Collegare by Young Writers of Earth (reading women txt) 📖

leaving only wet asphalt and soppy, orange leaves. The streets had been destroyed and chunks of broken road had blown free in the extreme winds. Abandoned gutters filled with runoff from the harsh storm and organic litter trashed the shopping center. There was no more spirit left in the streets. There were no more dreams permeating these walkways, only half-formed nightmares.

The flesh-eaters were nowhere to be seen. The storm had chased them into hiding. The winds had not disappeared completely and there was still a moderately heavy breeze in the air. The overcast sky gave an even more ominous appearance of seclusion to the empty shopping center. Fountains that had once housed crystal waters and pieces of wish-stained copper were now home only to rubble and corroded metal. The palmetto trees, which had been planted for decoration’s sake, swayed lazily in the breeze and various bits of debris rustled from their leaves to the broken pavement below.

And that’s how it was for the first half of the day’s journey. For a while, there was nothing to keep me company but the soft tapping of leather against road. Soon, isolation hysteria set in and I began to hum nostalgic tunes from memory’s past. When words from the songs escaped me, I would whistle the tune in a lackluster bop to stave off the boredom. After many hours of heel-toe transportation, I rested on the sidewalk of an old gas station and dined on a can of peas.

If one thing was certain in this apocalyptic world, it was that isolation makes slobs of us all. There was no greater proof of this theory than the way that I savaged the can of peas, lifting the metal to my mouth and sloshing pea juice down my chin and neck like a canine in a steak eating contest. Hunger and fatigue made beasts of us all and in that moment I was surely no better than the creatures that I had spent many months destroying. When my appetite was sated, I threw the can to the ground like a savage with a disdain for couth.

As the echo from the can filled the air, the gas station door behind me exploded and the thunderous roar of buckshot rang in the back of my skull. I dove—or fell, considering I was sitting on the sidewalk—to my side as splinters of the door flew past me, my hands hugging my head. The ringing in my ears was deafening and I couldn’t hear my own voice. I was yelling something in a rush of adrenaline but I couldn’t register the words.

Eventually the sound returned to my ears, and I could hear myself yelling the words “human” over and over again. I turned over onto my back, spotting the broken bits of glass and door on the ground. Someone rose from behind a patch of wall under a broken window, shotgun in hand. It was an older man, maybe mid-thirties, with a whopper of a receding hairline.

“Holy shit, bo! Are you alright?” He leapt over the wall, his boots crushing glass, and rushed over to me. “I heard the sound and I thought you were one of those vile cocksuckers come to do me in.” His southern drawl did my ears more damage than the buckshot had. He knelt beside me, checking for wounds from the spent shell.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured him. “Just a little shaken up. I didn’t realize someone was actually in that place.”

“That was the idea. I’ve been holed up inside that shithole for a little over a week now. I haven’t so much as peeped out that window. Those fuckers got me scared stiff. My asshole’d just as soon pucker up before it let loose a turd outta fear of attracting those psychos.” His eyes shifted over to my duffle bag, the canned goods strewn upon the sidewalk. “Damn, bo, you are a godsend. I haven’t eaten in about two days. Can I have some of that?”

“Help yourself.” I brushed the dirt off of my jacket and sat up, cracking my neck and orienting myself.

He rushed over to the bag, grabbing the first can he could, disregarding the labels. Any food would serve his purpose well at this moment. He brandished a large pocket knife with an enamel-coated handle, underneath which rested a picture of Dale Earnhardt. It was one of those unbelievably gaudy things that usually came paired with a cheap keychain, packaged in a metal tin shaped like a racecar. He cut the top of the can open and shoved watery carrots into his mouth.

He attempted to chew as he spoke, an exercise that was destined to fail from the beginning. “So what’s your name anyway?” he managed through a mouthful of carrot. Chunks of spit and orange mush ran down his chin and to the ground below. He gnashed loudly and it reminded me of the undead monsters.

“Floyd Simmons,” I said, rising to my feet slowly. I let out a slight groan as my joints squeaked like the Tin Woodman’s. The excitement of the blast had made me a quart low, I suppose.

“Nice. My name’s Dale, just like the king.” He raised the pocket knife, showing me the picture of Dale Earnhardt, and grinned from ear to ear.

After a moment he went back to chewing, sloshing the carrots around like a baby who hasn’t quite learned to eat properly. I knew, in that moment, that this yokel would do just fine. I had found another survivor, thankfully. And this time, I would try to keep him alive until I could get some proper use out of him.

