Wait. Just be patient. It's almost over. They'll be gone soon.
That has been my mantra for the past four hours, playing over and over in my head like a broken record player as I watch my assailants from afar. I sit, crouched in the shadows, eyes glued to the figures that occupy the street not even ten feet away.
It's a miracle I haven't been spotted yet. Vitally would've scolded me for chancing myself with being so close to the walking dead, but being the impatient, rebellious feline I am, I just have to get a front row seat to see if and when they leave.
You may be wondering what I mean when I say "the walking dead". Well, they're exactly as they sound. They're the dead, walking. You can call them whatever you want, but there's really only one name that will allow you to comprehend what I really mean.
Zombies. Yeah, zombies. The dead risen from their graves to infest every inch of our little planet like a mob of pesky cockroaches. For what diabolical purpose these grotesque creatures had to emerge from the ground and wipe out nearly the entire human population, I honestly have no idea. All I know is that they came out of nowhere and have caused nothing but complete destruction. Not only to the community, but the world in all. The government, the military, all world connections. Everything. They rocked the very foundations of the living world, leaving us with no other option but to follow Herbert Spencer's words that would become the law of survival, "Survival of the fittest." Those who weren't willing to change or couldn't bring themselves to adapt to this tremendous turn of events were ultimately killed or turned into a walker. Others tried to run from it, but it was like running away from a disease that had already settled in the body; pointless and futile.
After a couple of years of hundreds of deaths and the government closing off along with the military forces in disarray, there was only a few thousand left of us living folk who hadn't given up. And even most of them ended up becoming apart of the zombie population.
And it was through all of the turmoil, confusion, and disastrous events that led me to where I am today. A young, scraggly lion with nothing but an empty backpack and my absolute hope that this particular group of half rotten bodies would move out of the way.
The beings that wander around the building moan to themselves, blindly trudging to and fro. Most zombies usually walk with little to no purpose with their sluggish paces, unless of course they're chasing some poor soul who accidentally found themselves to be the next victim of these ghouls. But these ones circle the small building repeatedly, as if guarding some sacred treasure.
Hell! There is a sacred treasure inside, and I'm going to get it.
Convenient stores are the best places to store and find necessities that a scavenger would proudly rustle through, especially in such desperate times like now. But the goods inside are not only small, but scarce. So many people have ravaged through the food supply to stock up for what was to come, taking anything they could get their hands on, that there's barely anything left. Today, one would be lucky to find a single water bottle and a bag of Skittles out of the entire compound.
That's what we have come to. We as a whole becoming so desperate and so wild that we would dare ourselves to go into these places and leave either empty-handed or with a little bit of candy that wouldn't even last through the night. It's amazing that it's even remotely possible that the odds were this plausible. And it's even more amazing that this is exactly what I planned to do.
It is Food Day, the only day of the week where we take a break from the project to go to the city and collect what we call food nowadays from abandoned grocery stores and bare gas stations. What made this time different than the others is the fact that I am on my own. Vitally and I decided that we should split up to cover more ground to have a better chance at finding larger portions of food. We're running low on supplies and time is of the essence.
A slight shift on my back informs me that they're getting antsy, but I stand my ground. The backpack that hangs on my shoulders feels light and limp, practically begging to be filled with sorry excuses of nutrients like stale chips and sticky lollipops.
The zombies have gathered in a semi circle, grunting through their gaping voids for mouths and swaying on their scabbed, thin legs. It's as if they were holding a meeting as they communicate in their gargled, gibberish-like language.
What is taking them so long, dammit! This is ridiculous.
I shouldn't have to wait for so long to go inside and look for food, whether the odds are in my favor or not.
I consider going over there and ending them by thrusting a kitchen knife through their skulls, the only vulnerable spot on them that can actually kill them for good. I'll admit, I'm not the most patient person in the world and my proposition is worth a shot, under the circumstances. I'm quick with my blade and if I do it from behind, they wouldn't have a chance to struggle. They would never know what hit them.
But there's eight of them. It would take awhile for me to actually kill them all swiftly without some sort of commotion. A loud noise, even if it's a gurgling growl from a single zombie, would send off a signal to others of their kind, leaving me with little to no time to get supplies and escape without being chased, or worse caught. It's a lose-lose situation.
