Page 27 of Zocopalypse (Death Fields 1)

My mother and I eyed one another after that and I felt guilty for my visit with Liza. What if she’d been exposed? What if we’d all been exposed at the graduation party? Was it worth it?

Doesn’t matter now.

Helicopters fly overhead day and night. Most are dark, military style. From the window I can see the soldiers holding large guns. They swoop close to the trees. At night their lights roll over the grass in the backyard, the neighbor’s roof. They’re looking for something. Survivors? Eaters? I’m not sure.

We fought about leaving, until the night of the explosion. I still don’t know what blew up. Mom guessed the gas station just outside our subdivision. I told her this was probably true, but the helicopters make me wary. Either way that was what finally made us decide to leave. We’re sitting ducks in this house and it’s increasingly clear Dad isn’t coming back, just like he predicted may happen.

We leave my father a note. Really, we leave him ten notes. One on his desk. Another on the black TV screen. One on the empty refrigerator. Two more in the bedroom. My mother is convinced he’ll come in and miss it. To

make her happy I write a big one, in large, block letters on the whiteboard next to the refrigerator.

At Aunt Josephine’s

Love You

Sarah and Alex

“Do you think he’ll know what that means?” my mom asks.

“Yes, he’ll know.”

“I should take that tube of hand lotion by the bed, don’t you think?” This is my mother during the end of the world. Concerned about hand lotion.

“If you have room.” I adjust the straps on her backpack—the extra one I had from camp last year.

“Maybe our marriage certificate? Or our wills?”

“I don’t think you need those.” But she looks on the verge of breaking. Her hair has grayed over the last week and the lines near her mouth tugged downward. My mother never looked old. Not until today.

I wonder if I looked different.

“Are you ready?” I finally ask. We’ve both gone to the bathroom twice each. We ran out of toilet paper three days ago.

“Yes.” Her eyes say no.

“Do you understand the way we’re going?” We’ve been over the map. We’ve got to get out of the neighborhood first—going through backyards and the trail behind the school. I’ve been over it a million times in my head, awake every night, making an escape plan. My mother sorts household items and I plot our escape. It’s how I remain sane. As of today, I have three solid ones. A, B and C. I hoped A will work. I want A to work.

“Yes,” she says. “If we get split up we’ll meet at the small shed behind the Baptist church on Sherwood Street.”

“Right.”

“But we won’t get split up.”

“No. We won’t.”

She looks around the house. At her life. I feel her anguish. “Are you sure we shouldn’t—”

“Mom, he told us to go. He said not to stay here.” The pouch weighs heavy on my chest. A promise I had to keep. I pray it isn’t a promise made to a mad man.

“Okay.” Resolved this time.

I lead us out the backdoor, the lock snapping shut. It’s near dark. We chose this time of day on purpose. We can slip through our neighbor’s yards and behind the school. We can get to the Baptist church in an hour or so, even if we take it slow.

The grass is wet on our ankles. My mother’s hand is in mine and we leave. We leave the house. We leave my father. I don’t look back.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

~Now~

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