Free Zombie Tales: Primrose Court Apt. 205 by Robert Decoteau Page A

and cap guns.
    By the following morning, I had developed a
boil on my arm which was surrounded by an angry red rash. Mother
kept me home and made an appointment for me to see the town doctor.
I remember watching out the window as Sally and Lenny got on the
bus. Mom stood next to the driveway waving to Sally and ignoring
Lenny, per his request. The bus pulled away and that was the last I
ever saw of my siblings.
    Mom began to worry at about 4:15 when the
school bus still hadn’t arrived.
    It turned out she had good reason to worry;
there had been an accident on the east bridge of Highway 922. A
drunk in a pickup had veered out of his lane and the bus driver
swerved to avoid a head on collision. The big yellow vehicle
smashed through the guardrail and plunged seventy-five feet into
Ray Roberts Lake. The bus driver, Margret Pearson, managed to
escape a watery death, but all twenty-seven children perished,
including Lenny and Sally.
    “Cutaneous anthrax,” Dr. Michener had
declared two days later.
    He asked my mother about contact with animals
and nodded his confirmation as she informed him of our recent
excursion to the petting zoo.
    “Don’t you worry; Mrs. Granger, little Teddy
here is going to be just fine. This form of anthrax is transmitted
through contact with infected animals, but is rarely fatal with
treatment, especially since we caught it so early. I’ll do a
culture to confirm and notify the authorities, have them close down
that little animal farm.”
    He took a culture from the black boil on my
arm, but prescribed a round of antibiotics instead of waiting for
the results. Mom took me to the drug store straight away and we
headed home. Two weeks after the double funeral, we moved out of
Texas. Mother needed a change so we headed for Colorado.
    After scrubbing down the shower tiles, my
bathroom time was complete. I moved back to my bedroom long enough
to dress, deposit my towel in the soiled linen basket, and then
went to the kitchen. Strawberry was my yogurt of choice for
breakfast. I added a half of a cup of granola cereal and disposed
of the little plastic cup, the lid, and the foil seal I had peeled
off the top. My third set of latex gloves was reserved for my
morning meal.
    There was stomping on the staircase outside
of my apartment. I rushed to the peep hole and watched Tommy, the
stoner kid from upstairs, gain the second floor landing. He spit on
the floor before continuing up the next flight.
    I went to my journal and flipped to the page
reserved for the pothead. I made a note about his break in routine;
he was supposed to be at work. I put a star next to the note,
reminding me that I would have to keep a close eye on his movements
over the next few days. I also noted that he spit on the floor.
That would be included in my weekly complaint letter to property
management.
    I finished my small meal and washed my bowl
and spoon thoroughly before placing them in sealed Zip-Loc bags for
storage. After trading my used gloves for a new pair, I moved to my
computer station and prepared to get to work.
    Thanks to the computer age, one no longer had
to be independently wealthy to be an agoraphobe. The internet
allowed me to work from home as a copy editor as well as providing
me with virtual stores from which I could order practically
anything I would ever need. A very reputable laundry company
handled my cleaning. The grocery delivery boy gets a five dollar
tip every time he runs my trash to the dumpster for me. Gone are
the days when a person with my condition needs a handful of
enablers to sustain themselves.
    My next brush with death was a few years
later. Colorado was much as you might expect it to be. Winters were
severe and summers were mild. Mother loved the snow. We lived
pretty far out of town, up at the top of a steep old logging road
that led to nowhere. Mother refused to let me set foot on the
school bus so I rode down the hill with my father everyday on his
way to work. It meant getting to school