Howlers were the opposite of slowpokes. They were the reason most of the world was in ruin and Nash had learned long ago to avoid them at all costs. They were fast, angry, and full of rage as they burst into homes and buildings, moving freely across the country. Something left over in their decayed psyche alerted them to the fact that people had once lived in homes, which drove them to crash through windows and doors in search of their next victim.
There was no rhyme or reason as to what dictated if someone turned into a howler or a slowpoke. Nash had spent countless hours trying to make sense of it. He carried a notebook he’d used to detail hundreds of the dead he’d seen, cataloguing everything from gender, size, approximate age, original bite location, and even eye color when possible. Pages and pages of detailed notes had left him with no answers at all. He couldn’t find any features that connected the two groups, which left him just as confused as anyone else still alive in this dead wasteland.
Nash stood in the open doorway and saw a set of steps just inside the foyer. They were completely broken apart with gaping holes that lead to the upper floor. A gust of hot, rotten breeze flowed around him as he stepped inside, a telltale sign something inside was decaying. The source of the smell was identified as he stepped further into the foyer; an outstretched arm hung out of an open door.
Nash stared at the rotted skin and slender fingers of the decaying arm, pinned underneath a hallway door, which had fallen haphazardly in the hall. He gripped the handle of his axe tighter as the monster’s index finger twitched. The rest of its fingers closed into a loose fist before opening again.
Careful that he made no sound, he crept forward and peaked around the broken door. A rapidly decaying slowpoke lay face up in a pool of dried blood. It looked up at him with eyes a mile away as its dying mouth formed into a sad frown. Its gray skin looked tight against its skeleton as it looked up at Nash with mindless, confused eyes. He knelt down beside the dying slowpoke while he fished an old screwdriver out of his bag.
Nash locked eyes with the monster before him as the shaft of the screwdriver slid easily into its temple with a soft squishy sound. The life drained quickly from its eyes. Nash continued to kneel and stare at the dead man in front of him, struggling to embrace the sadness he always felt when he killed a slowpoke. He’d gone months without having to and today he’d killed two before lunch.
Nash made his way through the main floor of the home and found nothing worth taking among the debris. He stepped gingerly over the dead slowpoke as a pool of black blood slowly inched its way across the hallway, saturating the hardwood as it grew. He came to a stop at the foot of the broken staircase, more destroyed than he’d originally noticed. Most of the middle of the stairs had caved in, which left a trap of splintered wood and nails in its wake. Slowly, he made his way up the side of the staircase; he carefully placed each footstep as if he expected the stairs to give way at any moment. He looked down into the large, dark holes as he moved and while he knew that there was nothing more than the area under the stairs, he imagined an endless cavern of darkness readied to swallow him whole.
He exhaled fiercely after he reached the top of the steps; he hadn’t even realized he’d held his breath. The room at the top of the steps remained untouched, which gave him hope that the climb up the dangerous stairs had been worth it. He stood still in the doorway and listened for any sign of danger before he began his search. Howlers were often loud when they could smell a meal, but there were some howlers that were more predator than creatures of opportunity. Sometimes they stood still and waited for someone to cross their path.
He walked quietly into the bedroom and went straight for the dresser drawers to scan their contents for supplies. The first contained mostly socks and underwear, exactly what he had expected to find. Opening the other drawers proved to not be as exciting as he had hoped it could have been, as they were filled with nothing but clothing.
The bottom drawer turned out to be a junk-drawer, filled mostly with items he had no use for. Nash pushed the items back and forth, and found a box of wooden matches and an unopened pack of gum. He knew the matches would be kept under Duncan’s guard, just another instrument in his growing cigar addiction, but the packs of gum went straight into his pocket to be enjoyed later. There was a small part of him that was excited to give the matches to Duncan, as he knew it could possibly smooth over the backlash from earlier in the morning. He slid them into his bag and hoped they insured him a smooth afternoon.
