by White, Ben
Imogen sniffed, and her mother raised her head, squinting.
"Are you crying?"
Imogen nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
"For me?"
Imogen nodded again, her face suddenly pinched, her mouth tight as she struggled not to sob.
"Well, now. If I'd known it would get you to care I might have tried dying years ago."
"I ... I'll get water."
"Imogen."
Imogen stopped and looked back at her mother, her face open.
"Do you have a smoke?"
Imogen stared.
"You think you're so opaque, don't you. You think no one—"
Imogen was already fumbling for the packet, for the last two cigarettes on earth. She placed one in her mother's mouth, then went to light it—
"Use the matches there. I'll be dead before you get that useless old thing to catch. Don't think I didn't notice you'd taken it, either."
Imogen shoved her lighter back in her pocket and took the matches from her mother's bedside table. With a tiny 'scritch' one flared into life, and she touched it against the cigarette's tip before shaking it out.
"Mm. Good girl." Margaret raised a trembling hand to the cigarette and held it lightly between thumb and forefinger. Gently, so gently, she inhaled. Something like a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Good girl," she repeated, the words coming in a puff of thin smoke. For several seconds there was silence between mother and daughter, then Margaret's eyes once more found Imogen's face. "You could never leave his things alone. No matter where I hid them, you always found them. That jacket that doesn't fit you. That scratched-up old lighter. You even took his—"
"Mum. Mum, please."
"Mm? What? What is it? Do you have something to say to me?" Margaret's eyes were hard as she gazed at her daughter. "Something to ask me?"
Imogen shook her head and looked away. Her mother's gaze remained on her, unfaltering.
"Well?"
Imogen shook her head again, not trusting herself to talk. After a moment, Margaret made a small sound. Something like acceptance. Something like dismissal.
"So," she said, after exhaling a shallow lungful of smoke. "Aren't you going to have one?"
"Mum ..."
"Too late for me to be telling you not to. Is that your last one?"
Imogen nodded.
"Saving it?"
Imogen didn't respond. She was looking down at the tiny white tube in her hand. The last cigarette in the whole entire world. It should be something precious. It should be ...
Margaret raised her eyebrows as Imogen pushed the smoke into her hand.
"You take it," she said. She didn't quite manage to smile. "You never just have one." Imogen turned away, walking back towards the door. "I'll get you water, too. You'll—"
With a tiny cluck of self-reproach, Imogen turned back to retrieve HopeKiller, still lying fallen against her mother's side table.
"Always hoped you had potential," Margaret said, as Imogen headed back for the door, her bat in hand. "Always hoped that."
There were mugs in the kitchen cupboard, exactly in their places, and Imogen filled one with cold water from the hot tap. Before going back to her mother's room she stopped by the entrance to flick the light switch, but got nothing.
Her mother was halfway through the cigarette.
"Not dead yet," she murmured, as Imogen placed the water on her side table. "You haven't mentioned your brother."
"He's okay. He's with Grandpa."
"Oh. He survived."
"Yes."
"Well."
Imogen rubbed her right wrist with her left hand. "I. I want to get my glasses."
"Don't let me keep you."
"But I ... I don't want to—"
"I'll go on dying whether you're here or not. Do what you want."
"... I won't be away long."
The door to Imogen's room opened with a long, low creak. Inside it was ...
... it was ...
Imogen shook her head and walked in, discarded clothes tangling against her brace. She clucked her tongue and bent down to pull them loose, tossing them against the far wall.
"Glasses," she murmured. "Case."
She eventually found it in a pile of near-mouldering tops, hard and smooth and coloured sparkling blue. She clicked it open with a hard wrench and pulled out her glasses—they were long and square and the frames were black matte plastic and she had once thought them to be the coolest glasses in the world. She put them on, frowned, took them off again, wiped them with a loose t-shirt, and then once more, finally, put them back on.
And stared.
How long is it since I last wore these? she wondered, looking around her room, seeing everything for the first time. Edges were sharp. Details were clear. She could read the title of a book from all the way across the room.
Still looking around, Imogen reached for her cigarettes—then remembered. She smiled to herself as she straightened, stretching her back, then she looked around once more before—
—before—
Imogen was standing in the middle of her room.
Loose piles of unwashed clothes surrounded her.
Against the wall, in the corner, her futon bed sat and waited.
Her closet was closed.
Inside ...
Her desk drawer was open.
Stuck open.
Inside ...
Inside ...
Imogen wasn't sure how long she stared at the drawer, but as soon as she became aware of the fact that she was just standing there staring she hardened her expression and she took a single, solid step towards her desk and she gripped the drawer's handle and she wrenched—
Purrrrr.
The noise was so close, right by her ear.
They're quiet. You never hear them, unless they make a sound.
And the voice said, that's stupid. What does that mean?
And the voice said, it means I'm right behind you ...
The thing stood in the doorway of her room. It was tall. It had once been a man. It still wore his clothes.
It moved.
