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ATTEMPT TWO

SYCAMORE

Boop-boop-boop.

A triple tone echoes through my car, my head, my skull. I gasp for air and scramble, trying to right myself against whatever just happened. I just got shot through my windshield. I know I just got shot, and yet…

And yet here I am at the rest stop. The same concrete facade looms in front of me. The same cracked, empty parking lot surrounds my car on nearly all sides. The same icy trees form a thin tangled wall behind the same chainlink fence that borders the dog walking area.

“What the fuck,” I gasp. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.” My breaths come out ragged and shaky. I died back there; there’s no way around it. A bullet went into my skull. Am I in hell? Is this a near-death experience?

I pinch myself over and over and over, then squeeze myself, then claw at my face until it stings. Nothing happens. I’m still here. None of this has even begun to make a lick of sense, unless…

“I imagined that,” I say to myself. My voice sounds almost hysteric, and I can barely believe the words I’m saying. But what else am I supposed to think? “I never actually left the rest stop. There’s no zombie apocalypse, and I just dreamed that, or I’m going crazy or something.” A noise bubbles up from my throat that sounds somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Keep it together. A slow inhale and exhale helps me put at least some of my scattered emotions back in place. It’s only then that I realize the triple tone is still going.

My phone is making the boop-boop-boop noise that indicates a dropped call. Same as it did last time, if there even was a last time. I pick it up, silence it, then put it in my pocket and take another deep breath.

“Let’s try again,” I say to myself. “For real this time.”

I leave the car and lock the door behind me, but don’t walk over to the ladies’ room quite yet. Instead I linger on the square of sidewalk that directly faces the entrance, grounding myself out in the cold a little more. Winters around here are notoriously brutal, and it wasn’t until I left for college in a more temperate part of the country that I understood why; even without wind, the air has a rawness to it that I haven’t felt anywhere else. It helps to clear your head, provided you don’t stay out in it too long.

Rather than go directly to the little side door, I head towards the front entrance of the rest stop– sorry, “visitor’s center.” For a “visitor’s center” in such a tourist-heavy state as Maine, the architecture is embarrassingly generic. It’s a concrete building with a basic imitation-gable roof and panels of faux brickwork, same as a million other rest stops across the country. They don’t even have a big moose statue out front like the one near the state border. I grab the weird vertical handle and yank the glass-paneled door open, expecting a rush of warmth. And getting none.

It’s cold in here, almost as cold as it is outside. Guess the central heating went out along with the hot water. Not only is it cold, it’s empty. No one’s perusing the little brochure stand or taking advantage of the terrible free coffee. No one’s reading magazines behind the information desk or mopping the floors, either. The only sign of human life is a faint sound of movement somewhere behind a door marked STAFF ONLY.

“Hello?” I tentatively call out as I walk the length of the foyer. The STAFF ONLY door is partially open. Through the teeny-tiny gap, a shadow visibly shifts as my voice echoes through the room. Something’s not right here, and it’s not just because the place is empty. Before I can even consider whether to reach for the handle or back off now, it starts to open for me. My heart jumps in my throat as something tumbles out–

It’s a broom.

I stare at the thing, whose handle has landed directly at my feet, for a good half minute. Must’ve gotten propped up wrong by the last person to use it. That same person must’ve also been negligent enough to not lock the janitor’s closet behind them. Somehow none of this rationalizing makes me feel any better.

Despite my little scare in the lobby, I stop in the bathroom anyway. The last thing I want is to be driving to Seb’s house with a full bladder, especially if that… Especially if that hallucination-dream-vision-thing was an omen. It’s the exact same when I step through the swinging wooden door on the side of the building. Squeaky-clean blue-green tile, not a stray paper towel or piece of TP to be found. When I experimentally stick my hand under the sink, it’s that same icy temperature, so cold it burns. I wipe my hand on my pants, grit my teeth, and go through the motions anyway. At least the pipes haven’t frozen in here. Yet.

My reflection looks the exact same as it did previously. I’m not sure whether or not I expected it to be any different. I stare at myself for a few minutes, wrinkling my nose, pinching my cheeks. Then, on a strange whim, I extract the Leatherman from my pocket, grab my tiny little tuft of a ponytail, and crudely saw it off. It’s only about an inch of hair, but the back of my neck feels lighter already. Honestly not the worst thing I’ve done on complete impulse.

The walk back out to my car, the drive down the empty stretch of highway, the turnoff into town… It all gives me something ten times stronger than deja vu, a feeling that prickles the now-unburdened back of my neck and churns in my stomach. Is there a phrase for feeling that sense that all this has happened before, and knowing that sense is, somehow, actually right?

