I had no trouble lifting her. She was a tiny woman weighing only ninety pounds so picking her up was easy. I held her to my chest carefully and it took a moment before I could control my trembling and force my legs toward the door and to the elevator. As I went through the quiet lobby, I avoided looking at what still lay there. I got to the parking lot and as gently as I could, I laid her in the back seat of my car.
When I got behind the wheel I discovered I would have to use the backup key to start the ignition because voice control wasn’t working for the car, either. I went back up to the apartment to get the key since it was something I didn’t normally keep on my keyring. I got back down, started the car, and autodrive also wasn’t working, so that meant none of the directions programmed into the car would work. I would have to drive manually and guide myself. I maneuvered around the dead bodies and the benumbed people shuffling aimlessly around.
Turning out onto the street, I drove in the direction of my parents’ home.
Chapter Four
AS I DROVE, I THOUGHT OF ALL THE THINGS MY parents did for my sister and me, all the lessons we learned from them, all the love they gave to us. They sacrificed and devoted themselves to ensuring my sister and I had everything we needed for a good start in life.
I came from a family of teachers; my grandparents were teachers, my mother taught high school biology and my father taught math at the local community college. My sister was into art and had her own studio, but she also taught classes in drawing and painting. There were aunts, uncles, and cousins who worked in the profession.
So, it was no surprise to my family when I chose teaching as a career.
Thrilled when I snagged a position within the Mecklenburg County School District in Charlotte, the city in which I was born and raised, I was eager to get started because the school to which I would be going was one in dire need of new teachers.
Okay. I won’t lie; I was also glad to get a job at home because it meant I wouldn’t have to worry about getting a place to live right off. My parents were great. They encouraged me to stay with them until I could afford to get my own place since, as were most recent college graduates, I was broke until my first paycheck.
The school I was going to was the one in which I wanted to teach. It was within a part of the district that was not as well-heeled as some and funds for certain items were not always available, so I knew I could be a positive influence. My parents were excited for me, happy to see me reach that point. It was the culmination of their hopes for me to have a responsible and fruitful life.
My new colleagues welcomed and praised me for choosing a career that so many young men and women eschewed in favor of a more lucrative profession. Wanting my students to be as successful as possible, I jumped in with enthusiasm, executing all the requirements expected of one tasked with helping mold the minds of the young so they could mature into healthy, happy, and productive participants of society. My work wasn’t over at the end of each school day either, as I often went beyond regular duties. It was no more than I’d seen other teachers do, including my parents.
I managed and participated in fundraisers, including one that achieved success in supplying the newest computers for all the students. To my kids who couldn’t afford them, I distributed the simple items for school such as paper, pencils, backpacks, etc. I recalled from my youth my parents encouraging my sister and me to participate in food and clothing drives for the less fortunate, so, knowing those were ever with us, there were kids on whom I regularly checked to ensure they had enough to eat, a warm coat, a pair of shoes, and a decent set of clothing to wear.
My parents were proud of me.
I tried to calm my roiling mind as I turned into their neighborhood and onto the quiet street on which their house stood, and pulled into the driveway.
I turned the car off and sat there a few minutes, afraid to get out and go in. Finally, knowing I didn’t have a choice, I creaked open the door and heaved myself from the seat. I glanced into the back but decided not to go to the door with Zoni in my arms. I steadied myself and forced my feet to carry me up the porch steps.
I rang the doorbell and waited, praying that either my mom or my dad would open it. I waited for what felt like an eternity before giving up and using the key they’d told me to keep when I moved out.
My mother was in the kitchen. She lay on the tiled floor next to the refrigerator and was in the same condition as Zoni. I stared down at what was left of the woman who’d given birth to me and loved me all my life, my heart a lead ball in my chest.
Deep down within, I’d known what I would find, but the blow wasn’t any less.
I don’t know how long I stood there before helpless rage speared through me shattering my iced-over mind. What was this… this… thing that was taking the people I loved from me? I turned from my mother, and looking wildly around the kitchen, I spotted a mug on the small table where my parents usually had their coffee in the mornings. It was one of a set I’d given them a couple of Christmases ago. They’d loved and used them ever since. Mom said they were the perfect size. But, where was the other one, the one my dad used? And where was he?
I ripped through the still house searching, afraid to call out.
Maybe this thing hadn’t touched him; maybe he’d turned in late and was still asleep. He did that sometimes when he didn’t have to work the next day, sleeping until Mom nagged him awake. Or maybe he was somewhere in the house and in shock at what happened to Mom. Maybe he was still alive. When I didn’t find him in the house I rushed back through the kitchen and flinging open the back door, I ran outside. Maybe he’d gone to a neighbor’s—
He was lying at the far end of the deck in that now horribly familiar condition. His coffee mug lay smashed beside him as if he’d stepped out, mug in hand, and gone over to look at something, perhaps to see how far the fog extended.
I froze for a moment, my heart quivering as my hope of finding him alive died. Then I plodded around to the driveway, opened the back door of my car, and gently lifted Zoni out. I carried her into the house and, avoiding the blood, laid her on the kitchen floor because after the fog dissipated, it turned into a typically hot, Southern, late June day.
With burning eyes, I began the task of enshrouding my parents. I found bed linens but it was not as easy as it was with Zoni. I had to place them in piece by piece.
I attended my mom first, and then my dad. My dad… I try not to remember but even now, years later, I can still smell the stench and hear the buzzing of the flies and the sticky, ripping noises as I pulled the pieces of my father from the bloody wooden deck and placed them into the shroud.
I got him wrapped and tied, and dragged him into the kitchen where I put him next to my mom.
My head ached and my stomach was churning by the time I finished. My body was shaking while my mind was trying to rebel, but I tried to reach someone who could tell me something. Anything. My cellphone was still out but the phone in the kitchen had dial tone so I used it to call 911. Again, it was useless. That time I didn’t even get the recorded message. The image display only showed a picture of the police department while the words “Please wait” continuously scrolled down the screen. It was frustrating but not unanticipated. There were far too many issues in the city needing attention.