She Doesn't Die, Not Physically Anyway

When the zombies attacked Melanie's family one night, it was fight or flight for her, and she chose flight. Now she's all alone, left to navigate and fend for survival in this new world by herself. That is, until she met the Welters.

It wasn’t supposed to end up this way, not like this, not with all these problems still unresolved, not with the world collapsing underneath me as I speak. I can feel the Earth sinking into itself, quietly accepting defeat, and yes if you asked me now, I would answer that I’m afraid, that I don’t know what to do for once in my life, except to run. Run where, run for how long, run till when? Till my legs give out and my bones crack and shatter like glass and my lungs shrivel up and I fall, fall into myself, crumble into a heap of unwanted mass.

This is not your typical case of over-dramatic teenage angst. This is the apocalypse, the end. Blood spatters onto one of my white Keds, I hate the sight of it, so contrasting, shouldn’t exist.  I lost my family back when the meat-eaters attacked my house, they’re all gone, all six of them, either turned or just another meal.

I’m walking now, against the velvet skies, still so beautiful, still so familiar. Does He know what’s going on, did He send them upon us, to ravage and feast on us sinners? Is this a new plague, a new way to punish us? Darkness serves as my protector but also wears the face of my enemy. Hides me, but also shelters the evil.  I haven’t seen another human since I made it out of the city, to the outskirts.

I didn’t say goodbye to them, just picked up and left. Left them. Just. Like. That.

OH NO THERE’S ANOTHER PACK OF THEM, HOLY CRAP

They really are disgusting creatures, all their guts and parts hanging out; they look Hollywood picture-perfect, like they all have personal-stylists that patch them up, make them look extra-deformed. Where’s my bat, my lifeline, my one weapon that keeps me afloat- it’s in my bag, I grabbed it when I was running, I’ve seen enough TV to know.

 Used to be orange, but there’s a new coat of paint on it now, cherry Popsicle flavor, oh wait, it’s just blood. Good thing I took all those batting lessons with Fat Gil before this, that z o m b I e didn’t stand a chance, lumbering around like a man on sedatives, dreamlike and slow with dead eyes, all black and gorged out. More blood but it’s on my face now, but I quickly use my sleeve to wipe it off. Now just two more to go, two more targets to bash in before I hit the woods on the other side of this vacant clearing. My backpack doesn’t feel very secure on my shoulders, it’s slightly falling off and I worry that it might slip and then I’ll really be up a creek with no paddle, but who cares, it’s not like I have time to. I’m in position to strike and then-

And then the ending, he’s got my arm, I’m not going to make it, nails dig into my skin, piercing me, blood oozes out, feels sharp like a doctor is shoving needles into my arms, a thousand shots- it burns, is that my blood or hers, imnotgoingtomakeit. A last ditch effort, where’s that goddamn bat, wait, he let go, HE LET GO. More blood squirts onto my skirt, this time it’s not mine. The bat is firm in my grasp, one more swing for good measure.

I’ve made a clearing for myself and I’ve got about ten seconds before the other z o m b I e s pounce on me and the thought alone thrusts me forward and my lungs are burning from lack of oxygen mixed with adrenaline and -is it weird that it tastes like freedom and Dr. Pepper-, hoping, praying to God that they don’t catch me. The woods are close, I hear the trees rustling, swaying to the peaceful melodies only they can hear, almost there, ten more steps, eight more leaps, one small step for man, one giant leap for humanity.

I hit the woods, but I don’t stop running. Can’t stop now because I’m warmed up, the blood still left in me moves through my veins, acts like my fuel, and it’s daring me to keep in motion, shouting that I’m forbidden to slow down. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t stop now, my legs don’t listen to me anymore, they’ve grown up, they talk back to me now, they do what they want when they want and right now they want me to sprint. Are those tears on my cheeks? When did it start raining?

Blackness mows me over; all thoughts of survival leave my bones.

This seems like a nice place to die.

The End

0 comments about this story Feed