Amongst the Shadows

Reads: 298  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
After society falls to the shadows, one survivor questions a nagging need to live on in a world of death and decay. Through his eyes, this brief fictional memoir poses the question of why we push on in situations of hopelessness.

Submitted: July 06, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 04, 2016

A A A

A A A


The world we knew is gone, lost to a darkness that we've spent years mocking and pretending to prep for. Books were written speculating the fall of man and the fight for survival that would precede it, but these tales of fiction were always shelved under humor or turned into big budget horror movies. There was no grounds to take them seriously; no science to make them probable situations. What I wouldn't give for the credits to roll and for this to have just been one long, brutal movie. 

It's been almost five months to the day since the start of it all that I’m writing this. The town I once lived in, a small Long Island suburb known for its proximity to the sound and spectacular beach views of Connecticut, seemed like one of the first to fall; but rumors of several epicenters made it impossible to determine. Initially, it was assumed to have started in a large city, carried over from some third-world country on a red eye. Reports eventually twisted patient zero into being a crazed activist that released a band of rabid monkeys, but we all knew where those rumors trickled from. There never was a clear reason for it, but as expected, people turned on the government and started to blame it for everything.

The speed of societal collapse was astonishing. Never had I thought that we would break so easily. Terrorist attacks, government shutdowns - we were always able to bounce back somehow; but not this time. It tore through us mercilessly, collapsing our perfect little existence into a pile of unrecognizable rubble. We were forced to think about survival in ways we were never prepared for. What we would do to survive was suddenly our greatest concern; no longer did we care about government corruption and foreign affairs. They were trivial matters that wouldn't get us from one day to the next. 

Like the black plague, entire cities fell. Devastation spread throughout the world, inevitably touching on my simple little insignificant life. 

 

Recovering from my roommate’s New Years soiree the night before, I was in a daze that left me questioning whether or not I was still asleep. As I moved through the motions of my morning routine, my head was pounding, and not just a dull ache that could easily be subdued with a mixture of aspirin and Absolut. Somewhere during the events of the night the DJ had made residence within the space between my ears, ensuring I would not soon forget his highly recommended talents. 

I remember reading on the internet somewhere that if I ever needed to rid myself of a bad hangover, I should think of something terrifying - my worst fear - and just focus on it. Apparently, the chemical reaction induced by fear would balance out whatever lasting effect the alcohol had on my body. Though I figured the method was full of shit, I found myself inadvertently thrown into the implementation of this theory not long after I awoke that New Years morning.

As I focused heavily on my mild claustrophobia, hoping to rid myself of my discomfort, I took note of the eerie silence throughout our two-story abode of three. Silence, a luxury I rarely knew thanks to two roommates with conflicting schedules. It was that morning, in the thick of this silence, that I realized that the creaking floorboards echoed obnoxiously throughout the house; without the background noise of Jake and Daryl to drown the hideous noise out, every step seemed to ring within the older building. 

My room was closest to the carpeted stairs that lead to the main level, a fact that I quite often cursed when either of my housemates decided to trip down the stairs for a late night snack. The silence that day wasn’t pleasant, and while I would often pray for it when crafting my latest school assignment, it wasn’t needed this morning. There was something unsettling about it, and with each step further down towards the common living area, the silence seemed to grow brutally louder. A dull hum echoed painfully in my eardrums, finally drowning out the DJ. Never had I an appreciation for Jake’s off-key singing or Daryl's incessant rambling more than I did this morning.

Without the creak of the stairs or the rickety 2nd story floorboards to distract my senses, my ears picked up on a minute sound that, even today, haunts me at my core. At first, it was too soft to be distinguishable. Maybe it was the dripping of one of our many leaky pipes or just another roach scuttling across the floor? Drawing closer to the source of the noise, I started to pick up the nerve-grating sound of lip smacking. Beneath that, a guttural groan emanated, a noise that sent painful chills down my spine. As I rounded the corner wall that separated the hallway from the living area, I saw what I immediately recognized as a pool of blood forming at the edge of the large throw rug. The comfortable beige material was had become a matted mess, splattered with ruby droplets and unidentifiable scraps. Beyond the rug stretched a streaking trail of gore that disappeared behind another wall that sectioned the living area and kitchen. Before I could process what I was looking at, I realized that sometimes you can believe what you read on the internet - as my body quivered with an unfamiliar fear, my hangover finally dissipated. 

