(Stage right, a stage light pops on, throwing a dim yellow glow over one of the tombstones and JENNIFER and JACKSON HOWLAND, her standing behind the headstone, him seated on the ground in front of and to its right. They are sister and brother, what their parents’ friends secretly call Catholic or Irish twins: Jennifer is ten months her brother’s senior, which currently translates to seventeen to his sixteen. They are siblings as much in their build—tall yet heavy—as they are in their angular faces, their brown eyes, their curly brown hair. Both are dressed in orange hunting caps and orange hunting vests over white cable-knit sweaters, jeans, and construction boots. Jennifer props a shotgun against her right hip and snaps a piece of bubblegum. Jackson has placed his shotgun on the ground behind him; chin on his fists, he stares at the ground.)
Jennifer: I still say you’re sitting too close.
Jackson: It’s fine, Jenn.
Jennifer: Yeah, well, see how fine it is when I have to shoot you in the head to keep you from making me your Happy Meal.
(Jackson sighs extravagantly, pushes himself backwards, over and behind his gun.)
Jackson: There. Is that better?
Jennifer: As long as the person whose grave you’re sitting on now doesn’t decide your ass would make a tasty treat.
(Jackson glares at her and climbs to his feet.)
Jennifer: Aren’t you forgetting something?
(She nods at the shotgun lying on the ground. Jackson thrusts his hands in the pockets of his vest.)
Jackson: I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for me to arm myself if anything shows up.
Jennifer: Don’t be so sure. Christine Compton said her family was attacked by a pair of eaters who ran like track stars.
Jackson: Uh-huh.
Jennifer: Why would she make that up?
Jackson: She—did Mr. Compton kill them?
Jennifer: It was Mrs. Compton, actually. Christine’s dad can’t shoot worth shit.
Jackson: Regardless—they’re both dead, these sprinting zombies. Again. So we don’t have to worry about them.
Jennifer: There could be others. You never know.
Jackson: I’ll take my chances. (Pauses.) Besides, it’s not as if we need to be here in the first place.
Jennifer: Oh?
Jackson: Don’t you think, if Great-grandma Rose were going to return, she would have already? I mean, it’s been like, what? ten days? two weeks? since the last ones dug themselves out. And it took them a while to do that.
Jennifer: Right, which means there could be others who’ll need even longer.
Jackson: Do you really believe that?
Jennifer: Look—it’s what Dad wants, okay?
Jackson: And we all know he’s the poster-child for mental health these days.
Jennifer: What do you expect? After what happened to Mom and Lisa—
Jackson: What he says happened.
Jennifer: Not this shit again.
Jackson: All I’m saying is, the three of them were in the car—in a Hummer, for Christ’s sake. They had guns. How does that situation turn against you? That’s an honest question. I’d love to know how you go from that to—
Jennifer: Just shut up.
Jackson: Whatever.
(The siblings look away from one another. Jackson wanders the graves to the right, almost off-stage, then slowly turns and walks back to their great-grandmother’s grave. While he does, Jennifer checks her gun, aims it at the ground in front of the tombstone, and returns it to its perch on her hip. Jackson steps over his shotgun and squats beside the grave.)
Jackson: Did Dad even know her?
Jennifer: His grandmother? I don’t think so. Didn’t she die before he was born? Like, years before, when Grandpa Jack was a kid?
Jackson: I guess. I don’t remember. Dad and I never talked about that kind of stuff—family history.
Jennifer: I’m pretty sure he never met her.
Jackson: Great.
(Another pause.)
Jennifer: You want to know what I keep thinking about?
Jackson: Do I have a choice?
Jennifer: Hey, fuck you. If that’s the way you’re going to be, fuck you.
Jackson: I’m sorry. Sorry, geez.
Jennifer: Forget it.
Jackson: Seriously. Come on. I’m sorry.
