This wasn’t normal. The shamblers were normally easy to predict. They were easy to avoid if you were careful and they weren’t in huge numbers. That was their real danger. Just the mass of bodies crushing towards you with no way to escape. But small numbers, if one was quiet and careful, they could avoid them, predict their behavior, use that against them.
But, here he was, being pinned in by them. It was almost pitch black. The moon was waning. The cloud cover was heavier than it had been. Mostly it was dark, with faint light from the glow of the moon behind the clouds. Every so often a beam of moonlight would reach out, a shard of incandescent white, illuminating something random.
That’s how he first saw it. The different one. The thing stood there, hunkered down, near a building, as if it were hiding in the shadows. Then it grunted and he saw the shamblers come from the darkness. He thought of opening fire but that always attracted more. Instead, he just ran.
Any person could outrun them. They didn’t move fast. But he’d see that one, the odd one, every so often. It would always be off to the side, or even ahead of him, forcing him to move again. Was it herding him? It couldn’t be.
He’d encountered a lot of shamblers after the fall. And he had his share of watching the bitten turn. The only reason he was out now, in the dark, was medicine. The small community of survivors he had hunkered down with was safe. They just needed flu and cold medicine, antibiotics, pain killers. Even over the counter pain killers had become as valuable as gold after the fall.
They were held up in an old library. The thing was built out of stone and concrete, more like a gothic fortress than what anyone would expect. It was easy to secure and lock down. It was also nursed by a gravity fed fresh water cistern. They had food, they had water, they had security.
He had directions from one of the survivors in their enclave. It was a private clinic that had everything they needed. He insisted that he go to help. A few in the group didn’t see the urgency but he pressed. They were going to draw lots but he volunteered. He hadn’t been good at much before the fall. He had trouble holding down a job, trouble keeping a wife, trouble keeping his kids. But this thing he was doing now. This thing he was good at.
It was there again. The creature stood up from behind an abandoned car and sprang out, diving on him. Its teeth sank deep into the only exposed area on his upper arm. He quickly drew his pistol and put two rounds into the thing’s chest. The explosions rang out like giant bells in the silent night.
The creature staggered back. He put a round in its forehead. The explosive force from the magnum revolver blew the top of the creature’s head off. It crumpled back and fell, like a marionette with the strings cut. But the damage had been done. The sound had attracted the rest.
He spun and darted down the alley. The light from a window caught his eye. It was halfway up the building, accessible via a fire escape. He ran to the ladder that hung just out of reach. He jumped up, missed, then tried again, grabbed the ladder, and pulled it down. He quickly climbed and pulled on the ladder, desperate to get it back up and out of reach before the shamblers could grab it.
The bite began to burn and he ignored it. Normally going up high meant you were trapped. But the window with a light was inviting. The building was large and he could make the roof if he needed. He felt he could use the windows or ledges to escape. He had done it before. Far too many times to care to think about.
He climbed carefully, trying to be as quiet as he could. They were gathering below him. They must have been closer than he thought, maybe that thing kept them at bay? Now they were swarming. He had never seen a shambler jump or climb, or even figure anything out. The fire escape ladder should be out of reach for them.
He reached the window. It was open but partially covered by plywood on the inside. He pulled his pistol and aimed into the open space in the window. With his face following behind his gun, he peeked in. It was a room, nothing more. Just a single room. He was able to push aside the plywood and force the window open the rest of the way. He climbed in and forced it closed. He returned the plywood, blocking the entire window, and picked up the boards that were there to hold pressure against it. For the moment, he was safe.
The room had light. A single bulb. That meant power? But there was no power in the city. What building was this? The room had a cot, a shelf filled with rations. A large amount of rations. It was an amazing find. There were a sink and toilet to one side. The water ran from the sink and smelled as good as the water in the library. It was drinkable.
He washed his wound. He wore leather bracers, covering his elbow and part of his upper arm. Normally when those things bit, their first target was the forearm. It was natural. This thing though, it aimed at the part that was not covered.
His blood flushed out into the sink. He forced the panic down. A bite was always fatal. And then one turned. He reached into the belt pouch he wore and pulled out two vials. One was bleach, he used it to flush the wound. The other was acid. It burned the wound closed and kept it from bleeding further. There was also the hope that it could burn out the infection. He almost screamed.
Though there were stories to the contrary, he had never seen the bleach and acid treatment work. What he did see is that it had given the bitten extra time. It was the same if the limb was amputated right away. The bitten always died and turned. It could just take longer. He’d know soon enough. He wrapped it and then began looking around the room.
Only one window out of the room. Only one door. A vent leading out near the ceiling. It wasn’t a lowered ceiling like most office buildings. The room was solid. As his eyes scanned the room they were caught by a clipboard hanging from a hook on the door. It held a pad of paper clasped in its metal clip. At the top of the first page, he could easily see words, written very large and blackened, ‘If you’re reading this’.