Imogen gasped and tensed as the zombie lurched at her, its hard weight pushing against her, long arms bending back up at horrible angles to claw at her, scraping against her cheek before she found the strength to push back—
But too late. Too weak.
All the air in Imogen's lungs was forced out in an instant as both she and the zombie crashed to the floor, it atop her, she was gasping and coughing as she scrabbled with it, she felt its claws against her cheek again and did not know if it had pierced her skin, did not know if she was dead or if she was alive—with a desperate wrench she knocked its arm back and managed to get its wrist, dead flesh hot under her palm, but it had another claw, tight around her shoulder, and its face was there, its horrible face and its horrible mouth, so clear, in such hideous detail, she'd never realised just how inhumanly terrifying they looked before, and its broken teeth clacked together as it lunged forward to bite at her, just inches from her face, and she summoned all the strength she had and pushed, because it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter if I'm alive or if I'm dead because I will not, I WILL NOT—
With a high shriek Imogen managed to shove the zombie away, only enough to give her an inch but that inch was all she needed, and she pushed with both legs, good and bad, to scramble backwards across the floor, away from it, away towards HopeKiller, why did I drop it? When did I drop it?
But her bat wasn't there.
The zombie purred as it clawed towards Imogen, sharp bone stubs digging into threadbare carpet, crawling forwards as she crawled back—
But you can't keep backing away forever.
Eventually you hit a wall.
Imogen let out a grunt as she bashed her head, her hand clutching at nothing, no sudden comforting hardness, except then there was something, there was a hardness but of the wrong sort, a sudden pressure, a sudden grip, and then another, and the purring g
rew loud and its face was coming towards her, eyes bulging and mouth snapping, its claws raking against her chest, her side, catching in the embroidered stitching and tearing at the leather and there was nothing she could do, she beat at it with her hands but she couldn't get it off, it was still dragging itself up against her body, pulling itself desperately forwards, its claws trembling inches from her terrified face because its feet were caught BECAUSE ITS FEET WERE CAUGHT—
Imogen gasped at the realisation, that she had a precious moment in which to do something, to do anything to save herself, one action, one single action, but there was no bat, no weapon, she could see HopeKiller now, to her left, just out of reach, and then the moment was over and once more the zombie was coming and it would not be caught again; the chance had come and the chance had gone.
The choice had been made.
The zombie's claw came towards Imogen's face, white bone oozing with brown filth.
Her lighter caught on the first click.
The sharp bone fingers of the zombie's hand spasmed as the high flame licked its wrist, and Imogen pushed hard with both feet, ignoring the roar of pain through her body as she reached desperately—
For something that wasn't there.
And Imogen screamed as the zombie's claws sank into her, pinching through jacket and shirt and flimsy grey top, and its other claw—
There was a cry of sick, defiant rage. The cry of the strong protecting the weak. The cry of a mother defending her young.
Imogen stared as a razor-sharp fragment of modern art plunged into her attacker's skull. The fragment was white with a blue stripe through it, stained brown with the non-blood of dozens of zombies. It was attached to a bat, wooden and strong, and the bat was being held by a woman on her knees, on her knees because she was too weak to walk.
"They told us." Margaret's voice was barely there; on the brink of oblivion. "Remove the head or—"
But before Imogen could say anything, do anything the zombie was slashing out with its claws, HopeKiller falling from its scalp, and the scream of a dying woman pierced Imogen's head as claws sank into her mother's shoulder, as they ripped through her flesh—
And hopelessly, without conscious thought, Imogen found herself lurching at the zombie, grabbing at it with her bare hands, ripping it off her mother—but the zombie purred as it swiped out at her, catching her in the head and sending her falling, the back of her skull crunching on the edge of her desk, everything once more indistinct as something fell against her face and then her chest. Imogen couldn't do anything but cough and wheeze as she fought for breath, as the zombie tottered ridiculously to the side, its balance lost—but then its hands were against the floor, and dead muscles tensed—
Suddenly it was on her, Imogen spluttering in panicked fear as she turned her head, its claws raking down against her hair, scratching, grasping, sharp pain against her skull before she felt its full weight against her, its face so near, its mouth so wide open, its claws against her shoulders in something like a twisted embrace and her hand was somewhere, anywhere, searching for anything and the zombie purred without breath as Imogen's hand closed around something hard—
And memory came back to her, not lost but ... hidden. Deliberately placed in a safe place, a dark place, a place most would not think to look.
"Like this. You have to hold it like this, the way you're holding it won't work. Are you listening? Not like that, like this."
"She's too young for that."
"What is she now, six? She's old enough. Look at her, she's a natural. I was down at the rec centre yesterday, they've got a program there—"
"No."
"What a surprise. Negativity. Just what I'd never expect—no, honey, you're holding it wrong again, it's not like that—"
It's like this.
The grasping claws went limp, and wet heat splattered against Imogen's face, and with a harsh yell she thrust her open palm against the zombie's chest.
It fell back.
Imogen followed it.
Her knee hard against the zombie's stomach, her open hand slammed flat against its chest, Imogen raised the long, dull, perilously sharp knife she held ...
