Author's note: I have finally gotten around to rewriting chapters 1-12, so if you're new to this story you'll be able to enjoy A New World 2.0. :)
I wake up from a loud banging sound. When I open my eyes, I stare at a shelf, dusty and messy, like no one had used it in weeks. In fact, as if no one had been in this room in weeks. I am still in the same sitting position I was in when I fell asleep, my legs spread in front of me, my upper body leaning against the back of the counter of the bookstore in which I have hidden in for the night. "Shit," I mumble to myself as memory comes pouring in. I wipe the sleep from my eyes with my left hand, my right hand is still holding on tight to the gun I have stolen from a dead police officer a couple of weeks ago. I slowly get up and lean on one knee, carefully looking over the counter to make out the source of the banging noise. I find it rather quickly. A biter has run against the store window, looking inside with dead eyes. It has been weeks, but every time I wake up, I still have to process the same information over and over again: the world as we know it has come to an end. Some weird infection has spread, causing people to wake up again after they have died, with only one goal: eat flesh. I still shudder at the thought. It did not take long for the military and the police to be overwhelmed with the masses of infected, and soon it had been each man for himself. In a crouching position I quickly walk over to the other window of the store front to check how many biters I am dealing with, but find that, thankfully, it is only the one. Checking that the safety is on, I tuck my gun back in the waistband of my jeans, so I can feel it pressing softly against my lower back. I walk back around the counter, open my backpack and pull out my big butchers knife, the one I took back in one of the small cities I passed on my way to Atlanta. The gun would draw too much attention, would draw in too many biters, so I will stick with the knife for as long as I can. I put on my backpack, put my long, red hair in a ponytail, pull up the sleeves of my black sweater, and grab the knife in my right hand. I take a deep breath and slowly open the front door of the store.
I feel many things as I open the door and step into the empty street of Atlanta. Dread and fear are most of them. I must be mad to go even further into the city that belongs to the dead now, but thinking of Bellamy keeps me going. I need to get to our apartment. It is only eight blocks from here. I will know by tonight, and then I can get as far away from Atlanta as possible.
When I exit the store, the dead man turns around immediately to face me, as if he is able to smell me. He is wearing a black shirt and khaki pants, but I can only focus on his face. His skin has an unhealthy shade of gray, his eyes sit deep in its sockets, too deep, and they stare at me with a milky look. There is a gaping hole where his right ear had been. He is making grunting noises as he shuffles over to me. I take another deep breath and raise my knife, slowly setting one foot in front of the other in calculated movements. Go for the head, always go for the head, I think to myself. When the dead man is close enough to me, I make one quick movement, closing the distance between us, and drive the knife into his head with all the force I can muster. He drops to the ground like dead weight, and I have put so much force behind my thrust that I collapse as well, landing on top of him. The smell of death that radiates off of him makes me gag, and with a panicked intake of breath I scramble off of him and clumsily get to my feet. My knife is still buried deep in his skull, but for a moment I cannot move. This has not been the first biter I killed, by far not, but it is still difficult and it still gives me the shivers. All I can do is stare at the man and wonder what he had been like before the infection. Did he have kids? A wife?Was he happy?
I am pulled from my thoughts when I hear voices. I turn my head to the right and judge that there must be people around the corner, coming closer. I quickly move to retrieve my knife and run towards a small alleyway across the street from me. I can't tell why I am hiding from people that are alive, but I have decided soon after the end of the world to go with my gut in situations like these.
The alley is full of trash and empty cardboard boxes, and I crouch behind one of the larger boxes to be out of sight. I have only been in my hiding spot for about five seconds when the sources of the voices come around the corner of the street. Four men, seemingly arguing. One of them is tall and black and bald, another one is a smaller Asian man wearing a baseball cap, the third one is clearly a police officer, he is spotting not only the badge and the beige shirt, but also a dark brown police cowboy hat; but it is the last of them that I cannot get my eyes off. He has short, messy brown hair and is wearing a torn shirt without sleeves. Everything about him looks redneck, and he clearly does not care much for personal hygiene; but that is not what my eyes are fixed on. He is carrying a crossbow. That is clearly the single most bad-ass thing I have seen since the infection broke out. Where do you even get one of these? For a long time I had wished, and in fact still do, that I had a more practical weapon. A gun is great, definitely, but what do I do if I run out of bullets? As much as I admire the crossbow, what does he do when he runs out of arrows? More than once I had wished I would have something more like a katana, or a machete, but all the stores I came across on the way to where I am now had already been raided, so I am already glad I have my knife and my gun.
Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I watch as the four men disappear into a department store at the end of the street, and I am relieved that they are gone. I stay in my hiding spot for a couple more minutes and then quickly get up and start jogging down the street, away from the department store before they come out again.
