1

Samantha Burrington

The Chronicle of the House on Grove Street

Before: Two months

It all started with a few small news stories in local papers. I never read them; nobody

really did until it wasn’t just a few stories and weird videos. It felt like everything changed

overnight: news stories to speculations to rising cases across the world. At first it was easy to

convince myself it was fine, it couldn’t get here. We’re safe here. We’ve all heard stories of

diseases in other countries, but they never reached us or if they did it was never really a problem.

But it seems like every day in this new world has proved my assumptions wrong; as the cases

only grow‒consuming whole cities and entire countries.

I guess this is the new normal, watching the world end. With 24 hour news cycles it’s

easy to become overwhelmed with the coverage and its overpowering horror. Of course, I try to

push it out, but I’m just one of the many drones bombarded with notifications: work emails,

posts, messages. So even as I’ve been preparing, I keep getting drawn into watching it. A lot of

it began on the coasts, where it seems like large populations just attract bad things. There have

been intense spikes of violence and people attacking each other in the streets, as this spreads

from person to person, city to city, state to state, country to country. Governments tried to close

borders, to enforce quarantines; but it spread nonetheless‒people will always find a way.

Thinking about it fills me with a creeping, paralyzing dread. Every moment seems heavy, yet

pointless. I can’t go anywhere and even if I could, there isn’t anywhere to go. Before all this, I

would enjoy my early mornings with a good book. But as the cases rise it feels impossible to

look away from. How do you look away from a slow growing apocalypse? I sit petrified in my
 2

bed or my desk or couch or floor staring desperately at hashtags and articles and press releases

and news coverages and posts and everything. It doesn’t stop coming, if anything it’s rising. So

I’ve just been increasing my deliveries.

I’ve always had a taste for canned soup and vegetables and fruit instead of cooking. So

my groceries increasingly consist of long lasting foods. I’ve been ordering seeds and pots and

books and notebooks and first aid supplies and cat food and jugs and jugs of water and heavy

duty locks and a bat. I’ve been worried about competition for supplies, but I suppose my

paranoia has left me ahead of the curve. Or at least people aren’t concerned about buying the

same things, a weirdly large amount of people are fixated on toilet paper of all things. I’ve been

ordering takeout a lot, even as I stock up on blankets and heaters and heavy wood and masks and

gloves and hand sanitizer. I watch the shipping estimates like a hawk, jumping from website to

website as people close businesses or declare a lack of stock or capacity or people to ship it. It’s

lucky that I always kept a lot of stuff on hand for emergencies, so I’m only adding to my supply.

A lot of people don’t have that.

Before: Two weeks

I suppose that I’m lucky in a way. Living out by the Rockies means fewer people and

more snow, two factors that slow the spread of disease. Basically people are staying in and away

from one another while the cold slows everything down. But even that only helps for so long.

It’s spreading through the state after state, snow be damned. News reports talked about a couple

instances in grocery stores over in Denver. People going crazy, trying to attack others, to bite

them. But by now, we should all know what’s coming: we’ve heard the stories, seen the videos.

So people know to keep away from them, to avoid their bodily fluids and to shoot to kill. There
 3

is no cure. And I doubt there’s one in the works now, as the afflicted are only growing in

number.

Those few cases were terrifying in a way that’s difficult to put into words. I knew I was

safe, I told myself I was safe. I’m so thankful for my increased grocery orders. I got as much as I

could before desperation set in. I have enough food for myself and the cats and the supplies to

grow more. But that isn’t the case for everyone. Most cities are overrun and most people don’t

live in smaller, slightly isolated towns. Normal people don’t just have years worth of food

stowed away or reinforced doors and windows. But that’s paranoia for you, generations of it.

I guess that’s what I’m living now: the legacy of a family of paranoid weirdos. Or I

suppose the nice way to say that is a family with a history of mental illness and paranoia.

Regardless, Grandpa’s fixation on security and Mom’s grocery knowledge have been my saving

grace. I guess that what you learn from your family becomes a part of you, even when you’re

alone.

