I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

I woke up the day before my wedding day excited. There was an overwhelming feeling of anticipation within me that I couldn’t seem to tamp down. I had talked to them for hours, telling them all about my life, and how I planned my wedding day would go. I pleaded my case, and after extensive hours, they seemed like they were willing. I just hoped I wasn’t fooling myself. Could men like that really be trusted? Even if they couldn’t, would it really matter? I briefly thought of my husband to be. Ivan was handsome and very charming when he wanted to be, but he was no Porter Westover. He was no James Sullivan, either.

I remember when the end of the world started. I was six. It was terrifying and fascinating at the same time for my overactive imagination. It started as a whisper. News reports that people in various parts of the country were on drugs, biting people and trying to eat their skin. No one took it seriously. What’s the big deal about a few people on PCP? At least, that’s what I’m told. The only thing I truly remember was that morning, that God awful morning when they showed up on our doorstep. I remember everything about that morning. It was early, the sun had barely peeked its head out from the horizon. I had gotten up first and made myself a bowl of cereal, seeing as how I was practically grown at this point. I remember turning on the television, something I’d never do again, and sat in the living room eating my cereal and watching cartoons. I could hear my parents up stairs moving around, so I knew they were awake, but they weren’t early risers like I was. Especially mom, she always had a hard time getting up in the morning.

There was a scratching noise at the front door. At first I thought I had just imagined it, but I turned down my cartoons, and there it was, faint but steady. I looked up towards the staircase, hoping maybe one of my parents had heard the sound and would come investigate. Now, I was a well-educated child, as far as six year olds go, and knew the dangers of opening the door to strangers, so I knew that finding out what the noise was by myself was out. Besides stranger danger, there was something about the scratching that didn’t sit well with me. It was making me nervous, and I wanted to race up the stairs to the protection of my parents, but something was keeping me rooted to the spot. I learned later in life that it was fear. I learned later in life that fear is a useful tool to have. I always trust my gut. But at six, I didn’t understand my fight or flight response to fear.

Finally, my father strolled down the stairs and greeted me with a smile. He made some flippant remark about how big I was since I could make my own breakfast. Didn’t he hear it? Couldn’t he see that something was wrong? He crossed in front of the door on his way to the kitchen, and the faint scratching turned into a slapping sound. It didn’t sound so much like someone pounding with their fist, but more like someone smacking the door with their open palm. It sent terror racing right through me. It wasn’t the sound so much, as it was the location on the door the sound was coming from. Instead of coming from up towards the top of the door, where it would if an adult were standing up straight, it was coming from the bottom, like someone was hunched or kneeling down. This was wrong. I looked to my father. He held a hand out and told me calmly that everything was fine, that it was probably one of the neighborhood kids playing a prank, but that I needed to go upstairs with my mother.

I didn’t really listen. I made it halfway up before I stopped to sit down on the steps. I huddled against the railing trying to peer through the slats to see who or what was at the door. My father opened the door, swinging it inwards and blocking my path. My father was not ever one to curse in front of me, but I will always remember the sound of his voice when he uttered that word in confusion. Then I heard it. It was loud, low, and guttural. It sounded like a growl and a gasp for air simultaneously. Even though I’ve heard it countless times since then, it’s that first time that still haunts me in my sleep. I heard it before I saw it and I shut my eyes in fear. My father yelled again and my eyes shot open.

It was grotesque. It was nightmare inducing. It was impossible. That thing that was lurching across my living room trying to get ahold of my father’s pant leg was something out of a horror movie. It wasn’t even whole. It was half a person, or rather, what used to be a person. Its skin was a sickly grey color, dried out and wrinkled, its limbs were thin and reminded me of those Halloween skeletons, and its hands were long and caked in dirt and what looked like blood. Its hair was thin and stringy, I could see its scalp, and looked wet for some reason, almost as if it had been sweating. But its face was the most frightening. Its cheeks were sunken in, making the cheek bones stand out. There was a hole in one of its cheeks big enough for me to put my little fist through, and I could see its teeth on the inside. Its mouth had no lips, only exposed teeth, and its jaw kept opening and snapping shut, making that sound. It was missing an eye, on top of missing everything past its chest. I couldn’t even tell you now if it was male or female, it didn’t matter, it was the worst thing I had ever seen up to that point, and I screamed.

It turned its head to me. We locked eyes for endless seconds before it changed course and started to crawl for the stairs. For as long as I live, I will never forget that one yellowed eye, staring lifelessly at me, seeing me but not really seeing anything other than prey. By that time my mother had started down the stairs to see what all the commotion was. She stopped dead in her tracks, three steps up from my spot, and screamed as well. I’m glad it wasn’t just me. My father took advantage of the thing being distracted and went to the closet by the front door. We didn’t keep much in there, mostly our coats during the winter time, but he came out with my mother’s favorite umbrella. She loved that umbrella. It was red with white polka-dots and it matched her galoshes. My father yelled for my mother to take me upstairs, he didn’t want me to see what he was about to do, so she grabbed me roughly by the arm and drug me to their room.

