I Want To Ride My Bicycle

The simplest things are missed the most. Even the ones that used to be the most infuriating things in the world quickly become moments to reminisce about.

I walked past a diner on the way out of the city. Whenever I felt down, or upset, my father would take me to a diner like that one. The 1950’s style silver window frames now tarnished from the lack of attention of the past few months. The windows beginning to gain a brown dust, the cloth curtains slowly molding.

I was almost tempted to walk in – to reminisce – but the closer I got to the windows, the more I could see through the dust clouding my view. At first it seemed quiet, like all the people just evaporated. But just a few steps from the door I noticed subtle movement behind the advertisement for “Specialty Pancake Saturdays.”

Looking closer, a dark mass stumbled startlingly fast, slamming into the door in front of me. It rebounded back into the shifting dust motes – thank god for Plexiglas. Grabbing a bench -- that used to be for patrons waiting to be seated – I wedged it underneath the door handle keeping it from opening any more than an inch or two. The mass I saw before was the shifting hulk of an extremely overweight man – that was probably taking advantage of the “specialty pancakes” – gnawing and drooling at the Plexiglas – I wonder if he is hungrier because of his disposition to food?

Locking away the memories with my father, sheltering them from the disturbing scene I just witnessed, I walk away continuing down the road. There are fewer of the diseased this far from the city, but the fewer prey makes them all that more ravenous.

I have to move faster to stay ahead of the creatures, but this leaves me less time to plan my next move. A few close encounters of the diseased kind later and I change my mind about being too high profile: time to steal a car.

The greatest problem in Hollywood’s post-apocalyptic worlds is the lack of fuel. It’s oddly one of the few things that Hollywood got right. Lines of cars headed out of the city, fuel tanks empty. Gas station’s storage tanks also empty.

While searching through the gridlock, looking for even the smallest amount of fuel to siphon some unnatural movement catches my eye. After finding the source of the movement, I almost feel ashamed I hadn’t thought of it before. Hollywood’s conditioning obviously having taken hold of my mind, as I was envisioning hanging out a Humvee window blasting heads and running down the infected. Unfortunately horrible gas mileage and lack of high caliber weapons keeps this fantasy from being a reality. The movements I saw were the streamers from a child’s bike outside of bike shop. Shattering all of my preconceptions about a post-apocalyptic world, I decide to get an old fashioned bicycle.

Crossing into the strip mall on the other side of the road, I move closely to the bike shop. I cautiously peek through the window making sure of what is inside, keeping in mind my experience from earlier.

Fantastic. No infected and the door is unlocked. Now I don’t have to attract attention by breaking a window. After stepping inside, I lock the door—don’t want to be interrupted by a flesh eating monster while I bicycle shop. The carpet of the store gives off puffs of dust as I walk towards the cross country bike rack, my footprints left behind look like they were made in thin, grey snow.

My first thought was to pull one of the high-end carbon fiber several thousand dollar bikes down and ride away. Why not? No one is going to come looking for a missing bike. Carbon fiber is light, true, but it is also brittle. Maybe not like balsa wood brittle but slam it just a little too roughly and it will snap. In a world where you might have to ditch something and come back for it latter you can’t have something that will break easy. Instead I went for much more rugged, aluminum framed bicycle that looked like it could take a little punishment.

Quickly grabbing some inner tube patches, fresh inner tubes, and a travel bike pump I headed for the back door. A small gathering of feeders were pressing against the display windows at the front of the store watching me shop for a bike.

Hopping on and peddling away from the several shuffling pursuers I couldn’t help but feel like I had made a good choice. I was quieter than a car, faster than being on foot and could cover more distance. Not to mention I didn’t have to worry about fuel considering the engine is me.

There are still a few hours before the sun goes down—let’s see how far I can get!

Shamble On My Wayward Son

It’s almost dark again.

Funny – how darkness plays into a person’s psyche. Stick a man in a pitch black room the size of a soccer field, without any sound, and soon enough the mind will begin to play tricks. He will hear sounds, see lights, and feel a presence. And this is in a simple room void of hazards or dangers. When you add ravenous, diseased subhuman – things – your mind is more easily shattered, revealing the fear and doubt.

But I have my safe spots. My savior is not a brick wall or a steel door – though they do have their uses – but the sun. As long as the sun burns red in the sky, I have the confidence to survive.

Punching the last lock on the door of my final safe house – it always sticks – I ease my way into the small kitchen of the local eatery. After deciding to venture from this pit of rotting filth and try to find my parents – if they still live – I traveled around the few square blocks that I have made my own, collecting the most important of my supplies. I only saw one infected during rounds. It was missing legs, probably an unfortunate individual not immediately affected by the disease; the beasts feeding on its lower limbs before the body was taken over by the sickness. The pitiful thing almost appeared in agony, but no, they don’t feel any pain. I was inclined to “put it out of its misery” but then again why waste my time, there is only so much of my sanity burning through the sky.

