X: A Short Story

by Jack Croxall

doing that scabbing thing I remember from normal injuries. It just doesn't smell very good. A bit like when you walk past a bin that needs emptying.

  Anyway, I've applied more antiseptic and redressed it. Time to go.

  That was fun.

  There are definitely more of them out there than before. I used to recognise almost every one of them but, now, maybe one in four? And, as I'm sure you know, the more there are the harder it is to deal with them, even at night. It's not like dispatching two of them is only twice as hard as killing one. I really am glad I had those shears with me.

  I got my satchel back you'll be happy to know. And I got inside that house I'd been trying to break into as well. More through necessity than choice in the end, but I'm pleased I did. I found more batteries! That means I can justify writing at night a bit more.

  In fact, the people who used to live there (I think the husband owned the local garage) were pretty well kitted out. There were a lot of tins in their cupboards, and they'd even left a shotgun. It wasn't loaded though.

  Not that I need a shotgun. I didn't tell you this before, but I have my grandpa's old service revolver. He always told me and my sister that it was decommissioned, but my dad apparently knew otherwise. I keep it tucked into the back of my jeans at all times. It had three bullets, one of them is gone, so only two left. I'll only be needing the one of course.

  Morning. I'm feeling pretty low today. I think concentrating on getting my satchel back took my mind off things, but now I feel pretty deflated.

  Surely that's understandable? The world I knew and loved has been ripped away and replaced with this sodding hell. I miss my family, my friends, TV and hot dinners and Twitter.

  Before all of this I was a pretty positive person. Sure, I had a bit of trouble getting up in the morning, but, once I was up, that was it. I'd meet the day's challenges head on, try to enjoy myself as much as I could. Not today though.

  Maybe if I write about Jonah I'll cheer up. Not Jonah as he is now of course, Jonah when he was all smooth-skinned, curly-haired and bright-eyed. Now he's like the anti-Jonah or something. His face looks like it lost a fight with an angry lobster. No, wait, I'm supposed to be writing about Jonah version one here.

  He's one of those people that I can't remember meeting. My family has always lived around here and so there are lots of people who have just always been, if you get me. I think it was about six months ago that Jonah and I started passing notes to each other during lessons. Just funny pictures at first, but, after a couple of weeks, rude jokes about every staff member at school.

  Of course, after lessons he would go off with his mates and I would hang around with my friends. Then there was only ever opportunity to exchange the odd flirtatious glance. I always thought we would drunkenly get it together at a party - that's what I'd usually do if there was a boy I liked. Classy.

  I remember my heart used to beat so fast when Jonah slipped me a note. I wonder if his did too? Even if it did, I guess I'll never know now.

  I've perked up a bit. Out of sheer frustration, I went upstairs (naughty, I know) and looked out of a window. Sure, I saw a handful of uglies, wandering aimlessly as they always do, but I saw that the trees are starting to turn too. That means it's finally autumn, and I love autumn!

  My sister and I always used to go out and kick leaves at each other in the autumn. I don't know if it was because of her low centre of gravity, but my sister was amazing at it. She could somehow whip up a blazing whirlwind of golden-yellow and fire-red, surrounding us both in a leaf storm that I couldn't help but flail my arms madly at. Then we'd both fall backwards into the leaves laughing, me wondering how on earth what had happened was possible. She was that good.

  God, I let her down in the end.

  I wonder who you've lost? Everyone has lost someone in the last two months. I imagine that's why rounders bat man was so violent. I bet he was killing as many uglies as he could just to try and get even. I know I tried that for a while, it doesn't work though.

  I think I'll stay away from the house with the shotgun tonight. It usually takes a day or two for a group of uglies to disperse once they're all riled up. I could use the rest of that tinned food I suppose, but I've got plenty to be getting on with for now.

  Instead, I think I'll swing by another farmhouse I was scoping out before I decided to turn nocturnal. I never met the people who used to live there, but I remember Mum telling me they liked their privacy. I'm sure they wouldn't mind me visiting now though.

  Also, there's a small wood between here and there and I might be able to find some leaves to kick about a bit. I think that would make me feel close to my sister again.