She picked me up and put me on her lap as she sat on the edge of the bed. She rocked back and forth, stroking my hair and hugging me tight, telling me that everything would be okay. I’m still not sure I was the only one she was trying to convince. I may not have seen what happened in the living room that morning, but I definitely heard it. I heard that thing growling and snarling, and I heard the grunts of my father as he swung the umbrella in a downward motion onto that thing. It lasted forever. After the longest time, it was silent, and then I heard another sound that would haunt me for years to come. My father started to cry. I don’t know if it was the adrenaline, or the fact that he had just re-killed someone, but once I heard his heavy breathing and slightly hysterical sobs, I broke down as well. I tried to go to him, but my mother simply held me tighter, keeping me there on her lap. It wasn’t until we heard my father’s footsteps on the stairs that she let me go.

I met him in the hall. I was going to run to him and hug him, but one look at the blood and gore splattered across his clothes had me skidding to a halt. He was sweaty from the exertion and his breathing was still labored. He pointed to where I had just come from and ordered me back in. He quickly changed his clothes while my mother put on the news. Reports that an outbreak of what could only be described as zombies were coming in from everywhere. People were urged to stay in their homes until more information could be given. We sat huddled on my parents’ bed for hours before we heard anything else. Finally, the reporter with the 70’s mustache and helmet hair told us that the government decided that everyone who could get out, needed to make their way to the nearest military base. Precautions were being made and security was being beefed up for everyone’s safety. If we were unable to get out of our house, we were to hang some kind of sign from a window, indicating that there were live people inside, and the military would be by to pick us up. To my six year old ears, this sounded like a perfect plan. My parents discussed it with each other and felt otherwise, but seeing as how there were no real options other than that, they decided we would go.

I’d like to say that our trip went smoothly and only lasted a couple of hours. That’s not exactly true. The closest military base to us was an Air Force Base a state away. We drove for what felt like ever and tried not to stop, but cars just don’t run on hopes and wishes. We had to make several stops along the way, each time my father risking his life while my mother and I waited in the car. He became my hero in those two days. He was so selfless and brave and I wanted to be just like him. We saw so many of those things along the way, and each time my curiosity grew. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. What had made them come back to life? What made them want to eat live people? Were they going to take over the world? How could we stop them?

When we finally arrived at the base, there were people everywhere. Men in uniforms were working diligently to put up plywood boards on top of the fence, making it that much higher, while others were going behind them trying to attach barbed wire on top of the plywood. We were allowed to drive right in to a fenced in area, but once inside the closed gate, four men surrounded the car with rifles trained on us. They pulled us from the car and checked us very thoroughly to make sure we weren’t bitten or scratched before directing us toward a long line of people. My father kept telling them that we had stayed in the car the whole time, that checking my mother and I wasn’t necessary. It didn’t matter. The process was degrading at six; I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like now. We were told to wait, and we would be given direction on what to do from there. So we waited, and waited, and waited in that line. It was in the middle of summer and the heat was grueling. After what felt like years to my childhood patience, we entered what I learned later was a hanger. There were two lines within, one for people by themselves, and one for families. We had to wait even longer, but at least it was slightly cooler inside the building. My parents stepped up to the little table to register our family on the base. They were told that we would be put on a waiting list for a small home, but in the meantime, we could either stay in the barracks, or they would provide us with a large, military grade tent. My father opted for the barracks.

I remember looking around for some kind of sign that everything would be okay. My little heart was beating a mile a minute in my chest, and I felt like at any time I could just erupt in tears. My mother was so caught up in her own fear that she had hardly acknowledged me on our trip, and now she moved past me towards the barracks as if she didn’t even realize I was there. My father, though, he talked to me. He put on his best brave face and smiled down at me, holding his hand out for me to take. As we started to leave the hanger, I glanced back at the line. That’s when I saw him for the first time. Porter Westover. He was a couple years older than I was, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He smiled at me. He was missing one of his front teeth, how could I not smile back? It was then that I felt like I would be okay. There was something reassuring about that snaggle-toothed grin. For two years my family stayed in those barracks, sleeping with other families. I found the idea to be intriguing, like a giant sleepover, night after night, learning all about these other people we wouldn’t have gotten to know otherwise. My mother, however, couldn’t stomach the whole ordeal. She cried herself to sleep every night. After two years, it was almost like my own depressing lullaby; white noise to drift off to sleep to.

