by Mary Martel
Still being cautious, I slowly make my way back to the bookstore, avoiding the darkening shadows. At the back of the store, I pull down the emergency ladder until it reaches the ground. It doesn't grind against the wall or make any noises, but that's only because ladder maintenance is on my to do list every month. Once I'm at the top, I use the rope to pull it back up. Using the key in my pocket and not the one strung around my neck, I unlock the padlock for the hatch leading down into the store. The other one is for the backdoor, and I’ve never broken my promise to Del to not open it. It’s an emergency only kind of thing.
Locking up behind me, I climb down the ladder into the back storeroom. It’s pitch black and silent all around me, which is a good thing. Means that everything is just as I left it. I’m not stupid enough to not do a sweep first, though. My trusty flashlight flares to life as I click it on. The small, thin piece of cloth secured with a rubber band across the front creates a dull sheen of light that isn’t visible for very far. Just in case the light leaks through all of my barriers and tries to attract attention.
When I clear all the nooks and crannies, I slip back into the store room to hang my bag and put the flashlight back. The shelves back here hold lots of canned goods and even some jugs of water on the bottom. This is another one of those just in case ideas I had awhile back. If I need to haul ass out of here in a hurry, it’ll be nothing to grab my bag, some food, one of my swords and climb up. Or if someone manages to break in through the hatch, hopefully they’d be distracted enough with the goods here in the closet to not go in search of the rest of the store where the real motherlode is. The door has latches on both sides too. That way it gives me extra time, were shit to hit the fan, no matter which side I’m on.
I’m so exhausted from being coiled so tightly all day that I fall right into my makeshift bed and go right to sleep.
Emerald
I stifle a groan as I roll over, stiff as a board, the next morning. Dried drool makes a track down the side of my face. It would be humiliating were there any witnesses Though, part of me wishes that there was. Most days I don’t give myself time to stop and think. Between the nightmare of my family and the memories of Del yesterday, it seems to have dragged me down into a lonely place that I don’t like to be.
There’s a soft pitter-patter of water hitting the roof, and I know that it’s going to be another day of getting nothing done. As much as I love the rain, it gives me cabin fever of the worst kind. I hate going out and getting sopping wet. Makes it twice as much work when I have to let everything dry out and clean it all at the end of the day. I’ve seen the gory pictures of trench foot from the first World War. I'd rather not have my feet rot off my body, thanks. It's hard enough to keep my body alive and not rotting away like the undead outside.
Moving to the edge of my makeshift mattress, I unlace my boots and take them off. Living in a bookstore has its perks. The fact that the owner was a complete and total nerd bomber makes it even that much better. Not only were most of my nowadays weapons pulled right from the wall, but this place is chock full of information. And not just the nonfictional kind either. As much as it made me want to hide under the blankets like a scared little child at first, I read every single zombie book in this store. Most of them twice and the one on the floor beside my bed four times. They may be fiction, but some of those authors had some pretty good ideas. Like keeping my boots on while I sleep. I never take them off unless I'm awake. It's never a given that I'll not get attacked during the middle of the night. One of the characters in my least favorite book was stupid enough to have that happen. Oddly enough, it wasn't even the undead that took him out. Dumb fuck stepped on a rusty nail while running away and later died from some infection. Now, I'm not a doctor, so I can't confirm whether that's actually something that could happen. However, better safe than sorry. If I'm going out, it's going to be on my terms rather than theirs. I'll open every vein I can reach and bleed myself dry before I let them get me.
With my head wrapped up in those morbid thoughts, I force myself to get up and stretch. Doing a quick lap around the store gives me the reassurance that everything is still locked down tight and in order.
Those first couple of days, Del and I had covered the front windows with plyboard and nailed them up with some supplies we found in the back. Her brother not only was a huge dweebo, but lucky for us, he was also too nice for his own good. The hardware store next door had apparently gotten a massive shipment of the plyboards in and asked to keep half of it in the back of the book store. The owner had said he wasn't expecting but a third of what came off the truck so he had to make room. Good ole Mr. Nice Guy had said yes without expecting anything in return. Do I realize just how lucky as fuck we really got? Yes, yes I do. Had we come a day later, the boards might have been gone. Though we wouldn't have been up shit creek without a paddle, we would've had to be much more careful than what we were. The way that they're positioned against the window, the board blocks most of the light, both in and out. I'd like to say all, but that's just cocky wishful thinking. After we boarded the windows and the front door, we unattached six of the bookcases from the walls where they were secured. That took us almost a full twenty-four hours of work because they aren't the cheap things you get from the superstore down the street. Those heavy fuckers are solid oak and feel as heavy as a car. Lining them up almost against the boards, we used their attachments to fasten the two on the ends back to the wall and then all the others together to make one full row. Then we loaded all the books back on the shelves. A last line of defense were something to sense us and make it through the front of the store. It's not a forever hold, but we didn't need it to be. All we needed was the time it would provide for us to escape were shit to go south. Thankfully, it's never been tested.
