I woke this morning to my beeping watch alarm. It’s Thursday. Or maybe it’s Friday. I lost count of the days after the heating and power cut out.
Outside my apartment, the snow falls in thick sheets, pulsing with each gust of wind. Beyond the snow, through my grill-covered window, I can see the Carnegie Museum looming against the gray sky. The museum has stood empty for over a week.
I hear gunshots in the distance. There’s a body lying face down on the plaza across the deserted street. It’s been there for several days; its white flesh obscured by the even whiter snow. As for the gunshots, which pop again, there’s no way to tell where they come from because the sound soars over the otherwise silent rooftops and alleyways and travels for miles around. It could as easily be from the next block.
My watch reads 8:31 because I like to set the alarm to irregular numbers.
But I don’t know why I still set the alarm.
Canned peaches for breakfast and coffee boiled on a camping stove. The electricity stopped working two days ago. Gas: three days ago. The phones: almost a week. I’m certain of each of these figures, but this information doesn’t help me guess the day because I can’t pinpoint when this chaos first broke out. The days and nights have been so busy, surprising, and often violent. In the madness, it’s hard to keep track of anything. Surely, the authorities wouldn’t cut the gas off on a Sunday, so it must be midweek. Right?
I had a nightmare last night, which isn’t surprising considering the things I’ve seen and heard during the last eight or nine days. What is surprising is that the sleeping nightmare bared no resemblance to this waking nightmare. What’s more surprising is that, somehow, I’m one of the few still alive and able to have nightmares at all.
The nightmare featured a girl from my old high school trying to seduce me. She was a particularly vicious individual — a pretty girl made ugly by her words. The dream ended with the beginnings of a sexual act and then me running to puke in the bathroom. I think this dream stems from sleeping alone for the past week, which I haven’t done for almost a year now. My girlfriend, Emily Jacobs, succumbed to the plague last Saturday. Or was it Sunday?
*
Today, I need to gather more food. I have enough to last another week or two, but I have no idea when rescue will arrive — or, indeed, if rescue will ever arrive. I also need gas canisters for my camping stove, and maybe even a gun. People around here are getting crazy. I’m serious. I’ve already mentioned the dead body across the street.
*
There are four bolts on my apartment’s door. I added two more bolts three days ago, when the TV news broadcasts reached a new level of dire and the building’s heating finally cut out amid an hour of creaking, groaning pipes.
For further security, I’ve nailed a sheet of plywood over one of the apartment’s windows. I then pushed the defunct fridge up against the wood to keep it in place. Fortunately, the small side window, which faces a busy road, already has a grill over it. I pull thick curtains across this window each evening so that when I turn on my recently acquired wind-up lantern the light doesn’t draw any outside attention. I know I’m paranoid, but I’m still alive, so I’m doing something right.
*
I grab my empty backpack, a large one made for hiking but perfect for looting, throw it over my shoulder, and step into the hallway. I push my bike ahead of me, but as I turn to lock the door, the front wheel slips to the side and the whole thing topples down the stairs with a clatter. Typical.
From outside my apartment, I can close only two of the door’s locks, so I do that and head downstairs, grabbing the tangled bicycle on the way.
In the building’s foyer, the glass doors facing the street are smashed. I did this myself to make it look like looters have already pillaged the building, so others will pass by and leave my apartment untouched. It means the building’s colder, but it feels worth it. Even when the wind blows snow all the way up to the base of the stairwell, which is now more of an ice-tomb, it still feels worth it.
The snow outside falls in dense waves, but is still shallow enough on the ground to cycle through. Seeing untouched snow in such a busy part of the city is a rare event. I can’t recall ever seeing city roads blanketed as thoroughly as they are now, without the snow already tarnished by footsteps and tire tracks. Normally, by the time I would wake up on a snowy day, postal workers, people on night or dawn shifts, and newspaper delivery kids would have already broken the snows purity. Now the snow buries the city in slow growing, untouched layers, as if nature, renewed of its sentience, is seeking its final revenge. I’m lucky, in a way, because all of this can be quite beautiful sometimes.