I’ve been feeling unnecessarily cocky, which is a strange juxtaposition with my anxiety.

Perhaps part of me feels like all of this justifies in my paranoia, my mistrust in the world. Maybe

I’m just trying to justify staying, despite my fear of disease fighting with my fear of the outside.

So while I sit here my neighbors have been fleeing for weeks, as we lost news channels, as the

internet became more unreliable, and as animals began to flee together towards the mountains in

massive herds. I just hope they make it. The mountains are harsh and daunting to people at the

best of times, so I hope that's the same for the hordes.

 4

Day of

It was quiet when I woke up, the silent anticipation for the sunrise pervading the

morning. When I time it right I can watch the sun creep over the horizon and listen to the trilling

of birds through the crack in my window. That morning though, it was so cold, it didn’t seem to

notice the protection of my house, as it poured itself fully through that tiny crack. Almost as if

the weather was set against us, not just the disease. Although, it isn’t like the temperature made a

difference to them. I’ve always preferred waking up to blistering summer days, but heat doesn’t

make people rising from the grave less terrifying.

I swear my cats could sense the change in the air. Before they appeared the cats started

frantically pacing and aggressively scratching and howling at all the doors and windows. I guess

that I knew that it was finally here. But unlike so many of my neighbors or people online I

couldn’t leave, I still couldn’t bear the idea of going outside; even if it cost me my life.

The instant they reached our street, all four cats went silent and ran up to my bedroom. It

felt like a nightmare when they finally came, shambling down the street as if they’d always been

here, as if they belonged. They were so much worse than I imagined. The videos and photos I’d

seen before seemed suddenly like mere caricature. These weren’t people anymore, they didn’t

even move like it. They moved simultaneously together, like a flock of birds swirling through the

sky. They jerked their limbs around as if controlled by an inept puppeteer, while their blank,

bloody faces swiveled toward the slightest sense of movement. They were indistinguishable from

one another as the gore that dripped off of them disguised any difference between them. And the

smell, oh god the smell. It was a suffocating mixture of death, blood, and rot; like an old carcass
 5

on the side of the road magnified tenfold. And those few who had remained couldn’t seem to

contain themselves. So many people tried to flee as they were pursued by a jerky symphony of

human rot. I watched from my bedroom window, the curtains arranged to hide my presence and

the cats quivering under my bed, only a few doors and a staircase away from nightmares made

flesh.

I was too numb to scream. I don’t think the panic of the last few months had prepared me

for the reality of them: their presence, their fetid stink seeping into the very air. Before long I

was consumed by the worst series of panic attacks I’ve ever had. I couldn’t stop picturing the

horde suddenly turning toward my house instead. Although I was certainly justified in my terror,

that didn’t help stop my shaking or make me any less lightheaded or help my sore muscles the

next day.

I can’t properly convey it in writing and in any case, if anyone else ever reads this, I think

this might be a familiar experience. It wasn’t until the next day that I wondered why they were

drawn to some houses over others. Even when I carefully scrutinized particular figures, not one

was familiar to me. But my house and many others were completely ignored, which was frankly

wonderful and terrifying until I pinpointed the reason. Our houses were quiet. The occupied

houses of the street had too many people in them to be quiet enough, but my soundproofed house

and the empty ones didn’t draw their attention. I knew that I was safe from them, at least for

now. And I hoped that if I waited long enough they would leave all together.
 6

After: Two weeks

In a strange way things didn’t even feel too bad until the Internet gave out. As my friend

