The slithering shadows lengthened as the flames grew dim. Their long tendris cracks in the billowing light of the fire. In the cold air this ancient dance of light and dark went unnoticed, save for a scant few creatures of the night, a single young girl, and an old man. Melty snow clung to the bare feet of the girl as she stood, witness to the death of her home. But her stationary state did not last for long as unearthly howls and shrieks soon rang throughout the streets.
To these she ran, pounding depressions into the fallen snow, their quiet crunch followed by her heavy breath. She was now beyond the reach of the light save for the bright shine of the newly waning moon. This same celestial body revealed that far behind her form, other creatures stalked her trails.
They had already passed the embers of the flame and, like her, bathed in the reflection of the sun. Their eyes tinted dully in the darkness, a coal to the gold of natural predators who prowled the night. Yet they did not lose their prey, and like the misty breath before her the noises of pursuit thickened.
A new fire sprung forth, it was both intangible and ethereal, yet it burned just the same. It began in her chest and legs, but now, as her scrawny child’s endurance was put to the test, it encompassed her full self. Yet fear propelled her forwards, fear burned in place of fuel, and fear screamed in her mind.
But even the fear of death has limits as passing countless streets and making countless turns takes a heavy toll on the body. Her once rosy and lively cheeks were now flushed with a deeper shade of red that permeated her vessels. The time between her footfalls shortened and soon, stopped all together, her container simply incapable of following her orders.
Like this, her body fell to the ground, faltering before even meeting its foe. With one final effort, a twist of her head allowed her to look away from where they came. As she listened she could hear them, the total of twelve feet and twelve hands compacting the snow. “Where are you mom?, Where are you dad?”, she called out in a desperate whisper. The only response was the nearing pants of her hunters.
If she could have bore to look upon what would be her end then she would have seen them, the things that had once been human. Their dilated eyes, their salivating maws, and their arched backs as if in the throes of pain or pleasure. They grew ever closer, one hundred feet ... ninety ... seventy … forty … ten.
So near were the sound of their steps that she could imagine a stench, musky with a twinge of rancid sweat. But a flash, loud and bright, drew her from the constructed scent. Then another, and another, till in total there had been as many flashes as creatures.
Turned as she was she could see the source of the onslaught, a barrel pointing out from the dark, followed by a wrinkly face aged by time and work. He was an old weather worn man, the hard lines on his face evidence of the permanence of the scowl which now lay upon it. His rugged beard did little to sway any description of him away from word gruff. Even so, his presence made her feel just a tad more reassured and safe while lying vulnerable in the open night.
Noticing her gaze he gave her a sidelong glance before saying, “Eh, hever hurts to have some bait. Follow if you want, don’t if you don’t.” And like that he continued forwards, stepping around her cold body to head into the house nearby. Unable to even respond as exhaustion set in, the girl muttered out a halfhearted “wha- ” before falling back into deep and forcefully drawn out breaths.
By the tenth of such deep inhales she choked, the smell of the creatures had drifted over. Unlike in her imagination there was nothing animalistic about their odor. No musk, no sweat, just the fetid scent of rotting flesh and the nauseatingly metallic tang of old crusted blood. Picking herself up now, just slightly recovered, she saw the front of the pack, a foot or two from where she herself had fallen. Another shiver crept up her spine sending her limbs into a short spasm, one born of fear of what might have been.
Hurriedly, she followed the old man into the house as the night stirred from the noise, she did not wish to contemplate the nearness of her death. As she entered the hollow adobe she was greeted by a foyar lined with photos. Even in the gloom, with naught but the moonlight passing through the doorway as illumination, the images felt bright.
In each were three people: a woman, a man, and a boy. But one in particular drew her attention, the verdant green of the grass starkly portrayed in contrast to the vibrant blue sky. In this the woman and the man lovingly looked on as the boy, about her height, held a cross country medal. It was gold, not pure nor true but shone all the same, like the smile upon his face.
As she looked at this happy family her head turned away, unwilling to face those whose home she had trespassed upon. Following the soft noise of wood sliding open she found the old man in the kitchen. He was rummaging through the cabinets, swearing at what she assumed to be a lacking find.
He turned his head to look at her, a frown evident on his face. “Find something kid?” he asked, his aggravated state portrayed through his speech. “Why are you looking through these people’s things?” she criticized. “Cause they ain’t around to use it and we are.” he said, justifying his actions. In an attempt to change the subject he questioned her,“Where are your parents’, kid?”. She did not answer, unwilling to think it over. The old man seemed to realize his mistake and remained silent after that.
She was not satisfied with this and walked away, her fear of being left alone momentarily forgotten in her upset state. However, the old man called out causing her to stop, “I recommend you head upstairs to the boy’s room, get some clothes. Dressed as you are right now you won’t last the night.” As if her body needed reminding his words reignited the chill in her nevers. Even so, she did not shiver, her body past that level of cold.
Hurrying up with stiff legs and arms she met a junction at the top of the stairs, three doors, each labeled by metal signs which fit the aesthetics of the home. Realizing clothes would do nothing to help if she remained wet she entered the door labeled restroom. The tiled floor within caused her already cold feet to numb further.
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Inside she found that she faced herself; a body sized mirror covered the wall. In it she could witness her maturing features: an angular yet still slightly chubby face, short boyish black hair, spindly limbs, and dark brown eyes. It was just a twelve year old girl she faced, the mirror did not lie.
Drawing herself out of the second long trace she located her target, a towel. Drying with it she left the room, its purpose served for now, and headed towards the room labeled Jake. With the towel, now moist, wrapped over her clothes for a hint of warmth she opened the door, and the smell hit her. It was far worse than even the infected body of before, where just a whiff made one want to vomit.
