Chapters 1 & 2

The first and second chapter. I put them together because the first is very short and is not meant to be isolated from the rest of the story.

1

Leaves spiraled toward the ground in a chaotic fashion, distorting the rays of light filtering through the full heads of the trees. The scabrous path beneath the silken leaves meandered through the ancient forest. A mellifluous breeze sailed into the welcoming woods, stirring up the leaves and soothing the worries of the small woodland animals. In this absolute tranquility nothing was out of place and everything was right. From the withered bark of the trees to the finely woven details of the small plants’ leaves, perfection was found.

 

 

2

A crack whipped through the static air, tearing a hole into a young apple tree. The bark ripped apart, splintering into pieces and scattering itself atop the dirty head of an old, gray-haired man. He looked up at the hole only a few inches above his outstretched, crooked nose. His simple eyes focused on the small mark, drawing in his complete attention. The wonders surrounding the occurrence astounded him. He stood on the tips of his toes, shaking, and smelled the hole. Dropping back to the flats of his feet, he reached out toward it with his pale hand, unable to keep it from wobbling back and forth. He slapped his palm against the tree, absorbing every detail of the texture beneath his skin. His mouth opened, emitting an incomprehensible, childlike growl of acquisition at the warm, smooth, and yet rough feel of the gash. As the man stared and rubbed the hole in complete wonderment, another loud crack tore through the still air.

The head of the old man slapped against the young tree, an unnoticeable contrast no one could deny. Blood splattered against the bark, painting the tree in a more gruesome red than of the apples it produced. Some of it ran down the trunk, burdening the grass below it, while the rest stained the tree’s neighboring picnic table, the blood forming into small rivulets flowing through the carved cracks in the dried-out wood. The bullet nestled into the tree below its brother, dressed in the remains of war. Behind the bullets, the old man teetered and fell to the ground, crumpling into a rotting mess. The last echo of the bullet dissipated and the disrupted air fell back into its serene state.

The barrel of a Remington 700P, resting on a chipped white windowsill, emanated warmth that heated the painted wood cradling it. Kneeling on one knee, the long-bearded man wielding the gun pulled his head back from the telescopic sight mounted on the top of the rifle. He grabbed the gun off the windowsill and stepped back from the window. Holding it out in front of him, the man grasped and deftly slid back the bolt of the gun, releasing the hot shell from the chamber, dumping it onto the dusty carpet beneath his feet. Tossing the gun onto the sheet-clad mattress he had set up on the musty floor, the man stood there with his hands hanging to his sides, his eyes numbly staring at the door set in the wall across from him.

Thoughts arose and fell in the man’s head. He knew he had to escape from the house he had barricaded himself in. His supplies were running short and although the guarantee of food or water wasn’t promised, he knew he had to take a chance. The stores were sure to have been looted, wells poisoned, crops killed, livestock slaughtered, and people infected. Hope was a trickle of dirty rain from the mouth of a gutter onto a sun-baked brick ready to evaporate any drop of water. Yet in this profound sense of trepidation, he made his decision.

The man grabbed the rifle, loaded another round into it, and closed the last box of ammunition after counting the remaining rounds. Sixteen was all that was left. It was almost a full box but still the number seemed so minuscule to him. He figured he would try to get some more when he went into town looking for food and water. Placing his calloused hand over the black text reading “.308 Win Mag” on the dark red ammunition box, he grabbed hold of it and placed it in his rifle case, alongside the scope and the rifle itself. He took hold of the latches on the case, snapping them shut after throwing in some cleaning supplies for the gun. The man turned around and knelt over his small backpack, stuffing it with three cans of beans, a liter of water, half a roll of toilet paper, and some cleansing wipes for his hands. He figured he’d try to stay as clean as he could without weighing himself down, hoping to minimize any chance of infection. The last thing he wanted was to end up like his neighbors…

A leaf sat on the aged picnic table beside the apple tree. The table’s wood was splintered and chipped, but it stood defiantly against time and had been nestled in the backyard of the simple light blue house for decades. A small breeze blew in from the mountains and pushed the leaf. Teetering on the edge of the picnic table, it tried to hold on, its stem clawing into a small notch. A young boy covered in a bright blue t-shirt and loose khaki shorts ran by the leaf, the air stirred up in his wake pushing it off of the table and to the warm ground. The leaf lay resting on a small patch of dirt that the grass had neglected.