Okay, this is actually getting kind of unbearable. On impulse once again, I take a right towards the helpfully-indicated Dunkin’ Donuts immediately before I would normally take a left. Maybe there’ll be actual service there, and I can make another attempt to call Seb. I’ll have to come up with an explanation that doesn’t make me sound insane. But even failing that, he’ll probably be sympathetic. Probably.

The way to the Dunkin’ is your typical American stroad, marked by chains and gas stations and chain gas stations. It’d be denser if I was closer within city limits; just a few minutes further west and all this transitions into industrial parks, which then transitions into farmland, which then transitions into woods. It’s depressing as hell to see all these beige and gray concrete slab buildings under this steely sky, surrounded by filthy snowbanks and faded asphalt. The only reprieve from all of it is the thick, almost choking wall of blessedly green coniferous forest to my left. I rarely came here as a kid, considering my dad didn’t like to take me to his workplace. No nostalgia comes to me from all these neutral-colored rectangles.

This part of town is empty, too. At least mostly empty. I think I catch a glimpse of a worker in one of the convenience stores, but it’s hard to tell. Some bright color that could be a person wearing a uniform vest and could be the rear end of a display.

Finally I roll into the lot of the Dunkin’. I imagine this is an oasis for people working at the factories a little ways from here. It’s probably packed right before and after every work shift on weekdays, but right now it’s… well, just as empty as everywhere else. Not sure what else I expected at this point. The lack of cars in the lot, save for two beat-up old sedans that must belong to staffers, only emphasizes how drab this place is. Only after I stare at the sign do I remember that there is, in fact, a now-cold cup of coffee in the console at my side. Do I really need more caffeine? Eh. Hell with it. I can just get one of their gross dry donuts. Let’s hope this place is actually open. I lurch from my car, close the door behind me, and crack my neck.

My entire body jumps to full alert when a BANG goes off behind me. I spin around, only to sigh with relief: no one’s here pointing guns at anyone. The source of the noise was a car backfiring, now pulling into the same parking lot and emitting a worrying amount of smoke. It’s an aging blue Jeep, splattered with stubborn mud across its undercarriage (inevitable in this climate), rear bumper decorated with peeling stickers that I only barely glimpse as it screeches into view. Someone emerges from the passenger side door, invisible to me at this angle, and yells “Son of a FUCK!” as they slam it behind them. That tenor voice, that curse favored by the voice’s owner, is all too familiar to me. It’s a phrase he’s used since middle school, for everything from stubbed toes to missing wallets to falling off ledges in Minecraft. No mistaking it. That’s Seb.

Almost as soon as my heart is warmed, it freezes. The person to emerge from the driver’s seat is familiar, too. Too familiar. He’s pale with messy brown hair and two-day stubble, wearing a denim jumpsuit and a jacket too thin for this temperature. He spots me across the parking lot and stops dead in his tracks. He recognizes me as much as I recognize him.

That’s the guy who shot me through my windshield.

“SYCAMORE!”

It’s like the first time I’ve heard my name in a century. Sebastian comes barrelling at me across the lot and tackles me like an adolescent dog. He pulls me into a fierce hug and refuses to let go, knit beanie on his head tickling my cheek. (Did I mention he’s six inches shorter than me? I almost never let that get to my head back when we finished our growth spurts.) Seb’s dressed a little more colorfully than I’m used to seeing him, bright blue coat and red scarf clashing horribly with his baggy brown cargo pants. His shoulders shake like a 9 on the Richter scale; he’s crying. Sebastian Do is not a crier.

“I was waiting for you, and I started hearing these z-z-zombie noises outside, and I looked at my clock,” he babbles between sobs, “and I looked at my clock and it was 4 PM, and then there were gunshots, and– and then I was in my living room again and…” Seb looks up at me, tears streaking his olive cheeks, before he sobs again and returns his head to my shoulder. “And it was 3:30 and I was holding my phone again like– like I’d just called you.”

I feel sick as I process what he’s saying. If that’s true, if that guy really does recognize me, then… Well, then I wasn’t imagining any of that. I’m trapped in some kind of loop. So is Seb.

So is the guy still staring at us from across the lot.

“Sebastian,” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, “who’s that?”

He looks back up at me, tears dried by apparent confusion. It’s rare for me to address Seb by his full name. He can obviously tell something’s up on my end. But he wipes his nose and steps back a bit anyway, light on his feet as usual. “He’s, uh. This is my boyfriend, Adrian.”

