I close my eyes and when I open them, it’s night time again.
My ribs are bitching at me, roaring with angry defiance at my activities, chiding me for my recklessness. Every breath is marked with pain and as I lift myself up, I sniff the air and smell the stale smoke that has blown south continually for hours. The glow of the flames is enough to make me remember where I am and gain some perspective through the uncontrollable pain that is racking my body. I know now that I’ve broken a rib, at least one. I pull up my shirt and examine the deep, dark bruises in the orange glow of the fire below me. It doesn’t look good, but it doesn’t look terrible either. If I’m lucky, I’ll take it slow for a few days, skirt Cincinnati without any trouble and by the time I get back to the 75, I’ll be okay. If I’m lucky.
Something to the north catches my eyes and from my perspective atop the hill, I can see a long, sprawling expanse of dusty, parched ground that had once been rich farmland. I’m guessing that I can see probably two miles out, but what captivates my attention is not something on the horizon, it’s much closer, maybe less than a mile off. At first, I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but when I catch another glimpse of it, I know that it’s real.
It’s a pool of light darting across the ground and suddenly there’s a flash, a bright spot on the dark expanse that I recognize. As the pool of light sways back and forth, I know that it’s a flashlight. Part of me is curious, but the majority of my mind is infuriated by the sight of another human being. I’m done with people. I don’t want someone following me and if they’re following me, then they think I’m weak. I reach down and grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder as I watch the pool of light swinging back and forth to the north as the wanderer keeps moving toward the burning remains of the farmhouse. At one point, the light stops moving and I know that they’re surveying the horizon. I stand with my back to the old, dead tree behind me so that if they have binoculars, there’s no way they’ll spot me. It’s a cloudless night and there’s a waxing moon, so I’m not afraid of them spying me on the hill. I doubt they have binoculars, probably a scope. I begin to suspect that they’re tracking me across the wasteland. If that’s the case, then they’re in for a nasty surprise. The south is hard, concrete-like ground. I suspect that they’re about three-quarters of a mile away, and from atop the hill, I suspect that the burning farmhouse will preoccupy them for a while.
Given the distance and the burning farmhouse that they’ll probably investigate, just like I had, I think I’ve got a solid lead. I look south at the thickets of dead trees that are burned out. If I can make it to that thicket, I’ll be able to hide until dawn. Once dawn gets here, I figure I can keep moving. I feel slightly refreshed, enough so that I think I can put ground between me and my tracker for a solid day. By dusk, I hope to be far enough away that I won’t have to worry about him anymore.
I slide around the tree and when it’s directly between me and the tracker, I start to descend the hill, hoping they can’t see my silhouette. I think I’m safe. I move down the hill as quickly as I can, but my ribs are sending stabbing pain through my body with each agonizing footstep. Gaining a lead isn’t going to work. Moving fast hurts too much. I look to the south where the thickets are waiting for me. I take a sharp, determined breath and pull my knife free. Sooner or later, if the tracker doesn’t give up, I’m going to have to stop them.
Chapter Seventeen
I am pain. I am suffering. I am agony. I keep repeating the phrase as I push past dead trunk after dead trunk. The night is waning and I’m running out of time. I glance over my shoulder and see that the thicket I’ve entered is covered with thick drifts of ash and dust that have become entangled among the dead trees during the dust storms. “Shit,” I hiss before pushing through the thicket and into yet another open, dead expanse. I need to make better time. I keep moving up the gentle slope of the small hill that puts me high enough to see over the thicket to where the farmhouse is burning at the base of the hill. I can’t see a light, but that doesn’t really mean anything. They could have seen me leaving the crest of the hill. They might have shut off their damned flashlight after realizing that it was a dead giveaway in the middle of the night. There are endless possibilities.
All the while, my ribs are reminding me of their beating and my arm is little better. Panic is beginning to overcome my thoughts while I stumble forward, step after step. I want to lighten my load a little, but that will only leave them a trail to follow. I stop, watching the northern horizon, waiting for a single sight of my pursuer, but there is nothing to keep me interested. Rummaging through my pack, I pull out a bottle of water and take a drink through ragged, painful gasps. Turning south, I stuff the water in my pack and start walking anew. Keep moving, I tell myself. I need to keep moving.
