The Survivor, the Zombies, and the Jackass

It’s just another casualty, I tell myself. That is, until her bright pink bobble catches my eye.

The hoard is descending upon her quickly, probably following the scent of her blood, untainted by radiation. The house she’s hiding in is falling to bits: there’s no front door, and one of the walls has been blown apart, scattering its bricks like confetti across the nearby landscape. When the bombs hit, most places were decimated; by comparison, this ghost town got off lucky.

The creatures grumble and drag behind them their mangled feet. Their bones are slowly disintegrating as the radiation eats away at them relentlessly; their brains have already been devoured, leaving nothing remotely human about them. Whoever they once were – the people they loved, things and memories they cherished – is all gone now. In their place, there’s stinking sacks of flesh, stumbling and drooling at the prospect of fresh human meat.

I’ve been in this situation before. The only way to survive in this godforsaken place is to put on a poker face and slip by, letting it happen. Everybody knows that Good Samaritans don’t last long in this new world. If you linger, even just for a moment to pray for the poor soul screaming beneath the monsters’ clawing hands, you might as well serve yourself up on a plate as their dessert.

So I’ve gotten good at camouflaging, sneaking, and especially shutting down all emotional receptors when I’m on a run like this. It’s much easier when there’s no one with you, silently judging every move you make – or don’t make. I’d nearly made it through this damned waste of a town, before I saw that bobble. Fuck, why did I have to look up?

Every sound feels amplified now. Crouching behind a small mound of earth, squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I command my feet to carry me forward. But I can hear those creatures sniffing, the scratching of their overgrown black talons as they crawl on all fours up the stairs, like skeletal hound dogs. The girl is sniffling – doesn’t know how to keep herself quiet, is probably too young to have learned how to – and I know they can hear it.

Fear is their second favourite thing to feast on.

Peeling my eyes open, I look back up at the window, the glass of which is shattered and spread like ashes in the mud. The girl is stood in plain sight: no older than five, she’s desperately clutching a stuffed tiger to her chest, the glassy eyes of which are hanging out of their matted sockets. Her hair – tied up messily with that pink bobble – is a deep chocolate colour, and her dark eyes are filled with terror. She scours the landscape outside with a pleading expression, looking at nothing in particular. She hasn’t seen me. Her chest heaves as she endures her first panic attack.

I’m not thinking – acting on autopilot – as I curse, emerging from my hiding spot. At last, she notices me, cloaked in a khaki-green overcoat, and her eyes light up. Seeing her chance, she waves her arms and shouts unintelligibly. I lift a finger to my lips, urging her to stop.

Thankfully she obeys.

As quietly as I can, I creep along the muddy pathway, keeping a sharp eye on the door and open wall in case of a sudden ambush. But I’m sure I can hear the zombies still making their way across the landing, which tells me I still have a little time to act.

I position myself beneath the window, squatting slightly in preparation. All the while, she is watching me with big, curious, hopeful eyes, following my movements closely like she knows they are her lifeline. When I beckon to her, however, she looks confused.

She doesn’t understand, I realise, dread flooding my stomach, pumping ice cold water into my veins. We’re running out of time, and she doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

I try again, waving my arms in a more exaggerated fashion this time, but the gesture only seems to make her more uncertain. I lose sight of her as she retreats further into her room, removing her peeking head from over the window ledge. I curse again, then take a step back until I catch sight of her once more.

She is staring anxiously behind herself at the barely-intact door, and I can hear the excited groaning and incessant scratching coming from the other side.

  ‘Psst!’ I hiss, catching her attention, then gesture again, ‘Jump!’

She is paralysed. Her bottom lip begins to quiver, and I hear her door begin to break off its hinges. It will not be able to sustain the weight of those monsters for much longer.

  ‘You have to,’ I insist, desperation now seeping into my whispering voice.

She shakes her head slowly, and the tears pooling in her eyes finally overflow. In an instant, she is bawling, wailing, with her hands in fists over her eyes. The tiger slips from beneath her arm, hitting the windowsill and tumbling down onto the ground at my feet. Her puffy eyes follow its descent.

The cracking of wood like a tree being chopped down fills the stifling air. Her head snaps back, watching what I can only imagine is a tidal wave of zombies pouring into her room, each fighting with the other to reach their delicious meal first. Unable to contain myself; I shout:

  ‘Jump, now!’

The girl looks down at me and, right as a hand with peeling skin reaches out to and drag her back into the room for their feast, she finally lets herself fall. Her white dress billows out like a parachute.

What must feel like an eternity for her passes in an instant. She lands, surprisingly light, in my arms. Knowing the hoard will soon be hot on our heels, I’m quick to turn and begin sprinting away.

I must be a complete idiot. In fact, I’m a total jackass: I’ve risked my life for a girl I’ve never seen before in my entire life. But as I look at her cherub face, which is crumbled as she continues to cry in my arms, I can’t bring myself to believe this is a mistake. After all, she’s alive because of me, isn’t she?

For now, anyway. The sound of the zombies grows louder as they pick up speed, realising where their meal has gone – and who has stolen it from them. The disgruntled popping sound emanating from their throats is constantly behind us as they manage to keep steady pace, fuelled by their rage directed towards me. I will my legs to stop feeling so shaky.

I decide to head towards a nearby supermarket where I know a band of survivors has set up camp. Not that they’re going to appreciate me bringing an angry mob of famished zombies to their doorstep, I know, but I don’t really have any other choice. I know I can’t take them out on my own, and I won’t be able to hide from them all, either.

Hastily turning a corner, digging my feet in the mud, I’ve got no time to react before I go crashing into something large and sturdy – and damn hard. It winds me like a punch to the gut, folds my body in half, sending me tumbling to the ground. The girl falls with me, whimpering at the impact, but I manage to keep her clutched closely to my chest.

Snapping my head up, I see a car. An honest-to-god, running car.

I haven’t seen a working car in months. And yet here, now, there’s one sitting before me. Sure, it’s a little beat-up, its orange rusty colour covered with large red and black and green marks, and its tired look a little deflated, but it’s here. I can hear its engine humming steadily. Inside, there’s an old man sitting in the driver’s seat, squinting at me like a stray cat he’s accidentally run over.

As though on cue, the band of grotesque creatures rounds the corner, discovering me cradling their lunch in the narrow alleyway. The man in the car’s eyes flit between us and them. I imagine he’s going to watch the scene unfold from within the safety of his vehicle, then drive off as if nothing untoward had happened.

It’s probably the smart thing to do.

The smart thing would definitely not be to unlock his door and step out of the car, which is what he actually does.

Mouth gaping, I can only observe as the man bravely – stupidly – steps towards the hoard. Then, with practised efficiency, he retrieves a pistol from the inner pocket of his coat, cocks it and shoots one bullet into each of the zombie’s heads – ten in total – like he’s at a shooting range.

Like dominoes, their inert bodies collapse. Then the final bullet is shot, and the danger is gone.

I can’t speak. Even if I could, there are no words to express what I’m feeling. Awe, fear, immense gratitude – it’s all beyond my capacity right now. Thankfully, the man decides to do the talking for us.

  ‘You’d ought to be more careful out there; creatures like that’ll eat you for breakfast. If you want to keep your daughter safe, you’d best set up a nest somewhere and stay put.’

With this warning, he’s casually clambering back into his car, slamming the door shut and preparing to drive off. Seizing the opportunity, I drag my leaden legs forward and knock twice on his window. Rolling it down, he leans over and looks at me expectantly from beneath thick, bushy grey eyebrows.

  ‘Um, excuse me,’ I muster, ‘Could you… take us with you?’