So I seem have deleted a load of my stories (my bad) This story is fairly different from most of the other ones in this archive. As ever, I hope y'all like it and don't be shy to let me know what you think ❤️
Amongst the ruins of a failing theatre the proscenium arch and raked auditorium seemed comedic. Somehow they're existence in the bleak and morbid world were ironic. The idea that they were designed for the sole purpose of entertaining mankind was an illustrious thought that Jude could not fathom. Society was now fractured and the only use of most infill-structures was to shelter and aid the survival of the living against the reanimated dead. Yet somehow the rows of burgundy upholstered seats and wooden planked stage had survived to remind all and any that happened upon it that times had changed. Once they had had the opportunity for such luxuries as laughter. That time had passed. Sighing at the undeniable truth Jude continued scanning the area for signs of salvageable supplies. Unfortunately he could find none and was only aware of how long he'd been searching when a voice tiptoed into the vast space of the abandoned place.
"Jude?" As per normal Brandon's voice ventured no further than a whisper although managed to echo its way to Jude's tentative ears. "We need to move soon, you've been looking for an hour, there's nothing here." Perhaps he was just enjoying the atmosphere that had settled there or maybe he was just fearful of the trek back but Jude felt a sense of regret adopting a region within his stomach. It almost felt like leaving then would be a huge mistake. Brandon was right, of course. He knew the rules associated with his job; one being never surpass an hour in any one given place else you increase the odds of coming into contact with a Rotter. It was a practical request that when enforced by Brandon, Jude felt obligated to concede to. Still, though, he was hesitant to leave.
Turning his body round the beam of his flashlight morphed with the beam from Brandon's as he helped illuminate the way up the stairs towards the exit. Once exiting into a side alley the change in lighting was blinding to Jude's unadjusted eyes. Outside Jesus was waiting with a choice machete gripped firmly in his right hand. All three of them evaluated the opening near the far end of the alley that fed into the main street. Leading the way, Jesus trod lightly making as little sound as possible. When he got to the end he pressed his back against the rust coloured wall, peering round the corner with weapon poised. Ten seconds later he gave the all clear to the others. Stepping forward Brandon, with his mallet styled tool, took the lead. Keeping a relatively tight formation they made there way past domineering two storey buildings that cast eerie shadows in the deserted landscape.
They'd almost made it to the outskirts of the damned town when a low groaning surfaced from the silence. Oh shit. Jude, being not only the youngest but the weakest, felt the temptation to run screaming. Had it not been for his countless encounters with Rotters before this he probably would have. The groans were chorused back by moans from another direction. Spinning they're heads wildly the boys knew it was likely to be the foundations of a horde. In such occasions there was no use fighting. Had they possessed a fire arm they may have stood a chance but in close combat they would undoubtably be facing more than one at a time. A situation that would result in death or being bitten (which is arguably worse). Clearly all three were considering the same thing as they began hurriedly retreating. Jude found himself drawn back to the theatre and instantly assumed that the others would follow. Consequently when he finally looked behind him and there was nobody in sight he felt nauseated. One of the main rules of survival was to never be separated. Crap.
Acknowledging the need for urgency when looking for a hiding place Jude chose not to dwell. He knew they'd be safe or at least he hoped so. He heaved open the heavy door cringing at the slight creaking sound it had made and plunged into the darkness. Feeling his way up the rows he managed to orientate himself to the closed off technicians booth near the rear. If his hunch was correct it would be a small enforced room with tinted double glazed windows and one door. Yes. Coming into contact with the chilled metal Jude couldn't deny the relief that washed over him when he felt an irregular key in what could only be, a lock. It would be a perfect hiding spot till the rotters passed. Dragging the aged door back on its decrepit hinges he feared for a moment that it may fall off. Thankfully, however, it did not. Inside the space was pitch black. He could just make out a panel with elaborate switches, buttons and about a 3'4" space to the left of it.
Gathering his courage he forced himself into the abyss. Determined to wait it out in the safety of his newly discovered jackpot, Jude sat on the floor after shutting the door. Listening for the next two hours he heard nothing. If it weren't for the rules that state in the event of a 'horde wait-out' you must give it 5 hours before leaving, he would've been gone already. Nevertheless the rules were made to keep them alive and were not to be broken lightheartedly. Jude still remembered when they had formed the rules. In a warped way they had Liam to thank for them, though none of them would ever admit that any good came from him. Pondering this thought intently Jude didn't register the footsteps invading the empty air. Closer and closer. Not until they were in his immediate proxemics did he react. Too late. Tightening his fingers around the club he could sense his knuckles turning white as the blood flow ceased due to the force of his hold. His blood ran cold. Standing slowly and quickly Jude advanced with ninja-like subtleness.
Three. Two. One.
Bursting from the booth he swung the club with all his might. To his horror an arm shot out to grab it, blocking the blow with horrifying speed. Jude had no idea a Rotter could have reflexes that fast; it must be a mutated one he thought. Tugging harshly at the club he drew it back above his head ready to smash it down on the Rotters skull when suddenly a jab to the stomach made him buckle with pain. Holding his side he didn't, for a second, anticipate the foot that came crashing up to his face. The blow caused a sickening cracking noise and a splutter of warm blood to go flying. Searing agony engulfed Jude as he gasped for air. Knowing it was fight or die he pushed past the pounding in his ears and overall dizziness swiping a hand out and pulling the figure crashing down. The two clawed at each other, gouging at eyes, pulling hair and punching any available flesh. Running out of energy probably as a consequence of too much blood loss, Jude could tell his struggle was becoming feeble. The Rotter who he still couldn't observe in his dying moment, was winning. Straddling him, his arms were pinned roughly above his head with the ragged ends of bitten fingernails digging mercilessly into his skin. This was it.
"Go to hell!" Shouting what he intended to be his final words, Jude gave up all resistance and waited for teeth to sink into flesh. Waiting.
Waiting.
