It's been two weeks, or at least it should be, if I counted right. Two weeks and I haven't moved much, except to use the restroom (which for me, is the corner of the room that I don't frequent). My "room", if you call empty closets rooms, is located, well, actually, I don't know where it's located. I was on my way to the airport, with my family, when the van shook. Once, then twice, then it flipped, rolling four times, if I counted right.
The next thing I knew, I was crawling. I dragged myself across the ground until I found this little room. I got in, shut the door, and prayed that I'd survive. I have so far, but so far isn't good enough. I'm starving, and most likely dehydrated. I've had some water, don't get me wrong, but it was hardly enough for two weeks. I haven't had food though, and I can just feel my body dying without the nourishment. It's painful, and I can bet it's a lot worse than becoming one of those things; those zombies.
It's not like I've been bitten, but I've seen people get bitten, and there's a certain point in the "transformation" when you see that their human side is gone. You can see it in their eyes, almost like they've died and come back anew. This isn't like what Jesus did though, these things like blood, and will do anything to take yours from your body. Sometimes they even forget the blood and just keep tearing. I'd ask my sister what someone would call that, the drinking of human blood, but she's no longer with me, she's no longer with us. She knew everything, or at least she knew everything I ever wanted to know.
I'm sure if she were here, along with my mother, she'd probably be telling me how much of a mess I've been, and how that reflects on my "social standing". Well, I hate to break it to you sister, but social standings are just dust in the wind, along with society and structure; and the human race. There's a thing I like to call karma, and we (we, as in, the human race) have well deserved a nice dish of it to be served to us. I don't really like to believe that this is all our fault, but I mean, I do believe in karma, so what else could it be?
I feel almost too hungry to move, but I have to. I have to get up, stand on my own two feet and feel the warmth of the sun again. I need to be able to see again, because this room is dark, and I like to be able to see my hand with it's a few inches away from me. So I do, I get up and feel around for a door handle of any sort. My hand wraps around something circular, cold and steel, so I twist it. I hear the click as the door comes loose from its place, and I push it open slowly.
The light blinds me immediately, leaving me on my knees with my hands covering my green eyes. I lift them off slowly, but the light still hurts, even when I squint; two weeks of darkness will do that to you. It takes a while, but it wears off and I'm able to look around freely. Seeing once familiar buildings in shambles, the corpses of fellow beings scattered on the pavement, and the blood of the most-likely-innocent spilled makes me wish my eyes had burned holes in themselves when I opened that door.
"Hello?" I call out, cliché, and with the knowing that nothing was going to answer. I look around and spot the writing on the wall behind me. "Gotta give it to CEDA, they sure know how to throw a party," one read. I speak each sentence aloud as I read them, almost as if to make sure that they are actually there.
"This ain't a party, it's genocide."
"Next person to read this is too late."
"Next person to read this isn't going to make it."
"Next person to read this, is the last man on Earth." The last one I speak makes my spine shiver under my skin. Then I see little notes left next to it, and I read them to myself.
"What about a woman?"
"Well I guess that guy's dramatic writing is ruined."
"That's what she said."
"I pray to god that that person isn't the last man on Earth."
"God is dead." Again, my spine shivers. I wish to make my own contribution to the wall. I'd leave a comment asking if anyone was left, because the thought of me being the last man on Earth made my stomach squirm. Then I spot it, a black marker sitting on the ground, in the clasps of a dead man's hand. Reluctantly, I pry it free and pop the cap off, returning to the wall where I think about what to write.
I was never a poet, that was my brother's job, so I just stuck with "Is there anyone left?" After writing it, I put the cap back on and stare at the wall, actually expecting an answer to show up out of nowhere. A jab of pain hits deep in my side and I recognize it as disappointment, something I am used to feeling. My mother always told me that disappointment is a side effect of hope, so it was always a good sign when you felt disappointed.
Well, right now I don't think it's a good sign. I'm all alone, in a city I barely know, without my family, without any food, and I have to decide. Stay here and just hope, or go out and make a difference myself. Food doesn't just drop from the sky, neither do people, so I have to leave.
I don't have anything to pack up, except for the marker, which I tuck into my front, right pocket. Everything else I own is back at my house, which is in god-knows which directions. The only thing I know about this part of town is that I was always told to stay away from it, so, before this day, I had never set foot in it. Well, right now I'm cursing myself for being such a lamb. Damn it, why couldn't I have been a wolf, like my brother? Or at least someone who could stand on their own like my sister, or my mother. I think that's something that's just built into women's genetic code. Damn it, why do I have to be so young?
I think about them and that jab in my side comes back, so I push it away, turning back away from the building I had been in for two weeks. What I see is a road un-traversable by vehicles, but since I'm on foot, I think I can make it. Just a lot of climbing, which is something that I'll admit, I'm pretty good at. Back in the fourth grade I was able to do the rope climb in the shortest amount of time. So I have a little faith in myself. I begin to walk, dirt and ruble crunching under my feet, and I have the fear for the first time.
I'm Pepsi, I'm fourteen years old, and I fear that I am the last girl on Earth.