Stephanie used to tell me, the internet is a system of interconnected networks, so no one person

or government owns it. She worked in IT, so she always loved talking about internet history and

infrastructure; she was kind of a nerd. I guess I should have expected it, since sites have been

shutting down or malfunctioning for months before. People I knew, friends and coworkers just

stopping responding. But it’s always been a bit of a miracle that I can work a computer at all, so

technical knowledge isn’t really my area of expertise. Anyway, since I was already living in fear

of the power going out it should have been easy to anticipate. But maybe because the internet

has been so ubiquitous, so reliable, almost alive, I didn’t expect it to disappear. I think I felt like

it couldn’t just disappear since everyone always said that the internet is forever. I didn’t even

have time to think of the last messages for the few people still online. I never even got to say

good-bye to Stephanie. We were always chatting online together, even till the end. But suddenly

it was all gone, they were just gone. I couldn’t do anything for days after. My hands kept

reaching for a phone that had quickly become useless. I mean it still had power and everything,

but what was the point if I couldn’t even talk to anyone. I never thought I would want to talk to

someone that much. I used to go days, weeks even, without talking to people. But it’s somehow

more bone piercingly lonely when you know that all the houses around you are empty. I guess it

isn’t the same when there isn’t anyone to talk to. And with the internet continuing to work, it was

easier to pretend I wasn’t alone. When all that street noise, all that people noise has gone. When

all of your screens are dark.

 7

After: One month

How do you know when you should just give up? When you look at the world blaring

around you and decide it’s not worth it? How do you know who’s worth fighting for? Are people

required or are cats enough? Am I enough to fight for? It isn’t like I was doing a great job before

all this, why am I even trying? I’m just a weird shut in, whose neighbors hadn’t seen her for

years and whose neighbors are now dead and moving or dead and rotting in the belly of one of

the monstrous things outside. I don’t have anything to look forward to or anyone to mourn. My

parents were gone long before this mess and any friendships I had died with the internet. No one

even knows I’m here.

I just keep counting the cans of food, over and over again. Six rows of baked beans,

twelve of canned corn, fourteen rows of tomato soup. My house is lined with the things; I’ve

been gathering them for years, cycling through the old and bringing in new. There are drawers

full of seeds, of plants that grow and regrow. But is one balcony enough to feed me. Is a spare

room full of cat food enough for four cats?

I don’t even know how to quantify all this food in days to live. Like how many cans can

I eat before I can’t anymore, before I run out, before my house falls down, before someone

breaks down my door? How long can one expect to live like this, in a world like this? Is it even

my world? The house is my world, the cats are my world, and even the things creeping outside

my window are my world. Why am I ok when everything outside haunts me: the smells, the

screams, the viscera on the ground? How do I even know if all that will stay outside? Am I safe

in here? Where is safe, what is safe?

 8

After: Three months

I don’t even know when this began. How can I not know? How do you pick the

beginning of a thing? When it started for real? When the first inkling of it appeared in the world?

The day you first began to hear about it‒on the news, from people’s voices rising up from the

street, comments on photos, long text posts clogging your feed, work emails, family emails, on

video chats. Is that when it begins, once it’s infiltrated your life? Or is it when the effects start?

People looking wary and withdrawn, stores closing early, people cleaning more and more,

increasingly strange online activity as areas of the country grow dark with statistics, maps filling

with case after case. Online stores shuttering their metaphorical doors, things becoming scarcer

and scarcer as the edges of the maps get nibbled up. That’s all I can think about, focus on‒how

things were near the end. I should have appreciated it more before it was all gone.

This is not like the movies. It’s real, too real. The fear of it is worse than you’d think.

Every action takes on a new significance, a new knowledge of how things have changed and that

they’ll never go back to normal. I know that I used to clean and clean after deliveries. I spent

hours going over news footage and articles and cleaning tips and survival tips. Work was hard. It

was hard to focus on book reviews and editing and translating and whatever other crap they’d

send me to do. Often I’d spend hours slumped in my desk chair, staring out the window,

clutching whichever cat chose to grace me with their presence. But, now I’ll never even get that

time back, those months of panic seem much nicer in the face of the deadly reality of what is.

