Apocalypse still, p.1
Apocalypse Still, page 1
APOCALYPSE STILL
Stories
Leah Nicole Whitcomb
Starclay Publishing
Copyright © 2024 by Leah Nicole Whitcomb
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
ISBN: 979-8-9899368-0-9 (Paperback)
ISBN: 979-8-9899368-1-6 (Ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024902028
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Radu Muresan
First edition published 2024 by Starclay Publishing
Stories in this collection appeared in slightly different form in the following publications:
"Apocalypse, Still," Samjoko Magazine, Spring Issue 2023; "The Pastor's Wife," SISTORIES Litmag Issue III – The Hereafter, June 2023.
For Mama who shared her love of magic and Daddy who shared his love of Black stories
Contents
Apocalypse Still
Runaway
Superhuman
Entangled
The Pastor's Wife
The Dentverine
Collapsed
Race Play
Antenna
The Town of Los Valles
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Apocalypse Still
The bags grow heavier after another night of restless sleep. Examining my neck in the mirror, I notice the bite marks have completely healed. I press against my jaw, under my chin, and around my trachea searching for any inflammation or softness. When I find none, I breathe a sigh of relief.
My closet is filled with turtlenecks of every color, fabric, and sleeve. I know it’ll be hot today, but the office is always cold so I opt for a sleeveless turtleneck. Checking the mirror one last time before I grab my keys, I pull the turtleneck higher up on my neck and head out the door.
In the car, I search for Apocalypse Still—the podcast that tells the truth that the government is keeping from us. The latest episode was uploaded four hours ago. The host, Ryan, starts with his usual spiel about the government and the Infectious Disease Center. Apparently, the IDC said that they can no longer hope to contain the Zombies. As a result, Zombieism will be widespread.
Ryan adds, “There’s this new phenomenon called Latent Zombieism. It happens when someone is bitten by a zombie, their bite heals, but six, eight months, hell even a year later, they turn into a Zombie. As always, the IDC is covering it up and saying that it’s from a bite they haven’t discovered, but we know the truth, folks. They’re not telling us everything they know about Zombieism.”
It’s been almost seven months since I was bit. I slipped up once—thinking that I could enjoy an outdoor festival without a turtleneck. I was wrong.
“As always folks,” Ryan continues, “keep wearing your turtlenecks to keep those bastards from biting you. And if you want more protection, check out my full body suits with anti-bite technology. Listeners get a fifteen percent discount with code fuckzombies. This is Ryan, keeping you informed and protected when the government doesn’t want to. Signing off.”
I pull into my parking spot at the office and rush inside. It’s only been a month since we were forced to come back into the office. Almost everyone has been bitten by a Zombie, so the CEO didn’t think we needed to be isolated anymore. I sit down at my cubicle and sanitize my desk before logging into my computer and checking my emails. As I'm scrolling, a guy three cubicles down sneezes. I jump and then spray disinfectant in the air. Teresa walks past mindlessly scratching her neck. She heads to the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee, adds creamer, sips, and then goes back to scratching her neck.
DJ and Shannon walk into the break room, so I grab my coffee cup from my drawer and join them.
“Hey Jenise. What’s up?” DJ says. “Shannon was showing me her new dog.”
Shannon turns her phone for me to see. It's a goldendoodle puppy. Tiny, like it's barely been weaned from its mother.
“Yeah, this sucker cost me three grand, but she’s just so stinking cute that it was worth it,” Shannon says.
I smile, nod, then fill my coffee cup. They talk some more about Shannon’s dog, and DJ complains about his boyfriend not doing his own laundry while I sip my coffee. Teresa walks past the door again, still scratching her neck.
“Did y’all see that?” I whisper to DJ and Shannon. They huddle in a circle with me.
“No, what?” DJ asks.
“Teresa. She keeps scratching her neck. You don’t think?” I stop and look over my shoulder. I don’t want to say the word aloud.
