Tweek Tweak's notebook, page 1
* You will only turn if you get bitten by a zombie, not if it scratches you or cause another wound that isn't with its mouth.
* Do not take water for granted.
* Appreciate the rain.
I grab hold of the bow, and quickly drag an arrow up from the small case I keep on my back. The arrow flies through the air and pierces through the zombies head, ramming it up against a tree. I roll over on my back, to end up on my knees, dragging another arrow out of the case. The zombies are getting in on me, and I don't have enough arrows for them all. I fire my arrow, and then, quickly up on my feet again, I run. I run in the opposite direction of the zombie horde, hoping that I won't run into another one on the way.
It's in times like this I'm happy that I have long legs, or being tall whatsoever. The zombies are fast as well, but they still can't get up on my level. Branches sticking out from the trees are risping my face, leaving tiny marks. It burns, but it's not something I have the time to think about. Right now, my first priority is getting to safety. Wherever that is. Later I can concern about patching my tiny wounds up. I jump over a fallen tree, and I can hear some zombies falling over it. Rest of them keep on chasing me. Damn it, why did zombies have to have the ability to jump? Can't they be like in The walking dead, where they just walk slow and die almost instantly? Things would be so much easier if it would've been that way. But unfortunately, it's not. The zombies in real life are able to jump, run fast, and dodge. They're like skilled athletics, only that they're after blood instead of the gold medal.
But one thing they can not do, is climb. That's why I'm now scanning the trees I'm running past for low, stable branches, that I can fly up in, to hide from the danger. I won't be able to hold this running pace much longer, though my cardio is good, my legs are starting to bend. But I can't give in. Safety. Jump. Safety. Run. Safety. I can spot a tree, maybe hundred meters in front of me (thank god my eye sight is good, otherwise I'd never survive this) with low branches, leading up to a higher, wider one. It's perfect. Push yourself, Tweek. It's only a few meters left. I can feel the zombies grunting close behind me. 50 meters. In the back of my eye I can see a hand reaching against me. 40 meters. It's getting closer, almost touching me. I use my final strength to speed up my pace. 30 meters. I can't do this anymore. I'm going to trip, my legs are going to give in. This is the last breath I'm taking on this earth. 20 meters. I can feel a hand on my shoulder, nails digging into my flesh. Fuck, it hurts. 10 meters. Everything I've fought for out in these woods for nothing. Three years of being all alone out here, and this is how it ends? 0 meters.
I almost collide with the tree, but as soon as my mind is back to its normal state, only slightly panicking, I manage to make a jump up in the air, grabbing the lowest branch of the tree. Here I am, hanging two feet above ground, with a bunch of zombies grabbing at me. I have to pull myself up before anyone has the chance to bite me. My arms are shaking as I succeed with getting the upper part of my body above the branch, and exhausted, I breath out as I place my feet upon it as well. But no resting now. I need to get higher up. The higher I am, the more safe. If they stop being able to feel my scent, and can't see me, they'll leave eventually. That's what they always do.
I put my hands on a higher branch, heave myself up, steady my feet and then repeat. Repeat until I'm high enough that I feel sick when looking down on the ground below me. High enough for the zombies not to hear my loud breathing, and high enough for me not to hear theirs. I sit down on a wider, more stable branch, resting my back against the tree. It stings where the zombie had placed its nails. I calmly take off my backpack and my jacket. Panicking isn't going to help. In these moments I need to stay calm. That's what I've told myself all the times I've felt like screaming, all the times I've laid bleeding on the ground. If I take things calmly, and focus on by breathing, things are going to be just fine. Breath in, breath out. Simple as that. I take a rope out of my backpack, tying it around the branch and my legs, so that it'll keep me from falling if I lose balance - thank you Katniss Everdeen for this idea - and also take out a large patch, cotton balls, and alcohol, to clean area where the zombie hurt me. I put it all in my knee, to prevent it from falling down to the ground where I wont be able to get to it again, and pull my dark green t-shirt over my head. I've been wearing this same t-shirt for three years in a row now, washing it as often as I can. It's gross, I know, but I still haven't dared to enter the city to get refreshments. All the supplies that I have, medical and hygiene (a soap, if that counts as hygiene), I've found on the ground where I just assume other people have dropped it. I used to get happy when I found something, thinking I was close to somebody elses camp, close to other people. I used to convince myself that I'd find these people who'd dropped the aspirin, or the bandage, just to keep my spirit going. But I never did find them. So now, I just assume everybody's dead. It's the easiest, you don't have to walk around worrying about what might have happened to the people of the abandoned camps or something, cause it doesn't matter, since they are all dead in my head.
