One of the natives dives behind the large pile of underwear in what used to be our hallway; he burrows in, sending clothes into the air behind him.
The boy used to call me Father. So long ago, almost an entire week it seems. But now the boy is feral and dangerous.
I set my traps near the bathroom, which is the local water supply. Behind me, I can feel their eyes. Their eyes are always watching; waiting for some weakness to pounce. Maybe if I sprain a knee going over the pile of women’s work shirts, or children’s jeans, I will be slow enough to be caught.
This laundry hellscape that our world has become happened much more quickly than one would have thought. It was a bad week, once upon a time. We just got behind. I couldn’t keep up.
The washing machine ran twenty-four hours a day. The dryer got so hot that part of the ceiling melted. Every time my wife and I said, “Last load!” we laughed because it was a joke. But after a busy week where we didn’t do any laundry, the joke wasn’t funny anymore. I don’t know where my wife is right now. I think she went to work and said she would send back help. It’s been eight hours and I am worried.
The middle child, the smart one, jumps from the top of a laundry mountain made of different children’s shirts. Refuse that has gone by the wayside and naturally formed a landmark. Take a right near that mountain, and you’ll find my old room. The boy, I suppose he was my son once, misses his mark and crashes into the bathtub. I turn on the water and yell “take a shower, you stink!” as he screams. I run.
I’ve made my basecamp in the living room, downstairs where the children are afraid to venture ever since the cable was cut-off. Warning signs reading “chores” plaster the pathways down as extra protection. Here, the dog and I try to live our best life, although it’s getting harder each day. I eat out of tin cans. When my wife left, she took the detergent, and it’s just now that I realize that I might have been abandoned.
Upstairs the oldest, a girl, grunts and chants at the other two. They have formed a rudimentary tribe amongst the laundry wasteland. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. A large load of dirty dish towels cascades down the stairs. It is a warning–but of what, I do not know.
All it took was one week. In that short time, which seems like a moon ago, the washing machine fell silent as life caught up to my family. We ran to after-school activities, helped my wife’s mother, completed homework-everything that seemed normal. And we told ourselves the lie that would doom us all.
Let the laundry sit, and we’ll get to it.
The children took to wildness with amazing ease. Its like they were always dirty creatures being forced to wear a clean suit. We forgot their nature and they turned on us.
They refused to do the dishes one night, and when I was distracted, fled into the laundry wilderness. And now, they are coming.
Heavy footfalls echo on the stairs.
From behind the smashed entertainment center, most of which I have used as fuel for my fire, I grab the last of the laundry detergent. My wife didn’t take it all although whether this was intentional or an accident, I may never know. I hide in the shadows as the stairs creak.
They are here.
I strike, surprisingly fast for such a big man. Or, at least I was. Food has been hard to come by and I have lost forty-three pounds since this morning. I go for the big one first, the ring leader.
“Got you!” I scream.
“No!” she says.
“For the last time, go to your room and grab all your clothes! It’s an apocalypse in here!”
She hisses. The youngest, a blond boy of six, tries to flee. He stumbles over a pile of reds.
“Not so fast, boy. Go grab all your stinky soccer gear so we can wash them, too,” I tell him.
“But I don’t want to!”
“Too damn bad.”
Finally, the child that used to be my middle son, the smart one, comes forward.
“Dad, I don’t have any dirty clothes,” he says.
The ease with which he lies breaks me inside.
“Bull,” I say. “I’ve seen your room. And you are going to clean it and bring everything thing I saw on your floor to me in baskets. Not one basket, because that’s not enough. Grab two.”
I think slowly I am regaining control of this laundry hellscape. It will be a tough battle, but I can win it. I must.
Maybe, say around 6pm, my wife will come back to me. Unless she has a work meeting running long or a networking event to attend.
I hope she stops at the store and brings more detergent.
There is always hope.
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