And brought it down.
And again.
And again.
AND AGAIN.
AND AGAIN—
And she was screaming and punching and stabbing and slashing and she shook with every hard impact, with every deep cut, with every damning thrust, and the zombie was howling like every devil in the world was after it, not just once but constantly and louder and louder as Imogen stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.
Eventually it stopped.
Imogen's arm shivered with ache, her hand was cramped and the knife's hilt had a rough, uneven part that had scraped against her palm, and her head stung where she'd been scratched and she was kneeling on something that was hot and cold and firm and soft and she looked down at the mass of red-brown gore beneath her, and at her arm, covered in filth.
Her breathing dangerously uneven, her arms trembling, Imogen pushed herself off the still remains of the zombie, crawling back on her hands and knees. She stared down at it until she could tear her gaze away.
To look at her mother.
She was slumped against the wall, her shoulder torn open, her breathing so shallow as to not be there at all.
"See?"
The word was barely audible. Imogen crawled closer, her hand going to her mother's cheek, and with a look of great concentration Margaret brought her hand up to cover her daughter's.
"You just ... have to ..."
Imogen felt something like a shiver beneath her palm, and her mother's hand dropped from her own.
Without knowing, Imogen knew.
She was about to say something like, "No".
But then she didn't.
She just didn't.
Instead she stood up, and she looked around. She put down the knife she was holding and picked up a shirt, and she used it to wipe her hands and her arms. Her head felt clear. The pain near her left ear was fading. There was an ugly brown handprint on her mother's cheek. With careful slowness, Imogen wiped it off. There was a slight frown on her face. Otherwise, she was expressionless.
Lighter. On the floor. Now in pocket.
Glasses. On the floor. Now being worn.
Mirror. Above the desk. There was a white line against her scalp, nothing but brown muck against her cheek. The zombie's claws hadn't penetrated. She wasn't dead.
Closet. Open. At the bottom. In the case. Now tucked under her arm.
Imogen took a breath.
She looked around her room for the last time.
She looked down at her mother for the last time.
She opened her mouth.
She closed her mouth.
HopeKiller.
On the floor.
Now in her hand.
Without further hesitation or emotion, Imogen Shroud left Apartment 912 for the last time.
There were zombies outside; of course there were. The one inside had howled.
It had howled like it couldn't not howl.
It had howled like it was scared.
The first of them—the closest of them—went over the railing. The second followed it.
But neither of them easily. It was too narrow here, too closed-in.
The way to the stairs was clear.
The way to the ground was not.
It was the third level that stopped her. Imogen stared down at the zombies crawling up. The one at the front moved with strength. It moved with purpose. Its claw gripped the stair above it firmly, and it pulled itself up, and then its other claw gripped ...
Above, a zombie fell over the railing and plummeted to the ground. It landed on another zombie, and both collapsed.
Soon both were lost underfoot.
Too many, Imogen thought. They're all coming here, that howl ...
She turned to walk away from the stairs then stopped, almost gasped. From a doo
rway there had appeared three small zombies. They had once been children. One of them couldn't walk. It crawled on hands and knees towards her. It moved faster than the others. It would get to her first.
Always an exit. Always an exit. Always an exit.
You just have to find it.
Imogen turned and threw HopeKiller to the ground below. Her long black case followed.
Then she climbed over the railing. Just three floors up, she told herself. That's hardly a drop at all. That wouldn't kill me. Not unless I fell on my head.
But with my leg ...
Imogen gritted her teeth as she lowered herself, the purring from nearby high and soft, the tiny child zombie was nearly on her, crawling desperately forward, almost dragging itself—
The railing beneath was only a few inches away from her heel, nothing. Nothing at all. Hardly even a distance.
And yet all the distance in the world.
Imogen didn't gasp as her foot slipped, didn't make a sound as the apartment doors in front of her fell away, as the sky above suddenly filled her vision, so wide and so blue and so high, and she did not close her eyes as the grasping claws of the zombies below reached up for her and caught her, as their strong arms held her ...
And then there was firm concrete beneath her.
And then there was confusion, nothing but.
And then there was a voice:
"ZED AIN'T DEAD, BABY! ZED AIN'T DEAD!"
And then ...
And then there was hope.
Focus came back to Imogen as she felt smooth, hard wood against her palm, and a firm hand gripped her wrist and pulled her to her feet, and for an instant she was staring at Zed's face and she saw the relief in his eyes, and then the hordes closed in—
Foot here. Other foot here. Not yet. Not yet. Now.
She was aware of Zed beside her, his long hunting knife in his hand, dull and sharp.
She was aware of her enemy; of herself; of her weapon; of her surroundings, those that were relevant.
She was aware of a snarling, growling, primal noise, and she was aware that this noise was coming from her—
And of impact. And of the way HopeKiller shuddered just so as its shard tore through muscle and tendon. And of howling.
Especially of howling.
Cry out, you undead bastards. Call your friends. Call all of them. I'm here. I'm ready. This time. I'm ready.