I pour out a not so generous amount of alcohol on one of the cotton balls. I need to use as little as possible if I'm planning to stay alive. I've never been good at dealing with pain, but I've grown familiar enough with it not to scream every time something hurts me. I squeeze my shirt with my free hand. It's only going to sting for a second. I slowly press the cotton ball against the ripped skin on my right shoulder. Breath in, breath out. My hands are shaking. I dab at the wound one more time. Fuuuuck. Why is the human able to feel pain? It's so unnecessary. I let the cotton ball drop to the ground, and push a patch against the tiny, but deep wounds on my shoulder. Done. I drag my shirt back on, and my jacket. Nights usually gets cold here, wherever I am.
I've been out, hiding in the woods for three years now, ever since it first started. I still remember it as if it was yesterday. Watching the television with my parents in North park, two years after we'd moved away from the tiny, shitty town called South Park. I was only nineteen at the time, and still lived with my parents. I wasn't allowed to move out 'cause my doctor told me I wouldn't be able to handle it. Of course, I thought different, but I knew he was right. I was a very unstable teenager. Not only cause of my mental health (I will not go deeper into that, sorry), but also for all the people I lived with in South Park. The bullies that fucked me up, bad. I've never forgiven them. They thought it was just for fun, but didn't realize the impact they made on me. How much they crushed me. Fucking Stan Marsh. Asshole Eric Cartman. Douchebag Craig Tucker. There was Clyde, Kenny and Kyle with them as well, but they never did much. Just stood by and laughed. They turned everybody against me. So, my life sucked back then. What I didn't know was that the real hell started a few years later. My parents and I were sitting in the living room, family night, you know? My dad had turned on the TV, and the show we had been watching got interrupted by some "urgent news", as they'd called it. The broadcasting on the TV, made by Wendy Testaburger, was all chaotic, and had ended up with Wendy getting bitten, and freaking out on camera. We were told to stay inside, to not let anyone in. This didn't last very long though, the creatures, that we didn't know where zombies back then, broke down our windows in the kitchen and got inside anyways. I remember looking into my mothers eyes as she told me to leave her, them, behind. That it'd all be okay. That she loved me. I also remember my parents insides being ripped apart by our neighbor. Lovely memories that will probably haunt me for life. After that, I managed to collect myself, and ran out the back door, into the woods. And without having any contact with anybody since, all my focuses have been on training, finding food, and trying to find shelter. I've been in at the city limits a few times, but it's always the same. Fires that never goes out, streets full of zombies, and silence. Complete, dead silence. I haven't been trying to get back into the city for over a year now, but I don't dare to, 'cause first thing ; it's to much of a risk. I do not want to die. The zombies would see and attack me immediately. And secondly ; I really have no idea where I am. Literally. I've been inside these forests, wandering deeper and deeper each passing day, that I don't have a single clue on where I am, so I don't even know how to get to the city.
As a little kid I always wanted something big to happen. I actually dreamed, and fantasized about a zombie apocalypse. I wished for it to happen. Now that my wish have come true, I want nothing else but to go back to the way it used to be. And I spent the first few months with wondering if this was my fault, cause I wished for it as a little child, my paranoia being as bad as it is. But I've come to a conclusion that it wasn't my fault, cause I wasn't the one to infect the first zombie with a virus. Or maybe I was? Oh shit, it actually is my fault. God, everybody died because of me. Shit, shit, shit. Breath in, breath out. It isn't my fault. In, out.
I have these weird arguments with myself, both in my head and out loud. Talking to myself has become quite the habit, asking how my day was, and what I want for dinner. I am aware of the fact that I sound like a maniac, but try living alone in the woods with zombies hunting you daily for three years, then come back and talk to me again about being crazy. No, but I've actually kept it together pretty well so far. I'm a skilled shot, both with bow and with guns. I know how to handle a knife, and I know how to hunt. I know how to take care of myself without medicine or coffee, or anybody else constantly helping me. That would be the positive thing coming out of this. The negative would be everything else.