So I continue my endless wait in the shadows, muscles taunt as the string of a bow and ears erected in an attempt to hear every little thing within a three-mile radius. This is going to be a long day.
I swear I almost dozed off a dozen times if it wasn't for the light nudges from my bag that woke me up every few minutes. At one point I almost punched the bag out of irritation, but I decided against it. I grit my teeth and roll my eyes, but it's then that I see that the zombies are gone. How long ago they had evacuated the storefront is not important. They're gone and I can go inside!
Finally!
I sweep past the street and enter the dingy little 7-11 with silent pants. The gas station is like any other these days; windows smashed in and haphazardly boarded up with wooden pellets. Linoleum floor littered with shards of glass, crushed candy wrappers, and aluminum cans all sucked dry of their contents. The fluorescent lights flicker dimly, one swaying from the ceiling by a single cord. The ceiling caved in God knows how long ago, exposing the shining tangle of pipes dripping dewdrops of brown water. All of the shelves turned over and the doors to the cool drinks left ajar.
At a first glance, it would seem completely empty. But if there's one thing I've learned from experience, it's that you can always find what you are looking for if you search hard enough.
So I get down on my paws and knees and slowly make my way around the convenient store, starting by digging my paws through the trash and ruins of a cash register.
By the time I reach the back, I have found several bags of trail mix, Gold Fish, MM's, some Doritos, the ever popular canned ravioli, and over a dozen bottles of water. We have hit the jackpot, my friends.
I lean my bag against the wall and unzip it. Two heads pop out, one smiling crookedly and the other glaring up at me.
"What took you so long?! Were you trying to suffocate us?!" Skipper snaps.
"Shhh!" I hiss, pressing a finger to my lips. "Do you want us to get caught?! Might as well shoot off a flare gun if you're going to be so loud." I say through clenched teeth. He rolls his eyes and steps out of the bag to stretch out his short legs. Rico does as well. I settle the load of bagged goods at his feet and one by one he swallows them whole.
We're lucky to have the penguins still with us. I don't know how they managed to escape the Apocalypse like us, but then again these are the same guys who escaped the Central Park Zoo, took over an entire ship, made an airplane (twice), and somehow managed to buy a whole freaking circus. My questioning really has no purpose.
"Hey, Blondie." Skipper whispers under his breathe. I look up and follow his flipper that is pointed at a small, cracked glass case pinned to the wall, containing a white and red box.
I nearly drop a box of Cheez Its at the sight. It's a First Aid Kit! Those suckers are rarer than diamonds and can mean the difference between life and death.
"I'm going for it." He says and waddles away before I can have a say in his decision. I look back down at the task at hand and can't help thinking about the beat up boxes of snacks that have miraculously managed to survive this long without ever being consumed.
How long ago was it when this small little treat was placed onto the store shelves by some underpaid employee early one ordinary morning?
Did the person know what was to come when he had laid this small box on the shelf?
Did he know that by somehow leaving this single box of crackers here that later on that it would help a lone soul such as myself years later in making it another day?
That this one little package had given me a chance to live to see the sun again?
So many questions, and so few answers.
I notice that Rico has already inhaled every piece of food we gathered and that he's ready to go. I scoop him up and stuff him back into the backpack, but there's no Skipper.
What is that crazy bird doing?
I do a quick 360 and spot him standing a little over a corner of a twisted store-shelf that advertises 99 cent any size drink during Happy Hour. I open my mouth to get his attention but stop short when the fur on the back of my neck stands on end.
Something is off. Skipper is still, perfectly still. His small form rigid as a statue, piercing blue eyes set forward. He had seen something, something that had caused him to go completely immobilized. And there's only one thing that can do such a thing to the ever reckless Skipper. He had seen a zombie. A zombie is here.
Ever so slowly, I lower myself onto all fours and crawl my way to the penguin, peeking my head around him to see a scraggly walker aimlessly trekking back and forth between what used to be the soda fountain and the coffee station. And an ugly one at that. Greasy tendrils of black hair cascading over sunken grey eyes, framing her hollow cheeks and sharp jaw. Her impossibly thin legs sway uneasily under her bony body, threatening to collapse. Her soft grunts are screams in the deafening silence that plagues the air.
