"Guys, help! It's one of those creatures!" shouted my friend from a couple feet behind us, around the bend of the populated neighborhood that had the streetlights dimmed and shallow in the night. We turned around and ran towards the shouting around the bend of the street. There was pounding on doors behind us, doors that had been locked or glass doors that didn't open to the creature's commands. There our friend was, laughing his head off against a metal gate, browned by rust and grated to the wall with bolts and steel grips.
Christopher "Robin" Anderson, he was nearly seventeen to this year - 2014.
"I can't believe you guys actually fell for that!" he exclaimed, we rolled our eyes and turned away. Here we are, in an apocalypse, and all he does is make jokes and confuse us further. It was almost retarded - God, I hate using that word in this context. He was very immature, so this should have been expected.
Chris left with us later, after having convinced him to join our group, and just wait this entire thing out. He refused at first, unwilling to have his school life and "reputation" destroyed because of a possible hoax. He chuckled every now and then, noticeable when he looked away, uttered a low sound to mask his chuckles, and looked back.
"How come you had that retarded joke?"
"I thought I'd try and liven up you guys. You're really down-"
"Shut up, Chris. Nobody wants to hear your opinion," Jake Evans, Mr. Evans' son, complained, not yet realizing that he was complaining more than Chris, and that his opinion didn't want to be heard.
"Calm down, dude," Chris reasoned to Jake, who gave him a blatant stare.
"Sure," Jake finished, looking away.
Eventually, Amy said something apparently hysterical to Jake, and Jake must have alerted maybe three city blocks full of those creatures with his laughter, which came to an abrupt stop when the back of his collar was grabbed. He struggled, but more came. The gnashing jaws from behind him uttered a twisted, horrible fate and spelled demolition on the back of his neck, unable to go any longer without food.
This one, Thomas Evans, seemingly thirty-seven, died in his sleep by these creatures, having gone to bed long before the news cast reported this problem. Jake nearly cried his eyes out seeing his father like that.
"Your flesh... let me have it," was the voice behind him. He tugged Jake to the ground, before raising him and knocking him against the wooden boards to the left of us, now watching the event. An uncovered screw punctured Jake's head, and, likely? His brain. These things seemed to have had some actual intelligence - capable of speech, too, so this was very confusing.
A couple of my friends and I just stood there as we watched the gruesome scene unfold, while one tried to stop them, to get Mr. Evans off of him. With a kick to the gut, the creature yelped in pain and fell on his back, but he got up quickly. We didn't know why, but something just urged us to make sure that the creature didn't stop until he was done with him, and that Jake wouldn't reanimate, or that they'd forget. Seconds after, when his throat was ripped out and thrown aside, and scratching was heard on the wood beside us, we began bolting. Where to didn't matter, as long as we were away from them, it seemed like a good idea. Three more creatures joined Mr. Evans.
The cold wind blew, snowflakes landing on our faces. That is, until we heard the footsteps of more than eight feet behind us, at least eight steps every fraction of a second. I wasn't sure about the others, but my heart was pounding faster from the fright I was going through. There, passing by, was a large semi-truck, recklessly driving as though the driver had no clue what they were doing. When they crashed into the fence on the other side of the street, the horde screamed in unison, the driver rebounding through the windshield and colliding with the wood. We were safe, hopefully.
"Holy shit," I stopped, and looked back, brushing hands through my hair, "did any of them get hit?!" Most of them didn't seem to have heard me. They just seemed focused on getting somewhere to hide, and that would be go time. At least, I hope. Maybe we can take David's Jeep Wrangler, all four of us, and go off onto some place like Camrose. I hear it's really nice there.
"Most likely," the leader, David, seemingly twenty to twenty-two, said; he wasn't as frantic, but the slight crack in his tone revealed that slightly. There were at least four of us, then Jake died, but now there was three of us.
That was at least a day ago. I killed one of my friends. There was no hesitation. She was infected, but I couldn't have been more sure whether or not she was. I think her name was Alice. Never talked to her much. On the thought of thinking that I was insane, all my other friends left after beating the crap out of me. They're dead now, probably. I'm holding out in some sort of shelter; I don't even know what to call it. It's not home, but it's not a cabin in the woods, either, so it's a relief for the most part. They don't seem to know where I am; if I can keep it that way, it'll be a perfect hiding spot until the military rolls through in the tanks.
Two hours ago, I went down to the fridge in order to see if there was any food left. Now, I won't go out and say that there was three shelf-fulls, because honestly, I wouldn't be entirely serious. There was at least a shelf and a half. It was enough, I suppose, but I'm not sure what exactly I was looking for, and none of the food seemed consumable except for an apple and a bunch of rotten ones, and I certainly didn't feel like eating rotten food. I opened up one of the drawers, and there was a head of one of the creatures outside. It wasn't writhing, it was just... dead. I heard a bunch of times that in order to kill one of them, you had to kill the brain. There was no bullet hole in the skull, but the vertebrae was hanging out.
I'm alone now. I don't know why, but I find solace in being alone. Other people are just a liability, something to rely on until they become like them. None of them saw me on my way here, thankfully. I mentioned that before, didn't I? I think I did. Oh well. Either way. I can hear movement outside, and people crawling across the floor with no legs, and it's not my imagination either, but I don't know whether or not that's true. It's cold. Minus thirty-seven Celsius, I think. There's no thermostat here. Oh well. Their ears are sure to have rotted off by now, so I don't actually think they can hear me. As for the fresh ones? I don't know if they have ears or not, 'cause they would've heard my footsteps otherwise, probably.
I wanna forget. I don't wanna go through this, there are a lot of things I haven't done, now David, Chris, and Amy are all gone, leaving me here, going up to Camrose or some shit like that. If I had a choice, I'd much rather die than convert, either by fumes or that bite. I hear it's the bite that kills you, and you unfortunately don't see it coming until it's too late.
I don't fear death, I never have. But dying from freezing doesn't sound half as good as the alternative, ending my own life. I don't think I have a handgun or knife with me though. Granted, the recipients of this home, they should have steak knives.
There's a rapid sound, now. Thud, thud, thud, thud thud, thud. The rapid sounds of those living corpses falling as their brain rotted before their skull did, leaving them a bloody heap on the floor. I can hear my own heartbeat, a steady pace... thud thud... thud thud... thud thud... thud thud.
There's a fine sound outside, now: a rolling of military vehicles. They've come, and the creatures are angry. I don't care. As long as they don't attack me, I'm fine with it. Then, there's another rapid sound. A loud banging. Doesn't sound as much of a creature as the other sounds. I'm going to go see what it was.
"Sir, I would like to talk to you," is the sing-song introduction from the thing outside, and I've begun to contemplate what the better idea is. Should I go out, go see, or should I stay in here where I'm safe? I try and whip out my cellphone, to try and call one of them. I can't, out of service.
Damn. Well, I really am fucked, aren't I? I don't know how to answer, and I don't know what to do.
Written by TuggingaRhythm