by Kody Boye
One flip of a deadbolt was all it took.
She pushed her way in and closed the door behind her.
Now all she had to do was wait.
The sound was louder than a knock.
If anything was here—if anything had remained here—then surely the noise would draw it out.
She stole a quick breath and braced herself for what was to come.
Time was enormous.
One moment passed, then two.
Shards of light flickered through the far window.
Shadows passed along the distant wall.
Jagged silhouettes created by tall lamps revealed figures in the distance.
The ever-stretching universe of paranoia assaulted her with all its worth.
If she allowed it, she would slowly be driven insane.
No.
“Stop.”
Her voice was the gunshot in the middle of the night.
Why was she losing it now? Was it because she’d almost died—again?
Twice? she questioned. Maybe more?
She pushed herself off the floor before she could think any further.
The creak of old wood shrugged chains along her thighs.
Shit.
She drew in a quick breath.
If anything was here, it was long dead—or at least incapable of attack.
Stepping forward, she lowered the real estate sign and entered the kitchen, her burdens alleviated the moment she drew an inch-thick cutting knife from its rack.
In the moments following her entrance, she wondered if this was what her life would be reduced to—tears, fears, the constant worry that nothing would ever be all right.
The knife in her grasp was a doorway to greater and quieter things.
One cut—one slip…
Rose’s eyes fell on the keyring near the door.
Dangling from the third of five rings and glimmering like a sword long lost to Avalon was the key to her future.
After taking the keyring within her grasp, Rose turned, aimed the remote lock toward the street, and clicked it twice.
The rear lights to the other SUV blinked to life.
She couldn’t believe it.
This couldn’t be real.
But it is.
The metal was cold on flesh and blood.
That was the only sign she needed.
She spent the early morning scouring the house for anything of use: an insulated blanket in the storage closet, cans of food in the pantry, matches and candles and bottles of age-old alcohol in the liquor cabinet… as she arranged these items in terms of merit or worth, separating flammables from combustors and chemical cleaners from food items contained not within the fine aspects of metal, she lifted her head to survey her progress and found that regardless of the home’s plenty, she’d hardly found anything of use.
Barely any food, she thought. No emergency kits, dead flashlights, no batteries.
She hadn’t even found a gun in the master bedroom. Knives were useful when they were of the quality she’d found, but their worth would only be measured when something got too close.
Sighing, Rose rolled a slender bottle of vodka over with her thumb and smirked at its faded label.
Out of everything she’d found, who would’ve thought the alcohol would be the most useful?
Better get packing.
Though she’d acquired only a modicum of supplies, there were still other houses to be searched.
At this rate, she’d have enough food to last for weeks—or at least to the point where she wouldn’t have to worry about scavenging through every car on the road.
If anything, she could at least cling to that.
She heard the wicked howl of an ungodly creature sometime during the night.
Spooked from sleep, Rose reached for the knife she’d placed on the bedside table and listened for anything more.
Where did that come from? she thought.
Sleep was a bitter mistress. Though merciful in the way it removed you from the present, it disabled the common rationale necessary for heightened intuition. The howl could’ve come from anywhere and she wouldn’t even know; such was the disease of the godforsaken mind.
Though knowing she was safe behind locked doors, the fear lingered with her as she pressed herself back into bed.
She saw Hell every time she closed her eyes.
The smear of blood along the side of the SUV gave her reason to think she was not alone.
Drawing the largest knife she had from its place on her belt, she held it steady as she approached the home that had appeared safe no later than last night.
Eyes cautious, ears alert, nostrils flaring and skin awash with unease—the acrid tang of blood that stained the air was like rusted copper long past left in the open. Passing the SUV was something of a nightmare; the smell assaulted her immediately upon her approach.
The dead, but not completely dead smell—
The impact radius and then resulting smear indicated it might have been a stumbling run, if not a complete failure in pursuit.
If someone had been in the area, and if others had been drawn to the creature’s death-howl…
She shook her head and brushed the notion off.
No more than one hundred feet from the house, there was no point in turning and going back, not if there were other undead about.
Craning her head about, she surveyed the area in an effort to detect any changes in her environment before pushing herself past the dying hedges and onto the array of stairs.
Movement caught her eye.
She spun, knife out, eyes wide.
A crow who’d perched itself atop the hedges cocked its head at her, then chirped, ruffling its feathers as if broaching the subject of a fight.
“Just a little bird,” Rose said as she lowered the knife, a sly smile cutting the corner of her mouth. “Just… a little…”
The bird froze and regarded her once more.
Rose’s blood chilled.