After: Four months

I suppose for us, the cats and I, it’s been about four months since that terrible day. That’s

four months of eating out of my pantry, four months of cat food, four months of rotting flesh out
 9

my window. But at least the screaming didn’t last. I miss human voices, but I couldn’t take the

screaming. I couldn’t help them, I couldn’t go outside. I’m not very strong or smart or fast and

I’ve seen what they can do to anyone who thinks they’re strong or smart enough, but I guess the

fast ones did ok. They didn’t stick around. But I’ve been ok. I’ve still got plenty of food since my

appetite is rather low. And the cats don’t notice much of a difference at this point, they just avoid

the windows now and I can’t really blame them. They’ve adapted, becoming quieter and more

reserved; but that’s ok, I’m quieter too.

I always used to say I didn’t need people. All I need are my furry children. I worked

online, I shopped online, I talked to friends and family online, I even have a balcony garden. But

it’s different once the people have gone. The mailman’s knock on the door every day at 10 am

and that anxious feeling in my chest at the sound of a knock, Mrs. Fairfield walking her little

dogs, the kids playing in the street after school, the surprisingly quiet moans of cars creeping

down identical suburban streets, Mr. Greene yelling at his canaries, Mrs. Greene yelling at Mr.

Greene, the strangely loud silence of a street hell-bent on ignoring the Greenes‒the overall

feeling of being on the edge of a community. Those were the streets I used to play on, the houses

I used to walk past on the way to school, the houses I never wanted to see again when I went

away for college, the houses I got used to seeing from a distance after college. Even when I felt

ashamed of being stuck here again, of feeling like I couldn’t go outside, I didn’t realize how

many people were around me every day. Or that I’d miss them once they were gone.

It’s been really hard to sleep. You’d think it would be easier now since I’ve always been

a light sleeper. But you don’t realize how quiet the world is, when people are gone, when

electricity is gone, when it’s nothing but you in your cold, creaky childhood home with monsters

outside. At least they’re considerate monsters. Most of the time, they’re pretty quiet, either
 10

standing in large groups, almost completely still, for days. Or following some unlucky creature

in a large dull reddish mass of flesh. I try not to look at them too hard. I don’t want to see the

face of someone I knew. The internet was full of pictures of loved ones, friends, family,

acquaintances, coworkers, neighbors, even celebrities or politicians changed by this strange

disease overtaking us. After my initial curiosity I couldn’t stand to look at them, it was too hard.

People kept pretending it was all fine though. They said you’re supposed to stay away from

them, to stay in your house, that they’re really contagious, and then you’d be safe. But even if

they’d told us to run, I don’t think I could have done it. I wouldn’t have made it outside; I’m

barely making it inside.

After: Six months

I am so tired. How is it right to be so tired with nothing to do? Reading feels impossible

and getting the words out is hard. All of this writing feels meaningless and of poor quality from

what I’ve been capable of. But what can I do now? And what is the point of good writing

anyway, since there isn’t much else I can do and it’s not like I can talk to anyone or play music.

There isn’t anyone to speak with and no music to listen to. At least, it isn’t really worth the risk

with those creeps crawling around. They go after sound like bloodhounds bounding after a kill. I

don’t understand how they can hear anything? Shouldn’t their ears have rotted out of their heads

by now? They smell bad enough to be rotting, though I suppose the corpses I’ve seen weren’t

even cold so how would I know.

After the seizures and garbled muttering stopped, Dad was so peaceful. Mom said it was

a stroke, she said it makes people act strange. I don’t know how she’d know, she was no nurse.

But it was enough at the time that I didn’t question it. What was there to question? He was dead
 11

and it was just the two of us left. What does the why of death matter if it isn’t something you can

catch?

It was hard with just the two of us. Dad was always more of the mediator, the person you

could talk to, whereas Mom always pushed to solve the problem. But even she couldn’t fix

generational mental illness. But she tried in her own way. She always made sure to bring home

canned food from work and insisted that we stay stocked up with food and rotate it by date. She

stopped nagging me about going outside and she’d bring me out of panic attacks. I guess it’s

easy to take people for granted when they’re always there.

