The thick brush, dipped in dark grey paint, is dragged across the canvas like a charging rhinoceros. Grey streaks mark up the canvas, storm clouds overshadow the image. The artist, George, takes his eyes away from the canvas to look out his window to West 5th Street, covered in streaks of lifeless water, to capture another glimpse of the young women carrying an umbrella, waiting for a taxi. Her mysterious beauty captivates him—he can’t help but gaze towards her, awaiting the moment she turns to face him. She reaches into her purse and extracts a gold tube of lipstick. Through the tattered window pane, George watches the woman carefully run the pink rose lipstick across her bold lips. He returns to his painting.

A dash of his darkest grey—almost black—defines her damp umbrella and the dilapidated buildings around her. He finishes the entire painting except for her—he leaves a blank, white space for the woman.He wants to remember her—she’s one of his favorites. He contemplates what color—he looks back to the wet street, but she is gone.He leaves her presence blank on the page until he can get the right color.

East 54th Street, in the alley between Shamrock Sports Pub and the local Barber Shop; a dismembered body is photographed by the police. Blood is streaked across the back door to the Pub as if the victim were trying to escape. A bloody hand print pressed across a cracked beer bottle, sitting in a pile of broken glass. In thedumpster layered in blood lays the torso, feet and a purse, infested with rats and maggots. The arms and legs are hung over the chain link fence, dangling in the breeze, becoming pale as blood drips to the damp cement below. The hands are nearly severed from the arms—they swing from the strings of skin, rattling against the cold metal fence. Smeared on the brick wall of the Pub is a message written in the victim’s blood—Beauty. An eerie wind passes through the alley as the police gather the mutilated body parts, placing them in evidence bags. Despite the blood bath of scattered ligaments, the decapitated victim’s head cannot be found.Searching for clues to the victim’s identity, they rummage through the purse, finding nothing but a half empty pack of cigarettes, Vogue magazine, and a makeup bag. Without means of identifying the victim, the police leave having gathered their minimal evidence. The sanitation crew arrive to begin the cleaning process.

Back on the West Side, George strolls about the hollow rooms of the local art exhibit. People quietly move from painting to painting, admiring local works of art, critiquing them independently. Among the guests is Javier Polanco, an investor for the National Art Association. As Javier moves to one of George’s pieces, he glances at the piece, then reads the short description on the small card next to the painting, “Lady in Redby G. Bushman: On the wet streets of London, a woman hides her face, unwilling to reveal herself.” Gazing back at the painting, Javier analyzes the black background and grey foregrounds paired with the well defined Lady in Red. George approaches, accidentally brushing the shoulder of Javier, “My apologies, Sir.”

“Oh, it is quite alright, no need to worry.”

Both men return their attention to the painting, taking note ofits many details.

“Lovely use of color don’t you think?” snorted Javier.

George retorts, “I’m sure the artist went through great lengths to get the perfect color.”

“It is certainly a beautiful way of portraying a woman’s insecurities” Javier comments with his hand tucked neatly under his coat pocket.

“On the contrary, it seems to me that the artist wanted the woman to be where she belonged—engulfed by the same darkness she has others to suffer through, turning her back on those she views to be beneath her.”

Put off by the comment, Javier turns to face George, “you are the artist, are you not?”

Without taking his eyes away from the painting, George lets out a soft snicker, “I am.”

“I must ask—why, Lady in Red?”

Smirking, George replied, “I feared that Beauty gave too much away.”

The day started with a room, the room began with an idea, just as the
Word had begun with God, as the Word was God.

But discuss it further I shall not. No tale since has been so apt to
garner my appreciation as that of the day in particular, haunting,
scolding my knowledge and interest, as if I felt unnerved by its tepid
tragedy. Pitiful persistence carried forward as so predicted,
pertaining to my personal necessity regarding cognizance, sanction,
comfort, principally recognized competence.

