The ornate wooden door crashes open and hits the doorstop. I march into the entrance hall with determination. I’ve waited so long to be here. This is the most expensive and expansive mansion in the country and I’m finally here.

Three men — petty thugs, really — enter behind me and fan out in a triangle formation. One on the left, one on the right, one in the centre as they follow me through the needlessly-fancy coat room, through the dining area, down a carpeted staircase. I can hear my footsteps and no one else’s as I pass through these beautiful places.

I’ve never been here but it all seems so familiar.

This is the house of one of my oldest enemies. The house is empty except for me and the thugs who move so silently I almost forget they’re here.

We reach the basement and the carpeting abruptly stops as the corridor leads into a sleek, metallic room. This is his storage room, where he keeps what could be the most powerful object on Earth. Money, fame, power. I just have to get through the locked vault door and I’ll have it all. It’s what I’ve always needed.

I walk across the room in long strides. No need to stall.

I’ve been looking for this since that day fifteen years ago…

September 15th, 1995

I’m sitting at my desk in the cramped dorm room. Second year in this godforsaken college and I’m still living on campus. It’s about time for me to go on duty as the floor 5 resident assistant. I work in the cheapest, lowest-class residence at the school. It’s a nightmare.

It’s been ten days since I moved in but there’s already these tottering stacks of paper on my desk. I like to pretend that it’s mostly class notes but I know at least half of these are just the little bits of thoughts I like to write down. At some point class notes transformed into diary and no one ever noticed but it still happened and it just kept happening.

There’s a banging on my door.

“Come in.”

The door creaks unpleasantly as Room 511 enters. Matted blonde hair, perpetually bloodshot eyes, the same dirty hoodie every day, never goes to class; guess what her profession is. She opens her mouth before I can mentally check my bile.

“Cameron!” she yells out, oblivious to how much hate I have just seething over here.

I’m trying to write.

“What’s up?” I say, feigning the friendly RA personality that got me this job.

“The toilet’s leaking again,” she says.

“I already put in a work order.”

“Why does it always take forever?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is urgent.”

“I know it is.”

I know it is and I’m just a writer and you’re just a shithead and all of you are getting on my nerves.

I stand up from my desk and walk over to her. Not sure why. I’m not thinking straight anymore. I feel different. She smells like Febreze, like dryer sheets, like her boyfriend’s cologne; she smells like every girl on this floor, really. But this is different. This is different and I don’t know why but I just hate her.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she says.

I’ve been staring at her for too long.

“I’ll ask them to hurry up,” I say.

My voice sounds deeper. I feel taller. There are little electrical arcs in my fingertips.

I feel different.

January 15th, 2010

There’s an Arrow Revolution lock on the vault door between me and the prize. All I have to do is destroy it. I raise my hands in front of me, pressing them together.

The funny thing about fingers is that all the muscles are actually in the palm, tugging little tendons in the finger tissue to control the joints like a marionette. We’re all puppeteers and nobody knows it but me. And I can feel every ounce of my power focusing itself in my opponens pollicis muscle and I smile at the opportunity.

I rub my hands together quickly to heat them up. Within seconds they’re hotter than they should be — hot enough to melt solid metal. At least 400 Celsius on a bad day. There’s a reason this costume stops at my shoulders. I don’t want to look like a wife beater, but it’s necessary.

When I can feel the heat-resistant fibres in my tights start to get hot, I force my hands apart and press them against the lock. The little touchscreen lights up, but is almost immediately glossed over as the monitor goes pure white from my touch.

The finish on the door starts to melt off. There’s my reflection; the smears of blood only serve to further obscure my black-and-purple insignia. It’s so tacky. I never really thought about it before.

One of the thugs falls to the floor. Forgot about convection. I take my hands off the door and look at my handiwork. The lock is too expensive to melt over something like this. It’s made of dolomite or something similar, but all I need to do is deactivate the little electronic bits inside; stop it from setting off a silent alarm.

The thug behind me sputters and gasps, on all fours. I hear one of the others make a move towards him and I snap around.

“One more step,” I whisper.

The man freezes in place for a moment. He glances between me and the man on the floor a few times.

“He can’t breathe, Tyler.”

October 15th, 1995

I’m at the local pretentious indie coffee shop when Room 511 comes in.

“Can I get a veggie chili?” she says to the pretty Jewfro boy behind the counter. Of course she’s a vegetarian. She can never get enough plants.

I was writing here in the corner of the room, just enjoying — or trying to enjoy — the atmosphere. The place is going to close in an hour and this person comes in to buy chili. It’s 9 o’clock. College students really make sense. I was trying to write and now she’s here and my hands won’t move anymore.

I leave my papers at the table and walk to the counter. 511 has gone to sit down with her stupid friends who have already been here for the past forty minutes. Jewfro looks up as I approach. I’m in full bullshit RA mode and he buys it like so much chili.

“Hey, man,” he says.

“Can I get a mango Italian soda?” I say.

Jewfro smiles knowingly. This is all I ever order. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu and I just need to avoid the get-kicked-out-because-I’m-loitering thing.

“Alright,” he laughs. “We’ll call you when it’s ready.”

I go to sit back down and write, but suddenly there are wet marks on my paper. I stare at them for a moment. I feel different. Deeper voice. Taller. Little pools of moisture on my fingertips.