“What the fuck,” he whispered, catching himself to stop talking. He was so used to total silence when he was out, he never spoke, tried to never make a sound. But the oddness of the clipboard, the room, caused the words to escape on their own. He pulled the clipboard off the wall. It was a sheaf of papers, multiple pages, hand written. He looked at the shelves of supplies.
He saw fruit cups. Amazing, lovely, beautiful fruit cups. He grabbed the entire case. And then behind it, he saw beer. He grabbed that too. He went to the cot, sat down, opened a fruit cup and inhaled it. He then opened a beer and drank deeply. He then began to read.
“If you can read this then it means I haven’t eaten you.”
He stopped. He quickly looked around the room, then checked the door. It was locked and dead-bolted from the inside. He checked the window. It was still secure. He grabbed another beer and went back to the cot.
“I was bit. I am turning. The damn thing jumped out and bit my leg. It avoided the leather greaves I was wearing and got me at the back of the knee. It’s like it knew where to bite. I shot it but then they all came. That’s how I ended up in this room. I was running down the alley and saw the light.”
He stopped again. His pulse was increasing and he felt the tingles of fear crawl up the back of his skull. He went to the door and opened the deadbolt. He tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. It was blocked from the other side. He paced, beginning to freak out a bit. Then he turned and returned to the cot to continue reading.
“The door is blocked from the other side.”
“Well dammit,” he said.
“Look, I don’t know. But that thing was herding me close to here and that’s when it bit me. It used the other shamblers to help draw me right to this spot.”
He stopped reading and recalled. Yes, the letter was right. They did that to him too.
“If it was smart enough for that,” the letter continued. “Then why was it so easy to kill it after it bit me? I don’t know. I can’t figure that out.”
There was a space in the paper, some stains. Tears?
“I used to be a good husband. I used to be a good dad. But when the kids turned I couldn’t stand to look at my wife. I kept volunteering for shit like this.”
He stopped reading. The words struck him hard. He had no idea if his wife or kids survived. They were with her new husband and three states away. When the fall first happened, he had started to try and get to them. But then, well things happened and as each day went by he knew that effort, that quest was becoming more and more fictional.
But, the shamblers, killing them, fighting them, that he was good at. He was far more important of a human being after the fall than he was before the fall. And he gave up on his kids and their mom for that. He bowed his head. The truth of those words slapped him in the face.
He continued reading.
“I used to be a good person. I don’t know. I mean, before. When everything was normal. When I was worried about bills, stressed about getting a promotion, working too many hours. I think that’s why I volunteer for the outings. I think about how things were before. I think about our bed, about getting up to watch cartoons with my boys in the morning.”
His tears were beginning. He did that with his boys before she left him and took them with her. He shoved the tears back down. He wasn’t that person anymore. He wasn’t even that good at being that person before. He had snapshots of being good, his good dad memory pictures. And that album was pretty shallow.
“After they turned my wife almost killed herself. Maybe I should have let her. I ended up ignoring her. I’d watch her just sit there staring at the wall. Doing nothing, just staring at the wall. Waiting I guess.”
He thought he heard a slight noise. He stopped moving and stood. He got dizzy. The change, it was starting. That was too fast. Too fast. He checked the deadbolt. It was still locked. He went back to reading.
“You know what’s messed up? I didn’t even have to go out. I came up with a reason. I kept spending all my time collecting supplies. The school we’re in is well stocked. Everyone is safe until their supplies run out. But I kept going out. Putting them at risk because I can’t stand sitting there. I can’t stand looking at her. I can’t stand just doing nothing. I need…”
There was a space before he continued writing.
“Thought I heard a noise. I’m turning. I can feel it. It’s coming. I’m going to shoot myself. I don’t want to turn. I used to be a good person. I don’t think so annnnyyyymmmmoooorreeee….”
The word strained. His head began swimming. It was starting. He was going to turn soon. He pulled his handgun and laid it down on the cot. He wouldn’t continue the cycle. He’d end himself before the time. He returned to reading.
“I don haf much time. It’s getting harrrder to rite. I need to end it. IiImm sorry…”
The letter ended. The change was happening faster than it should. He felt it coming. His vision was turning. His brain slowing. He picked up the handgun. He looked at it. He wasn’t even sad to end it. Everything he’s done since before and after the fall. He deserved it. He put the barrel in his mouth and cocked the hammer.
There was a noise on the other side of the door. Like a heavy bar lifting. The door opened. He tried to ask how, the bolt, but it stood there, swaying slightly back and forth. Another one! With his last effort, he started to pull the trigger but the thing moved quickly and stopped him. It stood there, it’s rancid face inches from his. It watched him turn.
END.
by Timothy Manley