Left Alive 1

by Jeremy Laszlo

  One thing that troubles me is why they took the Kid. When my attacker finally died of the rifle shot through his abdomen, his buddies just tossed him in the middle of the road and left him. So why did they drag the body of the Kid into the liquor shop with them? And where did they go after that? Did they live in there? Or was it some sort of trap set up to kill those looking for a little buzz to cope with the apocalypse? Were people that sadistic and horrible? Again, this doesn’t surprise me.

  I can’t help but think about what Port Huron had said on the radio. Even the Preacher in the end was talking about it. Zombies. I hate the notion of zombies. Sure I loved post-apocalyptic movies and TV shows when they were on the TV, but that was out of the love of seeing the world steeped in chaos. I always thought the zombie elements of those shows were absolutely ridiculous and even irrelevant. The dead rising to feed on the flesh of the living is dumb. It was a childish fear that dated back to a time when primitive man was scared of rotting corpses. I never bought into zombies being an ancient fear of man. No, we weren’t afraid of the dead coming back and eating us, we were afraid of the dead. So why were two radio voices talking about zombies? Wasn’t that just blatant fear-mongering in a world that was now built upon the single foundation of terror?

  Unless they weren’t actually the dead rising and walking. I mean, by science fiction standards, sure a poisonous, mutating fertilizer might be capable of raising the dead, but this is the real world. So what if the zombies they were talking about weren’t actually the walking dead? What if they were just the walking hungry? I haven’t seen an herbivore in ages. In fact, I don’t think they survived. Even the squirrels succumbed after their stores of nuts were dried up. All I’ve seen are carrion birds and anything that eats the dead. The only meat we humans are getting is going to be coming from one of those two sources. As for looting, Detroit—and probably every other major metropolitan hub—is picked clean of canned and bagged goods. What else are people supposed to survive on if there is nothing to scavenge? I feel a chill when I come to the conclusion that I no doubt know to be true.

  They eat the dead. That’s the mystery behind the zombies. They murdered that Kid and they dragged him into the liquor store, and wherever they went, I know that they ate him. It’s the only source of meat that’s left in the world and even that supply is dwindling. My word, that is the most horrifying and despicable thing that I could ever think of. Isn’t that bad for your health? Or is that just an old wives’ tale we’re told to keep us from becoming cannibals? I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m not going into any more buildings that look suspicious. I’m sure as Hell going to be avoiding cities from now on.

  I come to the conclusion that if I want to survive, I need to start being nocturnal. That was what the others in Detroit were doing. That was why they were sleeping during the day. At night, that’s when they creep out of their lairs and take to the streets. By luck I had avoided them up until this point but without a sanctuary to fortify and hide in, there’s no point staying in my normal daytime routines. If I take to the road at night, I’ll be less likely to be found. I can keep on the move. I can stay safe. As far as that word has meaning. Fear was the only thing keeping me safe and I had to respect where it led me. If it told me that the night was my best chance at safety, then I had to respect that.

  But that wasn’t all it told me. It told me that the old world was dead. Everything about it. There was only so much that I could cling to from the past and the most I could afford to keep belonged to Lexi and Val. I could be their father, I could love them, and desire to protect them; but that was all I could bring with me into this world. Everything else, it had to wither, burn, and blow away in the wind. There was no more morality in this world. There were no rules, no gods, and no masters. There was only the independent self. Killing those who got in my way had to be acceptable. Letting the weak die while the horrid strong preyed upon them, that was the only law of the land now. It was a jungle outside of this hotel room and I had to accept it. I was in a new world and I needed to carve out my place within it.

  When darkness envelopes the world, I open my door and take my first steps out into my nocturnal life. I travel for hours, looking for a pharmacy, though my gash is beginning to feel better. Regular cleaning is doing wonders for it, but I still fear infection. I find nothing and I am still too close to Detroit for comfort. All that I can see of the city are vast, billowing clouds of ash and smoke drifting off toward the east like a mighty curtain hiding the carnage. I can hear booms from explosions far beyond me and the distant cracks of gunshots, too far to register any immediate danger.

