by Matt Shaw
I snapped back to reality.
Potatoes? Really?
It’s funny the things you miss when the world goes to shit.
Okay, enough dilly-dallying around. It’s time to get this done. With the knife in hand I blew the candle out and carefully walked out of the bedroom and stopped when I was at the top of the stairs - my spare hand feeling my way with the help of the wall. I held my breath and waited. Can’t hear anything other than my own heartbeat as it pounds heavily in my chest. A couple more seconds.... still nothing... okay, I think I’m still alone in here. I thought I was, as I didn’t hear anyone trying to get in but - better safe than sorry. I crept down the stairs, holding onto the bannister for support as it was hard to see in the blackness. Slowly my eyes grew accustomed to the dark - not enough to see clearly but, enough for me to make shapes out.
Halfway down the stairs, I stopped and looked into the lounge. As far as I can make out, with the limited visibility, everything is in it’s place. No moving shadows, no noises other than the general night-time creaks I was used to my terraced house making. Eerily quiet and sinister despite, from first glances, nothing being out of the ordinary.
It’s probably a good thing the power went out and stayed out. Pretty sure, had it been working, I wouldn’t be able to trust myself. That, by now, I would have flicked a light on just to put my mind at rest that everything was okay. Sure it would make me feel better, for a bit, but.... the attention it would attract. Might as well just open the front door and put a sign out saying ‘Come and eat me’.
Satisfied nothing was coming out of the darkness, in the lounge, I ventured down the remaining few steps - towards the backdoor which was on the far wall, next to a window with a radiator underneath it. Other houses, in this usually quiet little cul-de-sac had the backdoor in the kitchen - their lounges at the front of the house looking out into the street - but I liked how this house was laid out differently - the kitchen at the front of the house, looking into the street and the backdoor in the lounge, leading onto the garden. It meant, on the warm summer evening’s we could sit in the lounge, with the door open - letting a warm, gentle breeze in. With the television off, you could sit there - on the sofa - listening to the different insects singing their songs from wherever they’d set up home in the garden. It was peaceful... relaxing. Sometimes, after a busy day at work, Jenny and I would drift off to sleep together on the sofa - nestled in each other’s arms.
There she is again, the forefront of my tortured mind.
Damn you.
CHAPTER THREE
I closed the backdoor behind me, when I stepped out into the garden. Part of me wanted to leave it open so, if I needed to, I could just run back through it at great speeds if anything came for me but... another part of me - the sensible part - thought it opened the possibilities for something to get into the house whilst my back was turned in the shed. I’d go back in, armed with what I came out for, only to come face to face with someone, or something, I wasn’t expecting.
With the door closed I turned to the garden, still clutching the knife in my shaking left hand. I’m glad Jenny and I chose to install the higher fences last year. When we first moved into the house, the garden had the smallest fences you could imagine. Easy to scramble over, should you have ever wanted to. I should know, the amount of times I had to go over them to fetch the cat back from the neighbour’s garden before the neighbour saw she was having another shit in his garden. Miserable prick always threatened to top that cat, if it didn’t stop using his garden as a toilet. Haven’t seen the cat for days, I wonder if the neighbour got it before or after he turned into one of them....
The high fences were supposed to stop the cat from getting over there as easily but they didn’t. I knew cats could climb but I didn’t think they’d go out of their way to do so. I just figured she wouldn’t be bothered and would use our garden, for her business, instead. How wrong was I? It’s a good job the high fences weren’t just purchased for the purpose of stopping the cat getting into the other gardens or else they’d have been a real waste of money. The main point of buying them was to add privacy to our garden. The neighbour was obviously a prick and we always felt awkward going into the garden, when he was in his, in case he picked a fight about something else or even just tried to engage us in unnecessary conversation. Sometimes, you’d want to go into the garden for peace and quiet and fresh air.... Fresh air... those days are gone. Now the scent of death hangs in the air as a constant reminder that all is not well with the world.
Stood - not daring to move - by the backdoor looking into the rest of the garden, the insects sing on blissfully unaware of the dangers man now faces on a day to day basis. I envy them. In the distance I can hear a car alarm ringing out. One of them probably bumped into it as it lurched on past it. At least it sounds like it’s far away. These things - they’re so slow moving... there’s no chance of it being near here yet.
Sensing all was okay, I crept across the patio area and onto the grass. A stony path leads the way to the shed but I’ll stick with the grass as it’s easier to tread quietly. Unnecessary crunching of the stones will only bring unwanted attention. Even if I am hidden nicely behind the six foot fences - the high winds last winter severely weakened them. I’m pretty sure, if something wanted to come through.... it could.
