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.