It's Okay

We’re leaving. I know that.

I know a few too many things, if you ask me. Sometimes it gets to be too much, and I think I’m going mad, then I forget a little and it’s all okay again. Right now, it’s okay again, because I’ve managed to forget everything but this.

We’re leaving.

Not in the way most people would expect, though. The entire world is something most people wouldn’t expect. Then again, most people aren’t here to expect it. They’re all dead. Which is a pity, I’ll grant you that. Maybe it’s a good thing. There isn’t much left of the hellhole. There won’t be anything left of us, either, after we’re done. But I’m not done yet, and they’re looking for me, so I best get a move on and stop thinking so much. Time is a fragile thing at the moment, and I don’t seem to have enough of it.

Unfortunately, this is a task that really should take a while. I can hear them outside, shouting, screaming- damnare, the screaming. Those things shouldn’t be able to scream, who left them their vocal cords?

The paper under my pencil is going to get torn up sooner or later, whether by time or man. I don’t know why I’m writing this note, don’t know why it matters so much. I finish it off with my signature, and… I don’t know what day it is, I can’t put the date down. Time is a construct, it doesn’t exist anymore. Funny thing is, I’m running out of it.

A particularly high-pitched scream jolts me out of my thoughts. I’ve spent far too long in them. Everyone else is fighting, and dying, and I’m writing letters to no one. The chair falls over, and the fight is getting closer, and I’m running now. How long have I been running? A few seconds, at least. That won’t help. They’re on the other side of the door now, and I’ve knocked over the lamp, I’m in the dark. Oh no. I don’t like this.

But hey, we’re all about to die. What’s not to like?

The dark, for one thing. And the screaming. That's all. The fact that I’ve just dropped the note, come on, where is it?

Oh, it’s there. The paper feels soft against my hand, but it doesn’t bring relief. The box is over beyond the courtyard, which is on the other side of this door I’m leaning against at the moment, and said courtyard is filled with… goodness, I don’t know what they are. To call them zombies is a bit cliche, and undead is far too dramatic. I think they’re just people, really, but dead ones. I’ll call them that for my last thirty minutes on earth. People. The most dangerous thing left on the bloody earth.

So that’s what it comes down to. Simple.

All I have to do is walk, or run, through a crowd of angry people. I can do that. I can most certainly do that. If I can get this door open, that is.

My hand is shaking, and the lock has chosen to be sticky today of all days. I get it after a few minutes, jerking it just the right way, and it flies open. I would be lying if I said that it didn’t nearly knock me out, and I’m not one to lie. That’s going to bruise.

The screaming gets louder, and I’m waiting for it all to just stop. It does stop, for a moment, as I look out among the bodies and the smoke. It’s all so cold, but everything’s on fire and it all hurts. Why wasn’t I out here, dying with them? They’re still dying. All the survivors. Why did they decide to go out, to charge? Surely they knew how far they were outnumbered?

They.

I’m not one of them anymore, I should think. They are outnumbered. They are leaving. They are the ones choosing to fight and to die. And I’ll do it with them, if I must, but not as one of them. So I should probably get this over with, the dead people have noticed the open door. Good gracious, they’re coming. I should think of something a bit stronger than just ‘good gracious’, but that’s not my priority at the moment. My prioritized thing is the thing I am doing, which is getting across to the other thing and that thing is an important thing and-

Ah, I’ve slipped. Three steps out into the open, and I slip on a pool of blood. At least, I think it’s blood. Oh, no, yuck, that’s a limb. I scramble upright, spitting blood out of my mouth. Whose blood is that? Doesn’t matter, just run. Run.

Flailing limbs everywhere, the dead people, their faces. Their faces. I retract my earlier speculation about them being people. They’re nightmares.

That person, over there, alive. They’re shouting at me, but I can’t hear them. Another person, another alive human, I can most certainly hear them. That’s because they’re shouting in my ear. How considerate. I don’t think I know them, but they clearly know me, otherwise I wouldn’t be getting shouted at.