The garden isn’t that big and it doesn’t take many steps to get to the shed. Using my spare hand, I reached up to the bolt lock and slid it open - letting the door swing open in the process. It doesn’t even cross my mind something could be inside - not unless they managed to get in and then lock themselves in there too. They’re not clever enough to figure out the bolt-lock, in the first place, let alone master a way of locking themselves in too. Either way, I could have sworn I felt something brush against my leg. I looked down, my heart in my throat, and nothing was there. Thank God. A quick look over my shoulder, back down the garden, just to make sure everything is still. Satisfied I stepped into the shed - leaving the door open by keeping a foot in the gap. The gap doesn’t help bring it any light, from outside, but - I’m sure the little moon-light offered is better than nothing.
My tools all hung neatly across the length of the shed. Once again, I’m thankful for my levels of OCD for keeping it organised in here! I can’t carry everything, not with the knife in my hand, so I opted to tuck the knife down between my jeans and my belt. It’s served it’s purpose for now but I don’t want to leave it here - might end up needing it. You never know. For now, though, I favour - I reached out and took a garden fork from the wall - this. With my other hand I reached up and pulled a shovel from the wall. This will be useful too. Apparently blunt force trauma, to the heads of these things, can kill them just as effectively as a bullet through the brain. A good thing considering guns are illegal in this country and not exactly easy to come by. I wonder, had I been able to get hold of a gun... would I even still be here or would I have taken the quick, easy exit? I realise there are other ways you could take your own life but a gun... that’s definite and quick. I don’t have the courage to attempt any other way of doing it. I certainly don’t have the luck to get any other ways correct either. I’d probably end up paralyzing myself or just giving myself a nasty cut. I had thought about it. Back to thinking about the blunt force trauma.... what about a hammer? Again, it’s a close-range weapon but, at least, I can keep it tucked into my jeans - when the time comes to leave the house - for it any of them sneak up on me.... get close enough where it becomes a problem swinging the shovel or garden fork. I negotiated the fork and shovel under my right arm and clumsily felt around the rest of the tools until I found the hammer. I hope they don’t get close enough for me to need this but - if they do - I’ll only regret not taking it with me if I did leave it here.
I plucked it from the wall and kicked the shed door so it was fully open again - allowing me to step back out into the garden. Using my elbow I carefully moved the door back to being closed - not allowing it to slam shut and alert anything n
earby that I’m here. With the door closed, I stopped and waited... listened... voices?
I strained to hear where the voices were coming from. Distant. From what I could make out - they sounded human enough. Obviously not infected. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing. I listened further.... laughter. Did I hear that right? I strained harder and held my breath - listening as intently as I possibly could.... more laughter. Definitely laughter.
Fuck.
They’re still breathing alright but that isn’t necessarily a good thing. See, the others are predictable. They simply carry on moving - looking for something to eat. They have no other purpose. No other functions. It’s like their brains are running on a very basic level giving them one command - eat.
People, who are living, have thought processes. They have agendas. And, unlike the others, their brains are running on every cylinder - with the added ingredient of adrenalin - giving them a different command - survive. With a brain firing on every cylinder and a desperation to survive, this makes them more dangerous. At least it’s possible to avoid a run-in with the others whereas, if you come across the living, it’s extremely difficult to avoid an engagement.
I didn’t move - scared to let them know I was there - hoping they’d go away. I couldn’t hear what was being said. From this distance, their voices were just muffled noises. It’s only the sound of laughter which told me they were living. No doubt looting one of the many houses in the street. I wonder how long it is before they decide to take a look in my house. I guess, one of the perks of being the middle terraced house – there are other houses to break into first. Hopefully they’ll find what they’re seeking, before they get to me, and leave. If they stick around, I’ll need to defend myself.
Slamming - sounds like car doors. An engine kicks into life and a tyre screeches on the dry, hot concrete as the car drives off until I can no longer hear it. I don’t move yet. Wait. Insects singing. Nothing else. Deathly quiet. They’ve gone. Thank God. I guess they found what they were looking for. I felt my body relax a little and hope to God that wasn’t my car. When the time does come to leave, I’m going to be needing that.
Worry about it closer to the time. It’s obviously not safe to venture much further than the garden tonight - too much activity out there.
Carefully, so as not to clang the tools in my hands too much, I made my way back to the safety of my house. It’s a nice evening, tonight. It’s a shame I have to go in again - would be nice to enjoy the air for a while longer, even if it isn’t as fresh as it used to be.
No sense wishing for the impossible. The longer I stay out here - the more likely I’ll end up as food or attracting looters. Get in, close the door, get upstairs and stay out of sight. Just a few days longer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lying on the bed, back in the bedroom, with the tools laid out next to me - I can’t help but wonder what will happen when I do leave the house to get supplies, or try and find a way of escaping from what’s happening out there. What happens if I do find another group of survivors? All this fear of looters and people who are out for themselves, I’ve been alone for so long now - how will I know who I can and cannot trust? Surely, letting my guard down with anyone, trusting people will just lead me to potential harm.
Perhaps I am better off alone.
Being alone, at least it narrows down the chance for more heartbreak too. I wept for what felt like forever when Jenny didn’t come home. Occasionally, when I forget to keep my thoughts in check, I catch myself weeping still. I don’t think I could go through that again with someone else.