The action—so vibrant, so obvious, so blatantly Jekyll-and-Hyde—was unlike anything it’d done before. The rigid set in its spine and its terse display in behavior spoke of instincts long forgotten—of the little bird who at the sight of such perceived danger would bolt without a second thought, who wouldn’t so much as question the idea of landing near something that could instantly end its life.
Because that was stupid. Because that didn’t make sense.
Because that little bird… Rose thought as she centered her eyes on the panic-stricken creature.
…hadn’t realized she could pose a threat.
She expelled a low breath, grimacing as a minute change in the bird’s wings became evident.
It all made sense now.
The bird hadn’t landed because it wasn’t afraid.
The bird had landed because it thought she was a zombie.
No threat. No danger.
The second Rose freed herself from her unrelenting state, the bird took off into the air, its only memento a feather that drifted down in its wake.
She cast a glance down both sides of the street before she continued up onto the porch.
The animals would be no help here.
She was on her own.
With such knowledge prevalent in her mind, there was no reason to stay here. The irrefutable evidence that she was not safe had grown to the point where she could no longer take it. Recovery had seemed possible here, in back-town suburbia, where the likelihood of the undead was marginal and not in the least bit threatening. But after the gunshot, and the blood smear so close to home, and the revelation that the birds were no longer afraid of things even remotely human—she couldn’t take a chance.
She had to leave.
Now.
She couldn’t waste any more time.
The boxes in which she’d secured the essentials she felt she couldn’t do without were compartmentalized and broken down until their makeup resembled nothing more than organized chaos.
Shoved to the side, labeled irrationally, carried to the front porch and set into place for easy access—at one point, she began raiding the kitchen cabinets without much regard for their contents. It was not what the belongings had been purposed for but what they could be used for that made them valuable.
Anything could be a weapon.
A knife, a fork, a spoon—even the glass jars of marbles arranged along the display shelves were removed and replaced accordingly, the smallest fitting almost perfectly in her right pocket.
Everything was going perfectly.
Around noon, she’d finished securing the last box and had loaded everything into the SUV when she realized there was one room left to conquer.
The bedroom.
Her indifference over the matter had been fueled by the fact that she no longer needed anything from a den of personal retreat.
With blankets drawn tight across the spaces along the SUV’s rear compartment and pillows arranged so that she would eventually have somewhere decent to sleep, she’d disregarded the notion of finding anything of further use. Even the keys hadn’t imparted any literal forethought on the matter.
It was only when she brushed her hand along her hip that she remembered how vulnerable she was.
Fuck.
She raised her eyes from her work in the living room and looked down the long, narrow hallway.
While a longshot, there was a distinct possibility that there could be a gun safe somewhere in the room.
There’d been one key whose purpose she hadn’t been able to determine.
Knowing luck would only offer favor if she chose to seek it out, Rose stood and started toward the bedroom.
Her hands slid along her waist—one to the knife, the other to the keys in her pocket.
The enormity of her paranoia was unbearable.
The closer she got, the more she wanted to turn and run the other way.
No, she thought. You’re fine. Nothing’s there. You know that.
Her presence within the house had been marked accordingly. Footsteps, sharp inhalations, long exhalations, the occasional slap of something slipping and falling to the floor—any rational person would’ve deduced there was nothing in this house to contend with, so why was she panicking now?
Because you’re almost out. Because you’re almost free.
She approached the bedroom and reached for the doorknob with trembling fingers.
Once in hand, she made no hesitation.
She twisted.
She pushed.
She drew the knife.
She waited for its scream, her cry, her battle.
The silver glimmer resonating from the knife’s blade cast light across her face.
There was no one in here.
Everyone was gone.
The abrupt crash in adrenaline nearly knocked her off her feet.
Taking a breath, she allowed her lungs to recover from the near-suffocating concept of conflict and waited a moment to ensure her safety before stepping into the room.
It was just as she’d expected:
Tangled sheets, clothes on the floor, makeup scattered on a vanity, loose ties on the dresser—it was like someone had just been here, on this fine whatever-day-of-the-week-it-was morning, and she was an intruder in their midst.
Her melancholy lasted only a moment.
She’d only one goal: to check the most obviously-designated places for a personal firearm and get the hell out of here.
She’d spent far too much time in this lonely little hellhole. She didn’t need to spend any more.
No sooner had she started toward the bed than she realized her hopes were in vain.
Protruding just barely from beneath the folds of a checker-patterned comforter was the one case she’d stayed behind for.
She didn’t need to see its contents to know it was empty.
“Shit,” she whispered.
The groan of the front door spilled ice through her bones.
I closed it, she thought as she tightened her hold on the knife, her knuckles popping and forearms tensing. I know I did. I just know it. I—
She paled.
