by Kody Boye
It didn’t matter.
This was it.
She was on her own.
As they pulled up to the makeshift barrier, Rose allowed herself a moment before stepping out of the vehicle.
The cold air was haunting.
She could see her breaths—pyres of white echoed from her very soul.
“I didn’t know it would be this cold,” Rose laughed.
“We can still go back,” Lyra said.
Rose looked back at her. She’d managed to hold up pretty well, but seeing the grief in her friend’s face was enough to pull at heartstrings she wished had long since been tightened. “I know,” she said. “I have to do this, though.”
Lyra nodded.
Stepping forward, Rose set her hands on her friend’s shoulders, then wrapped her in her arms.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” she whispered. “I could’ve never asked for a better friend.”
“I love you, Rose,” Lyra said, bowing her head into her shoulder.
“I love you too.”
At their side, the gates opened.
The wasteland loomed beyond.
“I have to go,” Rose said, pulling away, but reaching up to take hold of Lyra’s face. “Everything’s going to be ok. I promise.”
“I’ll never see you again,” Lyra said.
“Don’t say that.”
Lyra closed her eyes.
“I love you, Lyra,” Rose whispered one last time.
“I love you too, Rose.”
“I’ll see you later. Ok?”
Her friend merely nodded.
It took everything to let go of her friend’s hand as she turned to walk away, toward a future uncertain and alone. She felt deep down in the very fabric of her being that something had died: a friend, a person, a memory, a future that would one day end well.
Yet, the further she walked, the more she felt the cord breaking—withering like ash scattered across the high mountains. It was this that allowed her to continue, through the gate and into the open world, then the space beyond.
Even the sound of the gates closing behind her couldn’t keep her from thinking about everything she was leaving behind.
It doesn’t have to be this way, she thought. You don’t have to do this.
The wind ruffled the edges of her coat.
They were still there—watching, waiting, for her to turn around and come back.
But she couldn’t.
Knowing beyond all else that she could never turn back, Rose tightened her hold on her bat, adjusted the knapsack over her shoulder, and started forward.
Rose closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
That was when she heard the scream.
She opened her eyes just in time to see them running up the incline.
They were a teenage a girl with ratty blonde hair and a pair of older men whose state spoke of a struggle that could not be comprehended. Torn clothes, disheveled appearances, blood scattered across the surface of makeshift weapons they seemed barely able to hold in their hands—behind them, creatures whose bodies had long since succumbed to decay shambled free of wooded areas in desperate pursuit, their numbers comparable to that of a rave or even a massive church congregation. The size alone was unfathomable, but to know that people were being pursued?
The moment the girl caught sight of them, she screamed. “HELP!” she wailed. “HELP!”
“Rose!” Lyra called back. “Get back! Get back in here!”
“There isn’t anything we can do for them,” one of the soldiers replied. “They’ll lure them here and breach the gate.”
“ROSE!” Lyra screamed.
Rose stared blankly ahead.
To see the girl’s face—to see her companions as they desperately made an effort to keep her at the helm of their party—that was something she couldn’t get let go.
Reaching down, Rose removed the gun from her holster and flipped her finger along the safety.
“I love you,” Rose said one final time.
Lyra screamed as Rose broke into a run.
She cleared what little of the bridge remained in a few moments, and yelled for the girl and her companions to make her way toward the gate. Their attention no longer set on Rose and instead focused on potential salvation, they ran forward with little more than a glance as Rose appeared in their peripheral sight. The zombies—which Rose noticed consisted mainly of the shambling ones she’d first spotted, but also those trying to push through their slower companions—were set in determined pursuit.
The moment the three humans hit the bridge, Rose raised her gun and fired.
One shot, one moment, one clap to gain attention—
As one, the zombies’ heads turned toward her.
Not one sound came until the moans began.
With their attention gathered, Rose bolted.
Common sense led her to believe that heading into the greater parts of the area would allow her enough cover to lose them if she managed to keep her lead.
The gun in her hand, the backpack little more than an unconscious weight, she fired into the air once, then twice to keep their attention before she lowered her weapon and slung the machete out from her belt. Already she’d endangered herself by drawing attention from such a large crowd, but to possibly lure more out from hiding? That was suicide.
Oh well.
It didn’t matter.
She’d done what she wanted.
Now those poor people would have a chance at a life they never would’ve otherwise.
She, on the other hand, had a completely different predicament.
Her flight from the living dead took her from the frigid coastline to the desolate wasteland of human civilization. The ground hardening beneath her feet, the earth no longer benevolent in its attempts to masquerade her sound, she bolted down an empty street and turned a sharp corner, only to come into contact with a creature whose neck dangled by a cord. A simple swing of the machete severed loose flesh and quivering tendons and dropped its head to the concrete with a meaty slap, which coated her shoes in gore as she took off, then turned around another corner.
