Notes from the End of the World

In the Suburbs

I haven't talked to her after that. I don't know what happened to my wife. Was she dead? Was she wandering around like those unconscious creatures that were killing each other on the streets of the great cities? Actually, I wished she had died. It was a much more dignifying end.

Life in the suburbs remained unaltered for a while. People talked about what they watched on the news, whispering to each other.

"Do you know that Bob's son lives in Los Angeles? Things are pretty bad back there ..."

In some senses, they all believed that the disease would not reach them. They were scared — who wouldn't be? —, but none of them really thought that they could also become victims of the epidemics. Then there were cases reported in Baltimore, Pittsburg, Atlanta, Raleigh, Cleveland, Detroit, Dallas, Miami, Portland, Memphis, and it became very clear that it was not going away. The authorities kept issuing alerts and reports, trying to educate us on how to avoid contagion, but thing were quickly getting worse.

"I think it's time for us to go somewhere else, dad. Somewhere isolated, where we'd be safe"

"You worry too much," he said to me. "We'll be fine. Nothing is going to happen to us."

The irony was that, on the following day, my father decided to climb to the roof of the house to fix a leakage.

"Get down from there, goddammit! You're seventy years old, for Christ's sake!" I shouted, watching him from below.

"I've been doing this my whole life, boy. This won't take long, I promise." He shouted back.

But he lost balance and fell down from the ladder. I could see that it was serious, that he had suffered some serious injury.

I drove him to the nearest hospital, but we did not enter. When we arrived there, we could clearly notice that the danger was much closer to us than we had initially thought. Hundreds of people were outside, trying to break into the building, pledging to be examined, believing that they had been infected.

"Get me back home," my father moaned, struggling with the pain.

"You need help," I said.

"Can't you see? We won't get any help here."

I understood what he wanted me to do. We returned to his home, I carried him upstairs in my arms, gave him some painkillers and waited for him to fall asleep.

My father died on his bed three days later.

He wasn't here to see hell breaking loose.