It’s too late for many people to be coming to the counter, so Jewfro leaves his spot and goes to flirt with Room 511. Everyone’s oblivious to the hate that’s just seething over here.

Why am I still wet? I wipe my fingers off on my polo shirt.

Another dead-end job guy who works here bangs my soda on the counter and yells out someone’s name. He probably means for it to be mine but I feel different and I don’t think dead-end job knows what he’s talking about after all. I don’t think someone in his position has the right to define me.

This is the weak preying on the strong and an hour later he’s doing it again.

“Cameron,” he says. “What are you still doing here?”

I’m gathering up my papers and putting them in a bag. Jewfro is leaving the place. Room 511 and the stupid friends have been gone for a while, but he’s got a smile on his face and I know exactly what it means.

Dead-end job stays behind to do whatever when I leave.

It’s late enough that the streets are empty and even though it’s not winter it’s still a bit chilly as I follow Jewfro from a safe distance. Pretty soon he’s going down an alley. I follow him through the darkness. Once we’re entirely out of earshot of the street, I grab him from behind by his little Jewfro curls and I look him in the eye.

I’m towering over him and he’s got those beautiful blue eyes of his and he’s too afraid to say anything but I know he knows.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really mean it.

Dead-end job is going to wonder when you don’t come in to work tomorrow, and I’m sorry.

I’m holding Jewfro with one hand and forcing 150 PSI of water down his throat with the other. The idea is to drown the guy and save him from this hellhole — job, school, hairstyle — but even if he doesn’t drown the pressure is sure to rupture his insides somehow. I’ve never drowned someone before but it’s actually pretty fun.

Well, kind of.

January 15th, 2010

Dead-end job is still on the floor, hacking his lungs out. The thug who tried to save him has long since gone back to his position on the wall. Nobody else has made a move. Heat, allergy, asthma, whatever is causing this predator to hack and spread his DNA all over the floor is none of my concern. I don’t need these guys anymore. I’m almost at my goal.

“Cameron…” he gasps out. “Please.”

The other two thugs tighten up and look straight ahead. I crack a smile.

“I never knew your name,” I say. “And you never knew mine.”

Can’t help but laugh a bit when he finally collapses.

I’m Tyler now. Tyler Kennedy. Tyler Winklevoss. Tyler Durden. Look at it however you want. This is my life and I’ll call it as I see fit. No one has the right to define me and I don’t have the right to define anybody else.

Death is a definition.

Thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.

I turn back to the vault door and hold my hands out in front of me. Putting them together again, I rub them fiercely. This time, my hands defy the laws of thermodynamics and get colder the more I rub, until I see condensation on the metal surface of the door.

The remaining thugs can see their breath.

It’s winter now and it’s so chilly.

November 15th, 1995

I’m numb to it all now. I’ve been better than everyone for so long that it doesn’t even feel like a mask when I pretend to like people. I’m at the point where I get invited to parties, have people calling my room at all hours of the night, skipping every class to write but still passing the midterms in the top percentile.

I hate the school system and the school system hates me.

A douchebag starts yelling in my ear.

“Cameron, me and the bros are going to the peace room! You wanna join in?”

The guy’s got his polo shirt, his gel in the hair, and his earring. Of course I say yes.

He leads me down into the basement, then through a plain wooden door that’s been painted the same colour as the wall. Very secret. The peace room is a small square area with an old black-and-white TV in one corner, a beaten-down loveseat across from it, and the floor covered in those foam puzzle pieces you see in daycares. There are easily more than two dozen people in here, most of them sitting on the floor.

My eyes follow douchebag as he goes to sit on the loveseat with Room 511.

She’s looking her best tonight. She might even have washed that hoodie. And here goes douchebag defiling the whole get-up, putting his lips to her sweaty face, sucking on her lip like a parasite. Taking advantage of this poor girl who I hate so much.

I’ve been standing too long. The shitheads are looking at me.

I sit down on a puzzle piece, putting myself in full I’m-a-cool-college-guy mode. The guy next to me is wearing an Ace of Base t-shirt and he turns to me, half-lidded bloodshot eyes scrutinizing.

“You the RA from floor 5?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He laughs stupidly. “I didn’t know you got high, dude! You’re fuckin’ awesome!”

He holds out his fist for props, but I hesitate. This is more than getting high, dude. This is enlightenment. I’m different now. I’m taller. My voice is deeper. I’m going to leave you hanging.

Luckily the peace pipe comes around at that moment and Ace of Base doesn’t notice a thing.

He takes two puffs — everyone seems to think they’re being stealthy about not taking only one — then passes the pipe to me. I take it reluctantly, not wanting to look like this guy’s friend. Room 511 pulls her lithe little body away from douchebag for a second to look at me.

Yes, it’s me. I’m the RA from floor 5. Stop staring.

I take a puff. I take another.

Suddenly I feel this overwhelming sensation — this room is too hot. This room is too damn hot. I need to cool it down. I’m better than these people. I’m different now. Little white spots appear on the glass pipe I have in my hand, under my fingertips, spreading across the surface until the glass shatters.

Everyone looks at me. Too cool.

Douchebag jumps to his feet. He’s swearing. He’s accusing.