I stood still for a minute, my mind processing what my eyes were seeing. I could picture a wild animal tearing into Jake or Daryl's body in the kitchen. A beast that escaped a nearby zoo or some zoological anomaly that somehow found itself way into our home. The accompanying groans weren't animalistic, though. They had a human quality to them, making each one all the more unsettling. While deep in thought, trying to contemplate my potential situations, I must have made a noise. The lip smacking stopped. Seconds later, something shuffled across the floor and moved in my direction. 

 

Despite having been clear across the room from Daryl, I distinctly remember every minor detail to his distorted facial features. Even five months later, I could crudely sketch exactly how his pale skin looked hanging loosely off of his bones. I can still feel his gaze burning through me despite the milky white haze that coated his eyes. We stood still, eyeing each other up as if we had just been introduced. As he took a liking to my presence, his jaw, which hung slightly to the right off its track, snapped in my direction. I had lived through Hollywood's fascination with the undead. I knew what I was looking at. Standing in front of me was the impossible - a bloodied, zombified doppelgänger of a guy I just shared beers and friendly conversation with several hours earlier.

Daryl’s lifeless frame moved towards me slowly, and with each lurching step forward, I moved myself towards our home’s main entrance behind me. My hand touched the cold metal of the door handle and my fingers fumbled with the latch. I didn't dare move my eyes off of Daryl, no matter how grotesque his figure was. I couldn’t help but gag when a string of crimson oozed out the side of his mouth. His throat gurgled a groan, forcing more of the thick liquid to gush down to his feet. His hands stretched out to me as he took a determined step forward. My fingers gripped the handle tight as I had to force myself to look away from my pursuer. With one last persistent moan from my former roommate, I felt the sun warming my skin. 

 

The relief of the daylight lasted for only a moment before the nearby screams of my neighbors shook me back to reality. Though the street was littered with the colorful remnants of fall, I couldn't help but focus on the dark splatters and pools of blood that coated the environment around me. There was an unfamiliar odor in the air; one so thick that it overpowered the typical aroma of winter. To this day, I can only identify it as the stench of the apocalypse. A gunshot in the distance jerked my attention momentarily, and it was at that time that I found my mind cluttered, not with coherent thoughts, but rather a collection of noises that weighted against my brain. Through the noise, I heard my subconscious screaming at me to run, though my leg’s failed to move.

To my right, a window shattered in the distance and I was brought back to the grim reality surrounding me. Before I could react and get a handle on the situation, Daryl’s hands pounded heavily on the door behind me. Even through the solid door, he could sense me. His groans echoed through the thick wood and I pictured those lifeless eyes staring blankly as he fought to break through. As images of my roommate’s cold, dead hands tearing into my flesh flashed in my mind, my eyes glimpsed two distant figures shambling towards me. Their faces were a blur, but I had no difficulty noticing that the missing arm of one figure was gripped tightly in the hand of the other.

Already shaken by the insanity surrounding me, my will completely broke as a woman I recognized as Connie Pinter came screaming through my front yard. Time slowed enough so that I could see the tears streaming down her face as she struggled to maintain her footing. Running up and down her calf was a large, fresh gash that gushed blood with each step. Trailing directly behind her were Tim and Roy, her cherished twin boys, shrieking inhumanly as they slowly gained ontheir once loving mother

I felt myself feeling woozy and just as the world started to spin, the door behind me splintered on its frame. Daryl’s desperate grunts arose through a small crack, and as the door pushed further outward I had to force myself to leave. It was only then that I realized I was barefoot as the cold of the ground surged up my leg. No manner of discomfort could overcome my need to escape, so I kept moving, leaving my paralyzing fear and the life I once knew behind. I dodged through the carnage of my neighborhood, ignoring cries for help as I pushed towards to a future I had no concept of.

 

After leaving the comfort of my familiar life, I was thrown into a gruesome reality. On that first day, you couldn't go twenty feet without watching somebody being torn apart. The constant screaming was unbearable, but I knew each fresh holler for help bought me another few seconds of life. It was chaos in its purest form; there was no escaping it no matter where you hid. 

Like many others that had fled their homes, I didn't have a plan. People flocked to grocers and bigger retailers to stock up on non-perishables and anything that could be a weapon, but things were always worse where the crowds grew. It wasn't long before places like Wal-Mart were completely overrun. I knew enough to stay away from high-density areas, but that didn't mean I had a solid idea of where to go.