He placed his bag on the bed and ran his hand along a line of hanging shirts in the open closet. It looked like the previous inhabitant had been about his size, so he took a few of them off the rack and stuffed them in his bag before he removed his own shirt and slid on a new one. The fabric felt crisp and clean as it fell onto his torso, a feeling he hadn’t enjoyed in months. He slung his bag around his back and left the room, his bloodstained shirt on the floor behind him as he made his way back to the hallway.
The next door in the hallway was closed and it would remain that way. He wasn’t about to get bit by a howler as he searched for supplies as Duncan sat outside and drank in the sun. At the end of the hall was a linen closet that sat open between two open doors. The room on the left was a study, complete with a computer desk, bookcase and a few filling cabinets. The room across from it was a bathroom, where he found another collection of useful items.
He walked away with his bag filled with Tylenol, peroxide, gauze, and mouthwash. There were days when he would have traded half his belongings for a container of mouthwash if given the chance. Nash grabbed a few clean towels from the linen closet before he made his way into the study. He ran his fingers across the top of the desk, which left dark, wooden streaks overtop the dusty surface. The drawers were locked, and remained that way as Nash looked in vain for the key. Sitting on top of the desk, though, was a sturdy letter opener, covered in so much dust he almost missed it. He picked it up and brushed it off as he felt the weight of it in his palm. He could tell it had been expensive and could easily be used as a weapon should the need arise.
A thunderous crash from the hallway rattled the walls of the house and his fingers instantly tightened around the letter opener. He crept slowly toward the doorway, hoping the sound had been Duncan—knowing it wasn’t. Even Duncan wouldn’t be stupid enough to make a commotion like that. Another crash echoed through the hallway and Nash flinched. He continued to creep forward until he heard the deep, wheezing breath beyond the wall.
Nash steeled himself and darted to the corner of the office beside the large, wooden bookcase, fighting the urge to cry out. He fixated his eyes on the reflection of the open door in the window across from him. He held the knife-shaped letter opener in front of him; his fingers were turning white as they wrapped tightly around the handle. The howler continued breathing heavily, a wheezing sound that he could hardly bear.
The sound of footsteps filled the upstairs as the howler moved into the hallway. Nash listened to its heavy, labored breath as it spewed foamy saliva and blood with each exhale. In between bouts of heavy breathing, it sobbed softly, as all howlers did while they stood alone and unattended. The sound of their cries always brought on a feeling of hopelessness in him. They had all once been alive, trying to survive just like he was, but they now stood trapped in a prison to which there was no escape.
He waited in the study for another half hour and listened as the howler alternated between angry breathing and sobbing. He knew it was only a matter of time before the howler decided to wander into the room. There was no way to signal to Duncan, which meant he was on his own to get down the stairs and back onto the street. The window on the opposite side of the room was too high to jump from and the sound it would make would send the howler screaming into the study, its jaws gnashing open and shut. The floor hadn’t creaked at all when he’d made it to the top, which he knew would be his only saving grace as he tried to escape the howler down the hall.
Nash moved slowly to the doorway and hesitated for
a moment before he poked his head into the hallway. It was empty, just as before, but now there were dirty footprints that led into the room where he had found the matches. He made his way into the hall, taking care to make as little noise as possible with each step. He would need to pass the room in order to get back to the stairs.
The howler’s shadow painted the floor of the doorway like a black hole and filled him with dread as he made his way toward it. He stopped short of the open door and peered in as relief washed over him when he saw that the monster stood with its back toward him. It panted and spewed moisture onto the bed in front of it and sent ribbons of bloody saliva onto it’s tattered shirt. It had begun to sob again as Nash moved slowly against the wall opposite the bedroom, the sound echoed harshly in his ears as he inched his way toward the steps. He knew the sounds would revisit him in his dreams that night, as they always did. Nash kept his eyes locked on the bloodied, battered howler that stood before him.