It’s barely a minute later that all the shitheads are out of the peace room. It’s just me, douchebag, and the little shards of broken glass. Shards of broken glass on the daycare puzzle pieces as the black-and-white TV plays a videotape of the latest Ace of Base concert. What a scene. I almost smile.

“You owe me a new pipe,” douchebag says. He hands me a broom to sweep up the glass.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“That fucking thing cost me twenty dollars,” he says. “And I’m not even high yet.”

“Hey, man, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll make you an ice bong and we can get high together.”

“I don’t have any ice cubes.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have some.”

“You brought ice cubes to a party?”

“Yes.”

This is obviously a lie, but douchebag falls for it and goes into the peace room closet to fetch a big black-and-purple bong out of his collection. He goes to fill it with water and by the time he comes back I’ve got the shards of glass pipe in my hand.

“You ready?” I ask.

Before he can answer, I press my hands against the chamber, forcing my fingertips into the glass. I see condensation forming along the sides as little chunks of ice start forming in the liquid. Douchebag’s eyes widen.

“How are you–?”

“Shut up.”

I’ve already grabbed his Zippo and I light up the bowl. With true shithead reflexes he puts his lips to the top of the bong and starts sucking with true homoerotic enthusiasm. I’m impatiently waiting for him to finish his hit. He’s one of those guys who thinks he’s cooler if he sucks it for five straight minutes.

He’s probably crap in bed.

Finally he reaches to pull out the bowl. I intercept his hand and do it myself like the nice guy I am. The downstem slides out gracefully as the little shards of glass slip down the hole from my palm. Whoops.

Douchebag throws the bong away from him when he starts choking, hacking up little bits of blood from the glass he inhaled. His throat must be in ribbons. The bong lands safely on the puzzle pieces, but I grab it and shatter it with more cold. Douchebag goes to move away from me, to get to the door, but he trips and falls on this glass as well.

I roll him over with my foot and press down into his stomach. He breathes heavily, staring up at me with bloodshot eyes. The fucker actually managed to get high. I can’t help but smile. Behind us the Ace of Base concert drones on.

So high no one can reach that high. Not I nor you get satisfied today.

I put my fingertips to his forehead and start squeezing.

January 15th, 2010

The cold doesn’t do anything to the lock. I didn’t really expect it to. Locks like these are built to resist all extreme temperatures. It was more for the rush of it, really. Whatever is behind this vault door is exactly what I’ve been looking for. I need to show it that I’m worthy. I’m different now.

Money, fame, power.

I hear a thud behind me and I turn around. Another thug has collapsed to the floor. He’d been quiet this entire time, never complaining. Taking life as it comes. I kind of liked him. But the thug who had tried to help dead-end job earlier doesn’t make a move to help this guy.

I walk over to him and pick him off the floor to look at him one last time. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him with clear eyes. But I’ve never seen him out of that faded Ace of Base shirt. He must have worn that every day for fifteen years.

Death is a dedication.

Turning back to the Arrow Revolution lock, I decide to take a different tact. I raise my hands in front of me and rub them together. This time I can feel them getting wetter as I continue. Soon little lines of water are running down my arms. My tights are getting soaked, the insignia darkening.

I let loose with 150 PSI of water on the lock.

Nothing happens, but I didn’t really expect it to.

December 15th, 1995

This is my last chance. Christmas break starts in less than a week and I need to do something. I’m the RA of this floor. I know what happens around here. I can sense trouble. I know better than you. I know when you’re in trouble.

I know Room 511′s boyfriend is a bad person. I can see it in his eyes when they come to my room.

“Hey Cameron,” 511 says. “Can we get a bracelet? He’s staying the night.”

Boyfriend looks at me and gives the I’m-getting-laid-tonight smile. I feign one in return as I write 511′s student number on a bracelet and give it to him.

“Have fun,” I say.

They leave, and an hour later they’re having sex in her room. I’m outside the door and I know he’s not right for her. He doesn’t deserve her. He’s too good and she’s too bad. I hate her.

I go back to my room. I pull out my now-it’s-definitely-a-diary stack of papers and start writing. I feel different. I’m taller. My voice is deeper. I write this over and over again until I’ve finished the last ten pages of the diary I’ve been keeping since I started this semester.

There are two little darkened spots on the pencil where I was gripping it too hard. Oh, there’s the heat. This is the final nail in my coffin. I am definitely different now. I’m better than everyone else and I deserve to be treated exactly as I am.

I’m superior and nobody gives a shit.

There’s a banging on my door. I look up from my desk. It’s her. She always knocks like that. Is boyfriend done having sex yet? Is she coming here to apologize?

“The toilet’s leaking again.”

I don’t move at first, so she walks up to my desk and waves her hand in front of my face.

“What?”

“The toilet’s leaking again.”

“Oh.”

I stand up and start to move towards the door. I pause in the frame, looking out into the hallway. Nobody’s around. Something has to be done about this. I slowly turn around and look at 511, letting my RA facade fall away. I take a step forward.

I’m so sorry for you.

Your boyfriend is a bad person. He kills people.

I lock the door behind me. She takes a step backwards.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she says.