I suppose I should be happy that Mom didn’t live to see all this either. She would have

pulled out the bible she hadn’t read and start googling scripture, while working overtime down at

the grocery store. She would have wanted to leave the house, to drive away to Grandpa’s hunting

cabin in the mountains or honestly just flee. So it would have been me killing her, since she

wouldn’t leave without me nor stay quiet with me. So maybe it was a strange blessing how quick

the end was, just a quick fall down that ladder and everything she was was over. I can picture it:

her head cracked like an egg, leaking blood and brain all over that store she loved so well. Who

knows anyway? I didn’t see her, I still couldn’t leave. All I could do was sit on the floor and

picture it and picture the funeral full of everyone that loved her except me.

It’s really hard to think about the future anymore. Everything is so fuzzy and jumbled. I

feel like I’m supposed to be hearing something or doing something, but my mind is blank. It’s as

blank as the walls or the pages and pages and pages of this journal stretching out before me. Do I

have to fill them all? What can I fill them with? Do they get likes or shares, is their engagement

good? Who’s going to read this? Are the cats going to walk over it again and again as they go
 12

about their lives, unaffected by anything outside? Would they even chase a cat? Could they even

catch them? I wish I was a cat; it’d be so much easier if I never had to think in the first place.

This looked so easy in the movies. People working alone, living alone, astronauts going

alone into space, being the hero. I don’t think I’m the hero. The hero would be doing, going,

thinking. But here I am in the middle of that stupid blue paisley rug Mom loved, the one I could

never bear to throw out, thinking. I’ve decided that I really can’t go outside. My mind must be

wrong about all those years of childhood, I can’t even imagine the door opening, let alone going

through it, let alone someone else coming through it. There isn’t anyone to come through the

door. The sick are quiet, so quiet. Are they really dead or at least not walking? Did everything

else stop when I wasn’t looking? Is this somehow a big joke on me?

They never said it would be this long. When they said to stay inside, it was to quarantine,

to protect ourselves. But are we protected inside, or is it just left to the demons of our minds to

get us instead. My demons are quiet in the brain fog, as if roasting in it, becoming demon soup.

The sound of mom’s last breath, dad’s choking sighs when his heart stopped, Stephanie’s

disapproving frowns, the neighbors whispers pushing through the walls, the wet, ripping screams

outside, people dying and dying and running and not stopping, my own inner monologue (why

can’t I just do it, just go outside, just be normal, i’m sorry, why can’t i just be normal, i’m sorry,

i’m so sorry), all of it just slipping beneath the white, swirling mass. It’s so hard to focus; even

the pen is shaking on the page, smearing the letters. What do my lists say? Is it even important?

Can’t I just stay in bed a little longer, a little longer each day, until I never leave.
 13

After: Eight months

How much food do I have left? What does that even mean? How much does a ghost even

eat? How could I even be anything but a ghost anymore, with my fog gobbling everything up and

up? It’s empty and tired in my head. Why can’t I go outside? Is it just the zombies, those rotting,

stinking, horrid things hovering about as if vultures waiting for you to keel over and die? Or was

it me, what I used to be keeping me in this place, this empty place. Where are my cats? Why do

they hide all the time? They’re so quiet now, just a brush against my legs at mealtimes. What

happened to those words, telling me I can’t do this or that or are there new words now, all of it

just entangled in the fog. Will it start to leak out of me? My brain devouring the world itself,

hiding from me, testing me, tricking me. How can it trick me if I don’t even know how to do all

this?

After:? months

I don’t know how long it’s been since I wrote here. I’ve had trouble keeping track of

time, so I’ve just tried to focus on eating, feeding the cats and constructing a disguise for the

garden box on my balcony. There have been more of them lately. I don’t know if that means

there is no escape, only finding a better death, but I’ve been trying to not think too hard about the

future. I’ve been spiraling. I never really understood the effects of true and complete isolation

and what that does to you‒how it changes you. In the end all I could turn to was the cats.

They’ve never left me alone, they’ve braved the horrors outside with me, dealt with the creeping

quiet and they haven’t left me alone. I have to remember I’m not alone, not as long as they’re

with me.
14