Is it the woman? I weigh the possibility of her pursuing me. Maybe she was a cannibal who hunts her victims and barbecues them for dinner. Or maybe I’m being cynical, maybe she’s lonely like I am. Maybe she wants company and is willing to go with whoever she can find that seems decent. No, that’s not it, because there’s no way she can figure out that I’m decent by the encounter we experienced in Bellbrook. But maybe she wants what I have. Maybe she’s running low on supplies and willing to track a target for days, willing to give into a little sport for whatever they have.
No, more realistically, it’s someone else. Someone must have seen me trying to escape Bellbrook and took me for an easy target. The tenacity and endurance of their chase was what surprised me most. I am not a target worth chasing. There is no sign that I have anything of value. The only reason I could think of following me was that they’re looking for a meal ticket. I haven’t seen those kinds of cannibals since Sterling Heights, but I’m certain they’re still out there. Getting closer to a city like Cincinnati was inevitably going to bring me a little closer to people who are willing to hunt their meals. But then again, where the hell did all of those Zombies come from? Where the hell did they all spawn from? Were they what was left of those who took to hunting humans and cooking them for dinner? Was there truly a hunger that drove them insane after consuming the flesh of the dead? Maybe it’s the natural degeneration of those who have stooped to the darker, more despicable depths of our condition.
I fall face first into a ditch as punishment for not paying attention and land in a pile of sand, sputtering and groaning in a whimpering sadness as my ribs scream in pain from the impact. Even if it is sand, it still hurts a whole lot more than it should. Standing up, I look to my left where the ditch curves back toward the northeast, I ponder following it, backtracking a ways and catching my pursuers from the rear. But I look to my right where the ditch heads to the west. This is an opportunity to throw some odds in my favor. I can head south, but they’ll still be able to track me. The layer of dust across these fields is enough to keep giving them a trail to follow. If I keep going south, they will know and they will follow. But if I go west, they might think I’m onto them and trying to lose them along the gravel and river rock. I don’t know the odds, but when they see that my trail ends here, they’ll probably head west, not expecting me to double back. I look to my left. I should double back. I should sneak up behind them and I should try to take whoever it is that has taken to hunting me.
It’s nearly impossible to be silent walking in the ditch. I hug the northwest bank of the curving ditch and keep my head bowed, hoping to remain hidden. There’s no way I’m going to be able to crouch and move with my ribs while traversing river rock. There’s just no way. My left arm is nearly useless as is, but with my core damaged, I’m in no condition to be playing super stealthy spy. I keep low and the ditch is deep enough that I think I’m safe, so long as I keep my head down. I avoid the sandbars and keep to the gravel and larger rocks as I keep moving. I don’t walk for long, maybe an hour before I stick my head up and look around. I’m walking around the base of a hill and remember it as the one that I had stood atop once I made it through the thicket. I figure that in this amount of time, the
y should have made it through the thicket and should just be reaching the end of my trail.
I look up the hill first, cautiously trying to get a glimpse of them descending the hill, in case they’re really slow. I keep my head still, waiting for movement to register in my peripherals. Standing completely still, nothing catches my attention. I look to the south, certain that there is no way that they’re on the other side of the hill. They would have to be slithering across the wasteland to take this long, even if they did stop to investigate the burning farm. I see nothing. There are no silhouettes, no lights, nothing. I’m perplexed by this. Maybe they are taking their sweet time. I keep my position, my eyes watching for any sign of them. When I watch the sky melt from dark black to navy, I figure that they’re not coming. They must have abandoned their hunt for me.
I take one last look, hoping to spot them, but some whisper in my brain hopes I don’t see them. If they’re not there, then that must mean that they’ve given up on me. I’m not an animal, I don’t like being hunted like one. Once more, I reconsider how utterly tired and sick of people I am. I want nothing to do with them anymore. I want to be left to my own devices and my journey south. No more hunting, no more encounters, no more scavenging. Just me, all by myself, alone on a journey to Florida. That’s all I want. I want the next person I see to either be Lexi or Val, no one else.