I grab her pretty little wrists and pull her against me, bending her back so I can tower over her and look into those beautiful blue eyes of hers. Those disgusting, hateful blue eyes that I just can’t stand to see boring into me every day as I’ve been staring at her for too long and she’s oblivious to just how much loathing I have seething over her.

She’s been letting these strange men touch her and I don’t like it.

I’m better than them.

She tries to struggle away from me, but I hold her firmly. I push her back against the wall behind my desk and force her to look into my eyes. Look into my eyes like I’ve been looking into yours and maybe you’ll understand just how much I hate you. I’m so different and you’re all the same and I’m better than everyone.

Death is a desecration.

It’s just that my fingertips were so hot and she was close and I couldn’t stop thinking about boyfriend touching her and douchebag touching her and Jewfro touching her and how the only people in the world who would understand were the other observers, the other scorned. But I hate them too and I don’t know what to do anymore.

The heat is pooling in my opponens pollicis muscle and the little marionette strings are on fire and I just can’t stop myself. I’m holding 511′s arms over her head and I can smell little scorched fibres in that hoodie she’s always wearing.

“Cameron!” she screams, but I’m pressed too close to her and it comes out more like a moan.

It doesn’t matter anyway because Cameron’s not here. Cameron went away. Cameron’s gone and he’s never coming back and for all you know he never existed because there’s no proof. There’s no way to know what was defined in the past is still defined now and it’s not your place because I’m better than you and I’m different now.

The fire is spreading. I can’t keep my eyes on her. I hate her too much and hate is blind.

She burns to death in my arms.

January 15th, 2010

Fifteen years later and I can still remember fifteen years earlier. I got this costume and I made the connections that have made me who I am today. And now here’s the vault of one of my oldest enemies, holding what could be the most powerful object on Earth. I just have to get through this door.

I put my fingertips to the Arrow Revolution and shoot the little electrical arcs through it. I hear a click and the touchscreen goes dead. I slowly turn the handle and open the vault. Before I can enter, the last remaining thug puts his hand on my shoulder. I whip around, ready to rip this man’s arm off, but he fixes me with the strangest look and he shakes his head.

“I need to warn you,” he says. “My vault will give you what you need, but it can’t perform miracles.”

“I never wanted it to.”

I pause.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“You never knew my name before,” he says. “Why ask now?”

I take a step backwards. He keeps looking at me with that look of his. I’m too different. I don’t understand. I just wanted the money, the fame, the power — I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to be different. I didn’t want to be better than everyone. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen but it just kept happening.

I turn around and enter the vault.

Inside it’s just a great big empty room with a small table in the centre. I walk towards the table, confused. This must be a trick. This must be a trap. Why would the vault give me a table? I freeze halfway across the room when I see that the table has something on it. It’s the unmistakable Febreze-dryer-sheet-cologne smell that tips me off.

I refuse to go any closer to 511′s hoodie. I hate this and everything it represents.

The man who owns the vault is still standing in the doorway, watching me with that look. I turn back to him.

“What do you see?” he asks.

“It’s your girlfriend’s hoodie,” I say.

He’s a murderer. He’s a bad person. He was too good for her and I hate her for doing this to me.

I turn back around and start walking towards the table in long strides. No point stalling. I can’t spend another second looking at this person. This person is not someone I want anywhere near me. I don’t understand what’s happening or why but I know it’s his fault and I’m going to fix it.

I pick up the hoodie.

It’s not this that I really need.

Around me I can see all the people I knew in college. Here’s Jewfro, douchebag, dead-end job, Ace of Base, the people in the coffee shop, the shitheads from the peace room, all my old floormates. All of them except for Room 511. It’s been fifteen years and they’re all dead now but she wouldn’t come. She loves me too much.

Over the past-away, there may be then no resurrection in the minds of men.

I reach into the pocket of the hoodie and find a .9mm handgun.

“Tyler!” the man calls. But I don’t turn around. I don’t need him anymore. I’m different now.

“Goodbye, Cameron,” I say. I can’t see him but I know boyfriend is cringing because I know his name now and he never told it to me.

I hate him and I hate her and I hate everything. But now I’m different. This is what I really need. I knew forever that I was looking for money, fame, power. I always knew. But now I’m different and I understand myself and that’s all I understand.

Death is a destination.

Why does it always take forever?

Jesse, however, did not have children. He lived alone and had always lived alone since the day he moved in. The bar-dwellers would say, “Isn’t he about marrying age by now?” Still Jesse lived alone, never going to the bars, and the people there had to make their own conclusions. But this was a year ago, after all. This was before that chilly Christmas morning when Jesse pulled himself out of bed, looked out his window, and saw the strangest sight he thought he would ever see:

It was a long expanse of short black hairs stretching across the whole Anders property, only stopping neatly at the borders. Jesse couldn’t believe his eyes. He left his house for the first time in almost a month, running to meet the first passer-by he could and asking, “Do you see them? Can you see my hairs?” And every person Jesse asked would conclude yes, he did have some hairs, but they were no longer than hairs normally are.

The Anders family were not quitters, however. Jesse took one look at his hairs and made the decision then: the hairs had to go. Jesse wouldn’t quit until his property was smooth again.

Jesse took his lawnmower and replaced the steely blades with oversized razors. He added a vacuum to clean out the hairs, and a hose to spread shaving cream ahead of him. Jesse called his new invention the Lawnshaver, and used it to shave the hairs that very day. When he was finished it was already suppertime. He left his smooth property behind to eat and sleep alone, leaving the Lawnshaver outside.

