Chapter Twenty-One

It's the next day, and we're preparing to run for our lives again. While the others look as though they wish to forget the confrontation last night, in my mind it still haunts me terribly. A terrible spectre of murder hangs over my head. Was I, in fact, the one responsible for Lorraine's death? I suppose there's no way we would ever be certain, and that's partially what's bothering me. I want to know, I feel as though I need to know, or the question will haunt me forever. I want to investigate this, if only to hopefully clear me of any guilt. However, right now we are far too preoccupied to hold any conversation aside from the extremely simple. At the very least, I don't have to worry about infecting any of the other three – they've all drawn blood on this treacherous journey of theirs, with nothing happening as a consequence of it other than pain.

"There's a gun shop over on Lexington, if I recall." Says Jim. I get the feeling the others already know this, that they had planned this stop long before, and he was only restating it, as a sort of mission briefing for the day. "We can resupply there. Would make for a good spot to stop as well, for the night, if we need to."

And so we entered, into the cityscape arena. An onslaught of infected was ready to greet us only a couple minutes in. It took every bit of concentration I had to keep my actions calm and precise enough to actually be of some help in the fray. My adrenaline was pumping relentlessly, to the point where it physically had worn me out after periods of time. The other three, though much more skilled in combat than I, fell prey to brief bouts of exhaustion as well. Greg and I tended to tire out first; Ann and Jim lasted longer. It's odd if you ask me, where's our supposed youthful energy at?

At the moment we're stopped for just a moment, ten minutes or so, inside a karate studio. Thank goodness the infected that we had to clear out from it first didn't remember their martial training from their previous life. That would have been something I do not want to tangle with.

One of the walls is a mirror. I suppose that was so the students could see themselves as they were practicing moves, or something. For me, it means I keep looking at my ugly mug, when I'd really prefer not to. I've told myself a couple of times that I'll simply have to get used to it, but there's this little nagging glimmer of hope in a decrepit corner of my mind that keeps wanting me to know that there might be a cure yet! The logical thinker in me thinks perhaps for normal infected there will be, but not in the special cases like mine. I mean, I don't even look my old self; what would I revert back into?

Greg notices my reluctance to glance towards the mirror wall. "You're a zombie, not a vampire. The mirror's not gonna burn you to cinders." I hear him grumble while I'm in the middle of counting my remaining ammo. I turn to him, about to say something, but only a sigh escapes. His demeanor may not be filled with the fervorous anger he assaulted me with the previous night, but he still holds the mien of one who is full of vengeance just waiting to be unleashed. He also bears the look of one who has just transcended some sort of life barrier. Undoubtedly, the events of the past several weeks have hardened him, but I would not be surprised if the death of his grandmother was the final catalyst in the equation to transform this boy into a man. I suppose I should start calling him one then, instead of just a "kid". Relations between the two of us might even resolidify, if only slightly.

I set down my bag full of ammo and stand up. I catch the attention of all but Jim for a moment. I walk towards the mirrored wall, and the identical infected girl on the other side walks towards me in greeting. Wow, they were right. My eyes do glow a very evil red. Every other time I saw my reflection, it was in nighttime so I simply saw them in the same color as everything else. As I reach the mirror I can get a clear view of myself. My hair is a mess of tangles and dirt. I've got spots of caked and blood on my face I hadn't even noticed.

I sigh again. "I'm hideous, in case you hadn't noticed." I look towards Greg's reflection in the mirror. "Would want to look at yourself if you were transfigured like this?" He doesn't respond, and only returns to checking his equipment, or something.

I return my gaze to in front of me, at my own reflection. I have an idea. "Ann?" I call out. "Or anybody I suppose. Could someone do me a favor?"

"Perhaps." Ann responds. "Is it quick? Cause we gotta go."

I spy her through her reflection, standing up with shotgun in hand, ready to head out and return to the front lines. "Could you c'mere for a moment?" She walks towards me, not completely devoid of nervous hesitation, but nearly. "My hair's been getting in the way. Could you hold it back while I cut it?"

"You can't do this yourself?"

"You said we're short on time."

"I did." She sets down her shotgun, and approaches me.

I had nearly forgotten the sensation of human contact. It's been so long; it had become an alien thing to me. I lean my head back slightly, and she (with great apprehension; I'm sure touching an infected is unsettling) gathers my hair together. "Zombies ain't supposed to have hair this nice." I hear her mumble.

I ignore her remark. "Yeah, just hold it like that. Watch your hand. I promise I won't get you." She holds the strands by their ends and takes a step back. I lean my head forward, look in the mirror, and with one clean movement of my index finger, cut through. Instantly my head feels just a bit lighter from the excess weight missing. I look back in the mirror. My bangs are no more than chin length, and no other part of my hair is longer than that. It's slightly liberating, as though I just shed some kind of emotional metaphor along with the locks.

"Ah, much better." I say to my reflection, and turn around to face Ann. We look each other in the eyes, and she freezes. At least I think she does. She has a blank expression on her face, still holding the gray strands of hair in her hand.

"You… alright? I don't think it looks that bad…"

She snaps out of it. "N-No! No! It's- No, it's not at all, it's great- Sorry, ignore me."

I shrug. Jim walks up to us. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take those." He grabs the leftover hair from Ann's hand and ties it up with some rubber bands he nabbed from the karate dojo's reception desk, and stuffs it in a pocket.

"Okay, that's not creepy at all, Jim." Greg says, sarcastically.

"Hey, for all we know, the cure could come out of this. I'm saving everything suspicious that I can."

"What, because it's infected hair?" I ask.

"Because you're the only zombie that's retained a mind, that's why." Jim responds.

I return to my bag of ammo and my rifle, and ready up to head back out with the three of them. "You all keep using 'zombie'. So I'm a zombie now?" I say while slinging my bag over my shoulder.

"You have a better word?" Says Jim.

"Well, zombies imply that they're undead. You know, like… they died and came back to life? Last time I checked, I never di-" I grind my sentence to a halt and gasp. "Wait, I blacked out once or twice. Did I die then? Are you telling me I died!" I had not thought of this possibility at all. I'm not quite sure how it would change my situation, though.

"No, no, no. You didn't die. At least I don't think so." I breathe a sigh of relief. "From what we've seen, they're not those kind of zombies. They're like… ah, what was that movie that came out a few years ago? The zombie film set in England?"

"Oh. You mean 28 Days Later."

"That's it. They were just infected with something, and they ran fast as well. Eerie how accurate to the real things they were."

"Yeah… but, I wouldn't call those zombies. I dunno, I'm kind of a purist when it comes to zombie flicks. You know, George Romero, Night of the Living Dead? Can't say I really liked Boyle's zombies."

"How can you not like that movie?" Greg pipes in. Guess he overheard us.

I shrug again, and sigh. "I always get flak every time I mention that. I just didn't like it. Didn't even bother seeing the sequel."

Greg mumbles something under his breath before the four of us ready ourselves to return to the outdoors and try and make it to the gun shop by sunset. Just as we step through the doors into the midday sun, I realize I may have just made a new reason for the guy to hate me.