The layout was simple and the alleys were open.
One turn here, another there, followed by a twist in the opposite direction, but always to her right—if she kept this up long enough, she would completely lose the creatures, and have nothing to worry about. They would simply wander off and—
A screech cut her thought short.
Shit.
In her haste for safety, she’d completely forgotten the runners.
She returned her gun to her holster and spun about to face the area—always moving, never stopping. Her back collided with a stalled vehicle and she prayed for but one moment that its alarm wouldn’t go off, before she slid over the trunk and landed on the other side.
She ducked.
She hid.
She waited.
One hand braced along the vehicle, she pushed herself along, toward the far end of the street.
The sound of footsteps, followed by a strangled exhale, stopped her in her tracks.
The runner was out there—somewhere, in the street.
She positioned herself directly behind a tire and shrunk down to where she couldn’t possibly be seen.
Despite the screams inside her mind, she could still hear its rampant grunting—guttural, haunting, impossible for a creature who did not breathe, but instead whose ravaged body allowed air to pass through its chest cavity.
Unless she kept moving.
Her eyes scoured the concrete for absolutely anything she could use as a distraction.
There were so many cars, so much mayhem—how could the streets be so clean?
The hurricane.
The cursed God and all His worth.
There were two things she could do: she could wait and hope that the zombie would wander off, thereby allowing her free passage into the nearest alleyway or corner, or she could risk it all and run.
&nbs
p; Either way, her shot at getting out of here without conflict was slim.
She instinctively ran her hand along her belt and over her pockets to see if she could find anything to use as a distraction.
Nothing.
Nothing at all—not even the slightest piece of coin.
She was just about to reach into her pocket and dig deeper when something got snagged on the denim.
She frowned.
What could I possibly have—
Her thought was cut short the moment she saw it.
There, gleaming dully in the false glory that it was, was her class ring—chipped by the events of the apocalypse, but not in the least bit lackluster in size.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
She propped the machete against the tire and fought to get the thing off.
Ignorant of her location, the zombie shuffled in the street, its footsteps barely audible over the sound of Rose’s screaming consciousness.
Calm down, she thought, expelling a long breath when she realized fighting with the ring would only make the skin on her finger swell.
She hocked a glob of spit in her mouth and dribbled it down over her finger, testing the ring’s hold on her flesh before once again attempting to pry it loose. The added lubrication served its purpose and the metal came off easily—dropping with a resounding presence and weight into the flat of her left palm.
Shit.
Her heart felt like it would simply blow out of her chest.
Now for the hard part.
She leaned over the concrete and glanced down the sidewalk, searching for anything she could possibly use as a target.
She swallowed immediately.
Anything that could’ve served its purpose was too far away—hundreds of feet down the road, or positioned at angles she’d never be able to hit. She’d played batter, not pitcher. And even if she got ballsy and tried the unlikely, it didn’t guarantee her salvation.
She tightened her fist around the ring and slipped it into her right hand.
Her only shot was hitting one of the cars on the further opposite end of the street.
After taking the machete in her hand, she craned her head around the tire to gauge the zombie’s location, then, in a fit of desperation, chucked the ring before breaking into a run.
She heard a grunt upon the slap of her footsteps.
It was quickly drowned out by the explosion of shattering glass.
The creature’s hellish screech gave her full permission to split.
She rounded the corner and darted toward the far side of the road just as more forgotten voices rose in the background.
She passed from concrete to lawn to avoid greater detection, then back to paved road.
The rising impressions of what appeared to be several monumental buildings appeared in the distance.
Shit.
Instinct turned her around, made her cut across a wide swath of land at an angle as the clamoring undead rose in pitch.
She caught sight of woodland and didn’t think twice.
Soon, she was free of the major metropolitan area and heading straight into the heart of nature.
Her crossover from the majorly-inhabited areas took her by surprise. Gone were the road dividers signaling incoming and outgoing traffic and the beastly façades of massive apartment buildings.
Replaced by them were the simple, quaint homes one would expect upon entering a designated living sector: some homes larger, with massive sun windows framing outwardly-facing rotundas and immaculate front yards, others smaller, their aesthetic shown in their placement behind trees and dirt or hand-paved roads.
What few cars she saw appeared to be purposely abandoned.
Either way, she didn’t have time to think.
As she ran, she visually scoped out the homes in an attempt to determine population density and whether the structures that appeared two-storied would provide ample shelter were she to be sieged.
Those she observed further out and toward the city seemed far too dangerous, while those as she went along seemed safe in location but too small for comfort.
“Dammit,” she gasped.