The next day, Jesse rose out of bed, looked out his window, and saw that all the hairs had grown back overnight – thicker and longer than the day before.

Soon Jesse Anders fell into a routine. He would wake every morning to longer and longer hairs, shave them all with his Lawnshaver, then eat supper and sleep alone. It wasn’t a month before the hairs grew so thick and strong that Jesse had to start upgrading his invention: the Lawnshaver 2000, the Lawnshaver XP, the iLawnshaver. By the half-year mark, Jesse’s Lawnshaver was as big as a monster truck, with twelve eight-foot razors and a propane tank of shaving cream.

Passers-by started stopping in the mornings to ask, “Whatever happened to the old Anders house?” The hairs were higher than the roof. The bar-dwellers didn’t want to gossip about Jesse Anders anymore; to them, Alan had no son.

Jesse grew more and more obsessed with his hairs every day. By September he stopped eating regular meals. By October he was an insomniac, lying awake to stare at his ceiling every night. By November he thought he could hear the laughter of children echoing through the halls.

This Christmas, exactly a year after the hairs started growing, Jesse Anders decided to put a stop to it. The hairs were already so long he couldn’t see the tips without a helicopter, tangled and packed so tight and thick that he couldn’t leave his house without shaving. He knew they were growing during the night whether he was sleeping or not, so Jesse decided to just stand outside and wait.

Nothing happened for a very long time as Jesse waited through suppertime, through bedtime, through midnight. He was already so skeletal that he couldn’t eat solid food, so he couldn’t see this as much of a loss. He just had to see what was causing those hairs to grow and grow.

The malnutrition must have gotten to him, though, because when the hairs did grow, they seemed to do it in an instant. He just blinked and suddenly he was surrounded on all sides by pure black hair. He couldn’t see his family’s house anymore. He found himself spinning around in a daze, searching desperately for an escape; his clouded mind unable to comprehend when the atrophied muscles in his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the ground.

This is how Jesse Anders died just one year ago. The official record will claim that he starved himself to death through insanity, but that’s only what it appears to be. In reality, it was the billions upon billions of black widows living in the tangled jungle of hairs that had been the Anders family property. They used no poison, but they murdered him nonetheless.

The springs of the mattress creak as I climb out of it. Ross is still snoozing, his face parallel with the couch legs, hugging an invisible person where I used to be. I rub my arm, still feeling the chafe of stiff springs. Maybe we can go out and get him a new mattress today. I’m getting tired of sleeping on that one.

Ross actually has a real bed, but it’s in the tiny bedroom of this apartment. I’m over almost every day now, so he just leaves the spare out in the living room so we can sleep together. The single mattress in his real bed isn’t big enough for that. Heh.

I walk into the kitchen automatically, my brain still in standby mode. Ross and I didn’t get to do anything last night, but he’d kept me up anyway, watching the news. He always insists on watching it before bed, and there was an extended report last night about some kind of new virus that was going around. I was tired and not really paying attention, but it seemed to really shake Ross. He just… wasn’t in the mood at all. That’s weird for a guy.

“Good morning,” Ross says. He stumbles up to me, eyes still half-closed. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for your oatmeal,” I say. He wraps his arms around me from behind.

“Sorry about last night,” he whispers into my hair. “You know this whole quarantine situation has me worried. I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay.” I turn around to give him a proper hug before returning to the cupboards. He points me in the right direction. As I start making a pot of oatmeal, he goes quiet. From the crease of his thick eyebrows, I can tell that he’s still thinking about it.

“When did you go to sleep last night?”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Sometime past one, I think. I couldn’t sleep.”

“What’s got you so worried?” I ask. “I know it’s something like a big deal, but we’ll be fine. You should stop watching the news for a while. It’s all they talk about and you’re scaring yourself for no reason.”

“It can’t be a media circus,” he says. “We haven’t had internet access in this city for the past week, so I need to watch TV. Even if it’s garbage, I need to have some idea of what’s going on.”

“I know, I know,” I assure him. Sometimes he gets worked up over things like this and I have to calm him down. “Here, your oatmeal will be done in a second.”

Soon we’re eating together at the small kitchen table. Ross’s spoon clatters against his bowl as he eats slowly, his mind elsewhere.

“Why don’t we go buy you a new bed today?” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “We’re going to need tetanus shots if we keep sleeping on that mattress.”

Ross cracks a smile. “Yeah. That’d work.”

“Someone has to get you to stop worrying about this,” I say, winking.

Ross starts to laugh, but he’s cut off by a crashing sound downstairs. He jumps to his feet immediately, staring at the apartment front door.

“What was that?”

He lives in a decent neighbourhood, but stuff like this is still bound to happen at times. I’m the voice of reason when I answer:

“Sounded like glass.”

“From what?”

“It’s none of our business, Ross.”

He ignores me and walks to the door. He looks through the peephole. After a moment, he opens the door to look up and down the hallway.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I… I don’t know,” he says, still looking. I can see cold sweat on his forehead as he looks back at me. “I heard reports that there were some… killers on the loose. That’s why we’re under quarantine.”

