Two Healthy Brains by Grace Nask
"The zombies are coming. There’s nothing I can do about that now. But I’ll be damn sure I’m not going down without a fight."
HOUR ONE
The zombies are coming. There’s nothing I can do about that now. But I’ll be damn sure I’m not going down without a fight.
Our house is small: the kitchen, living room, and dining room make a pod on the left, and a hallway from the living room leads to the cluster of bedrooms and bathroom on the right. Two doors. Eleven windows. When we first bought it, Matt said it was ‘cozy’; I said it was cheap. At the time he laughed and kissed me, calling me “Casey my Curmudgeon.” Now it’s defensible against the people we once called neighbors.
I lock the front door in the living room and back door in the dining room and throw both latches. All the shades go down and lights go out, pitching the deceptive sunlight into a dark haze. The dining room table scrapes against the hardwood when I push it up to the back door, rattling the vase of violets in its center.
The beige loveseat calls to me, but I resist the urge to push it against the front door. Matt will be back soon. I’m not leaving him behind.
For the time being, I move into the kitchen and throw open the cupboards. Eighty-four cans stare back at me, stacked three high. When it first began, I went to what used to be our grocery store and grabbed anything that would last, beans to peaches and back again. Now, I count the cans, just to be sure, checking each meal for dents and openings as I go. No contamination. I breathe a sigh of relief.
My hands linger by the sink, eyes flitting from the faucet to the stove to the fire extinguisher before inevitably resting on the same drawer I always reach for. I open it, briefly resting a finger on each cold handle of our seven knives. They’re designed to scrape against the crust of bread or butterfly a chicken—something Matt or I have done hundreds of times on a weeknight. But that was a different life, one we’ll have to adapt from.
I tear my eyes away from the knives and close the drawer once more. My fingers twitch and feet shuffle. With nothing better to do (and feeling a bit absurd), I make our bed. My half of our bedroom has everything in its place; even though the white curtains are drawn, I can still find the bedsheets on the right-hand corner of the top shelf in the closet without issue. Matt’s side is...well, Matt’s. Clothes litter the floor, and there’s a ring of balled up papers around the wastebasket from where he shot from afar and missed. For a man who worked an office job before office jobs became no more, he sure doesn’t understand the concept of a filing cabinet.
With a small sigh, I begin to pick up his dirty clothes. Then stop. I swallow. Gently, delicately, I arrange each article of clothing back into the position it was in. He can put his own dirty clothes in the hamper when he gets back.
HOUR FOUR
Before too long, my stomach rumbles. Luckily, we still have electricity and running water, for now. I crack open the fridge, risking a bit of the bright light in the darker gloom. I don’t risk the stove, instead eating a peanut butter sandwich in the dim hallway. The smoke detector’s red-light blinks merrily at me from the ceiling, not at all concerned at the end of the world.
Not for the first time, I wish Matt and I had a bunker in the countryside where we could live off the land as long as we needed. Heck, I’d settle for a basement with a stairwell at this point. Instead, I have one internal hallway. One internal hallway and eleven windows.
I sigh. At least the relative stillness seems to be keeping, even if the clenching in my stomach tells me it’s the calm before the storm.
A few minutes later, the silence does break, but it comes in the strangest form. In the distance, kids laugh and shout. I wince. Why on earth haven’t their parents taken them inside?
Unless their parents are already zombies, and the kids don’t know how much danger they’re in.
I rush to the front door, sandwich forgotten. I could race outside, bring them here, and lock everything up again. We could keep them safe; Matt wouldn’t mind the unexpected company.
Even as my fingers brush against the knob, I can’t get myself to turn the latch. Those kids are too far out from our house; any zombie in the area has already heard them.
I rest my forehead against the door and beg them to go quiet, beg them to hide. Their laughs peter out, until I’m left with nothing but the hum of the fridge and my own gasping breaths.
I fill containers with water in the kitchen in case the tap cuts off or the water system gets contaminated and keep my mind carefully blank.