When I’m certain that there is no one following me, I plant my hands on the dirt and pull myself up with gritted teeth. My left arm gives out as I clear the top and I’m forced to roll my way up onto the ground, lying on my back and looking up at the fading stars. I can feel the warm welcome of the sunlight as I lie there. I want to rest basking in its warmth, but fear seeps through my mind and I know that there is someone out there, looking for me. There’s no way that it was mere coincidence that someone with a flashlight was following my exact path. They were tracking me. There’s no question in my mind. So where are they now? Leaning up, I look straight up the hill, wondering if they’ve made camp up there, waiting and watching for signs of me. Maybe they can see my trail all the way to the ditch and know that I’ve tried to elude them.
“This is pointless,” I grumble at myself. Sitting around second guessing everything is going to get me nowhere.
I pull myself up and start walking west until I come across my dusty footprints and start walking over them again. I have a long journey ahead and any fatigue or exhaustion that I feel is washed away by my drive to get as far away from the tracker as possible. But where are they now? The question plagues my mind. It’s a fly buzzing around my mind, trying as I might to avoid the other thoughts that have become a series of broken records playing the continuous cacophony of terrible sound between my ears. Are the girls safe? Where am I going to find food? How much water do I have left? Now, there’s a new contestant to occupy the majority of my time. Where is my stalker?
At one point on my long, hopeless march, I cross the canal once more and continue south until I’m bored enough to pull out my map. To the northwest, the enormous columns of black smoke must be the town of Lebanon, which means that I am headed directly for the town of Morrow which barely registers as a dot on the map. More importantly, I’m making my way toward Interstate 71. I keep walking all day long, propelling every step forward with the fear of someone hunting me. I constantly glance over my shoulder at the vast openness behind me. To the northwest, west, and southwest, all I can see are buildings ahead. They’re tiny little boxes sticking up along the horizon, but I know that these are the outskirts of Cincinnati, or they’re the outskirts of the outskirts. I’m not willing to risk getting close to them. The horrors of Bellbrook are enough to keep me on the task at hand. I don’t even stop for the farmhouses that I spot on the edges of my vision to the east and south. Nothing is worth it at the moment.
I start to feel the tug of fatigue afternoon. The hours drag on and I’m beginning to realize just how huge the diameter around Cincinnati truly is. I can only imagine how far I would have to have walked to avoid Detroit and the towns built around the exterior of the city. As for the nearest buildings, they have been burned to the foundations, only a few beams or supports remain, twisted with rebar as a sort of contorted gravestone, marking yet another loss to the follies of humanity grappling to survive the end of everything. I see a church where only a single wall remains, and rubble covers the burned out shell of a pickup truck that has taken out the majority of the church before being pinned under the cinders left by the roof. I know that it’s a church because a blackened crucifix sits on the remaining wall, Christ completely marred by the blackened, split wood. I wonder why he looks away from me upon his crucifix. I wonder why any sign of religion still exists. I bet when Detroit burned, even the preacher second guessed his beliefs.
As for myself, I think it’s out of habit. Thanking something makes me feel like there is at least something in control, even if it is merciless and cruel, abandoning me and my daughters to the ill-fated, damned world. Say the Christians are right. Say that my long dead father and my dead mother were right. If God does exist, then what the fuck happened? What’s the plan for when the last human dies of starvation, collapsing to the uncaring, cold earth? Humanity is extinguished and all life ceases once and for all. Men like Jason are hunted down and killed on purpose or by happenstance. Those with dreams of saving the world are left dead and the cannibals take over, a black dominion over all the continents. The lights of campfires are whisked away one by one until there is nothing left to remind the world of humanity. In just over a year, the roads are nearly washed away by storms, the constant sanding of ash and debris removing our blemish of an existence from the face of the world. And if the Christians are right, then the last sanctuary of life in the universe is gone. Blown out like a dying candle. Essentially, this is the cursed dilemma of the Muslims and the Jews too. Where is their loving God now?