“What? That wasn’t on the news.”

“Not until last night, no.”

He looks deathly serious. A shiver runs down my spine despite myself. This isn’t adding up. I start to get up from the table, my legs shaking.

“Why would we be quarantined over that? What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I don’t know!” he shouts. “I think something’s going on that the government isn’t telling us about. Just trust me, okay?”

Trust college media classes to put that idea in his head. I shake my head, trying to calm myself. Ross gets into a panic over every “epidemic” and “security issue” that pops up, but I can’t help my quickening breaths — passion of all kinds is contagious.

“I’m going downstairs to check it out, just in case,” he says. “Stay here until I get back.”

“This is stupid. I’m coming down with you.”

“No!” I back away from him, insulted. “Stay up here. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I roll my eyes, saying, “Alright, Ross, be my knight in shining armour. See if I care.” But I don’t really mean it.

Ross gives me a kiss before leaving the room. I shut the door behind him, then turn around to face the room, fidgeting with the trim of my shirt. It’s a nervous habit. I go over to the window and pull the curtains.

At first everything seems fine, and I relax a bit. It looks like a typical busy day, cars driving through throngs of people who don’t know how to use the crosswalks. But when I look a little closer, I see that the cars are moving quickly — far more quickly than they should be, given the traffic congestion. One elderly man is crossing the road at the same time as a truck speeding through. He turns around to face it like a deer caught in headlights, but the truck doesn’t stop. It plows right into him and just keeps driving, mangling the man’s body as the tires peel off from the bloody mess.

And just at that moment, I hear a thumping out in the hall. I whip around and let the curtains fall behind me. Those are footsteps.

I try to keep a cool head as I lock the door and grab a knife from the kitchen, silently cursing myself for not carrying a gun, or a baton, or anything else that those damn self-defence classes told me to invest in. Damn it Ross, I told you those were a waste of time! Even when something does happen, I’m too stupid to prepare myself anyway! This will have to do.

Footsteps. The badly-oiled door at the end of the hall creaks and slams closed. My hands are already sweaty enough to risk my grip on this knife and–

KRRSH! Another obnoxiously loud crash from downstairs, this time unmistakable as the sound of glass. The whole front of the ground floor is made of the stuff.

Ross, please come back. What’s taking so long?

“Kaitlyn! Let me in!”

He reaches the door before I have a chance to unlock it, pounding against the wood with his fists. “You have to let me in, Kaitlyn! Come on!” He’s panicked. I throw the knife to the side and fumble with the lock.

He bursts into the room, nearly hitting me with the door in his haste. As soon as he’s in, he slams and locks the entrance behind him. He runs to the kitchen, panting heavily. This apartment is on the ninth floor, and he must have run up every one of those steps from the way he’s breathing.

“What’s going on?” I ask as calmly as possible. Ross just shakes his head at me, looking through cupboards. He grabs a large frying pan — cast iron and heavier than some people — before turning back to me.

“They aren’t killers,” he says.

“I saw someone get hit by a truck outside! How aren’t these killers?”

He pauses for a moment. “They are killers, I guess. But they aren’t human.”

“Wha–?”

“They’re zombies.”

I blink.

“What?”

“There’s no other explanation for it,” he says. “As soon as they saw me, they tried to attack. Some of them were running, some of them were dragging themselves, some were just… groaning and not doing anything else… I don’t know, Kait. They’re all torn up and violent, and their eyes…”

“This is stupid!” I yell angrily. “How can they be zombies?”

“Just trust me,” he says. “Whatever they are, they aren’t the good guys. That’s for damn sure.”

He sets his pan down and starts pushing the couch.

“Help me set up some barricades. They have a hard time with stairs, but they’ll be up here soon.”

I stand still for several long moments as Ross pushes the couch across the door. This is too much. He doesn’t look like he’s joking, but this can’t be true. It doesn’t make sense. Stop watching so many fucking zombie movies, Ross! I’m not laughing!

“Stop standing around!” he yells at me.

“I don’t– I don’t know what to do!” I say, and it’s true. I don’t know where to start. I’m overwhelmed. This is too much.

“You need to help me, Kait! Come on!” Ross yells. With a final grunt, the couch is in place. I can hear more thumping from outside. Ross looks at me seriously.

In some ways, I still think this might be a joke. But the old man outside getting hit by a truck? Something is going on here. I help Ross throw the mattress against the couch, just as the footsteps approach the door.

They stop just outside, for a brief moment. Then we hear a loud, piercing screech. The blood runs from my face; I look like I just lost a fight with a bag of flour.

“It’s calling for others,” Ross says. He runs into the kitchen before I can respond.

He braces himself and kicks a leg out from under the table with all his strength. It collapses on one corner, and it barely has time to land before he’s kicking down the other side. Within moments, Ross has the entire table in pieces, bracing the door closed. I run for nails and a hammer so we can block the door with them.

Maybe I watch too many zombie movies too.

I don’t know what else to do right now.

“How long is this gonna hold?” I ask Ross when he finishes nailing the table into place. I can hear once-human nails scratching themselves raw on the other side of the door. None of the… zombies can open it. My stomach lurches when my brain automatically says, “Not yet.”

Am I awake? Have I slept?

“I doubt it’ll be around for long. Just long enough for us to get out of here.”

