My breath comes out in short huffs through cracked, arid lips. I press my back against the wall and slide my shoulder blades along the brick, the cotton weave of my sweater catching on the rough, pock-marked stone.
I dare not look around the corner.
Besides, I can hear the garbled moans already.
"You can do this," I whisper over my chattering teeth, my hands sliding over the smooth metal of the pistol. The cold, slick surface offers little comfort, but my fingers keep grasping nonetheless, fumbling to steady themselves over the trigger.
I take one last breath, though it does nothing in the way of reassurance, and I throw my rigid body around the wall and into the mouth of the adjacent alleyway.
I never did get used to the sight of them.
Yellowed skin, drooping down over jutting cheekbones, stretched taut along gnashing jaws and hollow eyes, nothing more than skeletons dressed in rotting, pre-treated leather, the smell of it…god…so awful I gag on a dry tongue. They lurch across the rain-slicked pavement, never seeming to know where they are, who they are, what they are…though, perhaps it's a blessing that they don't. They act purely on desperate instinct, on the need—the horrifyingly grotesque need—for anything and everything living.
But they've consumed almost everything so far. Nothing is left, at least in the city. The sky scrapers loom over barren streets like giant gravestones. Yet here I am, darting in and out between them, a mouse scurrying through an elaborate trap.
My thumb pulls back on the lever and the gun cocks with a resounding click. None of them notice me yet; their blank stares remain stagnant and their footsteps languidly uneven.
Go around them, my brain instructs, keep to the shadows.
I crouch low and duck behind a nearby dumpster, my thighs shaking violently as one creeps past. Its hand hangs limply at its side and with each step its crooked ankle drags behind, a wretched display of inhumanity, of wrongness in its purest form. I wait until I can no longer hear its grating breath, and I poke my head out from hiding.
Once I see a clear path, I dart out and hurry past the endless stream of sewer grates and decayed piles of garbage. The smell is almost as horrendous as the bodies that lie in the corner, but still not strong enough to overcome the stench of rot that fills every crevice in every building and every street. I see a window propped open to my right, just out of reach. Luckily, beneath it lays a mountain of trash, and I scramble up the slope and reach towards the edge of the sill. It's a centimeter or two beyond my fingertips and I slip down as the bags erode from my weight. One of them contains nothing but glass bottles, and the racket it makes while sliding down sets my heart on a rampage.
Oh god no…no no…
My scattered thoughts lose the last of their consistency as several snarls lash out through the air. I look back over my shoulder, every inch of my body trembling in fear; a half-dozen walkers fill my vision, each and every one of them fully focused on me.
My senses go into overload and the hand grasping the pistol whips up to eye level. The shot is fired before I even process firing it, and a sickening splatter of blood erupts from the back of the closest walker's skull. The body crumples instantly, it limbs splayed haphazardly on the concrete.
A split second of silence follows the sharp bang of the gun, and my blood freezes. What have you done?
Then it passes, and the walkers come at me like a pack of rabid dogs.
Before I know it, I'm clawing my way up the trash heap again, my breath wheezing through my teeth and my eyes stretched wide as I pump my legs to push me higher. I don't feel the brick sand away at the pads of my fingers as I clamber up the wall and grip the edges of the opening; I don't feel my knees bash against the vertical surface as I pull myself up; I don't feel the sharp, metal frame rip at my sleeve. But… I do feel the trash bag pile collapse as several of them fall over in their wild pursuit, dragging the plastic with them; I do feel one of their gnarled hands as it briefly grabs hold of the sole of my shoe, and I do feel skin give way beneath my heel as I shoot my foot back into its jaw.
As I lift the last of my body through the window and onto a ledge inside, outraged growls and guttural rasps tear through the alleyway. I slam the window shut and slump against the wall, my head leaning back as I wait for my heart to slow again. Muted thuds emanate from outside the window as several sets of hands thump against the glass, but I try my best to ignore them, even as one drags its cracked fingernails down the smooth surface with a chill-raising screech.
Once my breath settles I pull the gun into my lap and run my sweat-slicked palm along the barrel. Too close that time…I need to be more careful. Every walker within five miles will be drawn to the surrounding streets thanks to the loud crack of the shot; I curse at myself for my stupidity. My thoughts reassemble and I plan my course of action: secure the building. It's only a few levels high, much to my relief since my body is past the point of exhaustion, and there's only two entry points to the street. I shuffle quietly through each room, my finger resting lightly on the trigger. As I pass by another hallway, I notice an emergency firebox mounted to the wall. In it rests a small hatchet, something I could use in lieu of my raucous pistol.
