Act II: Tagalong
"Chris left me all the time when I was a child. Seven years older than me, he had an innate drive to be the strongest, fastest, smartest teenager in his school. I was his slightly fat, snobby little sister. When dad left, I became afraid of being alone and started following him. At first he ditched me easily. But I figured that if Chris could be fast and strong, he would never be fast and strong enough to leave me if I were faster and stronger. And while I never did get stronger than him, I certainly got fast enough that he finally stopped ditching me. Or at least that's what I told myself. The truth is, Chris finally stopped ditching me because he didn't want me around. Nowadays, he chose to ditch me so I wouldn't get hurt.
My empty gun was digging into my stomach. I'd tucked it into the front of my jeans when I used the last cartridge. I'd been hoping to find more ammo in the future, but now I was wondering if I should have just ditched it. The duct had me stuck. Or did I have myself stuck?
I guess it didn't really matter because either way, I wasn't going anywhere. My shoulders were pinched on both sides. The air was thick and hot and putrid and clung to my skin like a third layer of skin. A heavy layer of dust clung to me like second skin.
I stopped wiggling and lowered my head. I hadn't stopped crying since entering the ducts. I was aware that I'd probably mourn for the lost liquid when, after being trapped for a day or two, dehydration set in. If I didn't die of hunger before then. And that was ironic. I hadn't wanted to be eaten, so I'd fled into the vents. And now I was probably going to die of starvation.
Maybe it would have been better if the zombies had just gotten a good hold and dragged me into their midst. At least they were so numerous that I would have died quickly. Probably.
As a personal rule, I try not and think about what would be the best way to die. Because there really isn't a best way to die, is there? I mean besides lying in bed when you're ninety something, with your loved one close and a lifetime of cherished memories blurring into the white light of beyond.
There was a thump, and lone, anguished moan somewhere behind me. I couldn't see behind me, but I knew what it was. Zombie. Of course it was a zombie. It'd worked its way into the vent and would be working its way to me now. And when it arrived, it would go for a double helping of legs. I could imagine teeth sinking into the bottoms of my feet (nevermind the fact that I'm wearing boots).
I extended my arms as far forward as they would go. I bunched my legs as close to my body as possible. My fingers struggled for a purchase, found a rivet, and attempted to use that to pull myself forward while I pushed forward with my feet.
My shoulder squeaked a centimeter away from the zombie, probably leaving patches of skin behind. I exhaled, tasting my death in the air. Repositioned myself, pulling, pushing again. The zombie, even if it didn't fit, would just keep yanking towards me until it either lost enough of its body to fit or it reached me. If I wanted to escape, I would just have to keep trying. The alternative was unacceptable.