Eight Mondays: Because Every Day is Monday in the Apocalypse

By Mónica Béjar Latonda

"Eight Mondays" is a suspenseful and provocative novel. Something mysterious happened on the First Monday that nobody understands. Whatever it was causes people to become zombie-like, unable to move, speak, eat of their own volition, or even sleep. If someone helps them, they can drink, eat and function to a limited degree.
Some among them are intact, including Susana, the main character. She was hiking the Superior Hiking Trail in Minnesota when the First Monday happened. Susana was doing the hike solo to help herself recover from the devastating death of the love of her life, Michael. Susana strives to save as many of the afflicted as she can, but will she ever find out what's caused this epidemic in the first place?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350924459

Book preview

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©2023 Mónica Béjar Latonda. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 979-8-35092-444-2 paperback

ISBN: 979-8-35092-445-9 eBook

FOR TEDDY

No hago otra cosa que tratar de no llorarte

Based on a real story…until it’s not.

Contents

1. SUSANA BARIZO AND THE HIKE

2. MONDAY ONE

3. MONDAY TWO

4. MONDAY THREE

5. MONDAY FOUR

6. MONDAY FIVE

7. MONDAY SIX

8. MONDAY SEVEN

9. MONDAY EIGHT

10. ONE WEEK LATER

11. ONE YEAR LATER

12. WHAT I HAVE NEVER TOLD ANYBODY – OUR LAST GOODBYE

SUSANA BARIZO AND THE HIKE

As I open the fridge door, I see Paola sneak her head in front of me.

I don’t think anything you have is going to go bad in two weeks, she says.

Even the eggs?

Even the eggs, she insists. They last for weeks.

Take them. By the time I come back, I won’t trust them and I will throw them away, I say to her. What do I know about eggs? I ask to myself. I normally would ask Michael these things, but he is . . . not here.

I put all the perishables in a bag and put it by the kitchen door, pointing at it for Paola to pick it up on the way out when we are done with dinner. I push Paola into the living room where Beck is looking at some framed pictures.

You look so young in this one! Beck tells me, showing it to me.

Yes, that was our wedding, so eighteen years ago.

Beck is not my friend just yet. I’ve seen her a couple of times. She is Paola’s friend. It feels good to meet new people. I need to start doing new things, meeting new people, going to new places.

You look like you had a lot of fun.

We did! It is still the best party I’ve ever been to. I’m not joking about that; no party has ever topped our wedding reception.

I’m trying to move them both into the dining room to eat the food that friends and family have brought over the past two months and ended up in the freezer, and all of the perishable food that I kept buying but did not eat. Food that I can’t bring with me to the trip, or should I say long the meditation walk I’m doing for the next two weeks. That’s how long I think it will take me to walk most of the Superior Hiking Trail up north. I want to get out of here. I don’t want to make any more decisions. I don’t want to have to do anything. I guess what I’m feeling is called Decision Fatigue. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but I need to start doing something different.

I guess there is an official list of grief stages. I say I guess because the list has not helped me so far. When I look at those stages it makes me feel like there is something wrong with me when I have them all at the same time, or when there is no way of defining how I feel, or when I don’t follow them in a lineal manner. I think the first stage that I found myself was acceptance. How weird is that?

I’m not successful in moving Beck and Paola from the living room into the dining room. They are now looking at my books. Beck is reading the back cover of one of my favorites.

Are they all apocalyptic books? she asks.

That is my collection of post-apocalyptic novels; down below in the drawers you’ll find all the movies.

Are you like one of those people that are ready for the end of the world?

I’m not a prepper. I like them because I know it is fiction. I don’t believe in zombies—meaning dead people that come back to life. I do believe in people that get violent because of a virus, though. And even though I believe that there is life outside of this planet, they are not coming to eat us—if they ever get here.

I would be a kick-ass in the apocalypse! says Paola, and then looking at me, she adds, So would you!

And that’s why Paola and I are such good friends. We are basically the same person. I met her at work. She could have been my boss, and she still could be my boss at any point; worse, she could be my bosses’ boss. We kept our friendship quiet at work because it could have been misinterpreted by drama minds as me kissing ass. But now, with everything that has happened, with how much she has supported me, helped me, being here, there is no hiding that we are friends and that we not only support each other as co-workers but as best friends.

Oh no! Please, I want to be one of the first ones to die. Why would I want to rebuild society? That sounds like a lot of work. And honestly the first thing I would want to do is go back home to Barcelona to be with my family and I just can’t see a way of crossing the Atlantic when the only thing available is walking—you know how rare planes are in the apocalypse. I obviously have thought about this quite a bit.

Paola and Beck are staring at me, but that silence makes them finally walk towards the dining table. I see that Beck has left the book casually on the coffee table. I so want to go over and put it in its place, but I know that is a leftover practice from having to have everything always under control, all the medications and health care things organized and ready for when Michael would need them. My life was all about making his life easier for so long that it actually changed me in more ways that I know.