When I turn into the street that I have lived on with my husband, I have not encountered a single biter. Relieved, I find that this street is empty as well. I break into a jog to out apartment complex, eager to finally rip off the band-aid, to finally get answers. I am aware that if he is alive, there is barely any chance he will still be in our apartment, the city is too dangerous, but if I can get any answers at all from seeing our place, I am willing to take the risk.
When I reach the front door, I stop dead in my tracks and almost feel the need to hit myself. Keys. I don't know if I have my keys with me. I take off my backpack and kneel down to empty its contents on the sidewalk. A couple of spare clothes, all filthy already, cans of food, deodorant and other hygiene articles, another two magazines for my gun, everything, but no keys. God, you're a genius. I curse myself under my breath because I cannot believe that not once in the last weeks did I think of the fact that I need keys to enter my apartment.
I look up and down the apartment complex. Eventually, I admit to myself that the only way to enter the building is to break one of the windows to the apartments of the ground floor. I am not happy about it, but I do not have another choice. Looking left and right to ensure that I am still alone, I return all the contents to my backpack except for one sweater and one can of food. I take of couple of steps back, the can of food in my right hand and the sweater in my left. I turn the can around a couple of times. It should be heavy enough. I take a deep breath, position myself sideways in front of the building, and then throw the can at the window to Mrs. Kennedy's apartment as hard as I can. The glass shatters and the noise is so loud in contrast to the eerily quiet city that it is almost deafening. The biters are gonna come soon, so I quickly run to the window, wrap my right hand in the sweater, and then use it to break the last small pieces of the remaining glass and to wipe away the broken glass from the windowsill. Then I quickly throw the sweater into the apartment and my backpack after it. Looking left and right, I see that the street is thankfully still empty. I take a few steps back to take a run-up at the window, it is positioned too high for me to get in with a standing jump. Then, I run at the building as fast as I can. When I am close enough, I jump. My hands grab hold of the windowsill and I feel a sharp pain in my left palm, but I ignore it as I pull myself up, my right food pushing against the wall to support my upper body. I manage to support myself on both arms on the windowsill, and with a shift of weight I drop my upper body through the window, followed by my legs.
I quickly scan the room to find it empty, and then allow myself a chuckle at my less-than-elegant entry. I get up looking at my left hand, and see that a piece of glass that I missed while sweeping has buried itself in my palm. Thankfully, the piece itself is not too big, so this wound should not require stitches. With all the noise I just made I do not want to spend more time than I have to in this room, so I quickly take one of my tank-tops out of my backpack, rip a piece of it out with my teeth, and carefully remove the shard of glass with two fingers. The blood starts flowing, so I quickly wrap the tissue of my top around the wound, hoping it will do. Then, I gather the can, my sweater and the rest of the broken tank-top and stuff it back into my backpack, close it, and put it back on. Then I grab the knife and am ready to go. Only now do I realize that I am standing in Mrs. Kennedy's living room. The furniture and decoration looks very old, and I am sure the yellow wallpaper has not been renewed in at least thirty years. To my left is a couch and a small coffee table, and the wall above the couch is decorated with pictures. I take a step closer and recognize Mrs. Kennedy straight away. In the picture I am looking at she is wearing a long dress, very vintage, and she is sitting on a park bench surrounded by three kids who must be her grandchildren. Her short hair is white and her skin wrinkled, but the old lady is smiling from ear to ear. Mrs. Kennedy had been the first neighbor to introduce herself to Bellamy and me when we moved in two years ago. She was lovely, always inviting us to dinner or offering to help out where she could. I feel a pang of guilt that I never really took the time to get to know her as I look around her living room.
I am so immersed in my thoughts that I do not realize that someone has entered the room. Only when a cold, dead hand grabs my right arm am I pulled back to reality. With a panicked thrust I jerk around and see that Mrs. Kennedy is holding on to me, only it is not the sweet old lady I knew anymore. Her eyes are milky and she reeks of death, and she is making snarling noises as she shuffles closer to get a bite of me. I try to pull my arm out of her grip, but she is holding on too tight. Instead, I use my left hand to grab the knife from my right hand and with a quiet I'm sorry, I bury the knife in her head. The old lady sinks to the ground. My heart is racing in my chest, and I realize that I need to get out of her apartment and to my own. Before I move I quickly look at my arm, but thankfully she has not drawn blood with her scratches.
There are no other people, dead or alive, in Mrs. Kennedys apartment, and neither in the staircase. Our apartment is on the third floor, but the closer I get, the heavier my legs feel. I have spend the last few weeks trying to get to Atlanta, to get to our apartment, but now that I am here, I am dreading to see it. All this time I expected not to find Bellamy here, because why would I? But I never thought of what I would do if I found him? What if he is dead too? What if I find him like I have just found Mrs. Kennedy? I don't think I have the strength to put a knife in his head.
I almost have to force myself to turn around the last landing to our apartment, but when I do, I stop dead in my tracks.
"Oh please, no", the words leave my mouth before I can stop them.