After smashing the glass as quietly as possible I grab the hatchet in one hand and slide my pistol through my belt loop with the other. I clear the rest of the rooms and then make my way to the ground entrances, shoving several poles through the door handles and pushing whatever large pieces of furniture I can find to block the way. As I drag a desk to the back door, I see several walkers approaching from down the street. Their deadened eyes lock with mine and they adjust their pace, increasing from a slow amble to a grueling lurch. I double my efforts.
By the time I hear their claw-like hands beat against the doors, I've assembled two sturdy barricades. Only a horde of a hundred or more could put up enough effort to break the glass panels and force their way through.
I head to the center of the building and sit down on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. It's awful being alone. Alone in this. This mess of a world. What a difference it would make to have someone at my back, someone to help out, to stay by my side. I'd take anybody over this loneliness, this uncertainty that you'll see the light of day again, living minute by minute.
I hear the snarls faintly from outside, and I curl into a tighter ball.
Suddenly, amidst the silence, a quiet crackling sounds from an adjacent room. I poke my head out from my legs and scan for the source, my eyes eventually coming to rest on the small security office. The door is slightly ajar and I jump up to investigate. Two desks sit facing each other in the tiny closet of a room. The crackling continues sporadically, and after wrenching open drawer after drawer, I finally find what I was looking for; a hand held radio.
Every cell in my being awakens with hope as their fuel, and before I even know what to say, my thumb presses firmly down on the button.
"Hello…?" I say, fumbling for words to throw from dry lips. "H-hello? Is anyone there? I'm stuck in a building…it's surrounded…there's dozens of them and…please send help." I release my thumb and wait with baited breath, listening for any faint sound of life on the other end.
Nothing.
"Hello!?" I yell into the mic again, already feeling my chest fall with bitter, stinging disappointment. "Please answer!"
I listen for five full minutes to nothing but long silence dotted with pockets of tiny crackles. A heartbroken rage builds beneath my skin, and my throat closes on a sorrowful lump. Why did I get worked up over something that doesn't work? Why do I allow myself to fall victim to naivety? I let loose a small dry sob and I throw my face towards the ceiling, letting loose my anger, my fear, my feeling of betrayal. My mouth opens wide and I scream until the air scrapes the back of my throat raw. It isn't fair. Nothing is fair anymore. The world is upside down.
Just before I throw the radio down on the desktop, the speaker fills with life.
"…crrrrsh—Hello? Did we hear someo—crrsh—barely have a signal over here—crsh—radio towers almost dead, generators are dyi—crshh—stay on, tell us where you ar—crrsshhh…"
Everything freezes for a moment; a recent breath gets trapped behind my tongue as my ears prick and fizzle into focus. The message repeats itself again, this time more slowly, more understandably. I can barely believe what I'm hearing is real. For a moment, logic insists that I made it up, that the noise is nothing more than a hallucination, a dream. Nothing more than my own mind flipping around on itself. But then I realize…
The remnants of my outburst and my newfound spark of excitement mix and cause my limbs to stiffen and shake.
Someone's out there; they heard me!
As soon as I break out of the icy grip of shock, I dart upstairs where I can look out a window and search for street signs. Few remain from the numerous riots that erupted in the streets as soon as people figured out government wouldn't save them, militaries wouldn't save them, nothing on this godforsaken rock would save them…
But they are there after all, or at least two of them are on the other side. I sprint back down the stairs and grab the radio so forcibly that I bend the plastic holster it's nestled in.
"I heard you! I heard it, I'm here I'm still here are you listening? Tell me you're listening!" I trip over my phrases with desperation.
It produces a small crsssh and something that sounds like an affirmation. I don't care if it was clear or not; I continue.
"I'm trapped in a three story building across the street from the corner of 15th and 8th. Be careful, there're walkers everywhere; I shot off a gun and attracted tons of them…come armed and, if you can get to the roof from another building, come in from above. I have all other doors blocked off for now but I don't know how long they'll hold."
I wait for a moment, barely moving, barely breathing.
After weeks of absolutely no communication…this moment is crucial.
And finally…
"crrshh—copy that, we'll be there soon."
The most liberating wave of relief that I've ever felt washes over me and fills me to my fingertips with elation. Somebody's coming for me. In a short amount of time—hopefully a short amount of time—I won't be alone anymore.
Wild, hopeful fantasies flood my mind.
What if the person's part of a larger group? What if they live on a refuge outside the city? What if they have clean water…and clean clothes…and, oh god, what if they have soap?! And electricity…and…fresh food…fresh, crisp vegetables that taste sweet and ripe when you bite into them…what if there's green grass…and flowers, gardens…What if…what if…
I sit and entertain myself with lofty dreams, spinning around in an office chair and staring at the popcorn ceiling, imagining society again, imagining a place where there's no panic and fear, no need for guns and knives and axes…somewhere…peaceful.
I lay back and wonder, a smile growing on my lips as my thoughts drown out the growls and the pounding. What if…