Chapter 4

“April?” I whisper.

Her head snaps up and the face that belonged to my best friend is that of a stranger. She looks through me for several seconds, and I know I need to run but I’m frozen in place. She lets out a screech that reminds me of the teenage boy from the other day, and that’s just what I needed to snap me out of it. Her lips contort into a grimace, and she tries to lunge at me, but her legs get tangled in the blankets and she falls face first off of the bed instead. I don’t stick around to see her get back up. The door is slammed back closed and the loveseat is shoved back in front of it in a blur. My heartbeat is matching the rate of her fists on the door, and every bang brings me closer to a mental breakdown. A flash of the guy from yesterday slicing through one of the infected with a knife before dying anyways flashes in my mind. It prompts me to grab a kitchen knife for myself just in case, but resolves me to try to run rather than fight. I have no intention of using it on April, regardless. There may be a day when a treatment is discovered – maybe even soon, and I can’t take away her chance to become herself again.

I throw the backpack over my shoulders and stick the kitchen knife sideways in my mouth. I briefly consider leaving Stuart and coming back for him later, but don’t know if the infected attack animals or only people, so I scoop him up and toss some clothes out of the bag before stuffing him in it for the ride. He isn’t happy about it all, and he’s really not going to be happy about the fact that I am leaving his food behind as well, but I can’t carry it with me while running for my life. My car is parked on the street a block down. Normally it’s not a long walk, but when there are psychopaths ready and willing to tear my flesh off, the distance becomes more than just a small inconvenience. The door on the other end of the room is already splintering before I manage to pull the couch out of the way, and holes started appearing in the middle where her fists were pounding away. Soon, I could see gray iris against yellowing sclera. She headbutts the door while reaching an arm to me. Her face is contorted with an expression of pure agony – an urgent need to dig into my body and tear away the sweet chunks of meat.

The door splinters more. She will break free soon, and I’ve seen enough. Suddenly re-energized and shed free of any guilt I may have had for leaving her behind, I quickly tear the front door open. I realize that there might be some in the building halls before slamming the door behind me, but I can’t think straight. The loud bang echos down the hall, followed by hands on white doors. I don’t stop moving until I am at the landing on the ground floor, where I take a moment to look around and make sure the coast is clear while catching my breath. The doors leading to each apartment are sturdier than the ones inside, so I know I have time as long as they aren’t out in the halls. Still, the sound of nails scratching and fists pounding brings me to the edge of sanity. I’m still standing with my hands on my knees when someone flings their entire body against the door of apt A – which I’m standing right in front of. The door rattles, threatening to free the prisoner inside - my queue to get the hell out of here. I throw the glass door open and bolt toward my car. There’s a sound of breaking glass behind me, but I’m not looking back to see what caused it or how close they are. I just focus on keeping my speed up and my breathing as even as possible. My car is only a short distance ahead, but I don’t know where the wandering group went who were pacing the streets just hours before. Maybe someone else had to make a break for it, and they all followed that person away from Washington St, leaving me an empty and wide-open road. I have the Kia in my sight when I start to slow. I am not accustomed to exercise of any kind, unless you count standing at a cook table for 8 hours assembling pizzas. The creature that broke through the window groans behind me. He is gaining on me rapidly. I need a burst of speed, but I can’t move any faster. I feel the swoosh of an arm reaching out behind me, narrowly missing the back of my shirt. I have to run past the car, my only salvation. I can’t stop or slow down or I’m toast. Think, how can I lose this thing before its friends join in on the hunt? My mind blanks. The certainty of death prompts my legs to pump harder, to move faster, and after a moment of consideration I sprint across the road so my pursuer is not directly behind me and come to an abrupt stop. It falls over itself trying to replicate the move, which was exactly what I wanted. I head back to the car, pushing the unlock button before I reach it so I can just pull the handle and dive in. Once inside, I throw the car in drive as the creature nosedives towards the driver door, and slams against the back end instead as I speed away. My only thought is to get as much space between myself and Washington Avenue as possible.

By the time I turn onto Plymouth, I have had to avoid more groups – some small, some much larger, as they make their way toward the thunderous sound of gunshots on the highway. The pop of gunfire would normally make me anxious, but right now it tells me that there are people who are still fighting. People who are alive. There’s a large, emotional, part of me is upset that infected are probably being executed, but the rest of me knows that when it comes down to me or them – and it most likely will at some point – I am going to have to find the strength to choose myself.