  I hear the distant roar of an engine and immediately make for the side of the road. Dropping down into a crouch behind some trash cans made useless long ago, I watch as an old Silverado rolls by at a cautious pace. I see three men in the bed of the truck with a pile of supplies, their guns ready and their eyes scanning the darkness for danger. I begin to wonder if I am the only ‘normal’ person left in the world as the truck’s tail lights vanish over a crest. Then again, I did just pledge to let that ‘normal’ person inside of me wither and die. No, I am one of them now. I have to accept that.

  I walk until I find a subdivision around dawn. There is a house that had been boarded up and secured long ago. I want to avoid the house, but I don’t trust any of the other homes with the stench of death hanging around them. A boarded up house could draw attention. It shows signs of life, but from the film of ash and dust on everything, no one has been here in a while. I decide to take the risk. I am far enough away from the freeway to feel reasonably safe, and I don’t know how long I will actually sleep anyways.

  Finding the back door open, I clear the house and make sure I am alone. There is a stockpile of empty food containers and discarded or used supplies in one of the rooms, which rekindles my hopes that something useful might be left hidden in the home. I plot out my escape route should anyone stumble upon the neighborhood and when I feel completely alone and safe, I nestle in for a nap in the main bedroom.

  I lie on the bed for a few moments with nothing but a cold cavity where concerns and thoughts once buzzed freely. I am alone, even from my thoughts. I close my eyes and try not to cry as exhaustion embraces me.

  Chapter Seven

  My eyes are forced open violently at the sound of something banging. It doesn’t take much to draw me out of sleep anymore and the slightest bang was enough. My eyes open, flooded by early morning light. It is blinding and poisons my mind. I can’t remember where I am or how I got here but I do know that I’m in a bed, which is always welcomed. I listen for the bang again, not sure if I had even truly heard it. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, quietly. I listen for something, a footstep, a grunt, or a whisper. I hear nothing, so I slowly stand up and touch my cheek, feeling the bandage. The wound hurts still, but it’s not nearly as sensitive as it was. I’m grateful to touch my face and not jump in insufferable agony. I don’t know what I would do if the infection went septic.

  Another bang draws my attention from my face to the boarded-up window. This was a noise that didn’t sound like a shutter banging the side of a house. No, this sounded deliberate. The key to sneaking is being deliberate, I try to remember this as I make my way across the room. I curse my footsteps. I know that they gave me up. Someone had to have seen them from the highway and decided to track me. A single target is so much easier than a group. They probably thought they could track me down, kill me, and take whatever I had with them after leaving this place. Thankfully, my footsteps were all over the neighborhood. I might have bought myself some time before they come across me. I brush back the dusty curtain and peer out through a slit in the boards. I can hardly see anything.

  The world outside is bathed in delicious, golden light. I can see the garage of the neighbor’s house and his trashcans sitting where they had been the moment he left them. He, I’m assuming it was a man. I can see an upstairs window, but the blinds are shut and there isn’t a sign that anyone has
opened them in ages. The whole place looks like a vacant ruin. I try to get a better look from at where the sound came from, but I can hardly see beyond that which is straight ahead. The boom echoes through the abandoned neighborhood again and this time, I’m set to find it.

  I pass through the doorway, my ears ringing I’m so intent on hunting down the boom. I pass down the hallway overlooking the stairway and into what looks like an emptied girl’s bedroom. The walls are a dusty bubblegum pink and the curtains are lacy, but it’s completely hollow. I hope whoever lived here was out long before they needed to board up the windows. I peek through the girl’s window that’s all boarded up as well and I see nothing, not a thing. I can see into the neighbor’s yard where the grass has rotted into a hard, thick layer of rock and clay. I abandon the room and move toward the next room, a bathroom. Everything is gone in the bathroom and the mirror is shattered into a dozen shards. I stand on the lip of the shower seat trying to see out of the high window that is no wider than my face. I think it’s the one place in this entire house that’s not completely sealed.