I run my hand across the spines as I pass. There isn't a book in this store that I haven't read. Even the ones that I never would have wasted time with before. For one, this is not a time in which any living person can become complacent. The more knowledge you have, the more likely you are to survive. For two, without the distractions of everyday life, I don't think anyone realizes just how long eighteen months truly is. 550 Days. 13,200 Hours. 792,000 Minutes. Give or take. That's a lot of time to wonder if the next breath you take will be your last. I welcome the distraction gladly. Especially since Del died.
A crack of thunder pulls me away from the dark thoughts rolling through my head. I walk over to the corner where we shifted four shelves into a square. Anyone in a hurry would never find the way inside. More than likely, they'd end up just yanking the shelves down. If anyone knew what hid out of sight, they'd do whatever it took. I know I would.
Expelling the breath from my chest, I squeeze between the back wall and the shelves. There's just enough room for my body to fit. Fortunately, I haven't gained any weight; otherwise, this would be impossible. Once I'm in the middle, I flip on another flashlight covered with the same material as the other one. As I've done thousands of other times, I grab the notepad off to the side and go through a checklist of my supplies.
The entire top row on the shelves in front of me holds my many months supply of tampons, because come on. It's the zombie apocalypse, not the dark ages. Just below that I've got toiletries such as extra toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap. One more shelf down is all of the batteries I've managed to collect over the past six months or so. I've got every size that was ever sold in the store. Yeah, in like ten years it's plausible that they'll not be good anymore, but I'll worry about that day when it gets here. Who knows if I'll survive that long. Almost in answer to my mood, another loud crack of thunder sounds out, vibrating the walls. Sucking in a short breath, I try to calm my racing heart.
Returning my focus back to my task, I work my way through the list of the few jugs of water that I store here as backups to the ones in the supply closet and bathroom. The other three bookcases are stacked bottom to top with food. Half of one is nothing but rice. It's super easy to find, doesn't take up a ton of space, an
d doesn't take much of it to fill you up. Everything else is canned stuff. Anything from SPAM to vegetables to stew and soups. There are even some jars of jelly too. Though, I haven't bothered opening any of those after the bread ran out. I'd kill for an oven to make some fresh bread. Thank you, Martha Stewart cookbook, for teaching me that little gem. I just hope I eventually get to see if it pays off. Without taking anything from the stock, I return the flashlight and notepad before squeezing back through the tiny space. I’ll go scavenging tomorrow and have even more to add back there. I try to find enough food for a week at a time so that I can stay ahead. I don't know which would be worse, death by undead fuckface or starvation.
Making my way back to the storeroom, I don't necessarily need to check supplies in here, but it eases my nerves by confirming there's no leak in the hatch too. All clear, I make a pitstop in the small bathroom to handle my bladder issues. Normally, I'd do my business in the woods, but on days like today I make an exception. Another bout of thunder makes me grateful I just relieved myself. I'm not too sure that I wouldn't have just pissed my pants on that one. When I finally make it back to my sleeping area, I click my little battery-operated stars on before doing a pass around the outside of the bookshelves that close in around the space to make sure none of the light is escaping. With a sigh, I go back inside.
There's not much difference between the shelves in here and on the supply shelves. I've got food stashed on one whole side. Those three bookcases are secured against the wall just in case. Though, it would be believable that the books taking up my entire right side would hurt in a downfall as badly as the cans would. At my feet, where the opening is, I've got several weapons propped on the shelves. Some of them I'll never use, but they were hanging on the walls, so I didn't want to just leave them there when they might come in handy one day. All Japanese ninja warrior shit like sais and swords. I've gotten pretty good with the latter but have yet to find a use for the first.
Just as I reach out for a can on the top shelf, I feel another loud boom almost down to my bones. The can slips from my fingers and smacks the carpeted floor, catching the tip of my big toe. I let out a hiss of pain instead of the scream that tries to force its way out. Lying back on my bed, I try to contain my frustration, so I don't hurl the can across the room. My toe wiggles in an attempt to confirm that it's not broken. When I can successfully move everything, I snatch off my sock and lift my foot above my head to check the damage in the light. Besides a small red patch of skin, all seems to be in working order.
Pulling my sock back on with a sigh, I sit up to grab the big silver tin from the floor. Fucking peaches. Should’ve known it would be something as disgusting as these slimy fuckers. Truly not my first choice for breakfast, but I’m not dumb enough to be picky in a world where your next meal isn’t guaranteed.
Deciding to eat them simply out of spite and revenge, I crack open the pull-top lid. They are cold and feel like slugs going down even if I chew them, and I curse every single piece to keep myself from gagging. Once I’ve managed to get them all down, I tilt the can up and drink the juice. Probably one of the weirdest people in the world before it went to shit, I love the taste of peach in drinks, candy, etc. The actual fruit is despicable.
The empty can goes on a bottom shelf. I’ll toss it in my pack tomorrow to throw in one of the dumpsters outside. Thunder rumbles again overhead, only this time it isn’t as loud. Maybe the storm is getting ready to roll out of here.