And that is what she did. A deluge of water, stale cereal, and saltines, the only things left behind when she woke up a few days ago, came hurtling out of her mouth onto the bedroom carpet. The intensity was great, so much so that she fell to the floor, her thud even eliciting a response from downstairs. With this not only was the scent of putridly sweet excrement and decay in her nose, but now her mouth burned with an acidic bile.
Choking and sputtering, she did not see how the old man arrived, gun poised to fire at anything worth shooting. Hearing his footsteps she looked to him, but with tears now forming in her eyes his form was blurry and indistinct. He offered her miserable form no consolation, instead opting for advice,“Get up lass, with the world as shitty as it is you’ll need to get used to the smell.”. With the muzzle of the rifle he tapped the door, creaking it open to reveal its contents.
Inside lay the normal amenities of a boys room: posters of space, of athletes, and other “heros” lined the walls. These came along with the classic furniture befitting a lived in room, dressers and drawers, a night stand, and a bed. And this bed, like any other bed, held people in it, but they themselves were unique. Their muscles were pulled taught against the skin that remained; stiff as boards of steel and as cold as them too.
Their faces, their hands, their bodies under their clothes, it was all frozen in a state of decomposition: to the point that the three bodies were almost indistinguishable. But the thin layers of nylon and cotton, like a filling in a cake, separated them to reveal how they had died. The boy laid the closest to the door, nestled in the embrace of his mother. The mother laid under the arm of the father, who’s other hand held a gun. In each of their heads a hole was present, surrounded by a bloom of bone slivers and browning blood. The streams from the wounds had drieded, leaving trails upon the bed and floor much like the water from a melting glacier.
The old man did not bother with these things, he crossed the boundary of blood with no hesitation save for a scrunched up nose. Approaching the amalgamation of bodies respect was not given to any of them, instead he went for the gun. But as if it were an afterthought, not even taking the time to look back, he said,”Pick up your clothes, no use in waiting to join’em.”. As if that had broken the spell upon her she tried to protest his actions, but the taste of the air aborted everything but the thought.
Instead, she went to the dresser which faced away from the scene. She could not watch as he gripped the father's hand, slowly prying the clammy, sticky, skin off from the gun. However, because of this, she did not see when he reached the fourth finger, how he gently ensured that this finger, with its ring, remained as intact as possible.
To distract herself she focused all of her attention on the wardrobe, excluding everything else from her mind, including her hesitation to take from others. And that let her view the many clothes without remorse, all the bright whites, the dark blacks, and everything in between were open to her. She began to pick and choose, and although they were all boy’s clothes, her favorite color was still present. Pulling back her hands she drew out blackish blue jeans and a light blue T-shirt. Placing them under the nook of her arm she went in again, clawing away at the neatly stacked clothes.
Like a thief in the night however, the old man’s voice stole this momentary respite, “Remember to bring white clothes for the snow.” And with that her search for her favorite color was stopped short and she once again found herself in the room. After grabbing the clothes he had directed her to, she opened another drawer and grabbed the other smaller types of apparel she would need.
Then, walking with a stiff face, she passed by the bed and the old man, her nostrils flaring with the strengthening of the offended scent, to reach the closet. Within she found the final pieces of clothing she required, a coat and a pair of shoes, the latter slightly muddied from use. With her new finds she fled the room and changed in the bathroom, the footsteps of the old man heard till they were outside.
As she exited he gave a passing comment,”Finally thinking smart, although dark that denim will help with any abrasions.” Although this seemed to be some sort of compliment it had the opposite effect, as her determining factor in choosing clothes seemed so wasteful now that he pointed out their benefits. Frowning, her face further grimaced as she looked at his hand, he held the gun out to her. The gun that still had some flesh sticking to it due to the cold.
She shook her head, hard and nervous, she wouldn’t accept. Yet the old man was insistent, “Don’t wuss out now kid, you won’t last without some protection and you sure as hell ain’t swingin anything larger than a toothpick with those arms”. She looked down, they were thin, even for her own age.
Like a snake with an apple the old man’s hand reached further, placing the gun within her comparatively diminutive fingers. The cold flesh still upon it rough and scratching, a reminder of where it had come from. Yet, it felt safer to have it in hand, and her palm closed tightly around the grip.
“Finally”, the old man sighed, before heading back downstairs. Following him, gun in hand, she found herself in the kitchen, the counter holding up the old man’s bent elbows as he unwrapped a bar. Once she arrived he did not stop eating but, with his left hand, he tossed her one. Forgetting the weapon in her right hand she reached with it only to drop both the gun and the bar.
To this the old man angrily stated, ”Treat it with respect, it will save your life more than once.” Pausing, trying to comprehend the sudden change, he once again berated in a hushed voice, “Pick it back up!” With this she quickly did so, before, without knowing why, lowering her head in shame. His attention left her after this, and she slowly crept up to the stool beside his.
Settling upon it, and slightly struggling with the height, she prepared to peel the wrapper off the bar. But before attempting to do so, she turned to him, who seemed to be neither seething nor happy, to quietly ask. “What’s your name?” The old man was silent for a moment, going so far as to even pause his eating, before responding with, “Earl, and you?”. “Samantha”, she replied, followed by an opening sound.
“I’ll call you Sammy, no need for people to think you’re a little girl”, He said. “Why?”, Sammy questioned, her words slightly muffled by the chewed up flesh of the bar. “Cause reasons I don't need to explain to a kid.” was all she got.