I feel even worse than the New Age fools or the Buddhists, even the Hindus. Those people who believe in balance and the salvation of that which we have been given. How do they explain all of this? Mankind designs a fertilizer that is supposed to grow back everything we’ve lost in just a matter of decades. World hunger is supposed to be a shadow surrendered to our terrible histories now that crops can rise and be harvested in just months. We had cured so much of the world’s troubles, ending starvation and deforestation, bringing balance to the world. But it all went to hell. Our attempts at making the world whole, to mend the destruction we had wrought, has done nothing but shoot us in the stomach, watching us writhe in agony until we bleed out slowly.
Atheists must be getting the best laugh right now. They were right, in my current state of mind. There never was a God, but what comfort is that in the end? They looked to science as their holy icon, believing in the ingenuity of man to save us, and look what we’re reaping from all that we have sown. Their scientific lectures, their babblings about quantum realities and everything else. I hope they hug their blogs and their videos tightly while the hungry flesh-eaters descend upon them. Oh wait, they can’t. They died out long ago when the electricity stopped.
The world is a cynical place and I am just a puppet walking across some cosmic comedy. Even that in its essence is religious. Fuck it, call me a dying romantic. I like to think that there’s something else out there. It gives what little optimism I have left some hope to continue on. I grip my ribs and grind my teeth as the sun is sinking into the distant suburbs and businesses on the horizon. I cross the 71, barely recognizing a difference between it and the rest of the rock hard wasteland. My ankles are swollen and my feet are throbbing. My ribs are making it more and more difficult for me to take a breath. I need to find somewhere to rest. With each blink, my eyelids are getting heavier and heavier, I’m finding it harder and harder to press on. I glance over my shoulder. There’s no sign of anyone following me.
Good.
Ahead of me is an endless sea of blackened spears that shoot up out of the ground like sentinels, guarding the gates of Erebus. I
don’t take the time to stop and look at them. I just keep walking. Fire has ravaged the forest, much like the rest of the world. I wonder if there’s an island somewhere in the world where the last tree stands, probably a palm tree or a coconut tree. I wonder if there is anyone there to look at it. I would give my broken ribs and my swollen left arm for a glimpse at that tree. Nice, big, green fronds. Oh how glorious it would be.
I stumble into the forest as the cloudy sky rains ash softly, slowly floating down onto me. I look behind me as darkness consumes the world and I see no pool of light, no flash from the bulb. There’s nothing following me and I am overly grateful to whoever it was following me. I’m so happy that I haven’t seen any glimpses of them for the entire day. I lean against a tree and know that there’s no way I’m continuing on. This is where I’m going to stop for the night. I have to stop. I find a tree that has toppled over, splintering and smashing several smaller trees in the process. There’s a point where the tree snuggles up against another great trunk that is still standing, forming a sort of nook in the forest. I struggle around the tree before I slip my pack off, feeling the immense weight lift from my shoulders and I smile at the euphoric feeling of weightlessness that washes over me. I drop onto my ass, wincing with the pain before leaning back against the tree.
I don’t know how or when, but somehow I fall asleep. I awake with a start, cursing myself for being sloppy. I need to pay better attention. Or stop for rest more often. Passing out is not something I should get used to. I blink several times, looking up at the full moon and wondering how long I’ve been asleep. I don’t think that it’s been too long, but there’s something out there in the nighttime. Something startled me from my sleep, even though I was and am exhausted. I stay still for a moment, listening.
Something flashes across one of the dead tree trunks ahead of me and I know with a sickening, sinking feeling in the pit of my gut that I’ve been followed. Rolling onto my side and propping myself up, the pain in my ribs is excruciating, but I have to look. Glancing over the fallen tree trunk, I see exactly what I had feared most. I wasn’t insane, I was being tracked. The pool of light flashes in my eyes and then overlooks me, continuing onwards. My heart is pounding. They didn’t see me, but that was too close. Sinking back down into my nook, I listen, trying to figure out how far away they are. I can hear voices, which startles me even more. Voices—plural. I’m alone and outnumbered in a pathetic excuse for a forest. I look up at the moon. How do I keep getting into these situations?
LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series Page 15
