Alone with the Wolves

Snapping, snarling, howling. Tearing, clawing, ripping.

Whether nightmare or reality, it was all the same cocktail anymore to Peter Simmons, who was indeed slamming back some vodka. 

Prowling, hunting. Fury, feasting.

They were out there. And Peter would be up here, enjoying the last of his poison.

They’re coming. There are so many of them.

The noises below were as terrifying as ever. He always wondered if tonight would be the night, If one of them would find him up here, if some stray downwind would betray his scent. Peter let the stupor overtake him as the bottle emptied, and gave way to thoughtless sleep. 

***

The rush and pounding in his head each morning served more fierce an alarm clock than he could ever hope for. Besides, he thought. I can’t rely on sound. If one heard it in the morning by chance, it’d be back at night for him. He’d seen it before. They remember.

Nonetheless, he did have a simple analogue watch which still ticked away, although he didn’t know the date anymore. Nine twenty-three in the morning on a Saturday, or so he mused. Every day was Saturday for Peter, since he gave up keeping track. He thought it might be September. 

Scratching his beard and gazing off into the direction of the golden sun peeking through the treeline, Peter knew it was bright enough to scavenge today. They were weaker in the daylight. Far weaker. 

He looked at the bottle of vodka and dread swelled up inside his stomach. “Damn all the sleeping aids… I need more of you.” He threw the drained bottle as far and hard as he could, smashing against an adjacent evergreen tree in the distance. The toss caused his hammock to sway.

Next to Peter high up in the tree was a second hammock, tied neatly and holding as many pieces of clothing, blankets and food as he could scrap up. Each night was getting colder. Before long, he’d need a cold weather sleeping bag, or something similar. Food was low, and it was time.

Peter felt around under the blankets in his supply hammock until feeling the cool metal touch of his antiqued harpoon spear. Grandpa always fancied his antiques, and the harpoon spear was a favorite. “Hunted a shark with it once!” he’d swear. That was long before it all went to hell. Too bad I don’t have a launcher like grandpa. Peter found himself cracking a tiny smile through the head pain. Someone had to. He wasted a few pills out of an aspirin bottle he had been holding in his supplies, downed a water bottle, and began to carefully climb down the large tree he took refuge in nightly.

Some stray leaves from other trees crumpled underfoot from his final small hop to the ground. Left, right, and all around, Peter saw nothing. With en empty hiking backpack, two plastic bottles and his spear, he began the small quarter mile trek through the brush to Wallaby River for clean water. Afterward, it was a two-mile walk to town, if the weather allowed it. Cloudy and foggy days (of which there tended to be many) were a no-go. There had to be sunlight, directly.

When Peter was close enough to the car littered roads, he’d follow it all the way into the suburbs. On a clear day, there was nothing to fear outside, not as long as they weren’t completely shaded or covered. He’d always avoid any cracks and alleyways that seemed a too dark, just to be safe.

Then came the hard part. A putrid smell, and eventually, bodies. The closer he got to town, there were always new bodies. Each and every night. It’d begun some months into everything. Peter figured they didn’t have any humans left to hunt, but each day out he found new remains, sometimes picked down to their bones. He observed that they were cannibalizing each other at night now, no more food. Different packs all hunting together, preying on the weaker of their own kind. And once slain, they always changed back…

On a scavenging day like today, Peter would go one house to another sequentially in the outlying neighborhoods. He had a few simple methods to check if they were occupied. If all was well, he’d head inside. More often than not, there were still plenty of leftover goods. Cans, cereal, soup, sometimes sweets, but not often a drink he cared for. Never vegetables or fruits. They’d all rotted.

The ease of supplies came from a number of things for Peter, who considered himself lucky. For one, the end of everything was like a flash. Most didn’t have time to react, or gather their things. Many tried to run and flee the city, and few packed their pantry when they did. This, along with the fact that Peter only had himself to feed, made a single bag haul at a time plenty. He couldn’t keep too much in his hammock stockpile anyway, couldn’t take the risk of things falling down and giving him away. He had wondered for a while why they never tried to eat any of the leftovers from a store-branded society, but the answer became clear in time. They only ate what they hunt.

Arriving at the first house on his mental list, Peter walked the perimeter, starting with the front. He’d tap on the windows with his spear as hard as possible, making a racket, then always awaited a response. They were aggressive in their little daytime hideaways, and woke easily. Broken down doors were a dead giveaway, they needed their little ratholes to hide in, and those houses should be avoided. 

No snapping, no howl, no clawing. Good. Before trying any doors (which were hardly ever unlocked when intact), Peter made his way to the backyard, and his stomach sank. A shattered glass sliding door.

He stuck his spear in the ground. “Damn it!” he overreacted. There’d be more houses, but every little loss always brought some swell of anger. It reminded Peter of everything he’d already lost.

Peter thought it over for a minute and kept staring through the broken glass. He had daring thoughts, and wondered if he should just take a quick look. He hadn’t heard a peep at the front, after all. And then a sudden realization of excitement set in. Through the darkness of the doorway, he could make out what looked like a bottle of whiskey sitting on the island counter, just a few small steps in. He wet his lips. Today will be a good haul. I’d bet my life on it.

With an unhealthy kick to his courage, Peter made way for the door less cautiously. He stepped on the glass, which crackled and popped underneath. No signs, no reaction. He’d never broken any of his self set scavenging rules before, but just today he had to. To Peter, the bottle was more important than water, he simply needed it. The death of emotion his drunken stupor’s brought about were the simple cure to misery, his only companion at night.

Like a moth to flame, he was through the door, hand on bottle. Light shone through the bottle from outside as he looked it over, empty. Peter sighed.

Crunch.

Peter turned his head.

Crunch.

A resistant rip of flesh from bone.

Crunch.

A low hissing snarl.

Crunch.

A snapping mouth, which slowly opened. Fresh blood was pouring from it’s hundred fangs.

Crimson eyes glared down from an inhuman height. The patchy haired fiend stood menacing on two legs. It had been inside, taking the slightest of steps over the inward glass toward Peter from the corner he had not bothered to clear. It dropped the severed arm it was chomping at and leapt forward.

Peter jumped toward the door in a panicked effort. Not enough. A claw tore into his shoulder, clenching down hard. Peter screamed, kicking and thrashing, halfway out the door. As soon as the beast's arm touched sunlight, however, the hold weakened. 

Peter knew he wasn’t far enough out into the light yet. It took seconds for them to weaken, he didn’t have seconds. He thrust his harpoon tip into the monster’s exposed hand, which managed to pierce all the way through the weakened skin in brutal fashion. The monster recoiled backward in pain, and took the spear with it.

Quickly flopping over to his belly, Peter struggled out as fast as he could to gain more distance. It wasn’t fast enough. A wrenching sharpness surrounded Peter’s entire lower thigh in sudden agony. Gripped by the mouth, the beast's body was now halfway out of the house. His hand found the whiskey bottle again, and he smashed it over the beast's face like a brick, which finally released him. Retreating into the dark recesses of the house, it growled in a demonic pitch. Peter scrambled as far out into the yard as he was possible. He felt himself growing weaker rapidly.

He sat up, stared into the beautiful glassy sky, and found himself laughing. Peter laughed harder and harder until tears were streaming down his cheek. He looked at his profusely bleeding bite wound, to the smashed remains of the whiskey bottle, then finally back to the house.

The last thing Peter saw before fading completely was the hulking dark figure just a step inside the doorway, watching. Waiting.

Alone no more.