Huh?

“How are we going to do that?” I say, my mind blank, autonomous.

Ross looks around the room.

“We’ll have to use the window.”

Oh.

He tears the curtains right off the frame and pulls up the glass. A cool early-autumn breeze enters the room and makes me shiver reflexively. Now that I know what’s going on, I can see what’s happening outside.

All the people wandering the streets, getting hit by the occasional vehicle as it drives through at top speed… these are the monsters. These are zombies. I shiver again, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

The city is infested.

I can barely remember anything after that point. Ross threw two hundred feet of nylon rope out the window and we started the climb. I couldn’t process anything; my mind was numb and I didn’t know what to think except that the rope hurt my hand. But keep going. Keep climbing. Escape.

Eventually, Ross fell. I’m not really sure how it happened, but it was close enough to the street that he’s still alive now.

Every time I draw back my arm to hit another nail, the hammer slips from my hands a little more. Another handle that’s coated in sweat — my cold sweat of fear, panic, and whatever other emotions I’m feeling right now. I don’t have time to name them all. Hundreds of walking corpses are right outside this window. I have to nail things over it. Whatever I can find.

We’re in the bottom floor of someone’s house; I don’t know whose. Ross is lying behind me, barely alive. At some point while I was dragging him to the first house I could find, he went unconscious. There were already people here when I broke in.

I hear broken bits of a table fall to the floor behind me. Sam dusts off her hands.

“My arms hurt,” she says. “Whatever happened to collapsible card tables?”

“I think that’s enough wood,” I tell her. I back away from the window, rubbing my biceps. “Can you finish this window?”

“Finish?” Sam raises an eyebrow, inspecting my work. “Those are service-sector workers out there, not zombie lumberjacks. How great do the barricades have to be?”

“I don’t know!” I yell. “I just don’t want them inside, Sam. Please…”

I lay down on the floor next to Ross, trying to calm myself down. After so many hours in this house, the moaning really gets to you. I rest my head against Ross, trying to hear his heart instead of the zombies.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Life. I close my eyes, focusing on this sound like a lullaby. But I can still hear the moaning and scratching around me, relentlessly. I know that Sam isn’t doing any work; she’s sitting in the corner, resting, smoking a cigarette. I can hardly blame her from my position.

Another body enters the room from the stairwell. He doesn’t speak a word, so I know it’s Arthur Scott. With his perpetual stoic, uncaring expression and insultingly clean, expensive clothes, it’s tempting to think of him as an action hero like James Bond. Except this is real life.

Sam slowly breathes smoke out through her nose, asking, “Is everything okay up there?”

Scott’s eyes dart around the room, carefully examining every detail. He nods slowly, not looking her in the eye. From most people that would be unusual, but for him it’s just par for the course. He’s always watching, never talking. Sam tells me that he was in this house when she got here, and she has no idea how or why he’s around. When she asked him his name, he just told her and hasn’t spoken a word since. He seems harmless enough to her.

Real life doesn’t have action heroes, and I don’t trust him. But then again, real life doesn’t have zombies. He’s sketchy. But we need all the help we can get.

“How’s Ross?” Sam asks me.

“He’s alright,” I say. “Still bleeding.”

“At least there aren’t any vampires out there.”

I ignore her.

We sit in silence for long minutes, just trying to keep ourselves calm. I guess that’s an effort in futility, though, since the silence only ever emphasizes the sounds from outside. The wood covering the windows and doors remains firmly in place, but that’s not as much reassurance as I’d like.

As soon as Ross gets better, I’m getting out of here. We’re both covered in his blood, so I’ll find a place with running water first. Then we’ll make a break for it. This city can’t be totally quarantined — there’s going to be a hole somewhere that we can scurry out of. We just need to find it. As soon as Ross gets better, everything will be okay.

One of the windows that I boarded over shatters from the outside. Without it, the zombies sound like they’re already inside. I’m trying and failing to keep tears out of my eyes. They burn in the grit that’s building on my skin. They hurt. My chest tightens as a sob wrenches its way out of me, ripping through my lungs. I choke on it harshly and lean against Ross for support.

He’s sleeping, if unconsciousness counts, but I’ve never felt more awake.

“I think these ‘cades will last us another hour or two,” Sam says, standing up. “Let’s go back upstairs. There’s still a few chairs up there.”

“We need to stay with Ross,” I tell her.

“Just let me and Arthur carry him up,” she says.

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him. He could have broken his back and now the slightest movement will kill him.”

Never mind the fact that I dragged him to this house already. But he’s getting worse by the minute and I can’t risk it. Why did this have to happen?

Before Sam can say anything, we hear a loud crash from upstairs. I freeze in position on the floor, my heart stopping. Sam and the well-dressed action hero take steps towards the stairs, listening. There’s another crash, and what sounds like boots stomping around. Something is definitely up there.

Sam scowls and runs up the stairs. I just lie there, passively listening. I don’t care anymore. I’m broken. Her footsteps stop at the top of the stairs. I can hear her voice demanding something, then an indistinct reply from a male voice. My mind pulls itself back together with one thought:

Zombies can’t talk.