The corpse I saw on the museum plaza ten minutes ago is now only a white mound on a whiter expanse. I can only hope that the roads are still traversable an hour from now when I’ll need to head home again.
I pull my scarf tight around my neck and mouth and pedal down the street, blinking away the blinding ice.
I choose to cycle because it’s convenient and allows me to navigate the damaged and cluttered streets with relative ease. It’s also quiet, so that I don’t attract any unwanted attention. These days, any attention could be dangerous attention.
But cycling in this weather is tough and slippery work. I have to remain focused on the road immediately ahead of me in order to shield my eyes from the blinding snow, but need to remain aware of my surroundings as to avoid collisions with the masses of junk all over the city. When people die, they don’t take the time to park their car correctly, so thousands of vehicles sit abandoned at chaotic angles all over the streets, cluttered and cumbersome. What’s more, in the past week, looting has been pandemic, so I’m as liable to crash into an old TV set as I am to crash into a car. All around, looters have emptied stores into the street. On Craig Street, even the comic-book store has been ransacked.
My luck holds out because the snowfall eases for a while once I leave my street and stays like this for five or six blocks. A little further on, in what was once a pleasant shopping area, I see a figure walking ahead. I stop the bike, hard. I don’t know what else to do in such a situation because I don’t know how safe this individual is. In the past few days, all of my encounters with other people have turned sour. As you’d expect, seeing almost everyone you know die within a week can seriously fuck a guy up. Most of the people who are still alive freak out if you get too close to them, fearful of any disease you may carry. But I figure that if you’re susceptible to the plague then you’ll already be contaminated and dead by now. I mean, the plague, or virus, or whatever they defined it as, was certainly contagious enough.
The past few nights of loneliness have given plenty me of time to mull my ideas over. My theory, up until now, first states that I’m evidently immune to the G9 contamination. If I’m vulnerable to the plague, then as I’ve said, I’m sure I’d be quite dead by now. The guy I can see standing ahead of me must be immune too, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing right now. That is, standing there. So, is this something to do with our genetics? That's what I believe, because I can't see where else this immunity could have come from. It’s not like I had Nile Virus as a kid or anything. So is this a hereditary thing? That would follow the train of logic I’ve established. Does that mean that my parents, brothers, and sister are still alive? That’s another question entirely, because the G9 plague is not the only killer around here.
My family lives in the small town of Bramble in northern Pennsylvania. When I last called them, when all of this chaos first broke out a week or so ago, they were all doing well. Most of my immediate family still lives in the same house I grew up in. That’s two parents, one sister, and one brother. Another brother lives in Philadelphia, after he moved there to study Philosophy and dropped out after eight months. Now he works as a supervisor in a bookstore and smokes a lot of pot. So aside from my older brother, who I haven’t heard from in months, my family was doing fine a week ago. Then the phone lines became swamped and cut out, along with, in time, all the other amenities. I rest my hopes on the belief that my family are indeed well and trying to get in touch with me, but with the phones out and the mail stopped, well, nobody’s contacting anybody in any great hurry. As I see it, one of my first priorities, after I find a decent roadworthy car, is to travel to my family’s home and see what’s happened there. I can only presume that my brother, Alex, in Philadelphia, has had the same idea and that he’ll head home too.
But this reunion has to wait because outside the world of my speculation, right here, in the immediate of the tactile and empirical, a stranger at the end of the street is poking at something in the snow. He (I assume they’re a “He”) twitches a bit. Almost everyone’s dead or dying and in my limited observations, those that remain healthy react in one of three ways. The first possibility is that they may have cracked, gone nuts, and plan on blowing me away with whatever weapons they have. Second, they may become hell-bent on their own survival and, to increase the odds of this, have isolated themselves from everybody else. Should I attempt to break this isolation and possibly infect them, they too may well plan on blowing me away. Anybody else, like me, is in the third category, trying to stay as low as possible, biding their time, and thus avoiding being blown the fuck away.
I remain standing with my bike and the figure at the opposite end of the street sees me. He runs down a side street without a moment’s hesitation. Like me, he’s a category three.
