Kellie's Diary: Decay of Innocence

by Thomas Jenner

  Outside he heard some of the children running around, presumably to the schoolhouse. He stepped outside and discovered he was right, as about a dozen of the town’s kids ran into the makeshift school room. He had to hand it to the leaders of the town for at least attempting to keep even minor societal structures in place – though he knew it was only a matter of time, like he’d seen in other groups he’d encountered. The two men who ran the place actually agreed on some things, but the general instability of their relationship was disconcerting to everyone who witnessed their outbursts.

  He had offered his expertise multiple times, but they simply brushed him off and continued their bickering. Not that it was much concern to him, as his specialty was in child psychology; he’d found an ally with the designated teacher, who would sometimes refer an unruly child to him so he could straighten them out.

  They were an eclectic variety: a ten-year old boy with aggressive traits that mirrored those of his father; a five-year-old girl that was well-behaved but unusually silent; a nine-year-old boy that was more a follower than a leader; among others. The unlimited potential of children is what drew Crane to the profession – their spirit, desires and energy provided no end of intrigue for him, and he had made it his purpose for the last fifteen years to fully understand the limits of the human psyche in its most pure form. Though as children grew up they inevitably became increasingly jaded, suspicious, and less willing to experience life. No matter what treatment he’d ever prescribed to an adult, they eventually crumbled – as a result, he had little interest in stereotypically adult conversation, and kept very few friends prior to the world crumbling.

  He usually spent several hours walking around in quiet observation of the others. In some ways, things hadn’t changed much: arguments boiled and fizzled; parents disciplined their kids; those in power debating the best for the group, and sometimes themselves. It was as if they were unaware that anything had changed, like they were trying to ignore the fact that the dead were walking and their lives were in constant danger: the denial of environmental changes. A person so rarely faced true reality, that when confronted with it, they either crumbled or they avoided – acceptance was a rare feat, which only the truly strong could handle. This world was now turned not so much upside-down, but inside-out, a grotesque mockery of what was once civilization. Crane realized this early on, and it was his hope that future generations would be ready for it; it was simply a shame that his former associates didn’t share the same viewpoint.

  ***

  Early morning was normally abuzz as the community gathered for daily food rations, but the mood quickly shifted when Gina, a short woman in her mid-thirties, cried out in panic while speaking to the schoolteacher. Crane looked on in curiosity.

  “What do you mean they didn’t show up?!” Gina cried. “Where did they go?”

  “I haven’t seen them,” the teacher explained, “so I thought maybe you just kept them home.”

  “Oh my god!” Gina continued, “What if they ran off, or tried to go outside that fence? Gilbert is always doing something dangerous like that, and Jamie always follows him!”

  Crane approached her. “I know they are safe, you must be patient and remain calm.” Time and again he has had to sympathize with parents of a lost child, and it was the same every time – complete, utter panic and wasted energy better spent on being constructive.

  “How do you know?” Gina asked angrily, tears streaming down her face. “Did you see them run off somewhere?”

  “No ma’am,” Crane said plainly. “I just don’t think they’d have gotten very far in only a few hours.”

  Powell, a large, well-built man walked up to Gina and gave her a quick hug. He was her husband, the children’s father and one of the perimeter guards. He sneered at Crane, “Listen doc, no amount of group therapy is going to find our kids right now, we need to take action.”

  “Yes, but being in hysterics will only make things more frantic,” Crane replied calmly.

  Powell rolled his eyes and turned to his wife, “I’m going to get Dan and a few others and we’ll go look for them,” he said soothingly. “I need you to stay here in case they come back before us.”

  “Please find them,” Gina pleaded, gripping Powell tightly.

  A handful of the others raised their voices in support, offering assistance to the outside search teams as well as searching the town. Crane joined the group that was situated to the northwest section of town, right near the schoolhouse and subsequently his quarters.

  Within seconds, the town was calling out to Jamie and Gilbert, all hoping for some sort of response. Naturally, Crane began to hypothesize on the behavior he witnessed. People throughout history had proven capable of coming together under a common cause, although it was mostly under bad or even dire circumstances. It appeared to him that humans bonded better over misery than happiness, and this incident proved to be right in line with his concept.

  ***

  Hours passed, and the town had not found any sign of Gilbert or Jamie. Powell and his team had been patrolling the outside perimeter and surrounding wooded area, while a good percentage of the town had split into groups, covering every possible inch of the property. Crane’s group had scoured every angle they could, and most of them were ready to throw up their hands in defeat.

  As they searched, Crane’s mind wandered to the children’s previous situation. They’d been sent to him a week earlier by the teacher, as they’d been argumentative with the class. He spoke with them for some time, and they weren’t too keen on talking about their home life. They didn’t show any obvious signs of abuse, though they’d appeared to have some mild attention difficulties due to their lack of interest in classes. When he questioned Powell and Gina they brushed him off, attributing their children’s behavior to the “messed up world” they were in. While a factor, the parents’ dismissive attitude made him suspect something a little more.