  That’s when I see them.

  They… are no longer people, or at least they don’t look like it. Some of them still wear clothes, but only in the most lackadaisical way. Many of them shamble around barefoot, their feet entirely gray, caked in the ash and dust that plagues our world now. There are enormous holes in their shredded trousers and those without pants stand on shaking, quivering legs that are as thick as their bones. You can see the knobby knees that clack together as they prowl through the streets. Some of them twitch, clawing at their faces and heads with disgusting hands. Most move shirtless through the world, their bodies painted with dirt that has cracked in the arid heat of the dehydrated sky. Their arms are long and thin with hands that are painted in rusty, dry blood and gore. All the way up to their biceps is painted this way, blackened by the mixture of bloody horrors and the grime of the world. Their ribs stab out of their gaunt bodies and every single bone is visible. Most of them have lost their hair, due to malnutrition and practically every one of them is shaking or trembling from some sort of neurosis.

  It’s their faces that are the hardest for me to look at. Their chins and lips and noses are all blackened by the grime and bloody paste that covers their arms. Most of them bare their teeth like animals at each other, growling and hissing as their blackened teeth barely stand out of the abysmal holes they once called mouths. Their eye sockets are sunken and darkened with shadow by their lack of sleep and proper food. Their eyes squint and tremble as their lids try to stay open, but their eyes are shattered with blood veins that make them look like demons. Those eyes of theirs, what horrors they have seen, dart back and forth, alert and feral. Some of them crouch as they walk, almost on all fours as they lurk from house to house. Some sniff the air, as if they are dogs now, or little better at least. They look around, hunting for food.

  Some are actively hunting, throwing open garbage can lids, ripping at the boards on doors and windows. Others have entered houses, moaning and growling as they search for something or someone to eat. But there are many who simply shamble around, wandering as if they are lost in a fog. These poor, tortured souls seem to twitch more, clawing at their ears and faces, leaving long, jagged wounds from their overgrown fingernails. I don’t know if it’s starvation that has broken these people or if it’s something more sinister. The more active ones make me nervous. They’re prying at windows with anything they can find, sniffing and chirping almost as they move from house to house. Those shambling in the streets look at the remnants of the old world with vacant expressions, completely disinterested in the dying world.

  I have no doubt in my mind that the Preacher meant these people, or things, as the Zombies. There is something about the way they move that makes me inherently think of the undead. I know that there are tons of disorders that can drive people insane, but a multitude like this, working together to find food, makes me wonder if it’s something more terrifying. There is Kuru, which is a disease people can get from eating other people, but that’s more of a South Pacific tribal thing. I can’t imagine that it would be a problem in America. But it could be something similar, especially if these things are eating people. It’s their arms and legs that convince me they’re eating people. Or they’re eating something that has a lot of blood, and a lot of pieces. Maybe it’s what they’re eating that is doing this to them? I have no clue. All I know is that I don’t want them to find me.

  Once upon a time, I had a gun with a lot of bullets. Hell, once upon a time, I had a Jeep which would have taken me a long way from here, but now I’m stuck in this place with God-knows-how-many of those things outside. Part of me wants to run. They don’t know I’m here. I haven’t done anything to draw their attention. I swallow to feel if my throat is dry and rough, a sign that I was snoring. I swallow smooth and unimpeded. Nope, no snoring. They have no clue that I’m here. As I watch those outside, I know that there isn’t much intelligence left in them. If anything, they were wandering away from the fires of Detroit, not actually tracking me. How were they supposed to follow footsteps when most of them were tripping over their own feet? I could slip out the back and through the backyards before any of them found me or even discovered this house.