I jump to my feet and look at Scott, but he won’t meet my eyes. He’s still watching the ceiling intently, ignoring me. After a moment, he turns his head to look at me. His eyes are widened in terror. I’m about to ask what’s wrong when he grabs me by the arm and starts pulling me towards the stairs.

“Hey!” I yell. “Let go! I need to stay here!” What if the zombies break in while I’m gone? Ross can’t defend himself.

He doesn’t listen. He seems panicked, like some sort of animal, unlike anything I’ve seen him do all day, putting all his adrenaline-fueled strength into pulling me. He practically drags me up the stairs. I’m watching my boyfriend disappear around the corner of the stairwell, tears of fury welling in my eyes as I scream at this attacker to stop.

He doesn’t.

By the time we reach Sam on the next floor, I’ve rendered myself silent. My throat and eyes are burning. Arthur Scott sets me down gently next to Sam, then stands behind the both of us. I roughly climb to my feet, holding onto her. She wraps an arm around me.

The people who must have entered through the windows are two men in plain black uniforms, flanking a woman in a lab coat. All of them are soaked with blood.

“Is this everyone?” the woman asks.

Sam nods curtly.

“Good,” she says. Addressing me, she adds, “I’m Dr. Euel. I work for the Necrotech division of the federal government.”

Bile rises in my throat.

“We are doing a systematic sweep of the city after a recent accident. We received a report from our agent here, Mr. Scott, that there were infected individuals in this building.”

“Only one,” Scott says. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice; it’s gruff and manly, the way you would expect the voice of an action hero to be. He’s a fictional character in my real world full of zombies.

“There’s only one infected here, on the bottom floor,” he says. For some reason this seems to be directed to the guard at Euel’s left side instead of the doctor herself. “I’m not lying. Take him and leave the rest of us alone.”

I want to scream at them, “He’s not infected! He’s mine and he’s just sick!” But I can’t bring myself to speak a word. My throat is too raw and there are too many emotions running through me. Too many for me to name.

“Arthur,” Sam says, watching her feet. “You betrayed us.”

Scott’s eyes narrow darkly, but he doesn’t answer. Dr. Euel laughs.

“You’re quick, girl,” she says. “I wish you weren’t infected.”

“Leave these women alone and do the job you’re paid to do,” Scott growls.

“This is the job I’m paid to do,” she responds. She gestures to the man on her left side when she adds, “Mr. Richard here has informed me of your past. You’re the traitor. How do you think this whole virus is spreading? This area is under quarantine; if we let people free, they’ll only infect more people.”

“You don’t know that!” he yells.

“That’s why we need to do this,” Euel responds. She keeps her calm throughout, smiling falsely. Her men start to make a move for the stairs, and I fall to the floor as Scott pushes through me to stand in their way.

There’s tense silence for a moment as he stands there, blocking the two guards. Mr. Richard’s hand inches towards the holster at his hip. Sam hasn’t moved an inch. I can’t draw the strength to pick myself off the floor. I feel like I’m melting through it, watching the world underneath.

Through the floorboards I hear wood begin to crack. I hear glass shattering. I hear nails being ripped from the walls as hundreds of wretched cadavers push and shove their way into the bottom floor. But I’m the only one that hears this, my head pressed against the floor.

In a moment of clarity, my mind says, “We had a good run, Ross. Nine storeys isn’t too bad, right?”

Sam jumps out of the way and throws her cigarette to the floor as she runs to the stairs. One of Euel’s men makes a move towards her, but Scott punches him square in the jaw. The other guard, Mr. Richard, takes a step backwards and pulls his gun on Scott as the two brawl.

“Leave it, Arthur!” Richard yells. He fires a shot past them. Scott turns his head for a split instant to look at Richard, a scorching look in his eye, but it’s too late — the extra instant gives the other guard the upper hand, and he twists Scott’s arm around. With the leverage he pushes Scott to the floor and roughly shoves a foot to his back.

His face is right in mine and I can taste his breath as he shouts.

“This isn’t what you want to do, Richard!”

“Get rid of them,” Euel says coldly. “We have enough people who won’t cooperate.”

She walks towards the staircase. The other guard lifts his weight off Scott’s back to follow her, drawing his gun. Scott doesn’t move from the floor. I don’t know what to do. He looks at me with an unreadable expression as he speaks to Mr. Richard.

“Please, Don,” he says, his voice cracking. “Please just let them go. They haven’t done anything. You can take the man downstairs. I’m not stopping you.”

“Shut up!” Richard yells. He continues to point his gun at Scott.

“This isn’t what you want to do…”

“I’m just doing my job, Arthur.”

The side of Arthur Scott’s head explodes into bits, blood spraying into my eyes. I close them tightly. My heart beats faster and faster. I’m hyperventilating. This isn’t real. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.

Beneath the floorboards I can hear gunshots mixed with yells. Are they shooting at Ross or are they shooting at the zombies? Sam screams horribly, a long string of curses gurgling into nothingness as she chokes on her insides. I’m broken. I’m awake. I’m dead.

“I’m sorry,” Richard says.

He shoots me.

My emotions start fading away one by one. My mind becomes unfocused, and I simply exist for a brief moment. Autonomous. Not me, just an empty body, the shell of a person who didn’t get it.

Goodbye fears, hopes, and dreams. Goodbye Ross.

I hope the zombies kill you before the government can.