No one ever really figured out why they came back to life. At least, it was never discussed in front of me. After a while, you stop caring why, and just accept the new horrific life you’re supposed to lead. The government figured out some new ways to generate power and electricity. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when there’s a proverbial gun to your head. Things progressed quickly after that. Everything the country had known before was turned on its ear. Government, in and of itself, had drastically changed. We still had a president, and each military base was expanded as safely as possible, and became the new states. We had our own governor and everything. We had different council members, who would write out laws, police and soldiers to enforce those laws, and everything we did was supposed to be reported to some higher power. Checks and balances, if you will. Except, even at twelve and thirteen, I knew something was wrong with the way our base was run. People went missing. Once, I overheard a soldier and a shopkeeper get into an argument over whether the soldier should pay for the food he had just eaten. Obviously, the soldier felt he didn’t have to, but the shop keeper was making such a fuss, that the soldier threw some money down on the ground and promised the shop keeper that he would be sorry. Three days later, the shop keeper couldn’t be found, but while I was playing with Porter by the edge of the base, there was a zombie who looked an awful lot like that shop keeper aimlessly meandering around the outside of the fence.

Not everything was terrible. We still had running water and electricity. Occasionally, we all got together and watched movies on the big screen in one of the hangers. It was rare, and usually they only showed the classics, but they were some of my favorite memories. My favorite movie is Romeo and Juliet circa 1968. I thought it was beautiful. I cried every time I got to watch it. Porter would tease me mercilessly, but I didn’t care. My other favorite thing is music. Somehow, no matter how hard things got, we still had music. I remember the first time I heard music after coming to the base. I was walking with Porter to go have lunch when I heard a mother humming to her baby. I was so stricken with the melody that I stopped in my tracks. At first, the idea seemed ludicrous. What was there to sing about anymore? I asked her that. She smiled back at me, like she got asked that question every day, and said, “There’s always something to sing about. That’s the beauty of music. It can be anything you want.”

From that day forward I sang. I sang and I hummed and I whistled. I made every noise imaginable, and drove my mother crazy, but I was happy. Somehow, people figured out how to still make music. We had radios, with very few stations, but radios none the less. And on very special occasions, we had concerts. Very, very few people wanted to travel, so concerts were few and far between, but any time someone came to the base to sing, it was magical. I’ve seen every concert held on our base, even the ones I was dubbed ‘too little to attend’. Sneaking out of bed isn’t very hard when all the adults are out. Porter never understood why I loved music the way I did even after countless times of trying to explain it to him.

Porter. Porter was the one constant I had in this ever changing world we lived in now. We became fast friends as kids, and once we were old enough to figure out that the opposite sex didn’t have cooties, Porter was my first love. The first time he kissed me was after a movie. He was walking me back home, when he stopped in the street and planted one on me. I thought it was terribly romantic at the time, and just knew we were like Romeo and Juliet, minus the death. Porter and I were there for each other through everything. He was there when I needed him, like after my mother left us. I was devastated. She met a musician at a concert and left with him. There was no goodbye, no soft words to lessen the blow, she just packed her bags and walked out the front door. Last I had heard, they were still together and expecting a baby. I hate him. I hate her more. But through everything, Porter was there. He knew me better than I knew myself, and I had learned everything there was to know about him. We were young and in love, and nothing could have ever come between us. At least, that’s what I thought.

Porter died when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, and by that time, all males eighteen and over had to work. By the time we’d hit our teenage years, the government decided to curb our education from the way we’d known it. Children no longer had to know reading, writing, and arithmetic. Now we learned survival skills and how to shoot a gun. Boys learned how to be soldiers, while girls learned how to keep up a home. In the space of a few years we were taken back in time. I hated every part of it. The idea of specified gender roles never sat well with me. Why was it that my friends could go fight those undead terrors while I sat safely in my home, making sure dinner was ready by the time they got back? I could shoot just as well as most of the boys, if not better. So when Porter turned eighteen, he had to choose a job. Social classes being what they were, soldiers and guards earned the most respect, so it was only natural that Porter should want to be one as well. He confided in me that he wanted to gain as much social standing as possible so that in two years, when I turned eighteen, he could go to my father to ask for my hand in marriage. He thought being a soldier was the best way to earn enough money to start a life for us.

His second week on the job they took him out for a “routine scouting excursion”. Apparently, there was a hoard of the undead that managed to sneak up on the small party, taking them completely unawares. They went out with eleven men, but only came back with seven. Porter was among them, but he’d been bitten. When I heard that his party had come back, I raced to the infirmary to see him, but when I got there, they wouldn’t let me see him. They told me that he wouldn’t make it, and that I needed to go about my business. How could I explain to them that Porter was my business? He didn’t even get a funeral. Three days later there was fresh dirt covering new graves and two new markers. I cried for days, my mind reeling with the possibilities of what happened to him. Either they let him slowly turn into one of those things, or they shot him. Neither thought comforted me more than the other. I sat at his marker every day for weeks as I promised him that I would always love him, and that I’d never forget all the wonderful things he had done for me. Eventually I mustered up enough courage and determination to leave my house and continue my training and duties. I did as I was asked and what was expected of me by society, but I knew deep down, that I would never be the same again.