  But, another part of me told me to stay put. This house was heavily boarded up and those things weren’t making any progress on the other fortified houses. They tugged at boards, slipping their fingers in and getting them caught on boards as they squirmed and grunted in what should have been excruciating pain. It makes me wonder if their whole nervous system is failing them, like leprosy or something similar. Whatever it is, it’s keeping them struggling and unintelligent. I almost want to sneak downstairs and double check to make sure everything is locked. All of my stuff is spread out and I don’t have time to gather it silently and sneak outside. One dropped battery or knock against a bed post and those monsters will be all over me. I don’t plan on being their next meal.

  Stepping back into the tub, I move silently with fierce determination through the second floor, until I’m at the top of the stairs. Fear grips my heart and squeezes as I wonder if I’m too late. Maybe they’re already in the house and haven’t made their way upstairs yet. I calm myself with a few deep, quiet breaths and tell myself that these things are frail. They’re nothing but skin and bones. If they’re in the house, I can fight them off, run upstairs for the higher ground and fend them off with my cleaver. I take another deep breath and take my first step.

  I pray that there’s no creaking stairs. I try to remember if there’s any stairs that make noise. I note that it’s vitally important next time to remember the sounds of an unfamiliar house, should I choose to stay. I make it down the first flight of stairs and round the corner, moving past a fake plant that is the first green thing I’ve seen in ages. I don’t recall it from last night.

  The house had been tossed long ago. Everything that wasn’t important to whoever set up camp here, was tossed to the side or removed from the house. The foyer has nothing in it but an old, discolored rug that has been trampled by an unknown number of muddy shoes and feet. The windows that flank the thick, wooden door are boarded up, but I see darkness covering the beams of light. Something is out on the porch. I can’t tell if the door is locked, but I do know that I’m in trouble. Everything I notice in the house makes me uncomfortable. While the previous tenant has made the house open and practical, it’s also been converted into a huge acoustic cavern. Every step I take makes a noise. I look upstairs and debate the virtues of making another trip up to the master bedroom to grab my things.

  I can hear clawing at the windows. It’s a dull, horrible scraping of fingernails against the old, dried wooden boards used to keep things like that outside. I realize that running is the only option I have left. If I go back upstairs, then I risk the house being completely surrounded, or worse, overrun. A bang on one of the boards sends chills down my spine and I know, without a doubt, that I am out of time. I move as qu
ietly and deliberately as possible, moving through the living room and into the dining room at the far end of the house, by the garage entrance. The kitchen was obviously recently stocked with a respectable amount of food. I am once more baffled by the absence of whoever lived here.

  A cold thought worms into my head. What if they knew? What if the previous tenants of this house knew that these Zombies were nearby, or that they were on their way? I run my fingers across the dust on the counter. There isn’t much. If this kitchen wasn’t used for cooking and was just a storage room, then they might not have picked up and left too long ago. Maybe they left when they saw the horizon glowing with the inferno that had consumed all of Detroit. Perhaps they grabbed as much food as they could carry and split before the hordes of flesh-eating freaks showed up on their doorstep looking to make them their next meal. Maybe I’ve been the fool all this time.

  Something smacks one of the boards at the door and my heart begins to thump against my chest louder and louder. I’m terrified that they might hear the panic and hone in on me. I look at the magnetic strip along the wall next to the kitchen where an old butcher knife is hanging. I reach out and grab it, yanking it from the magnet and feeling the weight of it in my hand. It has a sturdy, wooden handle and a thick blade. It’s an old knife, the kind that you’d find in your grandfather’s kitchen. Another smack makes me drop into a crouch as I move backwards, toward the gloomy doorway leading into the walkthrough pantry. I listen and I hear something walking on the roof. Somehow, they’d climbed up onto the awning and were now making their way up to the second story windows. I can hear them banging on the boarded-up windows and when I hear the cracking and shattering of glass, I know that I’m too late. There’s no way I can make it up to the master bedroom to save my gear.