Now that I’m closer to the highway, the infected are everywhere I look. Beating against glass storefronts, breaking the doors down to homes, bunching together and attacking the same points at the same time to weaken the integrity of the structure. I’m not sure if that’s a conscious decision, since they’re not even smart enough to turn a door handle, but regardless of the intent behind it, they have succeeded in breaking into most of the buildings I pass. Maybe one or two per street are left intact. This doesn’t bode well for the population of my college home, and with every mile I drive, I become more worried that if anyone drives down the wrong road at the wrong time, and are stuck between two large groups, they won’t be able to turn around in time to get out. I take special care to drive fast enough that nobody could catch up while running, but slow enough that I can break and U-turn at any moment, should the need arise.

For now, the hordes seem intent on getting to easier prey, rather than a vehicle moving along more quickly than they can. (They don’t have super human strength, really, but they do have endurance beyond anything I have seen before.) Some of them have no other prey in their sights, so they do begin to chase my car as I cruise past them. I watch the rearview mirror as they disappear from sight. Probably, they’ll just keep running straight on as they lose sight of me, but I feel terrible for any fool who might be trying to run the same streets I’m driving tonight, because they would have to think pretty fast to make it out of here – or have some very powerful weapons. I drive past the roadblocks which were heavily manned the days April and I went for groceries, to find smashed in police cars and blood stains on metal doors. I see ambulances wrecked into poles with the backdoors thrown wide open, and the inside more red-brown than white.

I do a lap around Kat’s block, just to see what our odds are, and find that I am not surprised at all to see that we are screwed. Not only am I leading a large group here just by being seen driving, and soon so will anyone else who joins us, but there’s a pack of - I don’t know – definitely more than 20 of them roaming down 3 streets over from Kat’s house. My best bet is going to be to drive past her house, park the car elsewhere and then creep through back yards back to Kat’s place. They seem to prefer to stay together in groups and openish space, so I’m more likely to run into a situation I can’t get out of in the roads than fenced in grassy areas. Of course, I can’t exactly see them coming in the complete darkness with the route I am taking, but my decision has been made and I have to stick with it now. I pull up into the parking space next to a modest, empty looking home, and throw my bag containing meager supplies and a thankfully silent Stuart back around my shoulder’s. In the last minute I decide to throw on a pair of the gloves and a mask because even just getting the blood or saliva in my mouth can pass the disease to me. Now that I’m pretty sure I avoided infection from April, I’m going to do what I can to avoid catching it from someone else going forward.

I creep out of the car, stuff the keys into the pocket of my pajama pants, and clutch the knife in my hands, hoping against all odds that Kat got my late-night text that I’m coming now. I can see her house, and breathe a sigh of relief, picking up the pace and ignoring the noise I’m making in the rush to get behind closed doors.

The only warning I had was the squeak of shoes sliding on the dewy grass, and I was on the ground. The knife falls from my grasp as my hands automatically move to grab the body tumbling on top of mine. All I could do is hold the beast’s arms to its sides and push it away from me with every bit of strength I have. Its teeth are clashing against one another so hard and loud, it’s all I can hear. Its feet are kicking against me with all of its might. Stuart screams beneath me, the infected la need to think of something before another one joins in, but I don’t know what I could possibly do. The moment I let go of its arms, it’ll scratch me. If I even let go of one side of its body, the first thing it’s going to do is collapse on me and bite me. Zombie 101 is ‘don’t let it bite you’ - maybe tied with ‘shoot it in the head’. My grip begins to slide and I do the only thing I can think of: Call for help.