  The group decided to check inside all the vehicles and housing in the area; the group scattered in various directions, and Crane lost track of who went where. He glanced around for a minute, and then decided to check on his room.

  He entered the front door and closed it behind him. A small whimper emanated from behind a hanging sheet which served as a curtain; he pulled the sheet back and noticed the boy had stirred a little. The girl, however, did not move. Both of them were bound to chairs, gagged and blindfolded with scraps of cloth, their clothes and skin scratched up and filthy. Crane removed the gag from the girl’s mouth but there was no gasp for breath, no struggle for freedom, no response at all. Crane pressed two fingers against her neck for several seconds but there was no pulse. Shaking his head in defeat, Crane approached the boy and removed the blindfold; he squinted at the sudden change of light, turning his head downward. Crane knelt down next to him and studied his face, wondering what his next reaction would be once he noticed the other child.

  After some time he looked up again and his eyes widened in shock; Crane remained motionless, curious as to what he’d say next. His gaze never wavered, but Crane began to realize that the boy wasn’t staring at him – he was staring behind him.

  Crane glanced behind him and realized that Victor, one of the perimeter guards, was standing in his doorway. Victor was motionless, his mouth hanging slightly open and his eyebrows pursed in confusion. Slowly Crane began to stand up, but Victor retrieved his handgun and aimed with pinpoint accuracy; Crane could almost feel the barrel against his head even though he was several feet away.

  “What the hell?!” Victor said in complete shock. “What are they doing in here?”

  “You don’t understand,” Crane replied, “I’m trying to help them.”

  Victor blinked with a deeply disturbed expression. “Are you nuts? These kids are tied up! What did you do to them!?” he screamed, approaching Crane closer with the gun still trained on-target.

  Crane put his hands up defensively; the hammer of Victor’s gun clicked.

  “No, this i
s fucked up, man,” Victor muttered. He backed up and leaned his head out the front door: “Dan, I found them! Get over here now!”

  Crane knew he had to act fast or this goon would jeopardize everything he was working on. While Victor was distracted, Crane picked up a nearby scalpel, lunged at his intruder and pierced deeply into the side of Victor’s neck. Victor’s grip on the weapon loosened, which Crane took advantage up by removing it from his grasp as the victim struggle to breathe. Victor lost blood immediately from the strike, but he still attempted to call out to Dan; he started yelling but his voice turned to a shallow gurgle, as if the stab had severed his vocal chords.

  Behind them, the boy let out a muffled whimper.

  The noise was silenced completely as Crane shoved the blade into Victor’s neck three more times; Victor breathed one last time and collapsed at Crane’s feet. As he slid the handgun inside his jacket pocket, he heard commotion gathering nearer to his home. He knew he wouldn’t have time to defend himself, much less explain why the boy had suddenly perished without provocation, so he opted for the safe option of sneaking out the trailer window in the back.

  Without a sound he crawled through the window and landed outside; he dodged toward the side of the trailer next to the wall, just out of sight of prying eyes. Crane poked his head out around the corner and saw a few more people approaching his trailer. He shook his head, knowing that he only had a short period of time to get as far away as possible. When no more walked by, he sneaked behind the neighboring trailer just in time to hear the high-pitched wails of their mother’s despair, the angry roar of their father and the chorus of other voices arguing and yelling obscenities.

  Crane finally realized it was time to go – permanently. He was greatly outnumbered, and he knew what would happen once the mob mentality had taken hold: he wouldn’t stand a chance against them, and they would not listen to reason. One by one he ran past the array of trailers, RVs, buses and other assortments of large vehicles. He reached the closest gate, and noticing that no one was guarding it, he simply walked out the front door. Outside, a variety of scavenging Jeeps were scattered around the perimeter.

  Catching his breath for the moment, Crane looked around the perimeter for any of his pursuers; relieved, he took cover behind one of the Jeeps. In the distance, he spied a few zombies approaching the property, and it wouldn’t be long before they reached his location. He knew his time was limited, so he resorted to running away from the community, dodging the few zombies in his path.

  ***

  The desert was quiet, serene, and thankfully chilly; had Crane taken on this journey during summer, he may not have made it even a few hours from the community.

  It was truly a shame about the girl, but if she was unable to survive the ordeal there was little chance of survival in the world of the dead. There was no more room for weakness these days; luckily the boy had proved he had the required drive to fight back, to withstand the brutality of the outside world. He wasn’t completely ready though – with more time, he’d have been a true warrior. The old rules, however, were gone. Time was no longer something to be taken lightly: if people were to survive, they had to be pushed to their limit.

  The weariness, hunger and thirst crept up on him, giving him a slight bout of dizziness. In the distance Crane spied an old gas station and mini mart; no vehicles were parked there, and he saw no evidence of zombies or any other person, so he increased his step and shuffled across the desert, trying to cover as much ground as possible.

  Crane opened the door of the mini mart, noting a couple zombie corpses a few feet away. Content that he was safe for the moment, he spent a few minutes looking around the shelves for any remnant of something edible, finding little that would be useful.

