Nine Lives

It was chestnut brown, worn around the spine. The corners; over loved, over touched, so much so they curved slightly outwards. Memo's shimmered gold, stamped amidst the brown, someone had gone at the M with a biro, colouring a shadow like the letter had donned a pair of shoes.

Carl gazed at it for a long time. He couldn't remember why he picked up the small leather book, he couldn't think what had made it so important. What he did know was that when he held it in his hands, he felt certain it was meant for him. He realised it was foolish, there was no destiny anymore, no written in the stars. There was just life and death and he tried desperately at life every moment of every day, and sometimes he forget why.

No rhyme or reason.

It just was.

He looked out the window, it was the large bay type, giving the occupants a sweeping view of the world outside. The sun was setting behind a bank of trees that grew into the horizon, setting them ablaze. Carl found himself stilled by the sight, the sheer beauty of it making his breath catch. His eye tracked the suns progress until it fell out of sight. He frowned at the floor, shifting on his feet uncomfortably, uncertain how to deal with the normal action of watching a sunset. He gradually righted himself, covering the window blackout curtains he'd made from old bed covers and black paint, securing it in place before going through his usual rounds.

Carl had found that loneliness, while dangerous, had its advantages, no one fucked up, and if shit hit the fan that it was his fault, no questions asked. A routine had developed, like the routine of getting ready for school, the timetabled day he used to hold in his hand, wandering from class to class. It had been so easy to fall into, and useful too.

First, the doors. Barricaded, and secured. Yosemite bowline knot around the handle and piece of furniture pressed up against the wood. Then he'd pull on the handle, hard. Once, twice. He'd found that sleep was virtually impossible unless he checked each door. Apocalypse related OCD, he had to laugh about it; there was no time to worry about things such as sanity, not when insanity kept his heart beating. If the world ever did find its feet again, he thought about putting his name to it like all the greats; Grimes Disorder, the obsessive checking of doors. Had a ring to it.

Next stock check; each item unpacked; Three cans of beans, piece of venison wrapped in, what used to be, someone's handkerchief, one large can of peaches and a small bag of cereal. Then each item went back into his trusty green rucksack, he'd relieved from the body of a man not much older than him. He'd been trying to get into the house Carl had taken refuge in, crying for help. Carl stilled as he remembered the fear etched on his face. He didn't like the look of fear, it reminded him too readily of the weakness that lay within him, waiting to kill him.

Next his knives, each cleaned till they shone and he could see his worn face reflected on their surface. Sometimes he sat there staring at himself, not recognising the person gazing back. He had the same problem when he came across mirrors, something always made him pause. Each knife would be placed in a row, finger space apart, in order of size. Then he'd touch each of them on their fabric wrapped handle, just to make sure they were there, just to make sure they were real.

Next his gun, M1911 pistol; single action, semi-automatic. His trusty friend. Each night he would gently take it apart, cleaning it till his hands warmed the metal, then he'd put it back together and place it in front of him, his finger tracing the trigger. Then he'd count his ammunition. It had been a grand total of 2 bullets before he'd seen that man, now only one stood proudly next to the gun, and that one was for him.

One day he would. His hand wouldn't shake, he wouldn't cry. He'd just do it. The cold barrel to his temple, death loaded and ready to blow his brains out. But he wanted to live so bad, he knew he did, because every night he'd place the one bullet next to the gun, and every night he'd load it. And every day he lived.

One more check of the doors, tug at each of the handles.

Once.

Twice.

Then it was time to sleep.

He would lie on his back and stare into the darkness, hearing things he knew weren't there, but it always felt like they were just across the room, staring at him as he stared into the darkness.

Now though he settled on the couch, sneezing as dust clouded in the air. He lit a candle and orange light flickered across the book. With a deep breath, he opened it, holding the front cover delicately between fingers.

There was a small drawing of a beach, a tiny corner of paradise, tucked in the corner of the first page. He traced the lines gently. The rest of the page was filled with delicate slanted handwriting.