Initially, I stuck to my town, figuring it was small enough that the outbreak wouldn't be as devastating. I was wrong. I witnessed people I knew get torn apart, stand back up, and repeat the process ad nauseam until I felt like I was completely alone in the engulfing darkness. We're not talking over a span of days, either; this was within the first few hours. I've heard of epidemics traveling across villages on the other side of the globe, but those were always over the course of weeks. In just a few hours I saw my hometown crumble around me. 

I had to escape, and without transportation, I would have to do so very carefully and on foot. 

 

I had tried to leave in hopes to find safety somewhere, but there was no such thing. The plague spread so rapidly that few people were able to escape it. Those that I did find alive were hell bent on their own survival. Some protected their makeshift fortresses with force while others politely declined my pleas for help. I couldn't blame them, but I knew there would be others stranded like me that wouldn't be so understanding. 

The world had changed so much in such a short amount of time. All of that patriotism we experienced after 9/11 was non-existent. It was all about not being the next to fall, it was about keeping you and yours alive until the next day. I was alone, completely. My parents were across the country, my sister having gone MIA over in Iraq a year earlier. I thought about my folks only briefly, not wanting to compromise my safety for a few moments of sadness. Were they alive? Was there any way their city wasn't hit? It didn't seem probable, so I assumed the worst and kept living, hoping one day I'd be able to prove myself wrong and hug my mother again.

 After three days of trying to survive on the road, already somehow forgetting what the world was originally like, I remembered a shred of my former life, before survival became my only instinct. I was the manager of a small retailer, a strip store not five minutes from where I once lived. It was somewhere familiar, a place with a large steel shutter and thick plexiglass windows. I'd seen these things break down doors and shatter glass, but thick plexiglass and a steel gate?  

I fought with myself as to whether I could even return back to my town. I had seen it crumble so quickly and I feared the sudden unfamiliarity would be too much to handle. My safety, however, far outweighed the desire to not witness the disarray. Unfortunately, in my haste to escape the hunger-driven Daryl, I had left the keys to the store in my room. I needed a refuge from these new dangers of the world, and it seemed like the most logical of options. I may have survived solely by sticking to the shadows this long, but I knew it was only a matter of time before even the shadows weren't safe. It took little deliberation before I realized I would have to return to my former residence and potentially face the demons that drove me from it.

 

It was the light of day when I reached my old neighborhood. To stay off the main roads, I kept to nearby forestry, cutting through backyards as much as possible. It cut down on the amount of carnage I had to witness, but not by much. To reach my destination, I had to cut through the Welks' yard. The Welks were a quiet young couple, the kind you would see for a few minutes a day, mostly only at their mailbox. Regardless of their apparent timidness, the scene in their yard signified that they knew how to handle themselves. A stack of bodies lay in a heap at the bottom of a drained pool, the stench of decay filling the air around. A few distorted faces I recognized, like poor Connie Pulaire and her two boys, rested on top. Crushed beneath Connie's frail frame was something far more familiar. 

For Christmas, I had bought Daryl one of those clever frat boy T-shirts that labeled his crotch as "The Legend". Heavy spots of blood and other thick liquids threatened to mask it, but I could still make out the font. I thought back to several days ago when I was forced into this grotesque world. Daryl had stood there, chomping on the remnants of Jake, blood dripping from his maw down towards the legend. I felt a slight relief knowing that he wasn't still out there, wandering aimlessly towards his next feast. 

I bid my old friend the final farewell I was initially robbed of and scanned the rest of the Welks' property, peering into windows to see if the couple was still around. They were, laying side-by-side behind a destroyed barricade of personal items, an old revolver in Tom Welks' hand. They were embraced, neither one showing signs of infection. I felt a slight jealousy that they took the easy way out and almost wished I was on the floor with them. Even with a gun in hand, though, I knew I'd never pull the trigger. I wanted to survive, though I never could express why? The Welk's thought first of survival before giving into the inevitable. Would I ever feel that release? That moment when my mind finally gives in and lets me go? You may be thinking that mere days after the outbreak is a might soon to be thinking of quitting, but when you experienced the spread of devastation, you know that hope is nothing more than a four letter word.

