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It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine
Boris starts singing along, “… Six o'clock, T.V. hour, don't get caught in foreign tower,” and I tell him to turn that shit off. The radio, the song, who cares.
When he looks at me funny, as if questioning my very being, I tell him it will attract the walkers. Sound always does.
“You sound like Kotku,” he says back, earning us a “No the fuck he doesn’t” from the woman herself.
We lost track of the days. Originally, we had a count: days since the explosion (I, II, III, little tally marks that worked for a long time). Then, the next wave hit and we set it to “0 days since last tragedy.” The joke would’ve been funny if we had a calendar to back it up at least. Still, I’m sure Kotku turned nineteen since this whole thing started. Boris and I were sixteen and fifteen at the start. She and Boris stopped kissing a while back, though I’m not sure when. Even if we did have a calendar, that’s not something I would put on it.
“Do you think we can eat dog food?” calls Boris from his spot on the beach chair we managed to scavenge last week. We were attacked by some crawlers (zombies that have had at least one part of them blown to bits but still keep moving). While they’re easy to escape as long as everything is easily packed and ready to go, we had to run into an old house to escape the walkers that would follow—a bad idea that somehow worked out fine. It’s funny what people leave behind.
“Only one way to find out!” Boris says again, yelling this time now that we haven’t acknowledged his previous question.
“You’ve got a strong gut,” replies Kotku, yelling from behind the tent where she’s peeing.
I remember when this all broke out and she used to walk way off into the distance so we wouldn’t hear her stream as she peed. One time in the middle of the night, she peed close to the tent thinking we were asleep, and Boris called out “Who is frying chicken?” Somehow, they still kept kissing after that.
I look at Boris, Purina Puppy Chow in hand, and yell out, “If you puke, do it where the dog can’t get to it.”
That was another thing we took from that house, puppy chow. It’s a good thing that our dog Popchyk learned to survive off table scraps before this whole thing came down because, like the family who evacuated that house, no one thinks to bring dog food to the apocalypse. Not that we had any to begin with, but we preferred the canned shit that we called food to whatever the world used to feed dogs.
I wish I could say that we are low enough on rations to justify Boris eating dog food, but we still have a couple days left. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop him. Who knows, maybe he could be onto something. The bag says “Delicious & Nutritious” on it for a reason. And… he’s puking.
“I said ‘Not where Popchyk can get to it’!” I yell at him.
With a fervor I rarely see from his emaciated form, Boris makes a run for it to behind the bushes before really letting go. I’m left to wonder if it was fear of my wrath or a love of Popchyk that made him move.
It’s close to dark. Without ever having had a watch, I no longer have a sense of how the minutes pass nor what time it is in the morning, evening, or afternoon, but I can tell when it will be dark and when it will be sunrise. I know that it will be a full moon tonight, and I know that we only have enough time to pack up before we leave.
“Kotku, are you done pissing yet?” I call out.
“Yeah. It’s been like 5 minutes, dumbass.”
“Did you drink it?” asks Boris.
“No. Dumbass.”
Luckily things haven’t gotten desperate enough for us to drink our own piss. That being said, it is the desert, and we have to walk at night. That’s why we’re picking up our shit and walking the long way around the city so that we can get to another paper town on the outskirts of society, hopefully one with running water.
That’s another thing no post-apocalyptic movie tells you: the water companies were too busy getting their staff eaten to bother turning off water in houses where there was no longer anyone left to pay the water bill. Same with gas, same with electricity—though many of the electricity poles have gone out without the PG&E guys to replace them when the desert heat burns them out.
Questions came pretty quick about why we couldn’t just live in a house if there were no bills to pay and no need to scavenge for water. Easy answer: Las Vegas isn’t the middle of nowhere, and when the walkers smell us, it's harder to run out of a house than it is to pick up a tent and run in any direction. A lot of people died in their homes. My dad’s girlfriend did when she didn’t want to run. I tell myself I don’t miss her, and I don't.
Boris watches from the bushes as we pack up the tent and put it in the red wagon—another thing we picked up from an abandoned house. Nearly nothing we have originally belonged to us, not even our clothes. It’s not as if we have anywhere to wash them when they finally reach the point that we consider them too disgusting to wear.
Kotku bled through a pair of jeans once and wore them every period after. I called her disgusting, and Boris told me “be grateful she isn’t pregnant.” I didn’t talk to him for two days. That was when Boris and Kotku were still kissing.
Without turning to them, I ask, “Do you think there will be clothes that fit at the next place?”
“No clue,” says Boris, still looking but not helping. He’s milking the vomiting thing, and we’re letting him. “Hope it will have blankets. We need some that haven’t been rolled in mud.”
“That was one time!” yelled Kotku.
“And we have one blanket!” Boris yelled back. It’s okay, though; we know he only does it because he likes to yell.
It was an accident, and all three of us know it, but I decline to say that. Instead, I pick up Popchyk and put him in the wagon. Hopefully he falls asleep; if not, then the least he can do is stay in there and not eat Boris’ vomit. Next, I take the tent down. It’s just a pop up, so it's easy to put away. We had a real tent, but that was lost when we were attacked after the last wave hit and we had to run much faster than ever before.
We were lucky enough to find a new tent in some dumpy garage when we looked for water. That’s what we’re going to do again tonight, walk until we find a house with running water and hopefully new clothes, too, or, even better, a washing machine. I’ve grown attached to that old blanket. And I know Kotku will never give up those pants, the ugly stain bled through back. For all our sake, I hope Kotku finds sanitary pads in the house. There’s so many things I took for granted back when I thought I had nothing. It’s funny how much harder it is to loot food than to steal it.