Jennifer: I was going to say that, for like the last week, I haven’t been able to get that Thanksgiving we went to Grandpa Jack’s out of my head. That cranberry sauce Dad made—
Jackson: Oh yeah, yeah! Man, that was awful. What was it he put in it…
Jennifer: Jalapeño peppers.
Jackson: Yes! Yes! Remember, Grandpa started coughing so hard—
Jennifer: His teeth shot out onto Mom’s plate!
Jackson: Yeah… (He wipes his eyes.) Hey. (He stands, stares down at the grave.) Is that—what is that?
Jennifer: What?
Jackson: (Pointing.) There. In the middle. See how the ground’s…
(Jennifer positions her gun, setting the stock against her shoulder, lowering the barrel, and steps around the headstone.)
Jennifer: Show me.
(Jackson kneels, brings his right hand to within an inch of the ground.)
Jennifer: Not so close.
Jackson: You see it, right?
(Jennifer nods. Jackson rises and steps back onto his gun, almost tripping over it.)
Jennifer: You might want to cover your ears.
(Jennifer fires five times into the earth. Jackson slaps his hands to either side of his head as dirt jumps up from the grave. The noise of the shotgun is considerable, a roar that chases its echoes around the inside of the theater. There’s a fair amount of gunsmoke, too, so that when Jennifer steps back and raises her gun, Jackson coughs and waves his arms to clear the air.)
Jackson: Holy shit.
Jennifer: No sense in doing a half-assed job.
Jackson: Was it her?
Jennifer: I think so. Something was right at the surface.
Jackson: Let’s hope it wasn’t a woodchuck.
Jennifer: Do you see any woodchuck guts?
Jackson: I don’t see much of anything. (He stoops, retrieves his shotgun.) Does this mean we can go home?
Jennifer: We should probably wait a couple more minutes, just to be sure.
Jackson: Wonderful.
(The two of them stare down at the grave. The stage light pops off.)
Stage Manager: Siblings.
Right—what else can I tell you about the town? I don’t imagine latitude and longitude are much use; I’m guessing it’ll be more helpful for me to say that New York City’s about an hour and a half south of here, Hartford an hour and a half east, and the Hudson River twenty minutes west. In an average year, it’s hot in the summer, cold in the winter. There’s enough snow to give the kids their fair share of snow days; you can have thunderstorms so fierce they spin off tornadoes like tops. At one time, this was IBM country; that, and people who commuted to blue collar jobs in the City at places like Con Ed. That changed twice, the first time in the early nineties, when IBM collapsed and sent a host of middle-aged men and women scrambling for work. The second time was after 9/11, when all the affluent folks who’d suddenly decided Manhattan was no longer their preferred address realized that, for the same amount of money you were spending on your glorified walk-in closet, you could be the owner of a substantial home on a reasonable piece of property in place that was still close enough to the City for you to have a manageable commute.
Coming after the long slowdown in new home construction that had followed IBM’s constriction, this sent real estate prices up like a Fourth of July rocket. Gentrification, I guess you’d call it. What it meant was that your house significantly appreciated in value in what seemed like no more than a month—it wasn’t overnight, no, not that fast, but fast enough, I reckon. We’re talking thirty, forty, fifty percent climbs, sometimes higher, depending on how close you were to a Metro-North station, or the Taconic Parkway. It also meant a boom in the construction of new homes—luxury models, mostly. They didn’t quite achieve the status of McMansions, but they were too big on the outside with too few rooms on the inside and crowded too close to their neighbors, with a front yard that was just about big enough to be worth the effort it was going to cost you to yank the lawnmower to life every other Saturday. If you owned any significant amount of property, the temptation to cash in on all the contractors making up for lost time was nigh irresistible. That farm that hadn’t ever been what you’d call a profit-machine, and that had been siphoning off more money that it gave back for more years than you were comfortable admitting, became a dozen, fifteen parcels of land, a new little community with a name, something like Orchard Hills, that you could tell yourself was an acknowledgement of its former occupant.