It wasn’t tall, maybe five foot seven, with a bald head that revealed jagged strips of skin, which hung loosely from its infected scalp. The howler’s black t-shirt was torn open down the back, revealing a long gash from its shoulder to its waistline. Its light colored jeans were stained black from dried blood that led down to his heels, which were stained crimson with blood and dust.
Nash continued toward the stairs, his eyes locked on the howler with every silent step. It paused its sobbing and released a gurgling howl into the air before returning to short, heavy breaths. Its hands moved up to its head and pulled the flaps of skin from his bloodied scalp, which added a painful tearing sound to the symphony of its horrid breathing. Nash stopped, situated just near the top of the stairs, barely out of the howler’s line of sight. He watched for a moment as it pulled more strips of skin off its head, caught in a trance of revulsion. He held back his disgust until the howler began sobbing with its head down again, which gave him the opportunity to proceed carefully down the stairs. He placed each foot softly on the broken staircase, and began the slow descent to the main floor.
Footfalls filled the foyer as Nash neared the halfway point on the stairs. The howler remained sobbing, somehow unaware of the sound that came from the lower level as it sat in its own sadness. Duncan stood in the foyer below and looked at Nash with a smile as he held a baseball bat at his side. He opened his mouth to shout something but somehow, through all the morning booze he had consumed, noticed the panicked look on Nash’s face as he stood silent on the stairwell.
Duncan looked up into the upper level, and from where he stood he could just see the howler in the open door. Nash lifted his index finger to his lips as he signaled Duncan to keep quiet, who, somehow in his inebriated state, complied. Duncan motioned him to come down the stairs slowly. Nash made one small step forward, and that’s when all hell broke loose.
“Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!” yelled Duncan at the top of his lungs. “Who’s the next contestant on the Price is Right?”
Nash jumped from the middle of the stairway and came crashing down onto the foyer floor as a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the empty house. The howler stepped to the top of the staircase, fresh strips of skin hanging loosely over its face as it surged toward them in a frenzy. It leapt from the top of the stairs and made it to the bottom, landing awkwardly on the floor as its ankles snapped loudly.
“We can’t have you chewing on Buddy Boy here, now can we?” said Duncan as he raised his baseball bat over his head. “Close your mouth, Buddy Boy!”
With one swing of the bat, Duncan obliterated the howler’s skull and sent a spattering of blood across the foyer floor. Nash struggled to his feet and wiped the gore from his shirt. Duncan placed two more punishing blows to the howler’s head, a smile plastered on his face.
“Practice makes perfect, am I right?”
Nash leaned against the wall and exhaled, his eyes closed as nervous energy flowed angrily through his body. He easily would have gotten out quietly if Duncan hadn’t shown up, but it was over now, and he did feel somewhat relieved.
“Move,” said Duncan as he tapped the bat against Nash’s elbow and motioned toward the door.
Nash stepped out onto the porch and looked up and down the street to make sure Duncan’s attack hadn’t brought any unwelcome attention. He locked eyes with a slowpoke that stood in the middle of the street when his face was jolted backward with a foul smelling cloth. Duncan breathed heavily into his ear, the stale liquor on his breath hot on Nash’s skin.
“What you did at the house this morning; don’t you ever pull that shit again! You hear me? Don’t you interrupt my plans—or I’ll interrupt that life of yours!”
Duncan let go of him roughly, sending Nash crashing onto the wooden porch. He pulled the cloth from his face and the smell lingered as he realized it wasn’t a cloth at all. Nash looked in horror at the face of the woman he had killed earlier this morning, staring back at him from his hands the porch floor.
“What is wrong with you!” yelled Nash. “What if I got her blood in my mouth?”
“Oh, settle down,” said Duncan as he chuckled. “I cleaned it beforehand.”
Nash reached into his bag and splashed a bottle of water over his face and used one of the towels he’d collected to make sure he was clean. Duncan laughed from the street and watched Nash hunch over as vomit spilled out onto the porch. Tears welled in his Nash’s eyes as he sat on his knees and stared at the empty eyes of the slowpoke’s face as it stared up at him from the porch.
