The Last Letter Read online

  The couple next to me is all right. Their names are Tyler and Stella. (When she told me her name, I really wanted to yell ‘Stella’ and pretend like I was Stanley from A Streetcar Named Desire.) They’re adorable. They’ve only been married for six months, and they are still so in love.

  They’re kind of young, mid-twenties I think, and I hate to say it but they’re a little naive. They think the army is going to swoop in and save us. They’re not considering the scale of this thing. It’s like they think this is an isolated event. I really don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know no one is coming to rescue us. We just have to find a way to survive, and I don’t want to do it alone.

  The store will run out of food eventually, if we stick around here that long. If we can get together in one location, we can ration everything better. Margaret, the woman who lives across the street from me, hoards canned goods and seeds. I don’t know if she’s alive. I haven’t seen any activity from her for a while, though the lower half of her house looks boarded up, so maybe she’s okay. I’d like to try and get over there. Seeds would be a good thing to have once the non-perishables run out. If she’s still alive, maybe I can bring her home with me. I don’t know how I would get her in, though. I don’t think she would be able to climb the rope. I might have to let her in through the garage, but that’s risky.

  I can’t believe the water is still on. I don’t know how it all works. I guess the tap will run as long as there’s water in the well. Is that a saying? I feel like that should be a saying. This is my attempt at a joke. I’m sorry. In all seriousness, if you have empty bottles or containers around, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to store some water. Either from the tap or, if you can, set up something to catch rainwater. We can’t be the only ones alive in the city. That means other people are out there filling jugs and tubs, too.

  I don’t know if Jacob told you, but his girlfriend, Tess, got infected. He had to kill her.

  He said the transition was very painful for her, but that it was quick. A couple deads broke into their house through the cellar door. It woke Tess up, and for some reason, she went to check on the noise by herself. Jacob woke to her screaming, said she was pinned down with them chewing on her thigh and abdomen. He shook his head and sighed when he told me that, then took a moment to collect himself. He was able to take them down with a fire poker. He cleaned her wounds and bandaged them, but within the hour, she bled out. Then she came back and tried to take a chunk out of his shoulder. That’s when he shoved the fire poker through her head.

  It was after Tess died that Jacob decided to seek out other survivors in the neighborhood. He’s since acquired two handguns and an axe. A lot more handy than a lone fire poker.

  I wonder if the cop has extra firearms. That would be a huge help. I still have my shotgun and Walther .45 caliber handgun. I haven’t inventoried my ammo. I need to. I have a couple handfuls of rounds for each. He’s a detective, by the way; Detective Barrone. Not the nicest of gents, but pleasantries aren’t too much of a concern anymore. I think his wife left him sometime last year.

  Well, Jacob wants to get out of here before it gets dark. I’m glad you have plenty of food for now. He loaded me up, too. I’m already eating one of my chocolate bars. I couldn’t wait. Maybe I can go out on a supply run with Jacob sometime, and I will grab us all the chocolate.

  Please keep in touch. I would like to set up an emergency signal of some sort, so I can know if you need help. Do you have anything to produce a loud noise? I know that’s not desirable, but if you are under attack, it won’t matter if the deads hear.

  I can’t properly describe how happy I am to hear from you, how happy I was to see Jacob. I wish you all the best. Take care of yourself, please, for me. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.

  Sending all my well wishes,

  Morrigan

  3

  Dear Morrigan,

  I don’t think going on a supply run with Jacob is a good idea. I know you’re a lot stronger than me, and you’re a firefighter and all, but this isn’t an interstate pileup or a downed powerline. You have no idea what’s out there. And this guy Jacob seems reckless. I owe him my life, yes, and it’s heroic of him to risk his life and bring us food, but . . . I don’t know . . . he’s a dick. He has a temper. And there’s no one to call if he does something stupid.

  I’m sure you’re just going to say I’m paranoid. I can’t argue. Every little sound makes me jump. I can’t sleep until the sun comes up. All night long I just sit in the dark, peeking through that little sliver of space between the plywood and the window, waiting for shapes to take form, until I convince myself that one of them will spot a glint of moonlight on my eyeball. I haven’t burned anymore candles either. Even if I cover that space with a blanket, I can’t be sure the light isn’t escaping somewhere.

  Maybe I lost my mind up there in the attic.

  Oh, get this. You’ll think this is funny. Right after Jacob left with my letter, I decided to eat one of those candy bars, and for some reason I started listing off different candy bar names in my head. You see where I’m going with this. How could I forget that puppy’s name? The moment I thought of Heath bar, I forgot myself and pretty much yelled out, “Heathcliff!”

  Then I got so paranoid, I stood in the hallway underneath the attic door for half an hour, certain I’d drawn attention to myself. Guess I got lucky. The dead didn’t come, which is great because I’m just now starting to get some relief from all that fiberglass. Thanks for the acetone suggestion, by the way. I found some nail polish remover in Stacy’s room, and it worked.