It's dark. Probably in the middle of the night. I must've fallen asleep. How long was I gone? Long enough for the zombies to leave? Sleep and I have never been dear friends. If I'm lucky I get three hours, but that's only on the good nights. Most of the time I'm awake. Maybe not alert, but awake at least. And I know myself well enough to realize that I won't be sleeping anymore tonight. Might as well go check on those zombies.
I untie the rope that has been keeping me steady during the hours that has passed. I drag down my backpack, that I put hanging on a branch just above me, and then I'm ready to go. My shoulder is stinging, but it's better than before. I drag a middle sized knife from my belt. It's not small enough to be a pocket knife, but not big enough for me to accidentally cut myself whenever I pick it up. The knife is sharp, and has a dark brown handle. It's the only thing that I managed to grab before I left my home. It's a kitchen knife, one of my dads favorites. He used it to cut meat into small, beautiful pieces. I never ate the meat, since I used to be a vegetarian (which is impossible right now in my situation), but he did it with such carefulness. I miss seeing him so concentrated on getting the pieces of meat in the exact same sizes.
The knife gives away tiny, scratching sounds as I carve a T into the tree. By carving T's to the places I've been, I'm able to see if I've been here before, and just been walking in circles, or if I'm heading in a new direction. When the T is as big as my hand, making it impossible not to notice if you'd sit here, I put the knife back, satisfied. This is always my favorite part when I leave, realizing that I've never been here before, at least not in this tree. Every time I turn around to see an old T already carved into the stock, it makes me upset at first, but then just sad. I want to be moving on, finding a place where there's people. Not walking around in circles.
Okay, Tweek. Now you need to get down on the ground, and you need to keep running. Running. I remember nineteen year old Tweek, never gotten a day of exercise i his life. Twenty-two year old Tweek is much different. I can run all night, if it's in a steady pace, without getting tired. I might not be able to do countless and countless of pushups, but I am well-trained. It still doesn't show on the outside of my body. I'm still just as thin as I was back then, but I know that I'm stronger and much more skilled. Nineteen year old Tweek wouldn't even think about using a gun, and absolutely not a bow. Both of them are daily basis now, and I don't even care anymore about stabbing zombies in the head with a knife. I don't care if I drop a large rock on their heads, making them explode. I don't care about anything but staying alive anymore, and I don't even know why I care so much about that. There's not really a reason for me to keep on trying as much as I am, everyday is the same. And sooner or later, I will end up dead. If I get killed by the zombies, or if it'll be an infection of some kind will have to surprise me, but I know that the day is getting closer. I'm giving up hope, but at the same time, I'm not. The voice in my head keeps me going strong, though my body is tired and torn. I just don't know for how long I'll be able to pull this off without going completely insane.
The cold wind brushes against my face as I run on a solid ground, a few rocks and branches here and there I jump over. All you can see are thin trees, thick trees, trees with leaves, trees without leaves and more trees. There's so much trees you can barely even see the sky. I can catch a glimpse now and then of the darkness and the stars above me, which always soothes me. The sky is the only thing that never changes.
Food. I should eat. I can't recall the last time I got a proper meal. I've been living on birds. They taste horrible. Or maybe they do taste good, but I disgust myself so much every time I eat one, that it ends up tasting horrible. But birds are an easy target. I'd never shoot a cow or something (not that I've seen one), and birds are tiny enough to eat the whole thing at once. I don't enjoy walking around carrying old meat on me. It's a gross feeling to stick your hand down your back and feel something smooshy. Eww. No, if I catch something, I eat it right away. Same goes with berries. Plants are the only thing I keep in my backpack, when I from time to time find something edible. Most plants are already destroyed, have been cut down, or maybe someone else has eaten from it (does zombies eat plants as well?), but there are times where I find a whole stack of burdocks, or sometimes even dandelions. Then I pack as many as I can in my backpack, and live on it for the upcoming days. They don't last for long though, 'cause I can tell you that you definitely do not get stuffed on those. Meat is filling, but I try to avoid it as much as possible, but in times like now, when I've gone days without finding anything, I need to shoot down a bird. I need to feed.
My listening skills has also developed a lot during the past years. Being able to hear something moving in a wide area is good. It helps. If it's the wind, a zombie or a bird I mostly can't tell. Or, if I hear noises that sounds like somebody's dying I know it's a zombie of course, but I'm talking about tiny things. Sticks being broken, leaves being stomped on, other things I might be imagining that I'm hearing that isn't really there. My paranoia hasn't gotten better, maybe even worse than before. But I'm better at dealing with it now, at least.