We walk four miles until we get to the next house. We’ll walk until we die. Hopefully, the next place will have a calendar so we can start a new countdown.
The next place is dirty, cockroaches all around and trash decaying so bad one would think the house was abandoned pre-apocalypse. Food was still in the sink when we got to the Kotkuchen. That’s generally good news; it means food will be there. Canned and frozen foods. If we stay here long enough, we can make a meal in the oven.
There are three doors for us to escape through, and Popchyk is out front ready to bark at any sound.
“Gahwaaahhhhhh…” Boris moans out in a genuine facsimile of walker, and Popchyk barks back. We know Boris is ready to join us then.
“Ugh! All the blankets are covered in rat shit!” Kotku comes down holding two shirts, a pair of jeans, and a belt. All look like they would fit her.
“Those don’t have any on them.”
“They were hanging up.”
I begin looting the cabinets as she folds the clothes into her backpack. Filling up our water bottles with tap water, I can’t help but think of the first time we did this, scared shitless and hoping the family whose house it was wouldn’t be upstairs. Dead, alive, did it matter? No matter what, being caught in someone else's house was a terrifying notion.
We met Kotku on the road, walking into the desert and pissed that she had been abandoned. It wasn’t our fault. She just wasn’t in the house when we realized that we needed to run. It was good that we found her. She had been living on her own long enough to know where the crawlers were headed (deep into the city) and where the walkers, faster and with more knowledge, were going (the paper towns). We could’ve told her some of that. We were from those empty neighborhoods as well. We had been on the front lines running into the wild.
“I’m running the washing machine and putting the frozen shit in the oven.”
“The microwave is faster,” she replied.
“Not cooking for three.”
I could be wrong about that. But, really, I want an oven cooked dinner. I want something that tastes good. I want… Popchyk to stop barking.
“Fuck. Get Boris. We need to go.”
Boris comes down right as we need him, not even hearing his name just saying, “Look out the window. Walkers coming from our left.”
I have no need to look. I trust him, and I trust that we have no time to waste. I leave the frozen food on the counter and we run through the back. I can hear them now, the same tone and cadence of Boris’ earlier impression but now instead of shaking my head my whole body shakes. I should be used to this by now, but the adrenaline mixes with fear and I forget to buckle my backpack as I run. I look back and Kotku comes with me, clothes still in her hands. I’m not sure if she meant to drop them but forgot or if they really mean so much to her. We don’t talk, we just run.
Boris.
As I sprint out the back, I don’t see him. I turn my head behind me, knowing it causes me to lose speed, but I can’t see him. Yelling will attract them. I wish I could yell his name. My mouth won't even suck in air, let alone move. I keep running. We run through the back yard, ready to hop the fence, but I don’t see him.
Kotku grabs my arm, and I yank it back.
“Survive, dumbass,” She says to me.
I don’t talk back. I stand there stunned until I hear the gate slam shut behind me. Boris is there. He’s missing the wagon, his shirt is ripped, but he has Popchyk.
I breathe out, and I run. “Survive.” I say to Kotku, and we hop the fence together.
We run and run, backpacks growing heavy. It’s been miles, and my legs are about to give out. It’s day again, and I know that’s time for sleep. Kotku catches my eyes. A look from her means nothing to me even after all this time. She catches those of Boris.
“Half a mile more,” he says.
I remember when we had to run the mile for school. Kotku always walked it, not caring if she was alone or not. She learned how to run with us, training, practicing laps, making sure she wouldn’t be left behind when we ran.
“We’ll leave you,” I had said. “We’ll leave any of us.”
“Survive,” we said to each other. If it was with Boris, we would’ve shook on it, but Kotku and I never stand that close.
Finally, after a full mile more—an extra half mile at my behest—we stop.
Boris puts Popchyk on the ground, his tiny white form matted and unhappy. I feel like him. I walk over to Boris and push him down. I push him down hard and start to kick. My legs are weak like jelly; all the running took the strength out of me.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” asks Kotku.
“The fuck is wrong with him!” I’m as close to a whisper as I can manage with my rage.
On the next kick, Boris pulls my leg and I fall to the ground with him. Trying to get back up, he pulls me again. I sit over him, and think about going for a punch.
“You were gonna die for a dog!” I’m still quiet so the walkers won’t find us.
“Snaps saved our asses. Back there, he barks. Here, he is quiet like a good boy. You want to leave him for zombies?”
“We leave people behind, and we survive.”
“You did not leave me.”
“I should’ve.”
Boris looks at me again, questioning my face. “You should’ve. But what do we do here?” I don’t say anything, and he smirks. “Love or fear?”
I don’t think about whether I would leave Boris. I don’t think about why I do anything.
Popchyk was my dog originally. My dad’s girlfriend’s actually, but I take care of him now. I wonder why Boris loves him so much. I have a responsibility to him. Boris has nothing.
“We don’t have a tent,” I say.
Kotku whispers a quiet “Fuck,” and I try to move on.
“The blanket is gone, too,” I say.
“We’ll wear more layers.”
Boris picks up the puppy chow from his backpack. That should’ve been in the wagon as non-essential. He puts some on the ground for the dog, then picks up a handful for himself.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Kotku’s voice is stern, but she has a smile.
“Don’t puke where the dog can get to it,” I say once again.