  I’ve thought about your other suggestion, too: finding a way to catch rain. You’re right. The water could shut off any minute. I don’t have a way to access the roof, but maybe I can make something to hold out the window. The really high one in Stacy’s bedroom. The dead can’t reach it. Jacob put two milk crates right under it so he can climb through. That’s how he’s coming and going now that my doors and other windows are boarded shut. Anyway, I can make something with the shower curtain and some coat hangers to hold out the window when it’s raining, maybe catch water in a bucket.

  I talked to Herb this morning, by the way. I spotted him staring out his upstairs window. I waved at him and he saw me, so we both opened our windows and whispered back and forth for a few minutes. Well, he tried to be quiet. His voice projects. He said he has a good view of the neighborhood, and he’s counted seven houses with people still alive in them. Some are way down at the other end of the street. He thinks there might be more.

  He mentioned something about Detective Barrone. You said in your letter that you’d heard his wife left him last year. According to Herb, Barrone beat her with his baton. One of the neighbors heard him screaming at her in the front yard, accusing her of having an affair with an anesthesiologist. She was a nurse, Herb said.

  Herb never liked Barrone anyway. Not very neighborly, he called him. Plus . . . well, I shouldn’t say anything about this, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. Herb sells weed. Sold weed. So naturally he hated seeing a cop move into the neighborhood. He restocked right before everything went down. He said he’s got a quarter-pound of good bud to keep himself distracted from the apocalypse. Goodness. That old man doesn’t rattle. I’ve never met anyone who just goes with the flow like he does. We’re all about to die and he’s sitting up there chuckling and smoking a joint and watching the neighbors like none of this is happening. I envy him.

  We only got to talk for a few minutes. A dead lady came running around the corner hissing and gnashing her teeth. She was so fast. I freaked out and climbed back up to the attic without even closing the window. Jacob was pretty harsh with me about it when he got here. He told me I’m reckless, that I’m inviting them to get me. I know he means well, but I don’t like to be talked to like that.

  I guess I need to keep in mind what happened to Tess. I’m sure we’ve all lost people we love, but actually witnessing it, and having to end it yourself . . . I don’t know if I could
do that. I don’t know if I have it in me. If my mom or my dad or Stacy turned right before my eyes, I’d probably be so devastated that I’d just let them eat me.

  I wish you could have seen that lady. She was wearing a bathrobe with the belt still tied snug around her waist, like she’d just gotten out of the shower and decided to wander the neighborhood. She looked normal except for the bruising on her arms and legs. She could have passed for a battered wife--beaten, but alive. I didn’t recognize her, thank God. Of course, by now the dead people milling around our street might have wandered here from anywhere in the city. How long has it been since the power went out? A month? I’ve lost track.

  Does it seem like there are fewer of them lately? I think it’s been a bit quiet the past couple of days. Then again, I’m used to having them in my house, so maybe I’m mistaken. I mentioned it to Jacob and said maybe it would be a good time for him to take me to you, but he said no. He said it’s not worth the risk. He needs time to plan, and he doesn’t think I can climb the rope.

  I guess he’s right. I’m still so weak. It’s atrophy from being up in that attic for so long. With food in such short supply, it’s not like I can start an exercise routine right now. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

  I keep thinking about that car crash, the woman and her child. I’m sorry you had to see that. It must have been awful. I wonder where she was trying to go, what caused the wreck. Did it look like she was infected? Maybe she couldn’t maintain control of the vehicle. I guess we’ll never know. We’re lucky she didn’t crash into one of our houses.

  It’s getting windy outside. I think a storm is coming. I should wrap this up soon and start making my rain-catcher thingy. It’ll be a good time to practice. I wonder if there was an apocalypse-themed Pinterest before all this went down. DIY survival gear.

  Oh, that reminds me . . . to answer your question about something loud I can use to signal you: I have a bell. It’s in a box in my closet. It belonged to my grandmother. Back in high school, my mom used to make me spend weekends at her house to take care of her. She had a caregiver throughout the week, but on weekends we rotated: sometimes me, sometimes my aunt Jenny, and once in a while a cousin would volunteer, but the closer my grandmother got to the end, the more everyone else backed out and I got stuck with her.

  That sounds harsh. She was my grandmother. But . . .

  I won’t go too far into it, but let me just say it was the worst time of my life. My grandmother had dementia. She called me Alice. Alice was her next-door neighbor back when she and my grandfather first got married. Apparently, my grandfather had an affair with Alice, and my grandmother knew about it, but instead of leaving him, she caught Alice in her garden and held her down and hacked her hair off with scissors, spit in her face, beat her--who knows what else. Then, after things settled down, she pretended to befriend Alice so she could torment her more subtly. Insisting she needed to lose weight, spreading rumors about her, criticizing every little thing she did. I found all this out from my mom. After years of this, Alice finally got married and moved away, but my grandmother never let go, never stopped mentioning her. For decades, my grandmother talked about Alice as though Alice still lived next door.

  She became so cruel to me. I was happy that she was bedridden. She cursed at me, threatened me, called me a whore. She accused me of trying to poison her. That bell was so shrill, so abrupt, so demanding. All night long she would ring it at random just to wake me up. I’d sit in the dark and hear her shifting around in the bed, mumbling, shouting--sometimes laughing maniacally.