Adrian still hasn’t moved, even as Seb turns towards him expectantly. I think I hear Seb introducing me to him, but I can’t focus on anything other than the adrenaline in my veins right now as I face down my attacker. His jaw is set, expression now gone from shocked to steely.

“Sebastian,” he finally says. Adrian has a Southern drawl to his voice that sticks out in this icy Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot like a palm tree in the Arctic. “Can I talk to you for a second?” The ice in my system turns to fire. It’s fueled by a mix of indignant rage and irrational jealousy. How dare the man who shot me through my windshield demand my best friend’s full attention? How dare Sebastian, whose relationship with me I’d thought was a rare straight man–lesbian solidarity, run off and end up with a boyfriend without even telling me? How dare the machinations of fate leave me stuck here with a bunch of zombies and this asshole?

I do the only thing that feels reasonable. I cross the parking lot and punch Adrian in the face.

He looks more stunned than injured as he reels backward from the impact. Both Adrian and Seb yell something to the effect of “what the FUCK,” but I’m still too angry to care what they think.

I point at Adrian, who’s gingerly holding his jaw. “What is your fucking problem?” I yell. “You shot me in the head!” Seb’s arms are around me again, this time trying to drag me backwards like he’s stopping a bar brawl. Adrian rights himself. His fists clench and unclench, as if he’s holding back the urge to retaliate and turn this into a real fight.

“I thought,” he says icily, “you were another zombie.” The pressure is released from my torso; Seb isn’t holding me back anymore. Adrian gestures towards him. “I realized I’d messed up right about when I wound up back at the garage. So I picked him up to take us somewhere safer. Explained it on the way, too.”

Cold comfort. Sure, it’s a reason, but it does nothing to calm my rage. I ought to kill him right now. Maybe I’ll see if the loop resets again. Instead I turn towards Seb. “Is this true?” I demand of him. He’s staring very intently at the asphalt.

“Yeah,” he mutters sullenly. “I didn’t know it was you he shot, I…”

I scoff. “You’re seriously defending him?” 

“Hey,” Adrian pipes up, “I’m not gonna kill you again, if–”

“Fuck off,” I spit in his direction, and I storm away from both of them.

Eventually I’ll regret all this. I’ll look back at it and say I should’ve been more reasonable, we’re all stuck in this together, we need to cooperate to figure out how to get out of this. At the very least I should’ve been nicer to Seb. Right now, though, that’s absolutely criminal levels of crazy talk.

I could drive off. But I don’t. Instead, I stop in front of one of the storefront’s plate-glass windows, resting my forehead against it and staring through into the middle distance. The interior is lit up as if the place is open, but it’s awfully empty in there. Just like it’s empty everywhere else. Nothing but an expanse of faux-tiled linoleum floor and an eye-searingly magenta counter. There are still some donuts on the shelves, and I think I see a few workers in matching magenta aprons chatting in a corner somewhere. Adrian and Seb are talking about the car’s engine. Something to do with needing a certain size of wrench to fix it, and how Adrian left his tool bag at the garage.

“You know,” I start to say before I can reconsider, “they probably have some tools in the back room.”

The boys stop talking. I get the sense that they’ve turned to stare at me. Seb speaks up: “What.”

I look over my shoulder towards him. “You said you needed a wrench, right? My first job was at a Starbucks, and they had a little tool bag in the supply closet. Jumper cables, screwdrivers, things like that in case employees had car trouble.”

They look at each other. A little nonverbal conversation plays out in the expressions they exchange. How long have they been dating, exactly? Whatever. Right now I don’t care anyway. 

Adrian returns his attention to me. “There’s probably gonna be zombies in there. You got somethin’ to defend yourself with?” He glances at Seb, a little indication that Seb’s also being addressed with this question.

“I have a knife,” I say, patting the pocket where my Leatherman is stored. 

Adrian shakes his head. “Too intimate. You need to keep some distance between yourself and them.” Obviously he knows that from personal experience, but I don’t appreciate the way he’s talking to me like a martial arts coach.

Seb’s eyes suddenly widen. “I have an idea,” he chirps, and he rushes to the back of the Jeep. He pops the trunk and begins to rummage around inside. Both myself and Adrian approach, slowly, like skeptical cats. The trunk is an absolute mess: it’s cluttered with empty gasoline jugs, misshapen bottles of antifreeze, crushed energy drink cans. I swear I can see a few rusty loose nails lying around. Some kind of black dust is coating the bottom; I imagine it’s been there for a while. Years maybe. Finally, Seb retrieves his prize with a triumphant grin: a surprisingly clean machete. He hands it to me with affected reverence, which lifts my mood a little. I test the weight of it in my hand, stepping back a little so I can carefully gauge how it feels to swing around.