 

When my old abode came into view, all I could feel was dread. It had only been days, but it seemed like an unfamiliar place. The front door hung off its hinges, reminding me of the horrors that could wait for me inside. Seeing random people shambling around in all forms of disarray and dismemberment was one thing, but when it was someone you were close to, your stomach turned.

Inside, all of the familiar smells were replaced with decay. Jake's body still coated the kitchen floor with gore, his face a nearly indistinguishable mess. I glanced at him as I walked by and swear what was left of his right eye twitched and followed me. His head lay awkwardly to one side, a thin patch of skin and visible bone being all that kept it from rolling off completely. I had seen worse carnage in the short time after Jake’s untimely death, but my stomach still turned in an annoying skittishness. I thought a moment about covering him, but remembered that there would be nobody to come by and clean him up at some point. His corpse was a permanent fixture in this new world, a representation of what waits for us. 

Unease took over, and I found myself no longer able to stand my presence in this home; so I grabbed my keys and a few warm bottles of water and reentered the world of the living dead. 

 

The apocalypse. When the end of the world used to be nothing more than a topic of discussion, I always assumed it would be quite biblical. In dialogue, I often equated it to the passage Revelation 6:12 -“When he opened the sixth seal, I looked, and behold, there was a great earthquake, and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the whole moon became as blood”. The reality is is that there is nothing biblical about it. Just chaos; the heart-wrenching chaos that, even weeks after it starts to dissipate, sticks with you like a knife embedded in your soul.

In my time alone, I often contemplated the end of the world. In the quiet of my safe house, it was tough not to focus on such things. On nights I would watch the sun dip behind the forestry in the distance, my mind often helped to fill the dark void of the engulfing night. Every so often I would be startled back to reality by another band of survivors scuffling through the strip mall parking lot. I would hear their frustrated curses through the thick plexiglass that separated my safe world from their desolate one. Some nights I would leave the safety of the stock room to watch them scramble off into the distance. On the rare occasion, their screams wouldn’t shatter the silence.

 

I was able to survive like this on my own for a month, scavenging from local residences before disappearing behind the steel gate of the store. It was a lonely existence. Before all of this, I had appreciated solitude when I could get it. With Daryl and Jake stomping around the house at all hours, it was near impossible to get a moment alone - but now I had all the time in the world to myself, to my thoughts. 

To say I didn't contemplate suicide would be a lie. The thought was constantly in the back of my mind. During food runs, I often wanted to just stop and stand still, let one of the former living tear into my body; but I didn't. I kept moving, taking precautions to guarantee my survival regardless of the nagging voice in my head that promised death would be a better option. No matter how loud that voice got, I couldn't do it. Even after I found the pistol loaded with one round, as if God himself were egging me on to do it, I couldn't. I fired the shot into the ground, laughing briefly at my own defiance before sinking back into my mind to ask myself why I didn't just end it then.

 It was a lonely existence, but traveling with a group just didn't seem sound. Groups were noisy and clumsy; groups near always succumbed to a small swarm of the walking dead, regardless of how equipped and ready they seemed. I remember one night in particular, coming across a group of maybe six people. They were ransacking a deserted gas station, stuffing nonessentials like Playboy magazines into already overpacked duffle bags. I stuck to my hiding spot behind a bathroom door, even as three ghouls mindlessly stumbled towards the station’s entrance. Three partially devoured corpses were all it took to bring down an unorganized group of six. I can still remember the death cry of the last member as the reanimated remains of his companions tore into his torso like savages. So, I stuck to my solidarity, unwilling to join any band in fear of their inability to survive; that is until I met him

 

He was maybe in his mid-40's, in great shape - better than me - and I remember the surprise I felt as he brought a solid 2x4 down on the skull of an undead. I was glaring up at the monster that shambled towards me, cursing myself for my momentary carelessness that made me so vulnerable. I had been pilfering supplies from the medicine cabinet of an abandoned residence when I looked up to see the grim reflection moving slowly in the room behind me. I don’t remember reacting in any way or slipping on the rug beneath my feet, but I know I wound up on the ground. As the bruised and bloodied figure moved towards me, the old man struck. I was too relieved at the presence of another living person to notice that the creature’s cranium had split open and a trickling of blackened gore was creeping towards me.

Before I could get to my feet, the old man had tossed me a bottle of water, silently noting my cracked lips. He was kinder than his gruff appearance let on as he didn't hesitate before suggesting I stick with him for a while. While I’d like to think I’d have saved a man in the same situation, I knew I valued my own life more. It was selfish, sure; but I could think of no reason as to why I should risk my own life for another. I came this far. This old man, who claimed to be a local though I didn't recognize him at all, was nothing like me.