HOUR FIVE
I’m on my eighth Tupperware when the doorbell rings. My breath catches. I’m on my feet before I realize Matt would’ve used his key.
They’re here they’re here they’re here—my breath comes quicker and quicker, but my hands hum with focused energy. I ease the butcher’s knife out of the drawer and cross into the living room. My heart tries to outdo my breath; my chest tightens. Brandishing the knife, I stand on my toes and peer through the peephole.
Nothing leers back at me. No dangling limbs, no rotting flesh, no staggering gaits. Just a brown box with Amazon’s signature blue tape on the welcome mat.
It could be intel; it could be a bomb. It could be anything, really. The zombies could be lurking just out of sight, waiting to pounce. Except stealth isn’t really a zombie’s style, and if it is intel, I need it, badly. If I have to prepare for the worst—if we have to prepare, I mean—we’ll need to do it before nightfall.
The handle of the butcher’s knife is warm from how hard I grip it. The deadbolt sticks, but I shimmy it open. I press my ear to the door. No moans or grunts. With a deep breath, I open the door, grab the box, take it inside, and lock and deadbolt the door again in only a few seconds.
I slide to the carpet, blinking sunspots from my vision. It’s only now that my hands begin to shake. The butcher’s knife slides across the tape in two scraggly lines.
The new work shoes Matt ordered a week ago stare back at me. I put a fist in my mouth to avoid the laugh strangling my throat. Even in the apocalypse, Amazon delivers.
HOUR SEVEN
I finish filling the rest of the containers in our house with water and stack them with the others. I recount the cans, just to be sure. I secure the shades with bits of twine, double and triple check that the deadbolts are in place. I don’t think about Matt. I don’t I don’t I don’t.
When I wander through the bedroom again, I see my phone powered off on the nightstand. I could call him, and he might pick up. But they could trace it, could make it more dangerous for the both of us. If Matt picks up at all.
The light piercing the shades grows dimmer and dimmer, until I travel more by touch than sight. The vase of violets on the table, the photos of our honeymoon to Disney, the mess of Matt’s CDs by the TV all dissipate into shadow. And with the dark will come the monsters.
My fingers run against the scratchy armrest of the loveseat. I swallow. A dog barks, and I jump. I swallow again. With a grunt, I shove the loveseat across the floor, jamming it forward against the door. My feet skid on the carpet, and my head smacks against the armrest. I curse, and once I start cursing, I can’t seem to stop. I curse the loveseat and the carpet and the headache. I curse the zombies and our house and our neighbors. I curse Matt. Boy do I curse Matt.
I don’t have time to cry, but the tears escape anyway. I pace the living room, watching the front door, and wait for night to fall.
HOUR EIGHT
The rumble of a car cuts through the unnatural silence. The living room is pitch black, so when a headlight filters through, I have to squint against it despite the shades. My breath sticks to my throat. Zombies can’t drive cars.
A whistle comes closer and closer to the house, singing a tune I know by heart. I clutch my chest, blinking back tears. Matt. Matt Matt Matt. I’m going to kill him right after I hug him tight.
His footsteps are heavy, his whistle loud. I wince at every sound. He unlocks the door, but the knob only rattles.
I need to shift the loveseat. I need to throw the latch. I don’t move.
He knocks, once twice thrice. They boom in the quiet. The dog starts barking again, and I flinch. Did she bark because of the noise Matt’s making, or because of something else neither of us can hear?
Matt knocks again, louder, and faster than the last time. “Casey, open the damn door!”
I jolt. I lean over the loveseat and throw the latch. Instantly the door jerks, but because of the loveseat it doesn’t open more than an inch. The door jerks again, giving another inch. “Oh, for heavens’ sake,” Matt mutters.