I crouch, trying to breathe as calm as possible. Listening to tiny sounds from the trees. I close my eyes. Somehow, I seem to hear better when I can't see. Nothing. I wait a few seconds. Still nothing. Come on, birds, make a sound for fucks sake.
Creek
I fly up from my sitting position, pulling the bow and arrow out quickly. I shoot the arrow at the same direction I heard the sound. A moment later I can hear a thud as the pigeon hits the ground. I run up to it. The pigeon isn't very big. It's white, with grey stripes across the wings, bleeding out from it's chest.
"Sorry, bud. I -ngh-, I didn't want to do this." Something that hadn't gone away during the years was my ticks. Still twitching, still making random noises as I speak. It seems to be permanent, and something that I can not control, no matter how much I want to. The sounds comes out automatically, no matter how hard I try to avoid it. I do not stutter as much as I used to, but I can't get rid off the rest. But I still try to avoid it, making those random sounds, when I talk to myself. If I ever meet someone in this world again, I don't want to scare them off. But getting rid of the twitching thing ; I've given up on it. It won't fucking go away. I don't even care about it anymore, don't care to control or hide it. Who am I supposed to hide it from even? There's no one around to see me. Except for the zombies then, but like they'd give a flying crap. They're not even alive. All they want is to eat my brain and make me one of them.
I know that lighting a fire is dangerous. I know that I risk attracting attention. Slightest light or sound, the zombies comes chasing after you, but I can't eat raw meat, that's just gross.
The matches in my front pocket are starting to run out, and I still have only succeeded once in lighting a fire with rocks. And that was two years ago. I really need to learn some more techniques if I want to survive. I should've watched more adventure movies. All those zombie movies haven't helped a bit. Or maybe the part with "Hit them in the head" has been a little helper, but the rest is just bullshit. "Zombies will not be able to smell you if you're covered in their guts" my ass. That almost got me killed. If I watched some adventure movies, where it was all about How to survive in the wild, I probably would've been in a better place. Now all I got after is the Hunger Games movies, not that it has helped a lot.
I put a few stocks up, like a little fire place, and light it up. The fire warms me instantly, and I bring up the sticks that I've carved in specific ways for them to be able to carry a small weight over fire. I close my eyes when I run the stick through the bird. It always feels just as horrible, hearing the flesh being teared apart.
"Fucking gross, man." I mumble to myself as I place the bird over the fire. It takes about an hour for the meat to get ready to be eaten, so I better just keep watch for zombies for so long. It has happened before that zombies notices the light my fire gives away, that's why it's always important to be alert. I wish that I had coffee. The first few days without it had been tough. For real. I couldn't stop shaking, and it felt like I was going to throw up. Hadn't realized that I was that addicted. I thought that I just drank it because, you know, I felt good when I did. Never that it was something serious, and that I'd feel so horrible without it. Boy, was I wrong. Instead, I'm now constantly tired (might also be due to the fact that I barely sleep), so being alert and active is a big issue.
Anywhere but here. I wish I was anywhere but here. I could be on a crashing plane, or hell, I would even choose to go back to South Park over this. South Park. Only bad memories from there. Or maybe not all bad, in early elementary everything was fine, but when seventh started, my whole life came crashing down on me. And it continued for almost five years. No wonder we moved, even my parents realized that I wouldn't cope if we stayed there. Leaving for North Park was the best choice, but things never quite got better there either. I miss elementary. I miss being able to talk to people my age without getting punched in the face. Even fucking Gary Harrison hated me at the end, though that kid was nice to literally everyone. Everyone except for me, that is. Jocks, or the popular kids, such as Stan, Clyde or Craig started with small comments about my appearance mostly, in seventh grade. By that time, I was already one foot taller than everybody else, with platinum blonde hair going in all directions. They thought it was funny, me being tall. And, well, I didn't. I hung out with Kevin Stoley back then. We never talked or anything in early elementary years, but we were both outcast in from about sixth grade to high school and was just dragged to each other. He ended up leaving me too. I didn't realize that it was a big deal when I came out as gay to the people of South Park. I though they'd react calmly, say that they accepted me. That's how it mostly goes down, in movies and so at least. All grown ups was cool with it, told me I was a strong, young male and blablabla. But after coming out the younger people started jumping me. But I don't think that it was the fact that I was gay that made them punch me, I think that it mostly was 'cause of my weird ticks. They used to call me things like 'spazter' and so. And it hurt. It really did. All those people looking down on me, making fun of me. It crushed the ounce of self-esteem I'd had. I smile when I think back about it. Not a happy smile, more of a 'I'm glad I got through it' smile. Those people really destroyed my life. Fucking douchebags.