  “Alice . . . I’m gonna get you, you little bitch . . .”

  I still wake up in the middle of the night thinking I heard that bell.

  So yeah, I have a way to make noise.

  Sure hope I never need to use it.

  With love,

  Laura

  4

  Dear Laura,

  Jacob dropped off your letter just as fat raindrops started to fall from the sky. I told him to run on home and that I would give him my letter tomorrow I know you’re against the idea, but I’m going with him on tomorrow’s supply run. He suggested it before I had a chance to ask, though I was going to ask. I told him I could keep up and, if anything went wrong, I would “abandon the mission and return to home base.” He made me promise that I would return to my own house and not come directly to you, which I intended to do. I was going to come get you, but he insisted you’re not ready for that. Do you agree? I deferred to his judgment because he’s actually seen you and I haven’t.

  If we planned it right, Jacob and I could easily haul you up with the rope. All you’d have to do is hang on. You would be much safer here. I tried suggesting it, but he shut the idea down without any hesitation. Apparently, a vein of deads moves through a part of the neighborhood between you and me, and he’s not confident either one of us could get through it or keep up with him. Though he closed the conversation by suggesting tomorrow will be a test for me, whatever that means.

  He said maybe we can eventually find a way to distract the deads long enough for you to get through. I’ll go along with it for now. I don’t think he would stop helping us if we went against his advice, but we really don’t know him that well. I don’t want to push boundaries yet.

  He’s going to pull up at exactly nine in the morning. I have thirty seconds to get to the four-wheeler or he leaves. If there are any deads within a twenty-yard radius, he leaves. Granted I accomplish a record descent and dash, we are going to park right by the front door, and I’m not allowed to slow to less than a jog’s pace. I’m taking the left of the store; he’s taking the right. When our path’s cross, we return to the four-wheeler. I’m going for canned goods, rice, beans, jerky, and candy bars (as promised); he’s going for water, toilet paper, candles, writing utensils, batteries, flashlights, lighter fluid, matches, and Lysol wipes. The last item came at my request. I know we might be in the midst of an apocalypse, but I would like to try and keep my house clean.

  The storm has really kicked up now. I hadn’t stopped to listen to a storm for such a long time, not before we lost access to all the electronics that tend to keep us distracted from slower moving things. The wind really sings, doesn’t it? It’s eerie, dramatic. My windows rattle a little with the thunder and wind.

  I hope you were able to get a rain catcher in place. If you have a way, boil the water and store it in airtight containers. I had a couple of windowsill planters hanging around the house, so I cleaned them out and lined them with plastic. I should be able to collect a few quarts at least.

  I’ve also wondered if the woman from the car crash was infected. She was obviously still coherent, fighting for her daughter. I think…I think she swerved to avoid another person being eaten. I didn’t see the whole thing, so I don’t know, but when I poked my head out the window, I saw a couple of deads kneeled over a body in the middle of the street. It was a man, looked to be in his thirties. His stomach had been ripped open. As the woman struggled to free her baby, the deads eating on him slowly stood and joined the others to try and get a bite of the fresh meat.

  I’m sorry. That’s morbid. I’m just so disconnected. This feels like a movie.

  Some days, when I wake up, I forget it’s real. In the last week, I’ve gotten out of bed to get ready for work three times.

  It’s intimidating to think about how quickly it can all end. I’d always seen myself eventually becoming a happy, old, gray-haired lady who no longer worries about how many calories are in cupcakes. I still try to be hopeful, but I really don’t know how long this will go on. It never ends well in movies, does it? I don’t see myself as a last-man-standing kind of person. All of this has made me realize I’m scared to die. Some mornings, when I wake up and remember everything, there is a physical ache in my chest. I desperately want things to go back to how they were. It’s almost silly how safe I felt with my false sense of security, how convinced I was that life would go as planned.

  Speaking of planning, I in
ventoried my ammo. I have sixty-two .45 ACP rounds and twenty-three shotgun shells. At the very least, I have enough to hold off one good wave of deads if we find ourselves in a bad situation. It would be great if the detective would play nice and share his resources, as I’m sure he has them, but that’s doubtful.

  I’m so sorry to hear about what happened with your grandmother. Sometimes it’s easy to forget others had a different upbringing than I did. While my parents had their disagreements, I was very lucky. My family was small and peaceful. Hearing things like that makes me question how humans, being built genetically similar, can be so varied…how, somewhere in the wiring, vast differences reside and make us act and react differently.

  I’m looking forward to going on the run tomorrow. To be honest, I’m nervous. Is it weird that I’m excited to get out of the house, though? I get stir crazy most days and jog around and between rooms and up and down the stairs to get some of my energy out. Heathcliff thinks it’s a game, so he plods along behind me. Yesterday, he grabbed his stuffed bunny by the ear and carried it for the duration. It made me smile. All this is happening, and he has no idea. He’s just happy to be with his human.

  I’m going to spend some time with Heathcliff now and get my bags ready for tomorrow. I have two backpacks and two duffels. I plan on loading them up to see how much weight I can realistically carry and still run. I think four bags is doable, but we’ll see.