeared into the ether, silence the only response.
They learn.
They learn that three-quarters of the people in this small town are dead and have to be killed again.
Not with a quick gunshot to the head or a clean slice through the brain.
But with fire. Fire, to cauterize the infection.
It makes the ungodliest of bonfires, the work the living did in the town that day. That Sonny and Rafael did that day.
Sonny looks at Rafael, as Rafael kicks a wandering finger into the flames.
Sonny sees the reflection of the blaze in Rafael’s eyes. The fire lighting within Rafael.
It’s not like the movies.
It’s not quick.
It’s not clean.
Sonny’s given up praying for the dead.
He prays for the living now.
ooOOOoo
They skirt the towns in the following days. Smoke rising to the sky kills hope, even as it cauterizes.
They find a trailer at a used car lot and hitch it to their SUV, and gather supplies. Food, water, first aid supplies, camping equipment, clothes.
Matches, lighters, oil, gas.
Anything that starts fire.
And weapons.
Sonny prays for the living.
But he knows he might have to kill them, too.
ooOOOoo
They stop by a creek one night, the water rippling with starlight, the wind sighing through the trees like the Earth’s own groan.
Rafael rested in the car, while Sonny went to the water to scrub away the day’s blood and viscera.
He didn’t think he’d ever be clean again. But it bothered him worse to see the same on Rafael’s skin and clothes, in his eyes.
From all the things he should never have to do.
Sonny prayed for the living, but some things can’t be prayed away.
Sonny hears the soft roll of a stone in the damp earth behind him and turns. He sees the glint of moonlight on steel, hears the sharp crack of a gun. Then felt the too familiar spray of blood and brains and bone on his skin, in his hair.
A tall, heavy man fell to the bed of leaves on the ground, his skull shattered, a knife slipping from his fingers.
But all Sonny sees is Rafael, the sleek, black gun in his hand. The splatter on his skin to match Sonny’s own.
The fire in his eyes.
Sonny prays for the living and for all the things they should never have to do.
Sonny prays for Rafael.
For all the things he should never have to do.
They take the man’s knife, and the matches and lighter in his pocket. They take the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from his backpack and leave the rest.
They leave him by the creek and retreat to their car.
He was one of the living, and they need to know.
They leave him for hours and watch, till night falls again.
It’s not like the movies.
He doesn’t turn.
They burn him anyway.
ooOOOoo
They pull up to the intersection and stop. Sonny puts the car in Park, and they watch the sky.
To the right, black smoke rises and burns, here and there, miles between, pocking the brilliant blue clarity, like bruises on skin.
To the left, far away on the horizon, black spreads, blotting out the blue in an ever-widening swath, like gangrene in a limb.
One heals.
The other dies.
To the right are rolling hills, leading to smaller and smaller towns, to fewer and fewer people. To mountains and to clear blue sky.
To the left is the city, miles away and millions of people in-between.
Sonny thinks of their families. Their family. Of his parents and sisters. Of Tommy and his niece. Of Lucia. Of Liv with Noah. Fin.
And Amanda with Jesse and Frannie.
Miles and millions between them.
He doesn’t know if it’s better to think of them as alive in the city smothered in smoke, or to pray their souls found easy release.
Sonny leans over to Rafael, leans forehead to forehead, and slides his hand under the collar of his shirt. His fingers splay across his throat and find Rafael’s pulse, the life beneath the skin. His palm rises as Rafael breathes, as his breath touches Sonny’s face.
Sonny prays for the living.
He thanks God he was with Rafael the day the world stopped.
And he knows. He knows he’d turn left for Rafael. Even with miles and millions between them.
With Rafael, with Rafael’s skin under his hand, warm and alive, now, with Rafael’s eyes meeting his, straight and true, lit with fire, he doesn’t know. Now. They don’t know.
Sonny thinks of their family.
Of Rafael.
Of miles and millions.
Or of clear blue skies.
It’s not like in the movies.
It’s not quick.
It’s not clean.
There’s no end.
They sit at the intersection. Wasting gas. Savoring time. The minutes. The seconds. Before. Before they turn left or they turn right. Before they leave who they were. Before they become who they will be.
It’s not quick.
It’s not clean.
It’s not like the movies.
It’s not the end.
It’s the beginning.