The pigeon looks about ready to eat. I put the fire out by simply stomping on it with my foot, and pull the pigeon of the stick. I will spare you the details of me eating it, but yeah. I ate it.
The quest to find safety continues. It's an awful long quest, and I'd settle by just getting some company. Instead of running, I'm walking, or power walking. Like the old ladies in fitness commercials. I don't know which direction I'm going really, but I think I'm heading south, or maybe west.. I should've brought a map. Not that I would be able to tell a certain forest from another, they all look the same. What if I'm still in the same area I started out, three years ago? That'd be horrible. Jesus Christ, I'm stuck in the same place. All this running for nothing. That's not fucking fair.
"No, Tweek. You're not in the same place as you was three years ago. You've moved, and you're on your way to civilization." calming breaths not to work myself up over nothing. Of course I've moved. It's impossible for me to have stayed in the same place. I've been heading in the same direction for years now. At least, I think I've been going in the same direction. Doesn't matter. Or yes, it does. But everything will work out, one way or another. I just need to keep walking. Fun, fun, fun.
"All the single ladies, all the single ladies.." Hours pass by. "Now put your hands up." Night turns into day, darkness into light. "Cause if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it." The only song that I've ever memorized is being sung over and over again by my raspy, high-pitched voice. It's the only way of entertaining myself. I even do those little hand gestures, when I sing 'you should have put a ring on it'. "Oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh.."
My singing is interrupted by a scream. It's loud, and it's frightened. The voice belongs to a male.
"FUCK! HELP, SOMEBODY!" The voice is far away from me. Am I imagining this? I haven't heard another mans voice in years. "GET OFF ME! HELP!" It's all in my head. I have tendencies to make things up sometimes, when I feel extra lonely. But those voices are mostly calm, asking what my favorite movie is or why my I got sad when the most evil person died in game of thrones. "SOMEBODY, PLEASE!" Fuck. I can not not look this up. I don't know if this is all me making it up, but it sounds real. Real enough for me to start running in the direction I think it's coming from.
The screams are getting louder, closer. It's filled with panic, filled with hysteria. I increase my running pace. Faster. If this person ends up dead before I get there, I'll never be able to forgive myself. Suddenly my mind wanders over to 'How do I look?' Do I look mad? Do I look insane? I haven't looked at myself in a mirror in forever, so either of it wouldn't surprise me. My hair must be going in all directions, and multiple scarring has occurred in my face. Or that's what I assume, since I have scarring from scratches from zombies all over the rest my body, so why would my face be an exception? But why the fuck am I thinking about this? There's a person that needs saving. Focus, Tweek.
The screaming is only meters away now, and I pull out my bow and an arrow to be prepared to shoot. Between two trees, I can see somebody, completely surrounded by zombies. He's screaming from the top of his lungs. "GUYS! FUCKING COME RESCUE ME! I can't see his entire body(nor his face), but it seems like he has no weapon. All he's doing now is fighting of the zombies with a stick. Pathetic, really. Well, he's trying at least.
I shoot away my first arrow, letting it pierce through the head of the zombie that's closest to him. I don't have the time to deal with the guys shocked look, instead I pull out another two arrows and fire away. 3 more zombies to go. The ones that where attacking him has now targeted me instead, starting to run against me. I pull out my dagger from my belt, and can't help but smile when the first zombie jumps on me. God, I really must look like a psychopath. My dagger digs its way into the zombies skull, and I rip it out as quick as it got in. The last two are closing up on me. I want to use the gun, but I know that I'll just attract attention, and drag more zombies here. I should really try to get my hands on those quiet bullets, that doesn't make a sound at all. Do those even exists, or are those just movie props? It'd be cool, anyways. Instead, I'll just have to keep going with my dagger. I don't really mind though. They're simple targets. A slash here and a slash there. Boom. Killing zombies that aren't prepared are a lot easier.