“Noooo!” Shannon’s eyes widen. “How can you think that?”
“It could be anything,” DJ adds. “She could have a rash or rosacea. It’s rude to assume things.”
“No, no.” I shake my head. I don’t want to seem like a bigot by calling her a Zombie.
“She doesn’t even have a bite mark,” DJ whispers aggressively.
“It’s just that I heard about this thing called Latent Zombieism where you don’t turn into a Zombie until after the bite heals,” I explain.
Shannon throws her hands up in the air. “You with your conspiracy theories. Come on Jenise. You’re smarter than that.”
“You know, people can’t help that they’ve been bitten by Zombies,” DJ says. “We’ve all been bitten by Zombies, and we’re fine. My whole family’s been bitten by Zombies, and they haven't turned into Zombies.”
“Yeah, not everything is this huge conspiracy, Jenise,” Shannon reiterates. “Latent Zombieism? What even is that? If the IDC says being bit is no big deal, it’s no big deal. Let it go.”
They walk around me, shaking their heads disapprovingly. As I return to my cubicle, Shannon talks with Teresa—even going so far as to place her hand on Teresa’s arm when she laughs. Teresa looks distant, unfazed by all that Shannon's saying, like her mind is somewhere else.
“Howdy neighbor.” Craig sneaks up beside me, and I jump. “Oh didn’t mean to scare you. I was wondering if you could have that quarter two report to me before you leave.”
“Yeah, the report.” I shuffle through the stack of papers on my desk before I see the spreadsheet I need for that report and grab it. “Started on it. Almost finished,” I inform him.
“Perfect!” He leans against my desk so he can face me and lowers his voice. “You know, Jenise, company policy states that you don’t have to keep wearing turtlenecks. It’s making a few people in the office uncomfortable.” He raises his hands defensively. “I’m not saying you need to stop wearing them, but consider wearing them less.”
“But it’s for my health.”
“Is it?” He squints his eyes. “People don’t really get bit by Zombies anymore so there’s no need to keep wearing them.” His mouth widens into an empty smile. “Great having this talk with you!” He straightens himself and returns to his cubicle.
I tug at my turtleneck. Through glimpses of examining Teresa, I manage to finish Craig’s report before I go home for the day. At an extended red light, I turn and see a couple walking down the sidewalk, holding hands. They move out of the way of something and keep walking. I lift from my seat to see over the car next to me and watch as a Zombie tears at the neck of a teenage boy. His carotid artery hangs in the Zombie’s mouth, and blood spews everywhere. I look around at all the other drivers in the cars next to and behind me. Their eyes stay forward, avoiding the gaze of the Zombie. My heart thuds in my chest as I watch it chew deeper and deeper into the boy’s neck until its last bite severs the head from the body. I had only heard of Zombies biting, maybe once or twice, not enough to decapitate someone.
It's getting worse.
A horn honks behind me knocking me out of my trance. The light's green. My hands tremble as I grip the wheel and speed home. I lock my door and sit in my bed until night falls. Once night comes, my eyelids grow heavy, but I toss and turn on my pillow trying to find a comfortable spot. As soon as I think sleep is near, my chest and throat tighten, lifting me out of the bed. My heart rattles around in my chest to the point that I can’t breathe when laying down. I stack the pillows behind me to sit up and nod off for maybe a few hours here and there.
When my alarm rings, I drag myself to the bathroom mirror for my daily neck examination. I press against my jaw and cheek, checking for softness or inflammation. There is none. I press into my neck, and my finger slips into my skin. Pulling it back out, my neck rips open, exposing my thyroid and trachea. I lean into the mirror to examine my carotid artery. Upon closer inspection, there is no heartbeat.
Runaway
They took Mama away. It’s been about a month since I last seen her. She left here kicking and screaming before they gave her the bit. The bit will shut anybody up.
