He’s late again.
I’ve started to adapt to this new routine of his. It wasn’t uncommon for many office workers to stay and work overtime into the night. I know that he’s been getting increasingly restless cooped up in a cubicle all day, so I wonder what his motivation is for lingering so long.
There was a hiss as I absentmindedly skimmed my fingertips across the hot surface of the pan. I shot the inanimate object a scalding glare as I withdrew my hand at the sharp jolt of heat. Leaving the offending piece of metal on the stove, I drifted out of the kitchen, a bulging bag of trash in hand. I brought the refuse into the garden and dumped the kitchen waste into the compost bin, the rancid smell of decomposition singeing my nose hairs as I closed the lid of the container with a slam. I grabbed the rusting shovel leaning on the fence and drove it into the pile of already composted dirt, feeling the satisfying crunch of the soil and the splinters of the handle poking the calluses on my palms as I heaped the sludge onto our newest garden plots.
The rusting metal of the tool rang dully against the still-fresh cedar wood of the plot perimetre, so different to the aged oak that my husband had used for our previous garden beds. The sharp scent of fresh dirt and the sight of the colourful flowers he had planted were stark reminders of his absence.
For the twenty-one years that we have been married and the twenty-seven that we had known each other, he had been a bright man; not just intellectually, but in the way that he could light up an entire room with his radiance once he steps foot inside. I preferred the quiet, but his company was more than welcome—his warmth being the only thing that truly gave life to this cold, lifeless block of brick on the outskirts of town that we called home.
I would be the last person to withhold him from the hard work he has been putting into his career. Still, it was difficult to say I didn’t miss him.
The sun had completely vanished by now, withdrawing her last golden rays as she ducked beneath the barren mountaintops in the far distance. The warm breeze grew bone-chilling as darkness settled over the garden, the noise of crunching dirt being the only sound that shattered the all-too-still silence.
It didn’t take me long to notice. I paused, wiping the sweat off my brow as I straightened, wincing as my back cracked.
This wasn’t quiet. This was dead silence.
There was no hum of insects within the bushes and woods outside the fencing, no chirping of the evening birds.
I set the shovel down against the fence, suddenly wary. Mother Nature does not silence her children unless immediate danger lurks within.
I made a beeline for the backdoor, my footsteps swift and sure as I stepped inside and locked the door behind me. Something wasn’t right. I went for the house phone, fingers miraculously steady as I dialed my husband’s number.
Rrrrring. Rrrrrring.
I drummed my fingers against the countertop, the white marble bitingly cold against my skin.
“Hi! You’ve reached Alfie Koon. Sorry, I’m busy right now. Would be great if you could leave your message after the beep!” Beeeeeep.
I slammed the telephone down, anxiety starting to bubble in my gut. I stared outside the murky glass of the window, gaze lost in the silhouettes of the still branches outside.
What in God’s name could he be up to so late?
That’s when I realized I couldn’t hear the flow of traffic outside anymore. The forest was silent. The town and the houses—as if they harboured no life.
I didn’t sprint, but I knew time was already running out.
I moved swiftly up the stairs, yanking every curtain shut on the way and double checking the locks on the windows. The wood creaked under my feet as I made my way upstairs, flicking on the dim lamp at the end of the hallway and choosing to leave the bright LEDs off overhead. I fumbled for the door handle as I reached the lone room in a deep corner of the house at the end of the lone hallway, the worn material soft to touch as I pushed open the door.
Slipping in, I reached for the unlit candle sitting on the desk near the entrance, eyes squinting through the dark as I felt for the box of matches I knew I left on that same desk somewhere. I struck a flame and flicked the spent match into a nearby ashtray as I held up the sputtering candle to the walls.
The room wasn’t grimy. Despite years of disuse, I kept it tidy and as clean as I could, dusting the bookshelves and mopping the floor at least twice a month. The walls seemed to stretch much higher than they did, lined by thousands of books—books that I had consumed like a starving animal as a knowledge-hungry young woman. A faint coating of debris had begun to settle on the desk again, prompting another cleaning session sometime soon. The familiar titles on the cedar wood shelves whispered to me, promising trips down memory lane if I were to pick up one of them. Yet, my visit wasn’t for the purpose of reliving my far-from-fond past.
I brushed past tens of volumes, fingers feeling the spine of each book, searching the intimate engravings of titles I knew by heart. I halted sharply as I touched leather, the material soft and worn against my skin. Gently, I slid it out from its place, crouching so I could place the thick book on the floor.
Just as I was about to open it, a screeching alarm went off and I felt my heart jump to my throat before I registered that the vibrations and sounds were coming from my pocket. Shakely, I pulled out my cellphone, its screen bright and flashing.
Emergency Alert:
This is an emergency broadcast. An unidentified, highly contagious virus has been infecting people in your area. If you are near your house, turn off your lights, close your curtains, and lock your doors and windows. If you are in a vehicle and not near a safe location, lock the doors, turn off the lights, and hide to the best of your ability until further instruction. These infected individuals are violent, dangerous and unpredictable. Avoid confrontations with them at all costs.
I immediately set the phone on silent, dread settling in my gut. That only confirmed what I already knew.
I need to get to my husband. I need to get him home safely. I started—no. We need to get out. There is no ‘safe’ anymore.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and picked the heavy book back up, securing the leather binding before pushing it back into its place on the shelf. I knew that I should take it with me, but the extra weight would be a hindrance. I could only hope the text that I committed to memory long ago still resided inside me somewhere. The candle flickered, its flame sputtering out and plunging the room into absolute darkness as I ran my fingers across the words on the spine one final time, knowing this might be the last time I will ever get to see this book again.
Virus Outbreak: The Doomed Apocalypse
The letters were sunken into the leather, loud in the thick silence of the room: a warning.
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The Roar 