My heart shoots up into my throat and I swallow a wad of cotton that has clogged my windpipe.
When did breathing get so hard?
I've been here for over half an hour, so how the hell had I not noticed her before? How could I have missed her? Or more importantly, how had she not noticed us?
For a split second, I predict that maybe she'll catch sight and go after us, then we would have no chance of getting out of here alive. But by the way she is focusing on the stained sugar packets that riddle the countertops, she won't be chasing us any time soon.
I use this to my full advantage. With cautious, steady movements, I undo my bag once again and motion to the penguin to get inside. He takes step after step backwards, never stealing his gaze away from the walking corpse until he has backed up into the backpack. I close it the second his body is engulfed into the blue fabric and I am just about to book it when out of the corner of my eye, I see the First Aid Kit still encased in the grimy glass container.
Oh, shit!
I just can't leave it. I need it more than I need the very bag slung over my shoulder. But as luck would have it, whoever built the stupid place just had to put the First Aid Kit next to beverage stations, thus next to the zombie girl.
What I do next is pretty stupid and dangerous. Like really dangerous and really stupid. But you would've done it too if you were in my shoes. Anyone would have.
I straighten my back, letting out a large huff of breath that had hauled into my lungs, and I freaking jump out and snatch the case straight off of the wall and run for it. Pressing the glass box to my side, I zigzag through the aisles and burst through the door, not once looking back to see if the zombie has any intentions of following me.
Lets get something straight. Zombies are not the sharpest tools in the shed. Yeah, that's pretty obvious with their half rotten brains controlling their deteriorating bodies. They may be dumb, and slow, and practically oblivious to most things, but they have to be the most perseverance bastards I've ever met. Once they catch the slightest glimpse of a living organism, that's it. Your dead. No matter how fast or how far you run, they will follow you and they will find you. That's just how they are. Dumb as a box of rocks, but as persistent as a moth to a flame.
With this information in mind, I sprint through the streets and alleyways like a total maniac to escape any possibility of being chased by this single walker. Keeping my eyes ahead as I clutch the First Aid Kit, dodging upturned garbage cans, jumping over piles of rubble, swerving around rusty shells of vehicles that once drove through the streets of the ever busy New York City. The nails that once pinned the glass case to the wall now dig into my rib cage, tearing my side to ribbons of blood and cloth.
I just need something. Anything at the moment.
Ha! There!
There is a winding staircase attached to the face of what once was an old, rundown apartment complex but is now a crumpled heap of bricks and grouting barely clinging to the brittle steel skeleton. A fire escape. I head for it, pouncing onto the gritty surface of the ladder and climb up the steps like my life depends on it. Because it does.
Once on top, I duck behind the ledge. I clamp my mouth shut and breath deeply through my nostrils in an attempt to calm my racing heart. My hands and feet tingle with the buzz of adrenaline flooding my veins.
After what feels like an eternity (it was actually half an hour), I peer over the crushed mass of cement to the deserted street. Not a soul in sight. Only the distant caw of ravens and flicker of untamed fire greets me as I descend the fire escape. But even though there is no one around, I still whirl my head from side to side, paw hovering over my blade's handle. I creep through the alleys, concealed in the eerie shadows of the once shining skyscrapers, each square window no longer alight with blinding white light. They were like beacons of pure life. Now they jut out of the ground like gnarled, beaten giants of debris.
As I pass through a cracked street, I realize that I haven't been paying attention to where I'm going. I've just let my feet lead me through the mess of New York. I come upon a large square where wide streets intersect, blasted remains of giant screens plastered to the faces of high buildings no longer blinking with boisterous advertisements, and piles upon piles of rusty hunks of metal lay in heaps of scrap and ashes.
I know this place. I know it like I know my very own name. This is the heart of Midtown West, right in the smack dab middle of the Theater District of Manhattan. Here, tourists came and went to see the wonders of the once thriving city, watching everything worth seeing play before them like it was some kind of skit. The audience gawking as the curtains opened to reveal one of the most famous attractions in the world. This is Times Square.
I shouldn't be here.