While focused on the subject, I must mention how striking my
receptivity maintains despite my growing age, or rather: my aging
growth. Tense, my hands were as they gripped the steering wheel; they
and I all sensed the dreaded fate that which was eerily upon us. As
the stoplight turned a nasty green, my ears could only gather the
sight of an oncoming threat, incoming danger, terrific destruction,
and then complete isolation. A loneliness devoid of comfort or
intellectual discussion. The cousin of Death. Then whiteness.
Bright.

As the female physician would casually strut over to tell me, and as I
had already mostly gathered, my initial response to casually swerve
away from our fellow vehicle moment before the collision may have very
well singularly allowed for our existence to carry forth undisrupted.
No fractures, no losses. No pain. Naturally, the maid invited us to
leave the hospital (though I had consistently argued the fact that
three weeks of motionless, dormant comfort following such a
devastating accident barely allowed for the commencement of
self-recovery); naturally the biddy insisted our departure, naturally
insisting my cursory instincts to shove the bird in her stinking face
and christen her a mighty “c-word.”

Instead, I exhausted my final carefree hours to intelligently dissect
the worth of a single, candid day. Concentrated, the mind can
circumstantially prove to be quite a powerful device, a knowledgable
friend and colleague. Imprinted memories and tools by which to
perceive sight manage within an equal workspace, and here my mind
served me ample evidence as to my own reinforcement of life through
congenital reflex. Ah, the events that had transpired only a number
of weeks ago! How eventful that day had been. And yet here existed
another day, placed at the disposal of whomever thought intellectually
enough to dispose of it. However, it occurred to me that one life
consists of a set number of days, and through each disposal promises a
shortened implied countdown.

And thus it was in that hideously bleak hospital, surrounded by the
wretched sick and dying where a realisation suddenly dawned on my own
intellectual friend and colleague: to fully experience life as a
commendable collection of memories and transpired events, one must
award each second of the day to experiencing some new and exciting
chaos, lest he be regretful and disappointed by the end of his … his
righteous journey. Never having been a religious man, my realistic
ideas of the world only further complimented my abrupt awareness of
our limited life. So I voluntarily exited the hospital and returned
to the more appetizing comfort of my own home — on foot, of course,
for my previous driving instance resulted in quite the headache —
where I poured myself half a glass of pulp-free OJ, fixed up a bologna
sandwich on white bread, a circle of mustard delicately drawn over top
the aging meat, and sat and enjoyed both my satisfying meal and my
favorite Thursday night program (a procedural cop drama).

Returning to my own bedroom, the images of that horrific day
disturbingly returned to my mind, causing my legs to swell and jerk.
They gave and I fell to the dry carpet, my hands caressing its soft
texture as if massaging my brain, my eyes spewing tears, my brow
furrowing, my mouth quivering and exhaling loud, harsh gasps as my
ears all but sat and stared as the sobs continued on for another
twenty minutes. My stomach felt much lighter after regaining my
footing. My mouth more, mmmm lethargic. Skull looser. It was
decided then, I would take the following day off to rest. The tragic
accident had simply placed too much emotional stress on my psyche.
Maintaining my composure, my legs dawdled over to the bedside table.
Situated on top was my bedside lamp, of course, which I bought
specifically for late-night reading. I switched on the lamp, set down
my belongings, stripped, fashioned our robe out from the dark closet,
grabbed the television remote, plopped down on top of my bed, we
situated ourselves under the covers, and fell fast asleep. It was
then the closet door swung open and its blackness escaped at a
phlegmatic pace towards the hall. The vicious claws of wretched
silence clenched at drawers, ripping apart the room, then celebrated
their destruction. My eyes flew open but saw only a dark room which I
called my own, which I called comfortable and warm. The bed covers
wrapped over and around the body, ours. My legs and hands stood at
attention, tight. My chest expanded, harshly. A dream. The
following morning, a piercing, pounding rap came from behind the
closet door, impatiently pleading for permitted entrance; a cacophony
of forced howls and unpleasant clouts early in the day.

But discuss it further I shall not.

I knew I shouldn’t have left the hideout… I really shouldn’t be outside, but I couldn’t take it anymore. “Living like this isn’t actually living; merely existing, surviving,” I thought. My family and friends were dead, and they didn’t do anything drastic to save me or something like that. They were the first to go: first to be infected: gone without a word: gone without a thought.