And one day he didn’t need me anymore, he was just not with me anymore. He had to go. I don’t understand why he is not here with me. I struggle when people tell me that he is in a better place. What is better than here with me? I don’t understand why he loved me so much. Where does that love go? I don’t know who I am without him. I loved being his wife, being his friend . . . I loved being with him. We had a good life, we loved each other. I don’t understand why loving him made me so happy.

The drive up north was not that bad. I woke up early, too early based on the time I went to bed. Halfway there I felt how early that was, so I had to pull over and take a catnap. I’ve never liked doing that in a freeway rest stop, but:

1. I’m about to sleep by myself in the middle of the forest.

2. It is better than falling asleep while driving.

Luckily, that didn’t make me late to meet Josh, the driver that is going to take me from the U of M parking lot in Duluth to Grand Marais, almost on the border with Canada. Now that I think about it, I should have waited to take a nap while he drives as that will take us a bit over two hours. That thought makes me laugh, as it will take me around two weeks to walk back to my car.

Josh is an energetic kid studying Environmental Health at the U of M—I have so many questions on why he chose that degree, but instead I say, Is it normal that there are so many people in this parking lot? I thought having the car in this lot would be safe from people taking an interest in it.

I would not worry, they are just getting ready for homecoming tonight, I think while you are on your hike this lot will be quiet and safe. This area of Duluth is very residential. Two weeks is a long time to be hiking alone. Have you done it before?

At least he is not asking the normal question of Are you sure you want to do this . . . by yourself? To which my answer is: Michael has died and he’d be the only person I would want to do this with, do you want to go hiking with me for two weeks carrying all your food and equipment on your back? I’m such a bitch sometimes. . .

I’ll tell you all about it in the car, I reply instead.

Grand Marais looks closer to Duluth on the map, but at least I was able to take a long nap. I only woke up when Josh would stop to pick up other hikers that are also hiring his service so they can only do the hike in one direction. When I’m awake for those minutes and look out the window, I realize how lucky I am to live in this beautiful state. The views of Lake Superior from the car are just astonishing, I can’t wait to see them from the trail.

Josh drives up to the trailhead closest to Grand Marais. While the other hikers get ready, he keeps talking to me. He is concerned with the length of my trip and wants to make sure I know I can call him anytime if it gets to be too much, that he can pick me up in any of the trailheads to take me back to my car. I promise him that I’ll make it to my car, even if it takes me the whole two weeks.

Josh leaves to go back to Duluth. The other hikers have disappeared onto the trail; they know where they are going. I still need to check every single map, make sure I have water, and make sure my laces are tied. I recognize that I’m stalling. I really need to get going. I need to hike at least 6 miles to get to the closest campground, and if I don’t start I’ll get there when it’s dark. That’s what I tell myself in order to push myself to start, but really I am a good planner and I know that I’ll have enough time to make it to the camp. I’ve set up the trip in a way that I won’t kill myself the first few days. I just need to make one more decision. Do I go? Really go? I can call Josh and have him take me back to my car. No embarrassment there, I can do whatever, I don’t need to run it by anybody, I don’t have to talk it out with the husband, I can do whatever I want, whatever I need.

This is the beginning of my new life without Michael, and it’s scary. This is the first trip that I’m going to take without him, the first of so many firsts. I miss him, I wish he were here, but I know that he wouldn’t be. This hiking thing was not his thing; he liked luxury, hotels, and hot breakfasts. I have to remind myself that this is my new me, the one that is whole and empty at the same time, the one that can want Michael to be here but keeps doing the things she likes. And I need to do this, I need to get out of my head, I need to start living me.

Then I hear it in my head for the first time: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . . Overflow."

And that’s when I take the first step.

There are two Bally Creek Pond Camps, the north one and the south one. My fitness tracker tells me I’ve walked 6.5 miles but I’m not at the north camp yet – which should be the first one to run into. I think this walking business is getting to me. I’m going to camp at the next clearing I see even if it’s not a campground; well, I should not do that, but the next camp can’t be more than a mile away.

I get to what might be the camp. I see a fire pit. I look for the string line to hang the food bag away from bears; some campgrounds have it and it makes your life so much easier. I’m not finding it, so I’ll have to hang the food bag on a tree. But yes, this is an official campground. I’m so hungry! I would eat first, but I need to set up the tent before eating, so I can eat and then jump into the tent to sleep all night. I’m so tired! Only seven miles and I’m this tired! My calculations might be wrong, I thought I needed to walk around 15 miles a day to make it to Duluth in less than 2 weeks. But it feels like it might be more. I remind myself that there is some wriggle room and that the first days are the worst. Also, I need to remember that I spent the last two months taking care of my mind more than training my body for this adventure. The walking will come naturally with time.

While