I used to love storms and rain. Mom would always find me camped in a corner of the house somewhere or even on the front porch swing if it wasn’t too bad. Now, they scare the shit out of me. Thinking about the fact that there would be no warning alarm if a tornado were to be in the area makes my arms break out in goosebumps. I never thought I’d live to see the day where I’d actually miss the old as dirt weather forecaster from our local weather station. Mom used to watch that shit every day, and I never could figure out why. What could possibly be so important that you torture yourself with stories of war, death, famine, and even politics? A little too late, but I guess now I know.
Samuel
From my vantage point atop the building, I stand back in the shadows and watch. I have gotten good at that, watching, since the world as I knew it came to an abrupt end and started its new, horrific beginning.
Watching and staying vigilant is part of the reason I’m alive and have made it this far.
I've been in this particular place and watching for weeks now. Usually, I don't stick around long in one place. I get in, take what I need, and then move on. I don't want to stay somewhere only the dead remain. So, I keep moving forward, never looking back, always seeking someone like me. Someone with a viable heartbeat. I’d only come back for one thing, and the fates decided to throw me a bone.
Finally, fucking finally, I've found someone. And not just anyone, but a woman.
I have seen plenty of women since the world went to shit. Young ones. Old ones. Some who I'm sure were even beautiful and desirable at one point in their lives. They all have one big, fat fucking thing in common. They are rotting, stinking, animated corpses with an insatiable appetite for human flesh.
But a breathing, non-rotting woman with an actual heartbeat? No. If they are out there then they are damn good at hiding themselves. They are all either incredibly unfortunate to have fallen victim to the wrong people (likely men), incredibly smart to have remained hidden for so long, or the majority of them are either dead or rotting like the rest of these freaks. It is a sad state of affairs, but that is how the world works now, and I don't usually give it much thought. Survival and self-preservation were always the only things that mattered to me before now.
Then I see her.
If she'd fallen victim to some abusive male after the world started its new beginning, then she did a damn good job at hiding it because she didn't seem to be hiding anything. Maybe that was because she didn't know there was someone hiding and watching her every move like I was. If she had known, I hoped like hell she’d be better at hiding herself.
Boldly, she moves throughout the mostly empty streets of the desolate town she seems to have claimed as her own. Occasionally, I watch as a rotting corpse stumbles her way or in front of her path. She never even hesitates, not that I see anyway. She lets the damn things walk right up to her. Then, in a graceful move I've only seen in movies, she twirls. Her sword comes out and the rotting beast immediately loses its head. And she moves forward about her business like she hasn’t just beheaded an animated corpse. Either that or it is business as usual, and she cuts off heads all the time.
She is magnificent, and I haven't even fully seen what she looks like yet.
When she comes out of her hiding spot to roam the town, she keeps her head hidden by a dark hood and the lower half of her face covered by a black bandanna that leaves only her eyes and part of her forehead exposed. From the rooftop, I can never make out the color of her eyes because she never looks up, a small blessing for me but also somewhat of a disappointment. I want to know the color of her eyes, but at the same time, I am also sure that it won’t matter to me. She is living, breathing, and that is all that really matters to me in the long run.
She could be grotesquely disfigured underneath her dark clothing, and it wouldn't deter me in the slightest. I crave human companionship almost as much as those corpses seemed to crave human flesh. I've been denied even the voice of another human being for far too long. Much longer, and I'd likely go insane. I'll take whatever I can get.
It isn’t a nice thing to say or think, but it’s the sad, sorry truth as I know it. There might have been a time in my life when I was young and delusional and might have even lied to myself from time to time, but those days were long since passed. Delusions and lies have no place in this stark, bleak world I’ve been forced to live in.
She moves down the center of the street, walking at a sedate pace like she has all the time in the world and is out to sightsee. There are no monsters about for her to slay
today, so her swords remain at her back instead of in her hands.
The long black coat she wears blows out behind her like a cape in the breeze as she moves, making her look like some sort of dark villain in a comic book. Though her head never turns from straight ahead, I’m not fooled. I know her eyes are scanning the street ahead of her, roaming, looking for the barest sign of movement and making sure there are no threats around.
If only she had the good graces to look up, she would have known just how wrong she is in feeling safe boldly walking down the middle of the street like she is. I make a mental note to have a word with her about the foolishness of her behavior after I make my approach. The thought of her rejecting me or turning me away has never really crossed my mind before, and I don't allow myself to think on it now. There is no other alternative for me. She’ll talk to me, and that is all there is to it.
From what I could gather after the weeks of watching her, I know she could be just like me. Absolutely alone in this sad, fucked up world with no one to talk to, no one to look out for her, no one who has her back when the monsters chased after her. I know exactly how that feels, and being alone is no walk in the park. I have to be certain, though.
For all I know, her mental state is probably like mine as well. On the verge of going insane and so lonely for human companionship that it’s a wonder I haven't already lost my damn mind a long time ago.
She turns the corner onto another street I can't see from my rooftop and vanish from my sight. Part of me wants to panic every time this happens, afraid it will be the last I ever see of her, and I have to fight the urge to chase her down. It’s a battle against myself and one I’m not sure if I lost or won because I never chase after her, but I always end up where I began, alone, so it feels a whole lot like losing to me. I don't chase her because I don’t want to frighten her, and I don't want to find myself on the wrong side of those sharp-looking swords of hers.