 

Initially, we didn't talk much. I was admittedly wary of him and his kindness and I'm sure he could sense my unease when we were holed up together at night. We found refuge in an old bunker, presumably built during the Cold War,  that belonged to his neighbor. It and been outfitted with a cot and a sleeping bag and the old man clearly had done some legwork to add provisions like food and lanterns to the space. Blood splatters painted one wall leaving me to question how he wound up with the bunker, but I knew better than to ask. He didn't carry himself like one that would kill the living, but the rapid change our live's went through easily changed us as well. 

Those first few days with him I kept mostly to myself, distancing myself to one corner of the bunker, observing the old man go about his business as he unexpectedly did not press me to talk. During our runs for supplies, we communicated through silent nods and hand gestures, neither one of us comfortable enough to break the silence yet. Eventually, though, I broke. I was intrigued by him, and when I finally felt comfortable in his presence, I extended a hand and introduced myself.

"My wife taught me never to press someone in an uncomfortable situation," he returned my greeting warmly, "it tenses the situation and pushes them away. This is no time to be pushing people away."

Once the silence had broken, we spent hours exchanging stories; not of our lives during this plague, but the ones that had been torn from us. His wife, Marla, had passed the year prior when a drunk driver jumped the curb in front of their home while she was gardening. There was still sorrow in his eyes when he spoke of it, but I can also tell he wouldn't have wanted her to be here for this.  His life as a freelance journalist ended abruptly, especially after his attempt to cover the spread of the outbreak fell upon dead ears. Everything happened so quickly that very few news stations had the opportunity to fully report on the epidemic. Even fewer people actually saw those televised reports. 

 

I came to respect the old man. He had saved my life which made me indebted to him, the catalyst that had me leaving my more selfish ways behind. I watched his back as much as possible, making sure he got the last of the water or was the first one to eat when rations were slim. I took a liking to him quickly despite his slightly less cautious methods. He was quick to help others, but he also had an innate sense of who he could and could not trust. There was a twenty-plus age gap between us and that had me looking at him much like I had my own father. Someone to respect, to protect. Someone to live for. 

When we weren’t out scrounging for supplies, we continued to keep each other company with pre-apocalypse stories. We rarely spoke of the horrors outside, hoping to keep our spirits up as much as possible. When I told him that my sister had likely been killed in action in Iraq, he insisted that I talk to her every night to let her know that, despite the hell I've been going through, I'm alive and healthy. He said that talking to his wife after she had passed was what gave him the strength to carry on. She may have been gone, but he knew she was watching over him, wanting him to push on and live his life - a cliche that I wanted nothing more than to believe. I’m guessing he hoped talking to my missing family would accomplish the same thing for me; all I could ever tell her was that they were lucky to have died. 

"We live because we have to," the old man said to me one night after a botched scavenge nearly cost us everything. Sadly, it wasn't the shambling ones that nearly ended us.

We had come across a band of four survivors on one of our nightly runs. The old man took to them immediately, but my nerves wouldn't let me calm down in their presence. They spouted some story of looking for medical supplies for a diabetic in their group, and with the pharmacies completely cleared out, they took to rummaging through homes. Though I normally trusted the old man's judgment, something seemed off about this scenario.

"My wife, she needs her shot," one of the men pleaded. His wife was a sickly looking bag of bones, but diabetes was not what came to my mind as the cause of it.

The old man agreed to help check out each abandoned house down the block, risking our lives for that of these strangers. I wasn't sure of his quick decision to help, but he hadn't steered me wrong yet. In reality, he had done the same for me. I was a fool moving alone in a world owned by darkness and he stepped up to guide me through it.

It was then that I realized he had started to grow a soft spot for the living. He was too smart to be ignorant as to what they could do, just hopeful that a bit of kindness would turn them. These days, there is only one thing that turns the living.

 

We were picking through the third or fourth house when we heard the shots ring out. Two pops to break the silence of the night. We listened for the screams that would typically follow, but all fell silent again. Another moment later, the shots rang out again, this time closer, and curiosity got the better of us. When we stepped outside, first making sure there were no shadows nearby, the old man dropped to the ground, the force of a metal pipe to the back of his knee bringing him down quickly. I understood our situation when I felt the hot barrel of a gun press against the back of my neck.