Paul Baehr stood watch over his son from the cement patio that nestled against the wall of the house below the glass backdoor. His eyes were fixed in front of the small child, looking for any obstructions in his path. Tragedy was an unwelcome yet prevalent friend in Paul’s life, taking away both of his parents in a fire and his wife in an injection of cancerous cells. The life that ran from tree to tree in the grassy yard in front of him, picking up fallen branches and examining them for details someone who worked in a suffocating cubicle would dismiss without a glance, was Paul’s purpose.

The little boy ran by the picnic table again, his foot crushing the fallen leaf as childish laughter, a purity that will cling to Paul’s mind in the wake of the distortion of life, rung in the sun-filled air. The boy ran around the side of the house and out of Paul’s sight, causing him to chase after the boy silently. As Paul rounded the corner of the house he kicked his shoes into the dirt, displacing the radiant green grass from its home. Stopping quickly, he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked at what the child was staring at.

Mark Erste, Paul’s neighbor who insisted upon discussing politics and lawn care at every possible moment, shambled toward Paul and his son. Mark’s left knee was swollen and the leg was being dragged behind him, his right leg pulling the weight of the body by itself. His pallid eyes locked onto the child, targeting his prey. His torn light blue oxford revealed a few jagged red lines etched into his skin, the largest one bleeding and darkening his shirt. His khaki slacks, covered in dirt and abound with tears, stretched tightly around his swollen kneecap and struggling leg. The mess of brown hair that sat atop his head showered dirt and dried blood onto his sagging face.

His mouth opened and a mournful moan lurched forward from deep within his throat, forcing its way into Paul and the small child’s ears. The boy shivered and spun around, burying his innocent face into his father’s body, begging for safety with building tears. Paul grasped the child tightly and began to back up. A wide figured bounced Paul forward, casting its shadow over the two petrified souls. Paul whipped around, his arms spread in front of him, ready for confrontation, while his body stood in between the attacker and his child.

The woman in front of Paul responded to her husband’s call and reached out for Paul with lascivious hands. He grabbed her fat arms and pushed her backward with all of his force, adrenaline urgently swimming through his veins. A terrified shriek arose from behind Paul, followed by a sickening sound, like a soft, rotten peach being torn apart. He spun around on his heels and screamed as Mark ripped off a large patch of skin from the child’s throat. Paul leapt at Mark, pinning him to the ground and beating his face in with bloody fists.

Paul jumped up from his neighbor’s mangled, unrecognizable face and charged the wife. His shoulders pushed the massif backward, sending her stumbling on weak and uncoordinated legs, toppling her over in the thick snapping sound of bones succumbing to pressure. His hands tore her throat out in a fury he would look back on and weep over while behind him his son laid as a withering body, blood pouring from his throat.

Paul stood up from the woman’s corpse, blood covering every inch of his body. He turned around, dropping to his knees at his son’s side, holding his sticky hands over the child’s red-draped throat. Tears leapt from Paul’s eyes and into his son’s wounds as the child gargled his last breath.

Paul stood in the middle of the obscenely white room, its walls covered in black smudges and scratches. A lone tear clung onto his right eye, hanging in the suspension of time, in the reflection of memories. He blinked the droplet of sorrow away, wiping his face with his forearm, spreading a thin layer of grief onto his skin. He took a deep breath and suppressed the vomit in his throat.
Surveying his supplies, he knew it was almost time for his departure. He grabbed the Raging Bull revolver off of the cherry-stained dresser against the wall across from his bed. He held the grip with his right hand and took hold of a cloth with his left, wiping it across the smooth black barrel. Throwing the cloth onto the ground, he snapped open the cylinder and checked for the presence of all six rounds. After confirming that it was loaded to its fullest capacity, he slid it into its holster fastened on his right hip. He had a box of .44 magnum ammunition for the revolver in the basement but in his haste to secure himself he had left it behind. He’d have to make a quick stop to get it.