Humans used to light with bright lights cutting swaths in the encroaching darkness of the night. How humorous that we tried satiate our fears of the dark – of the unknown – with such temporary items. It doesn’t take long before a light burns out and must be replaced. During this time the repairman is absorbed into the darkness of nothing. Why does he not flee in terror seeking the safety of another lamp? It is because he has hope that when his job is done he will be illuminated and his fears will be sated.

This does not exist now. Hope is gone for any survivors.

Not long after the pathogen swept through this city we still had light. The power plants functioned for a day or two after all other infrastructure was gone. There were more people then. Then the lights were gone – and then there were no people. The fear of the dark of the unknown – truly the fear of death – paralyzed the weak and smothered the strong.

Two days after city power was gone, I found a man scratching with his bare hands against the frame of a door. His blood oozed slowly from his battered fingertips; his mumblings as coherent as an institutionalized schizophrenic. The sun was beginning to set – an hour until the last of the daylight would be gone – this man continued to stare into the sun. His gaze did not move from the sun. I watched him for several minutes trying to ascertain in my naivety if he could be saved. The man’s gaze followed the sun until it disappeared behind a tall building. As soon as the last sliver of burning stellar matter was gone an inhuman piercing howl escaped his lips.

It was not pain.

It was not fear.

The sound was the shattering of the last hope of a human, being expressed in the only way one can when their soul is destroyed by despair.

The doors to the kitchen are bolted shut and braced with a steel stool under the door like what you might see in a movie. As ridiculous as it sounds, it is quite effective for a secondary door bracing measure.

But it is time to sleep…

…

The sun again…

Stretching like my old cat used to – reaching out away from the body almost trying to separate the arms from the shoulder.

I gather my small pack – double check the contents – and throw it over my shoulder. Slowly sliding my exit door open I check the street to make sure it’s clear. Surprisingly quiet for such a warm day – they like it warmer. Not bothering to close the door – I’m not coming back here – I move onto the sidewalk and begin my usual movements of ducking into alcoves and recessed doors, checking my route ahead, and watching my back at the same time.

Stepping up to an alley-way, a crackle catches my ear across and up the street a few blocks. This momentary distraction left me blind to the alley which I always check – except this time.

A possibly fatal mistake.

A roaring pain tears into my thigh along with the teeth of a disgusting fiend from the alley. Deftly pulling the 8 inch bayonet my grandfather gave me from its place of honor around my waist I take two swift slashes and remove the head of the fiend from its shoulders – splattering the ground with a surprising amount of arterial spray. The blade kept razor sharp by my diligence finally paid off.

Disinfecting the wound with a small amount of rubbing alcohol I kept in my pack, I wrap the wound quickly keeping an eye out for any others who have smelled the fresh blood.

I am concerned now that I have a pronounced limp and reduced mobility. But having sustained two serious injuries in so few days just reinforces that leaving the city is the best option.

I was one of the “lucky” few who are entirely immune to the disease bite or otherwise. Lucky – it means that there is no respite from the pain if I am dragged to the ground by the diseased. Sooner or later when those susceptible are bitten they cease to be human and become one of the mobile dead. They cease to feel pain. I get no such luck. I will feel ever bite, every tear as muscle is separated from bone. Adrenaline will keep me alive longer too, my body fighting to keep my miserable husk alive as the wretched diseased tear into my guts – eviscerating me like the Romans of old – leaving my guts to bake on the pavement as the last pitiful breath of life whispers between my lips.

This will not be me. I have delayed too long, and if I know my father – and I know him well – my parents will survive until I can reach them and keep them from any further torture of these awful days.

The sun has passed its zenith and a light breeze is blowing in as I leave the outer edge of town. So accustomed to the stench of rotting corpses, the smell of nature and all it provides is almost a revolting scent.

Only a few more hours of light left and no safe place to sleep yet.

The small but heavy pack cuts into my shoulders, causing me to droop like a wilting flower; the sun beating down at its hottest point of the day sapping my strength; my leg still lightly oozing blood through the bandage has become a dull but constant pain. I have been reduced to what can only be described as a shamble – little better than the infected.

But I am driven.

As long as the sun is up, I am a man and I fear nothing; not death, not the unknown, I still have hope.

Blood and Delusion

It all comes down to blood.

Blood in the veins – blood on the ground – it’s all the same, isn’t it?

In your body blood oxygenates cells, carries nutrients throughout your whole body, and takes away the waste.

Everybody’s blood works the same way, more or less. Some people have too thick blood and they have to take blood thinners. Some have too much and have high blood pressure and they take medication. Some have too little, while others get poor circulation. But in essence all blood is the same.