  I'll check back in later.

  I'm still alive, but only just.

  I made it through the wood just fine (only the odd leaf on the forest floor at the moment though, sadly), the trouble started at the farmhouse. I couldn't get in - the doors and windows were barricaded - so I tried one of the outbuildings. I think it was a tack room or something posh like that, but it was locked. It had a cat flap though.

  My first instinct was to leave it, but then I wondered if there might be something useful inside. Lord knows what thinking about it now. I lifted the cat flap with one hand and shone the torch beam through with my other. That's when an ugly dived at my pinkies. Luckily, it misjudged its leap and got a mouthful of plastic cat flap instead. As for me, I fell backwards onto my bum.

  Next, the damn thing started bashing on the door from the inside. I don't think it could ever have got out, but the noise attracted more uglies from out of nowhere. I only just managed to outmanoeuvre them and hightail it back into the woods.

  That's not the worst of it though. On the way back my leg started to hurt. A lot.

  I woke up this morning and my leg feels a bit better. I'm still walking with a limp though.

  It's funny, Dad had a limp when he and Mum died. It was about two weeks in. He was nailing planks of wood across our windows and doors. That was one of the last things the radio said to do before everything went dead. Anyway, Dad dropped the hammer onto his toe - he always was useless at DIY. I think it was only a couple of hours after that when he and Mum were taken.

  It was like a wave of death. No, not like, that's exactly what it was. A hoard of uglies swept through the village, probably out of one of the big towns. My sister and I wouldn't have had a prayer if Mum and Dad hadn't charged down the first few that got into our house. They gave us just enough time to escape, to run away and leave them to die. My sister was screaming all the way and I had to drag her like she was four again.

  She wouldn't speak to me for a few days after that. I didn't blame her, I hated myself too. But I would have hated myself even more if I hadn't done what I did next. On my own, I snuck back into our house with a crowbar I found here. Then I dispatched my parents. I can't bring myself to write it down any other way. It wasn't like in the movies, I didn't pound their skulls into mush whilst sobbing, 'Why?' over and over again. I just found them, or what was left of them, forced the crowbar through each of their eye sockets, and came straight back here.

  Then came the crying.

  I haven't told you about the heavy-duty gloves yet, have I?

  After I got back from our old house, my sister started speaking to me again. A shared, day-long cry will do that for sisters. Once we felt up to it, we decided to explore the parts of the farmhouse we hadn't searched yet. It was kind of fun, but I also knew it was vital if we were going to stay safe: I needed to know for sure that there were no uglies in the house with us.

  All the bedrooms were empty, only a few belongings flung about the place (I suspect the previous tenants left in a hurry). The problem came when we investigated the attic. Once we'd opened the ceiling panel in the upstairs hallway, once we'd pulled the compact staircase down, I went in. My sister stood at the top of the hatchway shining the torch beam over my shoulder. And that's when it touched me. Terrified, I fell to my left, screaming as the thing came crashing down on top of
me. I was yelling things like, 'Shoot it!' and, 'Run!' but my sister was just laughing her head off. I soon realised that my attacker was in fact a shop-window mannequin.

  I think the people who previously lived here must have been arty (or into some seriously freaky stuff) because the mannequin was dressed in scarves, bandannas, ties, watches - loads of things. The rest of the attic was pretty empty but at least we got the mannequin's gloves.

  I'm not feeling good at the moment. I've got a sore throat and I've coughed up blood a couple of times. My leg pain is getting worse again, too.

  I think if I'd started writing this diary as soon as everything kicked off, I'd have included a lot more about my symptoms and what I thought was happening to the world. The thing is, after a few weeks, it just becomes the new reality, and therefore un-noteworthy. I guess that in itself is significant. Is that irony? I can't remember.

  I don't think I'll go out tonight. I have enough tins left and one of them is a Full English In A Can. Sounds pretty disgusting, but intriguing at the same time. I've been saving it for near the end. A sort of consolation prize.

  The tinned full English was vile! You've got to laugh though, what else can you do?

  I suppose if you've found my diary, you must have noticed that there are two mattresses down here. Obviously one is mine, and the other one was my sister's. After