He remembered a holiday with his mom and dad, right by the sea, all blue and endless. He closed his eyes; he could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, feel the water. Then as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, fading into the black. He opened his eyes quickly, finding the page, and he began to read.

I miss the sea

Never thought that the sea would be something I'd ever miss, but here I am; an age away in a stranger's house and the sea a memory I desperately hold onto.

I miss the feel of the sand beneath my toes, the smell of the sea air as it crested waves and sent tiny droplets of water scuttling across the surface. My dad always stood on the cliff edge near our house, watching the sea, and I took to standing by him.

My dad was one of those men so in tune with the sea, I swear his heart beat with every sigh, came and went with every tide, gentle and constant. My dad said that we weren't meant for the sea, but I swear he was the closest a man could ever get.

I suppose I could've stayed there, could've lived out the shit storm watching the sun rise and fall on the horizon, casting red crystals across the blue.

I miss the sea.

There was something so simplistic and real about the crash of waves on the rocks, like a roar that made my breath catch in wonder and awe.

We aren't meant for the sea, but when they died I wished with all of me that I was. That I could walk into the gentle lap of water, let it fall over my toes, and then keep walking. My skin transforming into scales, breath bubbling in the water, as I swam deeper and deeper. I'd see the daylight winking on the surface, and I'd turn away from it.

When dad died I let the sea take him. I think it's what he would have wanted, but mostly its because I couldn't bring myself to cover him in earth, never to see the sea again. So I took Adelaide out, struggling with the oars as I heaved and sobbed. The sea was so calm, so quiet, like it knew. Gentle waves rocked the boat, like rocking a small child to sleep.

I set him adrift, the sea as ready to receive him as it had ever been. I watched him float way unsure that I'd ever be able to make it back to shore. I thought about joining him, my foot was over the side of Adelaide, could feel the water soaking into my boot.

But I'm a coward.

So I clung to Adelaide with all the severity that I now cling at life (if you can call it that). Adelaide's red paint stuck beneath my fingernails for days after. When the paint finally washed away I tied Adelaide up for the last time, shut up the house and started to walk.

I didn't look back. I couldn't.

But now I feel like a part of my heart is still standing on that cliff waiting for my dad to make his way to shore.

And it's always going to be there.

A knock jolted Carl out of his reading, pulling him up out of his chair. The candle was blown out and he was by the window in two swift movements. He gently pulled the blackout curtains back, looking out into the night.

Movement on the porch had him crouching slightly out of habit. A walker was bouncing round on the porch, gurgling and moaning stuck between a porch swing and fencing. Carl made his way to his neatly arranged weapons, picking each of them up one by one. One knife in pocket, the other in sheath, and then one tucked in his boot, just in case. The gun loaded and placed in holster. Book in bag, bag on back.

He made his way silently to the bag door, untying the knot and gently removing the dining room chair he'd lodged underneath the handle. He checked the area, the garden was an overgrown mess of all kinds of flowers. Spring had always been his favourite time of year, bright and alive. Now though he barely noticed the beauty of the blooming flowers, payed no attention to the heady perfume in the air. Instead his eye scanned the area, searching desperately for danger, any movement, any threat.

He found none.

He let out the breath he'd been holding, easing his body down the step and out the door. Shutting it behind him. Yosemite bowline knot round the handle, then he was crouching against the house, silently making is way round to the front. He drew the big knife from its sheath on his hip, gripping it in his hand, blade down.

He smelt it before he saw it, the smell of death that barely registered anymore. The heat made it worse, the air was heavy with the smell, close and suffocating. Then as he rounded the porch, he saw it. Skin hanging in clumps from its bones, its jaw dislocated and off to one side, teeth gnashing eating the air in desperate hunger. It was starving, Carl could see that, but who the hell wasn't these days. It sensed him rather than saw him, its eyes rotten in their sockets, stumbling towards the smell of dinner.

Carl gulped. It was a sad sight. As he sunk his knife into its head with the ease of cutting a cake, he wondered who it had been. He never usually thought about the walker's lives before they were walkers, but something about the sorry state of it made him pause and wander. Had it liked the sea? He shook his head, glancing around into the dark. There was nothing, nothing and no one. Just darkness and silence.