"Where are you holed up?" The man with the diabetic wife pressed the gun harder against my neck. He was almost inaudible beneath the pounding of my heart in my ears. "Tell us where and you're free to go."

It was bullshit. If you're this desperate for supplies, you don't leave potential competition alive. You rob them blind and use them as bait for a quick getaway. Those four shots would have attracted a welcoming party, one that our writhing bodies would serve to distract.

The old man choked through his words, disappointment in his futile hope for mankind growing in the back of his throat. "Tanner Road. 432."

"Bullshit," The barrel pressed harder, "Tanner is a graveyard. Every house been tore up."

"A bunker in the backyard. Beneath the shed."

The gun dropped from my neck as he questioned the truth to the old man's claim. I wanted the old man to defy him, I knew no matter what, we wouldn't make it away alive. Being eaten alive was not how I wanted to go.

In the man's moments of contemplation, something unexpected happened. A figure came through the doorway and threw the weight of its rotting body on my attacker. A resident of the home that we missed, possibly one that was wandering around in the backyard until the gunshots. The two collapsed right beside me and though the man struggled, it wasn't long before blood pooled beneath them. 

Amidst the madness, the diabetic screamed and the two onlookers rushed to their friend's aid. I shouldered the old man to his feet and took notice to the small heard that moved towards us, undoubtedly in response to the shots fired. We moved around the swarm, which seemed far more interested in the commotion in front of the house.

I wasn't sure if the remaining members of their quartet survived, but our slice of paradise on Tanner Road never received unwanted visitors.

 

After that incident, though he never said it outright, the old man did his best to keep us from running into other survivors. If there was even the remote possibility of another group being in the area, we would scavenge elsewhere. We learned to trust no one but each other. It sickens me a little to think about how many deaths we were probably responsible for - the family with the toddler, the young man hiding in the bathroom stall of Waldbaums, the two sisters searching for their brother. We were cautious; maybe to a fault. Maybe if we had joined or let others in, things would be different now.

 

The problem with the presence of other survivors is that supplies in nearby areas are exhausted quickly. During our last run, it took three days of searching before we found our last bit of food, which ran out a little less than a week ago. Despite our situation, my respect for the old man never wavered, and it did nothing but cause me guilt when my painful need to live forced me to do anything I needed to live. I needed to survive – me. Not us. I thought he had given me hope, but his wellbeing was no longer my top concern. Selfishly, when things turned for the worst, I was all I cared about.

We were both weak when I knew I needed to act. He had been sleeping for two days straight, acting as only a hindrance to our current situation. "I'll finally see my Teresa once more," he muttered one night after popping awake from a dream. He drifted back into his deep sleep almost immediately, and I took those words as a sign. He still lived and breathed, but he had decided his fate. He chose one that I could not accept for myself.

I apologized quietly to the old man as I pushed the edge of his blade against his neck. I don't know if it was the feeling of the cold steel against his skin or the warm blood pooling at his neckline that woke him up, but his eyes flashed open wide and stared up at me. For a moment, I saw pity in his stare, but he must have seen something in me as that pity turned to understanding. An unexpected sorrow washed over me as I watched the life fade from his expression, but I think he felt worse for me, knowing I planned to keep living in this dark world. He saw my will to live, and at that point, even he had lost his.

 

Three days have passed since I chose my life over his. I thought that I would mourn over the poor man’s demise, but even now as the last of the meat from his bones keeps me alive and moving, I can only thank him for helping me live on. The world is a bleak place these days, and I hope that at some point I figure out why I have this nagging need to keep living.  Everything I knew, everything I loved is gone. I don't know happiness anymore, only fear and anger. Maybe it's a primal instinct, one my body refused to let go of.

I know I'm going to have to leave the comfort of this shelter, find somewhere else to shack up and another territory to scavenge. I heard voices outside a few hours ago, a party of three talking about heading to the coast for safety. They sounded organized and, like me, are just looking for a new, safer place to call home. Maybe they'll understand my need. Maybe they, too, look at this darkness and feel a painful urge to keep going. Maybe things will end like they did with the old man and I will be left to decide my life over another - a decision that I know I'll be willing to make time and time again.

 

I think it's time I move on from here and the coast sounds like as good a place as any… 


© Copyright 2017 Mark LoProto. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

More Horror Short Stories