With his backpack slung over his shoulders against his back, the 700P’s case fastened onto the bottom of his backpack, and his right hand positioned on the cold, brass doorknob, the man closed his eyes for a brief recuperation of his senses. After this slight pause, he pushed the door open and drew the revolver, holding it out in front of him. He turned to his left and ran down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath his feet. He turned around in the foyer and ran down the hallway parallel to the staircase. Once he reached the door to the basement, he stopped and stood still. The sour air hung around his face, the musty smell clinging inside his nose. From the depths of the basement he heard the noise he had been dreading.

A deep, guttural growl staggered up the basement’s staircase and thudded against the door, jolting the man’s nerves. He took a deep breath, pulled back the hammer of the revolver, and threw the door open. The darkness shocked his eyes, forcing them to dilate to capture more light. He cautiously made his way down the tired, beaten stairs as they shouted their dismay of his arrival with every step. The groan didn’t come again but the smell of the decayed air told him that what was down there was still there. Reaching the floor of the basement, he could feel the cold air whisk around his boot-clad feet.

A thin sliver of light penetrated the aphotic basement, providentially illuminating the desk with the ammo he needed. Slowly etching his way along the damp wall, he made his way to the desk. He took hold of the box of ammunition and stuck it in his jacket’s right-side chest pocket. He noticed there were also two packs of Double-A batteries sitting behind where the ammunition was. He grabbed the batteries and put them in his jacket’s left-side chest pocket. He turned around, about to leave, when he decided to search the desk for a flashlight. He spun around on his heels and whipped open the first drawer, digging his hands through the junk that he had no use for anymore. Slamming the first drawer shut, he ripped open the second one, repeating the same procedure he had executed for the first one. This time, however, he was successful. He took the flashlight from the drawer and slid the power switch to the “ON” position. A faint beam of light burnt through the deep dark of the basement. He held the flashlight against his drawn revolver and scanned the basement. He saw nothing of the room he was in but he knew something was down there.

Whipping the beam of light upon the open doorway across from him, he slowly made his way toward the recreation room. He entered through the doorway and quickly checked the room. As he was sweeping the light to the left, it cut out. Darkness enveloped him. The smell of rotten flesh filled the small room and a small groan reached the man’s ears. He backed up and ran out of the room toward the staircase. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned around, banging the flashlight against his hip, but to no avail at reviving its power. He ran up the staircase, back into the hallway with its less-than-fresh air. He turned back around to look down into the basement and he neither saw nor heard anything.

Curiosity drew him a few steps back down into the basement. He opened his eyes as wide as he could. The sudden sound of creaking stairs shot fear into him. A man charged at him, breaking through the dark air and taking hold of the revolver still clutched in Paul’s hand. Breaking free of the man’s grasp, Paul slapped the assailant with his gun; the man stumbled backward and teetered on the edge of the staircase. His swollen yellow eyes flickered with a brief shot of frustration but quickly eliminated the feeling and filled with their previous blank stare of lust.

Paul fired a round, propelling the flying bullet into the neck of the attacker, sending him tumbling down the stairs, his groans gurgling with blood. Knowing that he had to get out of there, Paul put the flashlight in a lower pocket of his jacket and ran back down the hallway and into the foyer, stopping at the front door. He wiped the dust off of the window above the door with his forearm and peered through it. Outside the trees and grass were serenely swaying in an autumn breeze.

Paul stood back from the door and kicked the wood he had nailed across it as hard as he could, eventually causing a big enough crack in both of them to tear them in half. He opened the door and ran outside. The sun’s light shocked his eyes and the fresh air sent him gasping for every bit of oxygen he could breathe up. In this short period of bliss, he forgot what kind of hell he was living in.

Reviews

[Flame DM]

Wow...just wow. I was reading this and the part about Paul, his wife and son terrified me and brought tears to my eyes. This is excellently written and I will be back to read the next chapters. I need to find out how Paul survives this zombie world! And why people became zombies to begin with o.O