I dry my knife off, completely forgetting about the fact that there's a human standing in front of me. A person. Alive. It's only when I look up to se a scared face there inches away that everything comes clear. I take a few steps away, simply out of shock. No fucking way. It can't be.. No. Just no.
"Spazter?! The fuck?! Dude!" he yells out with a loud voice. He looks scared. Of course he is. We haven't met in five years, and last time he saw me he gave me a punch in the face. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I freeze. That's the first human touch in three years, and it honestly feels great, even though it's from fucking king douche himself. "It's Stan! Stan Marsh! South Park?" He's smiling at me. Euw. I know I'm acting childish and all now, he probably grew up to be a nice young man, and completely forgot about the part where he and his friends fucked up my life, but.. Fucking hell.
"S-stan?" Of course, I fucking stutter. Five years and this is the first thing you do - except for saving his life, that is. "What are you doing here?" I bite my lip. All that goes through my mind is profanities, over and over again. Anybody but him. I stare into his freezing blue eyes. He's grown up to be an average looking boy, or man, or whatever.. It just feels weird calling him a man. His hair is short, and barely covers his ears. It's still a dark color, but instead of all black hair you can actually see hints of brown now. His face has sharpened, he has lost a bit of baby fat around his chins I guess. About 1 feet shorter than me, so he's about average. I didn't realize that I was this tall. I must've grown even more than the 6.5 feet I was when I left South Park, or he has just gotten shorter. I doubt the second theory. He's well built, and still looks like that jock he was in high school, but maybe a little wider shoulder. He looks torn, tired. Well, of course he does. We're living in a world with zombies.
Ignoring my question, he responds loud with "The fuck did you do out there?! That was sick! You where all like slitting them up like waow, waow." He gestures with his hands, making it look like I was holding a laser sword or something. This isn't Star Wars, dude. "You're fucking badass! Where did you learn that?!"
I'm just about to respond with something mean when I realize that his eyes are scanning me, from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. It's making me uncomfortable. This whole situation is making me uncomfortable. My social skills has never been good, and definitely not with Stan anywhere around. And I still can't stop focusing on that this is the first time I've talked to anyone that isn't myself in a long time.
Stan grins at me. Not a sneer smile, more nice. Like he looks at me as I'm one of his friends. This feels so wrong.
"You're tall." he mumbles. No fucking shit, Sherlock.
puuuu
It sounds like somebody's breathing. Close. Is there someone out there watching is? Shit. Its gotta be.
"Did you hear that?!" I turn my head in all different directions there is, trying to find somebody or something hiding among the trees but there's nothing. The sound doesn't repeat itself. Stan looks like a question mark. Must have been in my head. "Ngh, never mind. I've been training in the woods and-.." He interrupts me. Asshole.
"Where's your group, dude?" He looks around, but when he sees nothing, or nobody, except for trees, he slowly turns back to face me. A shocked look is marked on his face, as he'd just realized something horrible. "Don't tell me you've been on your own?..Shit, man." He seriously looks concerned, or scared almost. He was concerned almost all the time when he was with Wendy, the overprotective dude he is. Wendy. Oh shit, Wendy got bit on live camera. Those two where fucking lovebirds, inseparable. Stan and Wendy for life, you know? God, he must be devastated. Am I supposed to mention it to him? Say that I'm sorry for his loss? No, it'll just remind him. Like he'd ever forget.
"Eh, yeah. Just me, myself and I, you know?" My hands flies up to my hair, ready to pull in it out of nervousness, but I stop myself. That was the shit I did in South park. Pull my hair as hard as I could when I got nervous, or was panicking. When things, or my paranoia to be more exact, got worse, I had the tendencies to slam my head into things. Walls, tables, anything firm and steady. I mostly didn't even notice what I was doing myself until somebody stopped me. But no going back to that, I'm better now. I'm stronger. I'm in control. The part of me that keeps questioning that can go fuck itself.
"Wow, Spazter. Nobody could handle being around you?"
Great. Fucking great. Oh, and I thought he'd changed. That maybe he'd matured after FIVE YEARS. Who even says these things as a grown up, knowing the other person is suffering? Or maybe he doesn't know I'm suffering? Maybe he's a psychopath? Oh god, I'm stuck in the woods with a psychopath and zombies. I'm going to die. This is the end of me. He's gonna stab me with my own knife and steal all of the things I've worked for, and I'd be fucking helpless. I'd never hurt a human, and even less KILL a human. That's just sick.