My room was at the back of the house with Ms. Mary and Ms. Abigail. I waited til I heard them snoring and snuck out the back door, making sure to rub lard on the hinges so the creak won’t wake nobody up. It was something Mama taught me when I snuck out to see her. I ran to the shack out back and walked in the doorway. Moving folk’s hanging undergarments out the way, I made my way to the back corner to find Isaac lying half asleep, waiting for me.
“Isaac.” I dropped to the dirt floor and laid beside him. The moonlight lit the ceiling blue. I held onto my fingers counting them one by one and trying to breathe slow and deep like Ms. Abigail taught me. Isaac sensed my worry.
“What you dream about? Before you came out here?” he asked.
Maybe he thought it was gone calm me down, but my dreams were nightmares. Always white men dragging Mama away leaving me alone, crying.
“I don’t dream no more.” A tear stung my eye.
“Not even during the day? You gotta hold onto something, Lucy. It’s the only way we gone make it out.”
He turned onto his back with one arm under his head and the other holding me.
“I dream about fishing. I went fishing once with my Pappy and Master Davis. Down at the lake. Ain’t never seen a fish or water before. The water, it's something else. It has everything you need. We came back with a whole bucket of fish. Pappy told me they got fishermen. Men who just sit in boats on the water all day. Ain’t gotta deal with digging ditches and planting crops. And you can feed yourself doing it. Make good money. Ain’t gotta rely on nobody else to give you scraps. That’s what I want to do. Bet it be quiet…and peaceful too.”
He smiled thinking about it. “What you wanna do? If you could do anything?”
“It’s silly.” I shook my head.
“Ain’t nothing silly. Tell me.”
“I want a garden.” I closed my eyes to see it in my head. “Not like here where we only grow food, but a pretty garden. I seen it in Missus Davis books. Flowers that were pink and yellow and purple. All these pretty colors. I want a house that is mine, and it’s a pretty color, too. Maybe the house could be pink or yellow.”
“Where you gone find some pink or yellow paint?”
“You told me to dream. I’m dreaming,” I continued. “Anyway, in my yellow house I want to wear a big pretty dress, and I want to wear the perfume that make you smell like flowers and cake, and I want to put flowers in my hair and then when it’s time for bed, I want to get into a tub and soak for as long as I want. And when I get out, Mama is there, and we sleep in a big ole bed with the drapes hanging from it. That’s what I want.”
“Why don’t we get it?”
“Isaac!” I whispered and glanced around to make sure nobody was up and heard him. “You can’t be talking like that.”
“Why not?” he asked. “We can find your mama. You can have your house. I can fish.”
“We could die.” My heart thundered in my chest at the thought of it.
His hand cradled my face. “I wanna leave, and I want you to come with me. When the moon is black.”
“Isaac.” Fear flooded my eyes. I remembered the last person that tried to leave. Mr. John was dragged back by the dogs, his clothes ripped and blood crusted all over his body. Master Davis beat him for three days and left the welts to turn green and sour. “At least if we stay, we know we alive.”
“This ain’t no way to live.”
My hand held his. His skin was as dark as the earth after a storm. Mama ain’t coming back. Nobody that left ever did, and I couldn’t find her sitting here. Isaac’s plan was dangerous. Suicide. But living without Mama was a fate worse than death. I held his head. My fingers laid in the wool of his hair. Besides Mama, Isaac was the only peace I knew, and I couldn’t lose them both.
“I’ll go with you,” I sighed, knowing that it may well be the last thing I do.
With his calloused fingers, he tilted my chin up to his and kissed me. “When the moon black, a’ight?”
I nodded and gazed up at the ceiling, watching the blue light shift to the corner of the shack. It was time to go back to my room. I dusted myself off, but Isaac grabbed my hand. “I love you, Lucy.” He kissed my fingers.
“I love you, Isaac.”
He squeezed my hand before letting me go. I retraced my steps back to the house, slowly opened the back door, and slipped into my room waiting for Ms. Abigail to wake me in the morning.