What if the door hadn’t locked into place?
What if she’d only thought it had?
Though she wasn’t sure what to expect when she turned to face the door, she wasn’t surprised when she saw it.
The person—seemingly-alive, with skin so fresh it was not yet rotten, but blood so thick it continued to drip down his chest—jerked his head to the side as the floorboards creaked beneath Rose’s weight, and screamed.
She didn’t hesitate.
She ran.
The lack of damage inflicted upon his body would be enough to ensure his uninhibited pursuit. Grasping frantically at anything and everything, he used his momentum to launch himself forward and knocked aside everything in his path. Glass exploded from ornate picture frames as he slammed into the wall, and an accent table was sent toppling as his foot first caught, then disengaged one of three fine legs from beneath it.
His rage was impregnable, his eyes clouded but filled with the blotted lines of exhaustion.
Shredded lips flared as he closed in.
The ideal situation would allow her to hold her ground and fight, but given the noise, she couldn’t stand to waste any time.
Drawing the jar of marbles from her pocket, she flexed the muscles in her calves and waited.
In but a moment he’d run through the threshold separating the entry hall and the living room. When that happened—
The scents of fresh death and sweat and burgeoning rot swallowed her senses as he threw himself across the room.
She sprinted.
He screeched.
She ducked and rolled beneath a sweeping grasp and hurled the jar behind her.
Glass shattered.
Marbles rolled.
His fast recovery became his downfall.
Lack of reason left him incapable of judging the obstacle in his path.
Almost instantly upon coming into contact with the marbles, he began to slide, then slammed into a wall before falling and cracking his chin on the wooden floor.
By the time he’d regained even a modicum of footing, she was out the front door and hurling herself down the stone steps.
Her knee throbbed, her heart slammed against her ribcage.
Please God, she thought as she threw herself from between the hedges.
A feral screech ripped through the silence of her chaotic world.
A figure appeared in the distance, followed by another.
She stopped counting once five shapes materialized from yards and open doorways.
Ripping the keys from her pocket, she threw the driver’s door open and flung herself into the seat.
Her stabbing thrusts were met with failure three times before she finally secured the key into the ignition.
The car started instantly.
The engine roared like Olympus cracking at the base.
With almost a full tank of gas at her disposal, she peeled out of the parking space, U-turned into the middle of the street, and plowed head-on into a zombie whose clothing had long since eroded into something indescribable, before gunning it down the street.
In her desperation, she didn’t bother to try and determine how many were around her.
All she did was follow the path she’d outlined in yellow highlighter on the map taped to the steering wheel.
As she followed its path through the back alleys and streets of town, along the old dirt roads whose passages offered little to the person of average regard, she started to wonder.
Was this life?
Was this all there was meant to be?
It was in those moments, when her tragedy came full circle in the way of snot and tears and the town faded in the distance behind her, that she realized something she’d been denying all along.
Her fantasy—her dream of being united, of being safe, of being loved—was never going to happen.
Somehow, despite the immeasurable aspect of it all, she drove.
The tears stopped coming.
The snot stopped running.
Chapter 12
Her luck ran out in the days after entering Southeastern Idaho. With a smoking engine and a consciousness filled with tormented regard, she pulled over alongside the road and retrieved what little belongings held use to her.
A salvaged baseball bat, a pack of canned beans and vegetables, a belt equipped with a holster but holding no mechanism of protection… she secured the SUV before starting up the road, eyes cautious as she scanned the yards for trouble.
This was nothing new.
This was material.
Days like this were average, in a world filled with undead.
Average, Rose thought.
She chuckled.
This was her life, her existence.
If it could even be called that.
She forced herself to remain headstrong as she started up the road and into the remote nothing that was this part of the country. Freezing cold from a drop in temperatures and ill-equipped to handle such weather, she hiked the pack up her shoulder and continued to scan the nearby houses, knowing that eventually, she would have to reduce herself to the situation she’d just escaped from.
Running, hiding, scavenging, looting, killing the things that got in her way without mercy or regard—
Rose paused in the middle of the road and tilted her head to the sky.
She’d expected panic to have overtaken her in this moment—for the subtle barriers she’d fostered and shaped to allow survival in such a volatile climate to collapse without warning—yet, somehow, it hadn’t.
The old resonance did not tremble, the aging fears bringing light to a young and fruitless cause.
No.
Instead, she felt a sense of nothing that felt far safer than anything she’d ever experienced.
You’re half a world away, she thought, from where you started.
Shut the door! Mary screamed. Shut the door! Shut the—
His limitless body, pounding against the door, scratching, screeching, reaching for the woman he’d just chased up the stairs—
Rose slamming herself into the door.