“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be out here with us! You’re one of us!” They bellow, lashing out at one of the dead people.

“I’m putting this away,” I say calmly, as if we weren’t surrounded by dead people, “And I’m not.”

Because I’m not one of them. If I were, I’d be dead by now. A dead person is trying to rip my arm off, but I’m in the middle of a conversation, and that’s not polite.

“What?”

“I’ll see you later, okay? Okay. Bye bye.”

They weren’t expecting to hear that, I think. I don’t know why, that was a perfectly reasonable conversation. Maybe it was because I cut it off too soon, that could have been offensive. No matter, I have things to do, like getting this person off my arm before the arm itself gets cut off.

“Excuse me sir, could you please leave?”

The dead person doesn’t seem to care that I asked nicely. Unfortunate, because I like having my arm. They move too slowly, I think. I’ve gone unnoticed for the last thirty seconds, and trying to forcibly remove the dead person from my arm is going to attract a bit of attention. No, never mind, it’s what everyone else is doing.

So I suppose I’ll just… yeah, there. Whoops. Yucky.

I am now holding a decapitated head. It’s not in the same hand as the note, though, so I’ll just toss it over there. There, the doors. I can make it. The majority of the fighting is over there, just in front of the place I need to get to. Typical. But still, I need to get through those doors. No, door. Singular noun. One of the doors has been ripped off.

Another dead person now, which is really quite rude of them. Why am I just standing here? I need to be running. I was doing that a moment ago, I think. It all snaps into focus at once, sharply, as if I’m just realizing what’s going on.

The survivors are going out with a fight.

Good thing I’m not a survivor. I’m just me. I’m running. That’s another part of being me, I run from a lot of things. But not this time, apparently, because I’m running the wrong way. Why am I doing this, again?

I glance down at my hand. Yeah, I’ve still got the note. My arm is bleeding. Oh dear, that’s not good. I’m going to be bleeding more in a moment, though, because I’ve just run straight into one of the dead people.

Chaos, everything is chaos. The dead person is clawing at someone else, and goodness do they have long claws. It’s all on fire. I’m on fire. That wasn’t there a second ago. Another dead person, and another, and I’m surrounded. No, they haven’t left the fight, I’ve just walked right into it. They’re distracted, though, busy with tearing up the people I’ve lived with for the past few years.

But I’m not one of them, so it’s okay.

They’ll be okay once they’re dead.

So I skip past them, dodge the flashing blades, and spit their blood out of my mouth when it somehow ends up in mine. Blood tastes strange. I’m not used to it. I don’t have time, no time to get used to blood, I have my own to spill.

There, the door, no one’s bothered to go hide yet. The survivors are on a rocky path to death, and the dead people don’t have minds to acknowledge the stones in their shoes. They have a fight, and victims. They don’t need to go inside. 

But I need to, so I duck under the beam that’s fallen across the door. The building wherein we’ve been living out the apocalypse isn’t in the best shape after so long, and most of the lights are out, because no one can fix them. It’s all falling apart.

But that’s okay, I think.

We’re all falling apart, anyway, so there’s no point trying to fix it. Some people are being ripped apart. I need to finish this first. Please let me finish. Please?

In the corner, there, where the stone and concrete has crumbled away. That’s it. That’s where I need to go. Out. I need to get out of the compound I haven’t left for… what, six years? Seven? Doesn’t matter. That matters, the breach in the wall that used to remind us of safety, when such a thing existed.

I know where it goes. Out onto the cliff. Not a straight drop off, of course. There’s about three hundred yards between the compound and the cliff. Plenty of space to question yourself.

But I’m not going to, am I? I have to put this away.

So I grab the little box that’s half buried in rubble, accidentally knock over the shelf that’s been wrenched into some un-shelf-like shape, and run for it.

It’s cold out there.

Which is funny, because everything behind me is on fire. I do stop for a moment, and laugh, which I don’t think I’ve done in a while. It’s okay, though, because it isn’t the laugh of someone with an ounce of sanity left. I laugh like a madman. I like it.