Stan leans forward to punch me lightly on my arm and chuckles amused. "You realize I'm just joking around with you, right?" No, I have a very hard time understanding when people use irony, and considering the fact that you bullied me a big part of my life, you saying mean shit is not something I'd consider to be a joke.
"It's…." Interrupted again. This time not by Stan, but by myself since I just stopped talking, regarding the fact that there's a zombie about five meter behind Stan. "Run." I say silently. The zombie's walking slow, maybe it's one of those with one of its feet cut off. It happens sometimes, when people forget that you have to stick something in their brains for them to die, so they just start chopping them in weird places instead.
"What did you say?" Stan questions.
"GAH! RUN!" And that officially confirms that it isn't one zombie with walking disabilities, but it's ten zombies, leaving the woods in front of me, sprinting right at us. The first zombie tries to grab Stans' shoulder, but I manage to do it first. I push him forward, forcing him to start running, as I join him. Stan is already a bit ahead of me, but with my long legs I catch up to him fast.
We run, only to realize that the zombies are catching up on us. Stan is looking terrified, when he suddenly slows down. My mind wobbles between to keep on running or slow down with him.
"Ngh, Stan?! C'mon man, we need to keep running!" I shout at him when I decide to slow down with him. Rather end up dead than alone again, honestly. Even though I'll have to be not-alone with Stan.
"Just wait, dude." Stan sounds totally calm, smirking a bit. He turns around, the zombies only being about ten seconds away from us now. "I've got this figured out." Oh god, he really is insane. Nobody just stands still when death itself is running against you.
The next few seconds could be mistaken as a dream, since it all went fast and blurry. Multiple people jumps down from the tree, attacking a large group of the zombies with knives and spears. The remaining zombies that keeps on our way is just about few enough for me to handle on my own. I fasten my hand around the shaft of the knife, and pull it out quickly to place it in a zombies head. I can see in the back of my eye that Stan's fighting another zombie with some sort of axe. The smelling creature in front of me falls down and I jump on another. This one's quicker. It's pressing its whole weight against me, but I refuse to fall. It's determined to bite my throat off, cause I'm no in position of killing it since both my hands are occupied keeping it away from me.
My feet gets a connection with some sort of steady object, probably a rock, and I fall down backwards with the zombie on top of me. I want to scream, I really do, and I would've if I was alone. If I screamed now maybe they'd look at me as weak, and I'd be alone again? They'd definitely not let me be in their group, that's for sure. God, I don't want to be alone. Focus, Tweek. Oh, right. I have a fucking zombie on top of me. Why do my paranoid thoughts always come to me in the worst situations?
The zombies mouth is closing in on my throat. Why can't I push it away? I'm too tired for this. I gather all my strength to try one last time to get the zombie off me, when I suddenly feel, and see it getting ripped way from me, ending up on the ground next to me. It growls, irritated that it didn't bite me. My rescuer stabs the zombie in the head with a spear. I can see the life, or not life, death? I don't know what to call it. But the zombie fades away at least. I sit up on my elbows, dragging myself away from the person that just saved me. It's just instinct, you know? To get as fast away from the danger as possible.
"Hey, you need help up?" A dark voice says. I was so focused with dragging myself towards some kind of escape road that I didn't realize the person had out his hand out, meaning for me to grab it. Awkwardly I let out a "GAH", out of pure reaction. When I get scared or shocked it's something I tend to do. My gaze wanders up from staring at the ground to looking at the young, handsome boy standing in front of me.
His legs are long, but he has a bit shorter upper body which makes him just a bit over the average length. Maybe 6.3? His shoulders are wide, and he's obviously well trained, but not like those scary body builders, but like simple nice shape. His face is symmetrical. Way too symmetrical. Harsh lines sculpting his face, and raven hair that falls down to his ears. There's a scar on one of his cheeks, going from about the side of the nose to the center of the left cheek. He's insanely beautiful and looks like a fucking magazine cover. When my eyes meets his, I freeze. They're pale blue, and yes, they're stunning. But it's not about the looks this time. I recognize them. I recognize him.
"Craig?"