I feel the saliva dripping onto my cheeks as it worms it’s way closer and closer to my face. I am so certain that I’m about to die that I squeeze my eyes closed and brace myself for the moment I lose my grip. Ragged breath heats my face and the infected girl’s hair tickles my neck. My arms are wobbling, and my brain is shooting out every reason why it’s hopeless and I should give up. But I don’t. My screams for help might go unheard, but I still scream. My arms may not have even the strength of a ten-year-old left in them, but I lock my elbows and hold out anyways. If I’m going down, it won’t be because I gave up and accepted my fate. Then, the loudest pop I have ever heard goes off right next to me. The ringing is almost as loud as the blood rushing in my ears, and it takes me too long to realize that I’m not blind, my eyes are just still closed. I open them in time to see the person who just withdrew life from the zombie right on top of me - and got its contaminated blood all over me – grab the corpse off my body and tosses it aside. He’s trying to say something to me, but I don’t understand. I shake my head even though I didn’t even hear the question in the first place. He sighs and, after a few seconds, picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder. I try to focus on regaining my senses, and eventually, ever so slowly, I can start to hear the world around me again. I should be more concerned about where this stranger is taking me, but he’s not trying to eat me, so I can’t think of a good reason to fight him.

Too quickly, we’ve made it to wherever he’s been hiding out. Stuart is screaming all of the protests that should be coming from my mouth. I realize I’m in shock. I can’t think straight. I am not afraid. I don’t know how we got here. He steps through the side door of a plain single-story home with light siding, a standard subdivision house. He’s locked the door and checked every window to make sure no infected person was drawn to our location before I remember how to speak.

“Do you have anything that can get this blood off of me?” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth, and even I want to punch myself. “And thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”

“Do you have any open wounds?” His deep voice responded with a mixture of mild mistrust and disinterest.

“Uh, not that I know of, but it kicked the shit out of me.” I uselessly feel myself up to ‘check’ for wounds. There’s too much blood for me to say for certain if I’m injured without removing the clothing. He stalks away without response and held a finger to his lips to signal that I need to keep quiet. I don’t know why he thinks I need to be told this, maybe because he found me outside mounted by a zombie and screaming my head off. The memory alone makes me want to die of embarrassment. I nod dutifully with cheeks hot from humiliation, and sit down on a plush couch. Every moment that passes brings me closer and closer to a panic attack.

When he returns, he’s holding a mop bucket full of clean water, a dry rag and large long-sleeved shirt. “I don’t have any pants that will fit you. You’re going to have to make do with this.” I nod and take the towel first, motioning for him to turn away. Of all of the ways I lost my dignity today, I am keeping this last shred. He obeys by tiptoeing out the room entirely while I methodically wipe at myself, inspecting for open wounds anywhere the blood or saliva touched. When I’m finished, the bucket water has turned pink and I’m still not as clean as I would like to be, but I don’t dare ask why he didn’t just let me take a shower. The most important thing, though, is that while I am bruised completely from the hip down, I don’t find any open wounds. The shirt he gave me is warm and comfortable, and I no longer feel like I need to peel my skin off. I can’t avoid rewearing the filthy, blood-soaked pants, so I slide them back up over my hips with a declaration of pure distaste carved into my features. I think this will be an expression I will wear often for a long time to come. Next, I free Stuart and he immediately begins to meow, chirp, and otherwise draw attention to himself, and by extension, us.

“That thing has to go,” a hushed voice demands from behind me.

“No.”

“Then you both have to go.”

“Fine,” I respond, preparing to stuff him back into where he just came from. “Just hand me a map and tell me where I am, and I’ll be out of your hair.” At first, he just stands there with a blank expression, then pulls out an actual paper map and tosses it at me before saying “Have at it.”

He points to where we started, and then to where we are – which is only a few blocks away but I’d have to cross a sketchy cross street to get there. And I still remember that there was a horde between here and there, and probably even more coming considering the way I was screaming bloody murder. Still, I can’t resign Stuart to death just because some guy said so. He’s a living being, and he deserves a chance just as much as we do.

“Thanks for not leaving me for dead.”

“Anytime,” he responded semi-ironically, since he is sending me out into the night to probably die as we speak. I go to open the door before his hand slams against it, stopping me. “You can stay til daylight, but if any of them start snooping around my house, I’ll throw the cat out the window as bait.” I don’t mention that I saw the family portrait hanging on the wall, and I know this isn’t really his house, so who is he to kick me out?

“Do they even eat cats?”

“Better hope we don’t find out.”

Jerk. I have half a mind to walk out anyways, but I know damn well that going out there at night when I don’t have to is stupid. My pride can take this loss, it’s already taken worse hits today. I gently lower the bag back onto the ground and unzip it to let a still very offended Stuart out. Luckily, he has said his piece now for the most part, and after a single “mew,” he explores the strange room quietly.