  As he inspected the shelves and fridges, Crane began to ponder on that day’s events. The madness of the community had taken hold much more than he expected. Collective insanity in itself was a disease, no different than the zombie epidemic in contagiousness. All the work he’d done for the group no longer amounted to anything; his discoveries were nothing but a backburner thought for them. For him, it merely solidified that furthering human knowledge would create a disruption in the natural order, if not allowed to flow on its own.

  Crane’s thoughts were short-lived as he felt a strong hand grasp him by the back of the neck and pull him viciously down to the floor. He feared the worst, but instead of the snapping jaws of the undead he was face to face with Powell, whose expression had contorted to a shade of raging hatred he’d never seen before.

  Powell unleashed a flurry of punches into Crane’s head, spitting at him, cursing, and calling Crane every possible vile name in the language. Crane, dazed by the blows, found an opening and punched just below Powell’s ribcage, causing him to double over as he lost wind. Crane crawled out from underneath him and ran; he stumbled a bit, possibly due to concussions, but he quickly tried to increase the distance between them.

  Crane scrambled for his handgun, but Powell caught up quickly and tackled him again, knocking against one of the shelves and scattering debris in the process. The two grappled against each other for several minutes, slamming alternately between the floor, walls and shelves of the store. By now Crane was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and Powell had received a black eye, and both had various bruises hiding beneath their clothes.

  Struggling with his defenses and running out of breath, Crane fought to keep as many of the blows away from his head as possible; the last thing he needed was brain trauma.

  Then Powell screamed in pain; he turned around to see the gnashing teeth, empty eyes and decaying skin of a zombie sinking its teeth into the back side of his shoulder. Before he could fight it off, his opposite arm was pulled back by yet another zombie that took its turn feeding on his forearm.

  Crane noticed he had the chance, so he slipped backward and sent his foot into Powell’s torso, throwing him off-balance and into the arms of not just two, but three undead creatures. Taking a moment to make sure there were no zombies behind him, Crane backed into one of the shelves and immediately found himself captivated by the sight. He’d never witnessed an attack in such close range, and it was increasingly fascinating to watch Powell’s fruitless thrashing about against the painfully slow feasting of the zombies. What was once a conflict of strength between two people had quickly regressed to a predator-versus-prey battle – the basic natural action of survival.

  Much as it pained Crane, he knew he could not stay long to watch them complete their meal – the zombie hunger never stopped with one person, and he had no plans on being dessert. He lingered a few extra seconds as Powell took his last breaths, and then he quietly slipped out the front door of the mart.

  The gray, chilly sky greeted Crane as he found the highway once again and continued heading southward. He resigned himself to the fact that he would have to starve a little bit longer since he was unable to gather any supplies at his last stop.

  ***

  Several hours passed and the day came to a close. The clouds had failed to part, preventing any moon shine from lighting Crane’s path. Darkness was the new norm, but it was still beneficial to have light during night travel.

  Crane had a feeling that Powell would never have understood the plight his children would face as they grew up; none of the adults had any idea what impact the world’s environmental and societal shift would have on their young. He knew how vulnerable the mind of a child was, but also how pliable and versatile they could be. The surviving children would be the torchbearers of a new civilization, and he wanted to see to it that they would be ready and willing to face the horrors that surrounded them. It was a pity he had to die, but his rash actions led to his demise; had he accepted Crane’s help, he’d be alive to see his son grow up.

  Behind him, Crane heard the distant sound of a running motor. He twisted his head around and saw a set of high beams heading his direction. Gleaning what little light he could, he stepped off the side of the road to let the vehicle pa
ss. Rather than being ignored, the vehicle stopped about a dozen feet behind him; the driver poked his head out – a middle-aged, scruffy man with a baseball cap.

  “Hey, you need a lift?” the driver called out with the typical Texas drawl.

  There was a woman in the passenger seat, who didn’t appear to be quite as eager to help; she merely tended to the baby cradled in her arms.

  Crane stepped closer to them, realizing they were driving a truck loaded with what he presumed was their possessions. “Where are you headed?” he asked, trying to read their faces in the darkness.

  “Junction,” the driver answered. “There used to be an airport out there, but it’s a small town so we’re thinking it may be safe for at least a little while.”

  Crane felt slightly more confident in this man’s rationale. “I appreciate it, but,” he looked at the woman, “I don’t want to impose.” The driver turned to face the woman again and spoke in hushed tones. Crane suspected the man had already made his decision based on the quiet discussion with the woman.

  He stuck his head out the window again, thumbing toward the packed bed of the truck. “Hop on in the back of the truck. It’s probably not too comfortable, but you can at least sit and rest for a while. We’re still about an hour’s drive away.”

  “Thank you so very much,” Crane said, climbing up into the truck bed. He found a relatively roomy spot next to the back window of the truck and across from a crib stuffed with duffel bags. Through the window he could very clearly see the child in the woman’s lap; she couldn’t have been more than six months old, and it genuinely surprised him that any woman could manage a pregnancy in such a cold, dangerous environment.