I don’t like the cold. It’s not too horrible, though, and I can deal with it. So there I am. Standing outside, with a note in one hand and a little metal box in the other. I think I know what people used to call these. Time capsules, the entire concept of which is to keep something for the future generations. But there isn’t one, is there? A generation, I mean. The future keeps going, regardless of whether or not someone is there to see it. There won’t be anyone to see our future, but it will roll on nonetheless. But I digress, and the dead people aren’t very considerate of my thoughtful rambling. They wouldn’t be, as they don’t know how to think anymore. How sad.

I glance over my shoulder and begin to walk towards the cliff, watching the shadows that are moving in the compound I’ve just left. I’m not going to see it again. I’m never going to go back to the place that I’ve lived in for the past few years. I thought I’d die there.

Thank goodness, I’m not going to. I’m going to put this little note in the time capsule- there, like that- and I’m going to die out here. I’m not going to see that note again, either, even though I’ve just risked my life for it. How interesting.

I stop and look at the box. People would put more than one thing in the capsules, right? What else would I leave for no one? I look around, pretending that the screams aren’t dying down, that the survivors aren’t mostly dead. There, a flower. It’s not what one would describe as a pretty flower, I suppose, but I like it. It’s too cold for it, and the little petals are nearly dead, but they still cling to a hint of yellow. I like that.

So I pick it up, catch a glimpse of my note for the last time as I snap the box open, and give the slip of paper some company. The dead people have spotted me now, I think, and the screaming is growing louder again. It must hurt quite a bit to be dead, or they wouldn’t be making that dreadful noise. A thought strikes me before I can start moving again.

Where do I leave the box?

There’s nothing important in there, just… yeah, no, it’s important. I need to figure out where to put it. I need time to think. The dead people aren’t giving me time, they’ve figured out that someone lived. Oh, dear. That’s not good. That someone’s me. I suppose I’ll just be taking the box with me.

So I run.

And I jump.

I close my eyes, and smile. I’m free.

I’m free.

***

A tall man glances behind him, wiping sweat away from his stinging eyes. It’s not warm, not at all, but he’s been running a fever for a few days and constantly moving doesn’t make this any easier. But they need to keep moving, or they’ll be found.

He doesn’t like calling them zombies. But that’s what they are, and he has had to do many things that he doesn’t like. So, zombies they are. And they have to keep walking, or they’ll be slaughtered by the roving packs of zombies. That sounds so crude, and he hates that thought even more.

There isn’t time to stop and hate something, though, only to find somewhere to sleep for that night. They all need somewhere to sleep. He looks over his shoulder at those following him, just as tired as they are, and doesn’t notice the shadow that falls over them for a moment.

The man looks up, and there’s a cliff. He can see over the edge of it, just barely, and there’s a building. Hopeful whispers abound in the hopeful survivors, quietly waking them up and letting them see further than their own hands. Keep walking, just keep walking, and then see what comes of that.

He’s so busy walking that he didn’t notice the corpse, which he trips over. It’s happened before, and he isn’t surprised to see a dead body. It’s less of a body now, more of a skeleton. The body is holding a little box, metal. They haven’t seen much metal lately. It’s interesting.

He takes the box from the corpse with trembling fingers, can’t tell if the trembling if it’s from the cold or the fever, or the shock from seeing a corpse that wasn’t trying to dismember them. It was the cold, just cold. That was all. Maybe it was hope, and that was a bit more dangerous than the cold.

Maybe there were other people.

The little paper was still intact, old and delicate, but readable. The author’s hand must have been shaking, and their signature seemed rushed. It was beautiful, though, wonderful. Safe. A flower, old and dead, but it could have been yellow. At least the note wasn’t alone in it’s ventures within the box. The survivors held their collective breath as he held up the aging paper, and opened his mouth for the first time that week.

“Dear nobody…”

The wind stopped to listen.

“Hi.”