Then he headed back inside, untying the knot of the back door, retying it on the inside, replacing the chair under the handle, and then checking the handle. Once. Twice. He went round all the other doors and checked them too.

He cleaned his knife, wiping the black from its surface, then placed each of his knives in order of sizes, a finger space apart, placing one finger on each of the cloth wrapped handles. Then he unloaded his gun, placing the bullet next to it, one finger space apart. Then he gently touched the trigger before making his way back over to the couch, book in hand. He re lit the candle and sat.

He almost smiled at the drawing of an ice cream with a smiley face.

I miss ice cream.

Vanilla, tucked into the cone, tiny tributaries of the stuff coating your finger. Jenna and I used to run into town for the ice cream, was our Saturday tradition. I can see her running in front of me, her hair billowing behind her, the colour of straw. She'd turn mid stride and look at me giggling at how slow I was.

That was the problem with being the little sister.

After a while though Jenna stopped running, she used to walk slowly by me, tapping away on her phone. Then she was carrying out our Saturday tradition with anyone but me. I'd see her walking down the hill, her arm linked with some boy. I'd slink behind them, money pressed in hand, a frown on my face and Jimmy walking beside me, always going on about how beautiful Jenna was. He wasn't wrong though, she was beautiful.

It's funny, I never used to think about ice cream, not really; there were some I didn't eat, some that I threw into the sea in anger, some that dropped in a vanilla puddle on the floor. The ice cream was always just there, if I'd know that the world was going to end, that the ice cream would run out, I'd have savoured every last drop, every last lick and crunch.

My mouth is watering just thinking about it. The weathers really hot today as well, like being in an oven.

I know I'm torturing myself but I can't help but lay back and close my eyes, imagining the flavour. It would be heavenly.

I'm starting to believe it's possible to mourn food.

Carl gulped, his mouth watering at the thought of ice cream, he couldn't recall the last time he had ice cream, but he remembered the taste; sugary cold and absolutely delicious. Chocolate chip was his favourite, digging out the tiny chunks of chocolate and crushing them between his teeth. He let his head fall back, eyes closing at the thought. Maybe it was possible to mourn food, because he felt the gut wrenching sadness of loss. When he realised that he'd never have ice cream again. Shaking his head he carried on reading.

I miss those Saturday traditions, I miss watching Jenna run in front of me. I miss being the slow one.

The last time we ran down that hill there was panic in every step, no money in my palm and no ice cream waiting at the bottom. Jenna had turned, tear tracks down her face, she was screaming my name, telling me to hurry up.

That's when I found out they are attracted to noise. By then though it was too late, we couldn't take the noise back, I wish every day that we could have.

The first bite got her neck, blood bubbling to the surface and out her body, so much blood. She screamed so loud it must have echoed across the sea, right out across the water and beyond. They crowded round her, pushing her to the floor, ripping her apart. The last thing I saw of my sister was her straw coloured hair.

I see it every night when I close my eyes, echoes of her pain are still rattling about inside of me. The hurt it causes is undefinable. I remember crying her name, but the syllables caught in my throat. Jimmy was pulling me, and like a puddle of ice cream fallen on the floor, I melted into his arms and let him carry me away.

I could have saved her, I could have been quicker.

I suppose it's a good job there's no ice cream left, I think it would taste bitter now, and get stuck in my throat, like my sisters name.

Carl closed the book sighing, he'd heard so many stories alike, heck he had a library full of his own, all similar, all tragic, and all real.

He placed the book in his trusty back pack, went round and checked all the doors. He then settled down on the floor by his knives, touching each of them with one finger. He then brushed the trigger of his gun, before lying back and looking into the darkness.

For the first time in a while the sounds in the darkness were of a girl talking about the sea and ice cream. She was retelling the tragic tales of the dad and sister. Carl's dreams were the colour of the sea, straw and vanilla ice cream. Before he drifted off he mumbled to himself, his voice rough and unrecognisable, it had been so long since he'd spoken.

'I miss Chocolate.'

Then he fell asleep.