The anguished cries of infected humans and animals alike were not far off the bank of the pier. I could see the Willis tower from here, fallen and tilted on its side, using other buildings as support beams. A dying cat, mauled by her own infected kittens, was wailing in a nearby alley.

As a child, I often dreamed of apocalyptic worlds but never in my entire life did I imagine that anything close to a zombie apocalypse would occur… that was a thing for horror movies and comic books. But here I am, surrounded by infected animals, standing on a pier in Chicago, my hometown, which now looked nothing close to the Chicago I used to know. “Zombies” were beginning to stumble out of the wrecked doors of nearby buildings, their sense of smell, sensitive to flesh and fresh blood was greatly enhanced.

I turned away from the buildings and looked down at the murky water. I remembered vaguely that before the incident, the lake had been clear and baby blue. Cool air prickled the skin on my bare arms and it was a lovely autumn afternoon but I was debating whether or not to jump because I’d rather die than become infected. I almost did it too.

Just then, an undead human came around a nearby corner. Skin peeled off of the blistered rotten flesh on her face. It was almost impossible to tell what her skin color had been before… her hair was short and limp across her forehead but I knew her. There was no mistaking those large brown eyes and the piercing on her nose confirmed it. I reeled backwards onto the gravely pavement of the peer and stood frozen as my best friend uttered a deep guttural sound from the back of her throat. A sticky strand of blood and saliva dripped from her bottom lip onto her muddy torn cardigan. I had seen this before. I’d seen my boyfriend like this, friends, family… It had become all too familiar of a sight but that didn’t make it hurt less. That didn’t make it any more bearable.

In the spur of a moment I turned and sprinted down a side street. I was so enraged at everything and I ignored the groans of the infected inside nearby buildings and just kept running. I must have run for over three miles because I found what I was looking for. Before me loomed a huge public school, abandoned and sealed shut. I decide to spend some time sneaking around the school, checking every door.

The only unlocked door was the heavy hatch on top of the school, leading to inside the roof. Given the trouble I had with it, it hadn’t been open in ages. When I finally found the door that released me from the cobweb ridden roof, I clambered into a storage room and choked in the dank, dusty atmosphere. I clambered over cleaning equipment: brooms, mops, and feather dusters, that would probably never be used for cleaning again and eventually I shoved my way out of the heavy steel doors of the cluttered room and found myself in an empty hallway.

I was sure I was alone for now; I had tried every single door around the school and all had been locked and firmly barricaded, and the windows had been fastened with steel plates; there was no way anything could have gotten in unless they had come the same way as I did, and that was unlikely unless they were uninfected.

It was unsettlingly dark and my little led flashlight gave only enough light to see a few feet in front of me. Dust particles danced in the beams of light but the rusty lockers, so unused to the feeling of light after so long, provided no reflections. The carpet under my feet was probably once a soft blue but now it was a vomit-like beige and its design was no longer recognizable.

The gymnasium, not far from the café, was vacant; a single bright red emergency light shone through the upturned basketball hoops revealing only open space. I had never imagined this gym could ever be this silent. A school banner lie crumpled halfway up the bleachers and the plaques on the walls of all the tournaments ever won were cracked and practically unreadable. Walking to the far east side of the gym, I found the PE storage rooms with the doors still slightly ajar. Glancing around, I found what I was looking for. I picked up the metal baseball bat off the floor next to a rack of volleyball nets infested with spiders. Crinkling my nose, I edged my way out the doors of the storage room.

The last place I visited was the auditorium. The seats were empty and worn, the cushions of the chairs deflated and frayed. As I observed the silent stage, I wondered how long it had been since I had heard the sound of a symphony or laughed at a funny line in a musical.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear the quiet rumble from the band and orchestra rooms behind the curtains of the dark stage. I didn’t hear the familiar creak of a door opening from above in the sound booth. It was only when I felt something brush my ankle that I swung around and realized the school was not deserted. Sure, nothing had gotten in, but that also meant that nothing had gotten out. Classes were still in session, and the only ones allowed to attend… were the undead.