I move into his line of vision, drinking in his suit and tie. A laugh hiccups in my throat; who cares about ties at the end of the world? Too soon I’m looking past him into the night for movement. Matt has his phone light on, horribly exposing us to the shifting shadows. I listen for moans but can’t hear anything over Matt’s curses and grunts. A zombie wouldn’t have to work very hard to see two healthy brains ripe for the taking.
Matt’s breathing hard, hands clenched. His words are clipped and too even. “Ok, I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to move whatever the hell you have against the door and let me in. You understand?”
I need to tell him to keep his voice down but fear it might make him louder. He’ll go quiet if I move the loveseat. They can’t get to us if I let him in. We can fortify the perimeter again, keep our defenses up for when they attack. I need to move the loveseat. “Where were you all day?”
Matt throws up his hands, and his light becomes a beacon to the sky. “At work!”
“Work? To get supplies?” I suppose staplers and filing cabinets as barricades might be useful—
“No! To do my job? Remember that place we go? The magical office that pays the bills?” He rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry; I’m tired. You should’ve called me if it was getting this bad.”
My voice comes out in a whisper. “What if they’re tapping the lines?”
“Who? Who would want to listen to our calls?”
I don’t answer. Suddenly, I don’t know.
Matt sighs. “Baby, no one’s tapping the lines. I promise no one’s out here but me.” He leans his head against the door and looks at me, eight hours of work sunken into the lines on his face. “Open the door? Please?”
With trembling hands, I move the loveseat, and Matt gets the door open all the way. The full moon glows amidst a cluster of stars overlooking our neighborhood, turning our grass silver. Three streetlamps highlight nothing more than wooden fences, a rickety sidewalk, and the occasional flower bed. I strain my ears, but all I can hear is that dog barking and the chirping of crickets.
Matt’s gaze bears through me, and even though I know he hates the pinch of his work shoes, he doesn’t come inside. Instead, he steps off the front step into the grass.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
He holds out a hand. “Come on,” he says. “It’s a beautiful night.”
My chest tightens. “Matty, get inside. Now.”
“Why? There’s nothing out here.” He sweeps his phone light over the empty street, our small yard.
Nowhere for anything to hide. “For heavens’ sake, Casey, help me out here. What are you so afraid of?”
He’s so loud. He’s so bright. We’re so exposed here.
I step outside and jerk back in again. “There. Happy? Great. Let’s go.” My hands are shaking; I pretend it’s anger. I go to slam the door. Too late, I see Matt coming up behind me, fingers on the frame, and hear the crunch of wood on bone.
“Shit.” He yowls and curses, shaking his hand. “Damn-it.” The bone white of his skin has shifted to stark red. His ring finger starts to swell around his wedding band. But even as I watch his hand, I watch the grass and the car and the fences and the street and listen for something I can’t hear, look for something I can’t see.
I think of those kids earlier, shouting and laughing in the sunlight. For the first time, I wonder what game they were playing.
My chest has become a gravity well, compressing each breath into a solid core against my ribs. I’d just wanted to stay safe. I’d just wanted to keep us safe, and now I hurt him.
I grip the sides of my face in both hands. “I’m sorry.” My voice turns into sludge when tears splatter my shirt. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry...”
“Oh gosh.” Matt’s good hand strokes my hair. He wraps himself around me, stilling the trembling. “It’s ok. Don’t be sorry; I’m sorry for pushing. It’s ok, baby....”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry....”
Grace Nask is content to live under a nicely decorated rock, complete with her quirky characters and half-baked fantasy lands. In 2023, she published a collection of fantasy short stories, Twisted Fantasy, and in 2024 she published a YA novel-in-verse about mental health, Don't Call Me Broken. Both can be found online at BarnesandNoble.com. She's pursuing a Bachelor’s in English Education at Lycoming College, where she is a poetry editor for their literary magazine, The Tributary. In her free time—whatever that is—she enjoys taking walks in the park and stealing her friends' cats.
What an immersive story with such details! “The smoke detector’s red-light blinks merrily at me from the ceiling, not at all concerned at the end of the world.” Subtle humor despite the dark nature.