But that isn’t entirely true either. Some people’s blood has antigens and others have different ones. Different types of blood can’t mix because not every body can use the antigens. Our blood also does something else. It contains the body’s immune system, the T-Cells and white blood cells you might or might not remember from that Tuesday in 8^th grade biology. But your body produces antibodies which work with your antigens to fight off disease. There is a theory that the reason there are so many more people with O+ and A+ blood types in the world is because way back when the Black Plague swept across the globe cutting the world’s population by 80% the antigens and antibodies in O+ and A+ blood types fought the disease better. Whereas the other blood types just couldn’t fight it off as well.

All this talk of blood has made me sick. The sticky red fluid, the life force, the thing that is solely responsible for keeping the body alive became our enemy, turning friends to beasts – making monsters out of us all. Books used to read, “so much blood the rivers turned red” or “the ground was slick from the amount of blood.” Never did I think it could be possible – it was always some kind Hollywood joke or a descriptive tool used by writers. But I have literally watched rivers become a disgusting sanguine color stirred to an even mix by the floating bodies. The streets are littered with the bodies of the dead. Coagulating blood dripping into storm drains – the streets slowly turning a rusty brown as those walking bags of death slouch through the streets waiting to drag down the next unfortunate victim who gets distracted scrounging for valuable loot.

But you can’t stay off the streets. As my grandfather said to me before dying naturally, “You can’t be afraid. If you resign to the fact that you are already dead then you will find yourself at a state a peace. Able to do as you please when everyone else cowers in their homes afraid of what the world might bring.”

The sun rises. It’s a cool day – a brisk wind carries that stench of a thousand rotting corpses. But I warm myself in the sun – think of what my grandfather told me – unbolt the sturdy steel door, my silent guardian against the fiends of the night, and stepped into the early morning and begin my day of survival.

  

It hasn’t been long since the disease crept into the city. Maybe six months or so have passed but cars already have gathered a thick layer of dust. Pumps around the city have stopped and some places are flooded with an inch or two of water.

People used to walk these streets, tourists and locals – all oblivious to the dangers that would soon come, disregarding the signs of trouble on the horizon.

The streets are still walked, but they don’t walk to lead a life. They walk to satiate an endless hunger.

Moving down Main Street, I keep to the shop windows and alcoves stopping from time to time to watch ahead, check behind and plan my next movement to shelter. They are not crafty and lack creative thought, but if you don’t pay attention, they can quickly be on you biting, clawing, drooling.

It has been two weeks since I have seen another living person. And that person was a scrawny, emaciated thing more beast than man, frightened by my mere presence – or maybe offended by my defiance against what the world threw at the human race. He quickly padded away in his ragged clothes and torn shoes before I could offer to help him. I didn’t want to help him anyway – it’s safer to be alone, no one to rely on or slip up to get you killed.

But sometimes it does get lonely.

Now there is more blood. Blood covered glass. Blood stained walls. Half eaten bodies, some reasonably fresh ones mixed in with the oldest.

A rusty doorknob breaks off easily in an alleyway. Inside is a pristine back room of someone’s apartment. Sifting through the shelves quickly – only the essentials are taken. This is probably the last untouched source of supplies left in the city, it really isn’t that big, and what is left would require too much time wasted scrounging. Probably about time to leave the city and look for greener pastures.

Difficulty in exiting the store room and alleyway is increased only slightly by the shuffling of one of them at the entrance to the alley. But it takes no notice and disappears behind the building heading farther down the street. When there is one, there are more to come. I quickly but softly move to the opposite end of the alley from Main Street, when suddenly a snarl comes from behind. Snapping around with gun raised, I see a wild dog. The benefit of the disease is that wildlife was unaffected, the disease being unable to take hold in the host body. What a disgustingly specific infection this is. It makes this dog only slightly less dangerous. At least I don’t have to compete with the unnatural lack of self-preservation which characterizes the infected.

A gun shot would attract attention, human or otherwise, so I holster the 9mm. The diseased can smell blood better than a shark. So my knife is out of the question. Luckily a broken broom lies on the ground near the dumpster in front of me. Keeping my eyes on the wild animal in front of me, I slowly reach for the two foot piece of cheap pine broomstick on the ground. The dog’s instincts are too good and it lunges for my neck. Snapping the broomstick from ground into the dog’s head, it emits only a half-snarl half-whimper. I try to dodge out of the way of the bite but I wasn’t fast enough.

The dog’s teeth sink into my arm. A quick club to the head and my attacker releases me. And flees the alley deciding I am not worth the physical torment. But now blood is slowly seeping from my multiple puncture wounds. A quick bandage from an extra bandana stops the blood from trailing me when I make my escape – keeps them from following me. But I have wasted too much time. My friend from earlier peeks back around the corner at the other end of the alley. He sniffs the air and begins to shamble, slowly at first, but with a quickening gate towards the blood, and me. Its only fractions of a second later and more begin to pour down the alley. It’s time to run.

I take off, disregarding the noise of my shoes beating the pavement which must sound like two slabs of concrete slamming together in this dead city. But speed is now more important than stealth. As I run, panting from the exertion, I make up my mind:

Time to see if my parents are still alive…