As small beams of sun poured into the room, Ms. Abigail shook me awake.
“I need you to go get me some eggs, baby,” she said.
I yawned, grabbed a wicker basket, and went to the chicken coop. After gathering the day’s eggs, I handed them to Ms. Mary in the cookhouse. Ms. Abigail strained the coffee, so I went to the main house to set the table for breakfast. Five plates, five sets of silverware, two coffee mugs, and five glasses for cider. Ms. Mary—still wet from having Adam—fed Master Thomas herself.
Master Davis was always the first one down. Then the kids, then Missus Davis. I carried their plates of biscuits, jam, and eggs from the cookhouse and set them on the table. When one of the kid's cup emptied, I filled it with more cider. As I walked past him, Mr. Davis gripped my thigh. My breath shook.
“Hand me my pamphlet, will you?” he asked.
I glanced at Missus Davis who wore her hatred on her face.
“Yes sir,” I said, walking into the drawing room and grabbing Who Shall Be President? The Hero of New Orleans, or John the Second, of the House of Braintree?
Picking it up, my hands trembled. I breathed deep and returned to the dining room to hand the pamphlet to Master Davis who didn't look at me as I handed it to him. The scratch marks peeking from under his collar were a faint pink. Mostly healed.
“Lucy, I need you to ready the children and then come up to my room. We’re going to town this morning,” Missus Davis said, staring at Master Davis who wouldn’t take his eyes off his pamphlet.
He let out a “hmm” with the smoke from his pipe. After I bathed and readied the children, I went to Missus Davis’s room. She sat in front of the vanity, removing the rags from her hair.
“Let me help you Missus Davis,” I reached for the next rag, gently pulling it away to reveal the curls. When I finished, she handed me the brush to lightly brush the curls out. I took care with her hair, holding it the way I wished someone held mine. When it was brushed to her liking, I pinned the front back and away from her face. While I did her hair, she stared at me in the vanity. She waited til I finished before shaking her head.
“You’re lucky my husband’s a good man.”
I stared at her reflection in the mirror, unsure of her meaning.
“If you were at any other farm or God forbid, a plantation, they would’ve shipped your mama off as soon as you could walk. You lucky he let her stay around as long as he did.”
“I know, ma’am.” I swallowed the hard mass in my throat.
“And what an ungrateful whore she was. Clawing at him like that? She’s lucky he didn’t kill her.” She walked over to the partition. “Help me into my dress.”
I wiped my dampened eye, cleared my throat, and followed her to tighten her corset and tug her day gown over her head. I pulled her hair from out the back of the dress and let it fall on her shoulders. She wiped the front of the dress before her fingers got stuck in a hole. “Get the needle and thread.”
Grabbing the sewing kit, I kneeled next to her and licked the thread before pulling it through the eye. I started at one end of the hole and worked towards the other making sure to pull the gown away from her thigh. Maybe I didn’t pull it far enough because she slapped me. “Ow! Be more careful.”
My cheek stung, but I replied, “Yes ma’am.”
I finished her dress, and when she left with the kids, we all breathed a sigh of relief. The house was clean. The laundry was washed, dried, and put away. Ms. Mary knitted in the rocking chair of the drawing room while I looked out the window. Master Davis held his journal and supervised the hands outside. Isaac hoed, preparing the soil for planting season. I must’ve looked at him with too much longing because Ms. Abigail warned, “Don’t let Master Davis see you like that. He be quick to ship that boy off. Whatever bit of happiness you got, you gotta keep it away from them.”
“Yes ma'am.”
She cupped my face, stared into my eyes, and sighed. The wrinkles deepened around her soft brown eyes. “You still a baby yourself. I remember when your mama was brought here holding your little hand. You could barely walk, poor thing. That was what? ‘Bout twelve, thirteen years ago.” She shook her head. “You just a baby.” Her hands met mine, and she rubbed her thumbs over the backs of them. “Your nerves still shot?”