“Let’s go,” Duncan said from the street as he dragged his bat across the white picket fence at the edge of the front yard.
Nash stood up, composed himself as best he could, and tried his hardest not to look at the woman’s face. He opened his bag and took out the box of matches before closing it again. He held the box in his hand, squeezing it slightly so that the corners bent inwards. He took one more steadying breath and tossed the box onto the lawn. The wooden matches spilled out onto the wet grass as Nash slid his bag over his shoulder and followed Duncan.
Chapter 4
Three days after the run in with the howler, Nash woke up in the back of a black Mercedes. He remained hidden and protected throughout the night, as the tinted windows had remained intact throughout the apocalypse. Duncan had disappeared up the congested interstate to find his own place to sleep, as he always did. It was just another moment of privacy that Nash looked forward to daily. He rubbed his eyes and silently yawned while he took out the picture of Melissa.
He held the photo in front of him and analyzed every inch of it. He almost felt the warm breeze that had caught her hair, and the bubbles of the Dr. Pepper on his tongue. He imagined doing a cannonball off the dock, landing with a splash in the cool lake as everyone laughed from the bank. He smiled again while he looked at the photo, as if it was his own memory and not Melissa’s. A loud thumping outside of the car startled him as he fumbled to put the picture away.
“Time to get a move on, dumbass,” yelled Duncan, his voice muffled as he strained to see inside.
Nash stepped out of the car into the muggy air as the dark clouds from the last few days slowly disappeared into the distance. Duncan had already moved a long way up the interstate and looked back every so often to make sure Nash checked cars for supplies. Duncan only stopped to loot cars when there was something in plain sight that piqued his interest, while Nash took his time and inspected most vehicles that didn’t look like they’d already been picked through. Other than a few books of matches and some packaged granola bars, he’d found only decaying bodies and pools of dried blood. Nash stopped and watched Duncan furiously rummage through a car far up ahead of him.
“Damn perverts!” he yelled back to Nash as he held up a Playboy magazine above his head for. “Good thing I came along first. Don’t want any kids seeing this filth, eh Buddy Boy?”
He laughed loudly as he rolled up the magazine and slid it into the back pocket of his dirty jeans. Nash was surprised that an old tattered Playboy was even w
orth the effort for him, considering the amount of slowpokes he’d known Duncan to have his way with. It’s why he always carried a box of condoms with him. He was reckless, but not enough to be suicidal—a thoughtful rapist. He held his axe tightly in hand and scanned the area for any activity. Duncan’s voice had carried loudly along the congested road and could have easily attracted nearby howlers. Other than a few slowpokes that had taken notice in the large open field beside the road, everything looked safe as Duncan made his way further up the road ahead of him.
The two of them spent almost the entire day walking along the dead interstate, looking through abandoned cars and listening for any nearby howlers. It was common for Duncan to disappear far ahead while they scavenged, leaving Nash alone to fend for himself. Every so often, Nash heard a hoot from up the road as Duncan found some trinket he found funny or entertaining. Normally, Nash found the separation between them slightly unnerving, but on a clear day like today where he could see all around that they were not in danger, he appreciated the distance. He hated the safety that traveling with Duncan provided, but knew that having Duncan with him meant an extra layer of protection, even if Duncan was a danger in his own right.
Duncan erupted into a fit of laughter as he leaned through the window of a rusted-out pickup truck about 100 yards away. Nash watched him in disapproval, hating that his stepfather couldn’t keep his voice down anywhere. A little Toyota Corolla, the passenger window shattered, shook slightly as Nash approached. When he was about ten feet away from the car, the door creaked open.
Nash dove quickly behind a car and sat with his back against the bumper while he listened with a nervous ear. A car that had flipped during an accident had its side mirror pointed directly at the car door, which allowed him a good vantage point to watch.
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