I pedal away and take a detour to avoid bumping into the individual again. Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the ravaged grocery store.
*
I wheel into the parking lot and scope the place out. From the exterior, at least, the building looks empty. The main doors are wide open and snow has blown inside the building. Observing such desolation, I now doubt the logic behind coming here; I’m sure that looters have already taken everything of value. Still, I’ve come all this way, so I leave my bike down by the side of the store, where I hope nobody will notice it, and stroll over to the entrance.
Glass crunches underfoot as I step into the dim building. Silence, and then a dog barks from somewhere in the dark aisles. The noise echoes through the cavernous expanse. The plague affected few animals and now thousands of homeless dogs roam the streets. Of course, most of the dogs are harmless and this one it sounds like its eating, so it should be safe enough.
Strolling through the empty, endless aisles is a bizarre experience. Every footfall echoes through the vast building and the dog’s distant chews dominate the remainder of the soundscape. Pushing an empty shopping cart in front of me, I chew a wormy apple I find by the base of a refrigeration unit. My shopping trip amounts to a few cans of chick peas, a can of lentil soup, two cans of fruit, several sour apples, a bag of dried butter beans and, I can’t believe my luck, one entire bottle of premium-brand rum!
I find the dog at the far corner of the building, chewing bones on the ground behind the meat counter. I pet the animal for a while and think of taking some of the bones to make a soup, boiling them for a day or so to get the marrow out. But I decide otherwise. Boiling them would require too much gas from the camping stove, so the rewards won’t be worth the cost. Besides, the dog is enjoying the bones now more than I ever will.
The dog loves to receive attention and while it doesn’t lift its head from the bone on the ground, it contorts its body to keep close to my hand, as I rub its head and neck. The warmth of another body surprises me, and as I pet the dog, I feel the anxiety from the past week slip away. It drops its bone on the ground, lolls its tongue out, and pants as I rub under its chin and stroke its ears. It stares at me with wide eyes. This goes on for some minutes — the reciprocal comfort of affectionate company.
Then the dog looks up and I hear a footfall behind me. That is, directly behind me and only feet away. Panicked, I try to twist my body and a man screams, “STAY DOWN THERE, DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE!”
But no, sorry, it’s not a shout — it’s a loud plea. “Stay down! I have a gun.”
I fall back to my knees, raise my shaking arms into the air, and crane my neck a few inches to the side, to plead and reason with the man. “Please, I’m not doing anything. I’m just getting some food. That’s all. I can just go and leave you alone.” I can already feel the sweat pooling on my burning face.
The dog has recognized the stranger — who is no doubt his owner — and leaps to the side of the confrontation, disturbed by the raised and threatening voice.
The stranger doesn’t respond to my statement. Instead, he hums a quivering note as if he doesn’t know what to do. I crane my neck enough to see him: a man no older than me, red faced in panic. He holds a small handgun.
“I said don’t move,” he screams. “Stay where you are. Tell me your name.”
“Uh—” I remain watching him.
“I said, tell me your fucking name!” He gestures to the gun in his hands by rocking them up and down. “I can use this, you know,” he says, “I’m not fucking around here.”
“I know. I believe you,” I blurt.
“Well?”
“Matthew. My name’s Matthew Cahill.”
It’s obvious that neither of us know what to say in this situation. “Are you crazy?” and “Do you want to kill me?” are things we want to say, but we could never do that.
“Are you crazy?”
“Me?” Of course he means me. “No!”
“‘No’? Everyone’s gone crazy. What are you doing here? Speak up. Don’t forget I still have the gun.”
I feel a wave of relief because, yes, he has the gun, but no, he won’t use it. We’re both scared shitless and don’t know what to do. He has a gun, but we’re in a stalemate, because he doesn’t want to shoot. I need to diffuse the situation. I have to speak in a calm voice and say things like, “Please, relax,” “We’re cool,” and so on, and then we’re friends forever, allies, and come through this whole mess together and emerge, in a few weeks, on the other side of disaster, victorious over nature’s worst. But all I say is a cracked and panicked, “I— I know you’ve got the gun.” It’s not a scream or a piercing yell. It’s as calm a statement as I can manage through the adrenaline rush. I say it to affirm my understanding of the situation and to let him know that things don’t need to escalate any further. But in the immediate, I don’t think in such rational terms. This is pure intuition.