I even miss the damned cat, Nellie.
No sooner had the cat raced through my mind - I heard the familiar sound of her cat-flap swinging open and banging shut noisily, downstairs. The noise startled me and I sat bolt upright on the bed - just in time for the cat to come running into the bedroom, up onto the bed, over my body and across to the windowsill where she froze - with the exception of her tail.... hanging off the edge of the ledge.... swinging backwards and forwards.
“Nellie?” I cautiously called out to her.
She was growling.
Eyes transfixed to something in the garden.
Is it even Nellie? Its dark in here and I can’t quite make out the colourings of the cat. Had it been Nellie, normally she’d have at least stopped to say ‘hello’ to me. Especially considering she’s been gone for a couple of days now. It has to be her. No other cat would have known the layout of the house as well as Nellie and, the speed with which she must have come through the flap and up the stairs - to get to the windowsill - she knew exactly where she was going.
“Psst! Nellie,” I whispered again. “What’s up, girl?”
Again, the cat continued to growl - ignoring me - staring out of the window. Her ears didn’t even twitch at the sound of my voice. Instead, they continued to point forwards.
What if she’s been bitten? I cautiously tried to put a little distance between us, just in case she suddenly decided to turn and jump on the bed. I’m quick when I need to be but never as quick as a cat. All it would take is a scratch from her claws and I’d be fucked. I squinted towards her shape, in the darkness, but couldn’t make out any patches of blood or signs that she’d even been in a fight. So why is she growling?
I wish I had re-lit a candle when I came in from the garden. It would have been easier to see her - see if she is hurt in any way, shape or form.
“Nellie,” I whispered again - my hand already reaching for the shovel. Ignored again. I wish she had been more affectionate - when I knew she was unaffected for definite. At least then I would have known for sure that this behavior was clear cut evidence she wasn’t herself anymore.
I can’t even reach out to her and stroke her. Even when she was herself it was hit and miss as to whether she’d turn on me. That’s just the way she was - the temperamental little bitch. I can’t say I blame her. She’s had a rough life... at least, she has if her report - the one given to me by the Blue Cross when I adopted her - is anything to go by. If I were her - I’d be grumpy too.
One more chance, she deserves that much.
“Nellie,” I whispered again and, again, was ignored. She just kept sitting there, her tail twitching, growling at God only knows what out in the garden. Once I’ve dealt with her, I should definitely lock the cat-flap. Until now, I hadn’t even thought about animals being infected with whatever’s decimated the human race. The last thing I need is for more cats to come through.
Need to deal with her first, before she turns on me. Slowly, so as not to startle the cat, I raised the shovel high in the air before moving it around until it was directly above her head. She hasn’t noticed. Either that, or she doesn’t care. Maybe that’s a piece of her unaffected in there.... wishing for someone, like me, to come along and put her out of her misery.
No.
She’s gone. This is just a shell now. What used to be my cat is long gone and what’s left isn’t worth crying over.
“I’m sorry, Nellie,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and, with no more thoughts, brought the shovel down hard on top of her head. A funny ‘donk’ noise as it connected. As soon as the first hit connected, I opened my eyes just in time to see the cat slip from the windowsill - and onto the floor, with a thump - unconscious. Or dead. Not sure.
I jumped up from the bed and stood above her. I need to be sure. Can’t very well rest here just to have her wake up in an hour or two and start clawing me - infecting me with whatever poison flows through her furry little body. I raised the shovel high in the air again and, once more, brought it down on top of her head. Another ‘donk’ as the shovel connected with the back of her head.
Her tail is still twitching. Did I catch a nerve or is she still alive? I only know blunt-force trauma causes death to these.... things..... because that’s what the films have taught me. What if they’re wrong? What if the only way to kill them is a bullet to the brain or to cut the heads off? Need to be sure she’s dead. If anyth
ing - to put her out of her misery.... must surely have a terrible headache now, at the very least.
“Sorry, cat,” I said as I lined the tip of the shovel’s blade against her neck. I raised the shovel upwards and held it there for a minute. This isn’t going to be pretty. With my eyes shut, I brought the shovel down fast and hard. I felt it go through her neck as easily as a knife through butter and wanted to be sick. Don’t be. Hold it down. Don’t be such a pussy.
Ah. Nice. I see what I did there.
I didn’t look to the cat’s body, when I opened my eyes, merely turned away. I don’t need to see that. To survive in a world, this cold, one needs to grow cold oneself. I can’t afford to stop and look at what I’ve done.... what I’ve done and what I have become. Need to move on. Besides, looking at the plus side of it, at least it’ll save money on the cat food if things ever do return to normal.
I dropped the bloodied spade to the floor. I can’t hear the cat growling anymore. Nor can I hear her moving. At least decapitation works for definite. Something to remember should I come into contact with any more of these things.
Thinking about it - starting with the cat was probably the best thing I could do. Practice on something of a smaller size before moving onto the larger ones. Get the knack down perfectly - save getting into any trouble.