“Why do you have this?” I ask Adrian as I slice the machete through the air. It’s lighter than I thought it’d be. This is a pretty high-quality tool.

He shrugs. “It’s from my old job.” I’m not even gonna ask what that old job was.

Seb is rooting around in the trunk again. This time he extracts a rusty, mean-looking crowbar, which he takes some experimental one-handed swings with before closing the trunk with his free hand. He looks Adrian’s way as if to ask something. Before he gets the chance, though, I clap Adrian on the shoulder.

“Just so we’re clear,” I say. “If you point that gun anywhere near me again, I will kill you. If you point it anywhere near Seb, I will kill you. Painfully. Got it?”

Adrian only seems a little fazed, but he nods. “Let’s not waste any time, then.”

Opening the door to the Dunkin’ gives us not the blast of warmth you’d usually expect, but a feeble puff of the kind of lukewarm air one gets from a badly-insulated building whose heater recently broke. Same as the rest stop. It’s quiet in here– I’m starting to get tired of quiet– and suspiciously empty. They’re almost completely out of donuts on the display shelves, aside from a few sad-looking plain ones, which only underlines the emptiness of this place. I don’t even hear the quiet chug of coffee machines. The screens behind the counter that normally display menus are blue-shifted and flickering, like some wires got disconnected. Those workers I thought I saw earlier are nowhere to be seen. Before I think to call out a hesitant “hello?”, Seb does it for me. No answer.

We slowly approach the little gap that allows staff behind the counter. At this angle there’s a better view to the door that leads to the break room. It’s completely dark in there, as if uninhabited. Weird. Those employees can’t have disappeared, can they?

Given what’s happened to me already, maybe I shouldn’t rule that out just yet.

The three of us unconsciously form a single-file line as we open up a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY: Adrian in front, me in the middle, Seb in the back. Adrian tentatively reaches out, pulls open the door, and…

Nothing. It’s just an ordinary, empty break room. We all breathe a sigh of relief. It gives me a second to look around. The room is about as dull and unfurnished as you’d expect: just a few folding chairs, an Ikea-looking table, a microwave for lunches employees might’ve brought with them. Square footage wise, it’s really not much bigger than your average walk-in closet. There’s one of those wheeled shelving racks off in the corner, on which it looks like three people have left their purses. No tool bags in sight, though.

Seb moves to stand guard by the door while Adrian & I look more closely around the room in a lame attempt to see whether any tools are hidden around the place. Predictably, there’s no such luck, not even when I peek into the purses to make sure there’s nothing of use in there. It’s just when I look up to tell Adrian we’re out of luck that a scream comes from the door.

I whirl around. Two men–no, zombies–in stained magenta aprons have their arms around Seb. They’re dragging him backwards towards the bathroom. Digging their fingernails into his flesh. He struggles against them, but his arms are completely pinned. His scarf becomes crooked as he struggles. One takes the opportunity and sinks its teeth into his exposed neck.

I barely even realize before I’m charging them. The sharp report of Adrian’s gun goes off next to me: pop, pop, pop, nailing a zombie in the head and shoulder, dropping it, the last bullet only clipping the one biting down. A guttural snarl emerges from my throat as I wind up and sink my machete into the second one’s skull. Dark blood sprays everywhere. I don’t care. Both the corpse and Seb collapse.

Adrian & I rush to either side of him. I drag the now-inert zombie out of the way, my arms burning with how heavy it is. Seb’s losing his color fast, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. I have no idea what to do, but I’m moving automatically anyway, peeling back Seb’s scarf to expose the bite wound. The sight of it makes me gag a little; it’s already blackening and bruising in colors I didn’t even know were possible. Adrian wordlessly takes off his jacket and presses it against the wound to keep the bleeding at bay.

“What do we do?” I say, hysteria threatening to bubble up again.

Adrian grits his teeth. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Shit. Shit!”

Seb groans. His mouth moves like he’s trying to form words, but nothing coherent escapes. There’s nothing we can do. Neither of us has proper medical training, especially not for zombie bites. It’s not like we can get him to a hospital in time either, if any hospitals are functional right now. My best friend’s eyes are rolling back in his head and all I can do is watch him die. 

“Listen,” Adrian says. Fear is obviously rising in his voice, even as his expression stays flat. “I think it’s gonna–” He pauses to lean harder on the makeshift compress. “I think it’s gonna reset again. Like it did last time.”

“So?” Right after I say that, Seb starts to thrash underneath us. I take off my own jacket and hastily stuff it under his head as Adrian holds him down.

“I’m sorry this is how we met.”

Seb stops moving and