***

It was just after dusk when the bombs fell, and Floyd Simmons sat huddled in an outdoor shed with his younger brother, Darren. The bombs did not damage the shed, for they were too far away. But, the ground did tremble with the force of the explosions and whatever had been within five miles of the blast had become nothing more than dust in the breeze at that moment. And when the buildings had all evaporated with the deafening blast and the pavement was nothing more than powdered rubble, the bombers all collectively sighed with relief. But what they couldn’t predict was the migration. The virus-riddled beasts had taken to the entire city and there was nothing they could do, short of wiping the entire state clean off of the map.

Darren shivered under a blanket of his own liquid vermillion, Floyd’s arms wrapped tightly around his body. There were fresh teeth marks on Darren’s shoulder where the blood flowed freely and jagged flesh hung delicately from the bone. Floyd rocked his brother gently in his arms, the loose flesh on Darren’s shoulder swaying with the motion. Floyd’s eyes had gone misty, but he choked back the tears. He dare not let his brother know how bad the wound seemed.

Darren’s visage had turned pale and his body was beginning to resemble the color of royalty. The aqueous humour of his eyes had grown viscous and glassy and his pupils were pure obsidian. The brothers both knew that Darren was close to shuffling the coil. Soon, he would be filled with death, but not dead—not in the true sense, anyway.

“You kn-know what’s c-c-coming,” he whispered, choking on his own saliva and shivering like one of the doomed aboard the RMS Titanic.

Floyd shook his head, refusing to respond. He just sat there, rocking back and forth in a steady motion. At this point, he was comforting himself more than he was comforting Darren. He hummed silently, chasing away the visions of what would soon have to come.

“And when I t-t-turn, you know that yo-you have t-t—“

“Stop it!” Floyd cut it. “Just stop. You’re not—just rest. Just lay here and rest for a moment.”

There was a confusion growing in Darren’s eyes as he lay in his brother’s arms, blood thickening around the wound, his body growing colder still. His eyes were rolling around in his skull and saliva was building up in the corner of his mouth.

“Tell me s-something p-p-pretty,” Darren whispered.

Floyd searched his mind, desperately seeking some great memory that would comfort his brother. His mind had run blank. It was a tough thing deciding the final words that a person would hear. Finally, a thought came to him.

“Do you remember, long ago, when we took that hiking trip out to the pits? Remember how beautiful the sky was at dawn, all those pinks and blues? It was unlike anything we’d ever seen. Remember what you said to me that morning?”

Darren didn’t respond. He hadn’t even heard the question. His eyelids had gone limp and so had his body. The mortal skin had been shed. Floyd rose with a sigh, his brother’s blood still fresh upon him, and waited for the turn. Darren, too, would soon rise. The dead always did.

***

Dale had more in common with the flesh-eaters than he probably realized. His mouth never stopped moving, much like the beasts. And yet, somehow, his mouth did more damage to my psychological well-being. But, despite the constant influx of words that spewed from his mouth like so much vomit, there was something charming about Dale. Perhaps it was his candor and his southern-fried sensibility that made him likeable, regardless of his many shortcomings.

I convinced Dale that refuge at my house would better suit our purpose. He had no plan for survival and no real form of sustenance to speak of, so it wasn’t hard to persuade him. We spent the rest of the day and most of the night trekking towards my home as Dale waxed ad infinitum on various random topics. He mostly talked of racing and how he missed the “subtle art” (his words, shockingly enough), stopping every once in a while to make minor asides to himself whenever the mention of an old friend or relative came up in his ramblings. If nothing else, his Chatty Cathy routine did wonders in the way of eating away the hours. Time always seemed to turtle along when I took to the empty streets alone.

All was relatively quiet for most of the day, as far as the flesh-eaters were concerned. The only excitement came from the near-impalement of Dale, compliments of a diving femur bone as it fell from the mouth of a flying vulture high above us. In the desperation of the troubling times, the vultures had taken a page from the book of its North African brethren (Lammergeyers, I believe they’re called), dropping the bones of the deceased from great heights in order to crack the hard casings and devour the marrow. It’s amazing what beasts are capable of when left hungry and desperate. The concept intrigued Dale and he spent the next hour cursing the scavenger. It became a kind of travelling game, the cursing of the vulture. He soon began combining filthy words and inventing new ones to call the beast. I must admit, the longevity of his scorn was quite amusing.

Soon, the night was upon us, the thick veil of darkness cascading over our heads like liquid smoke. There was still a half-day trek left for us, so we decided to stop for the night and rest up, seeking refuge in a dead-end alleyway. Dale made a fire using bits of wood from the nearby husk of a building and we roasted the last bit of peas and carrots