She’d long since lost track of the undead, though she hoped that was a result of speed rather than sheer ignorance. Rarely had her feet left the padded contours of the earth—masking sound, offering at least some opportunity for discretion. She’d yet to see evidence of any violent confrontation, but didn’t let her guard down in the slightest.
The machete was always at her side, the bat resting firmly in its slipcase across her back. And the gun—that was there too, but only in the most desperate circumstances.
For if something happens, she thought.
“Or if I can’t get away.”
The muted dilapidation of her surroundings did little to bring her comfort in a world where any noise could be seen as good. With birds singing in the trees and the occasional housecat-turned-wildcat prowling through the thick underbrush, she shouldn’t have been worried at all. Such preconceived notions of survival had taught us that prey animals only exhibit still silence when predators are in the area. For them, the undead brought no threat, for the virile flesh did not exist for them.
Her, on the other hand…
She heard something crash in a nearby driveway and flung herself into the copse of trees.
Heart hammering, fingers jittering, she raised her machete in preparation for the next confrontation.
She found only a raccoon recovering from the shock of having knocked a trash can over.
Fuck.
As if of smoke and ash, all panic dissipated instantly.
It terrified her to think how easily she could turn off her switch.
Turning, Rose started back down the road—due east, toward where she felt she might find safety.
Ignorant sensibility dictated that spare keys must be left under inconspicuous flower pots or taped beneath front porch lighting. For that reason, Rose was able to secure herself safe passage with little more than a whisper.
Inside the home, she took a moment to breathe.
The knots in her chest started to unravel almost instantly.
She had to keep reminding herself that no matter her state, she could never let her guard down.
With that in mind, she stepped forward.
The house was small in means and comfort, plainly-furnished, and reminiscent of mountainside cabins and clear-running springs. In the bay windows rested handsome benches with floral cushions; in the living room, a brick-and-wood stove still faintly smelling of ash.
She immediately noticed that the stairwell started along the far wall, then continued along the broader side of the house before disappearing onto the second floor above her head, offering ample opportunity for barricades… should the need arise.
In looking at the house, she couldn’t help but imagine a family living here: a young couple, probably gay, judging by throwbacks to The Golden Girls and Cher on the walls, with a cat bathing in the sun, fluffy belly exposed to the great and glorious world.
Rose blinked.
Though she caught sight of what appeared to be a smiling young couple staring back at her from the nearby kitchen counter, she refrained from looking and instead continued forward.
She didn’t have time to think about that.
One thing was for sure: the bay windows needed to be covered.
She spent the majority of the afternoon securing the home as best she could, and continued into the evening by scrounging through the pantry and medicine cabinet. About this time, a wicked gale had begun to surge, and the foreboding tree line threatened to brush up against the house.
Occasionally, she heard a sound that much resembled the rasp of scratching—of jagged nails being dragged along the wooden walls—and at first panicked, thinking she wasn’t alone. She grabbed the machete, threw herself to her feet and waited, listening to the sound and trying to judge its location.
It wasn’t until she parted a curtain that
she realized it was only a branch tapping against a windowpane.
After gathering up what few supplies she’d managed to relieve from the home, she carried the cardboard box into the living room and settled down on the sectional—thankful for the light the lone candle she’d found gave off, but nervous all the same.
You’re overreacting.
It wasn’t like she’d be seen. She’d covered the windows well enough, positioned herself so that any wavering light would be blocked either by her body or the seating arrangements. And as to her presence within the home, well… no one would be looking for her.
Not all the way out here.
Rose sighed.
She’d been this close to turning back when those people had shown up out of nowhere, this close to being inside where it was warm and there were walls and she didn’t have to worry about anything ripping her fucking guts out. If she’d just turned back when she’d faltered—if she’d just turned around and headed back toward the gate—
Stop.
It was as if everything ceased to exist.
The world ground to a halt.
The rain falling, the wind churning, the claps of thunder, then the bursts of lightning—she came to clarity in the midst of it all and realized just how ignorant she was.
It was stupid, trying to debate the logistics of the past—about what could’ve happened, about what might’ve been done. Common rationale would’ve easily cut through the thick shroud of delusion imposed upon her psyche—would’ve easily said that anything she could’ve done wouldn’t have guaranteed anyone’s safety, but it came anyway.
She’d been too far away from the gate by the time the zombies had come up the hill.
If she’d’ve turned to flee, she would’ve hit it just as they reached the bridge.
The guards might not’ve got there in time—and even if they did, it didn’t guarantee her safety, nor that of the people behind her.
The gate would’ve been swarmed.
Attention would’ve been drawn.
Gunfire—if it persisted—would’ve pulled everything from the nest.
The barricade would’ve fallen.
They wouldn’t have gotten away.
And by the time anyone would’ve realized, it would’ve been too late.
Sanctuary would be gone.