“That’s right. So who the fuck are you?” The dog growls because of the tension in the air.
“You already asked. My name’s Matthew Cahill.”
“Oh yeah, yeah.” He lowers the gun and my relief is palpable. I can feel the perspiration on my face, dripping down my upper lip, and the sweat on his face falls into clear focus. Now that we’re on the same level, I drop my arms to my side and ask a question of my own.
“So who are you?”
“Sorry I acted like that. I’m scared, man. You know? I’m just scared.” He pauses. “My name’s James Klein.” There’s a long silence as we assess each other and then he smiles a little, turning his gun from me. “I don’t really know how to use this.”
I laugh with relief.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, “but people are cracking up around here and I don’t know who I can trust.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“There’s someone up on Ellsworth Avenue, well I didn’t see where they were, but I was up there with Ben, the dog, you know. We were walking down there minding our own business, kicking the trash around and there’s a rifle crack in the distance and the snow on the ground next to us puffs up into the air with a clap. Snipers, man! Snipers! How are you supposed to stay sane or sober with shit like that going on? Of course, I ran, and the rifle cracked again while I got the hell out of there. That’s why I got this.” He holds out the gun as if he’s allergic to it. “I knew that the guy who lived a few houses over from me had one, so I went and broke in.” He pauses. I remain sat on the ground waiting for him to continue, which, by the expression on his face, he clearly wishes to do, if only he can find the correct words. “He was laying in a recliner with the gun in his lap, dead of course. With that pale face that they got. That face everyone got. Except me, and you, I guess. It felt wrong to steal from a dead man, but—” he thinks for a beat, “—well.” In light of recent events, “well” is excuse enough.
He carries on talking about himself and his dog for a few minutes because he’s happy, relieved, and excited to see another friendly face. I blank out most of what he says. I’m still too shocked from having a gun pointed at me. For a moment there, I thought I was going to die. A wave of adrenaline had thrust me to the edge of reality, and now that the situation has finally calmed and the adrenaline has become unnecessary, all I can do is emit weak laughs and watch my arms shake. The dog, Ben, continues to gnaw at a bone on the ground.
James reminds me of myself. My age — early to mid-twenties — with an awkward gait. Brown hair and sunken eyes, like the kind you get when you spend your days in front of a computer monitor. He tells me that he’s lived in Pittsburgh his entire life — at his parent’s home in Lawrenceville — and that he works in a nearby bagel shop.
After some time, he helps me get up from my crouched position and I lean against the deli counter, recovering from the adrenaline surge that doesn’t appear to have affected him at all. When he comes to a natural pause, I ask what we’re going to do next. He gives a perplexed look.
“I mean, we can’t stay here,” I clarify. “The snow’s coming down too heavily. We’ll be trapped.”
“Yeah, of course. I need to get some food, and then we can head back to one of our places, huh?” He waits for a reply, but I’m still shaky and fail to respond in time. “We are sticking together, right?”
“If you’re cool with it,” I smile at him. “There’s no more food here though, other than what I’ve already collected.”
We grab my shopping cart and head to the exit. Ben follows behind us, sniffing the various refrigerators. During my time in the store, the snow has thickened, and drifts of it are gathering against the exterior wall.
“Do you live nearby?” I ask. “It’ll take an age to walk back to my place in this weather. I biked up here when it was calmer.”
“You cycled in this? You’re mad. You’ll freeze your balls off cycling in this. Forget that, my place is only ten minutes walking.”
So we start walking.
I pull my jacket tight, more as a gesture of defiance than for any practical purpose, and we begin our trek through the worst storm of the winter. James pushes the near empty shopping cart, I walk with my bike, and Ben walks alongside, hunched down in the deepening snow.