Ancient History

November 2073

Michael followed his father, Raphael; their guns were ready for fire, their muscles tense, and their eyes wary of their surroundings. The young man listened for any sudden noises as they crossed through the broken-down buildings and windowless skyscrapers, which were swallowed by tall trees and thick vegetation. His eyes lingered on a building that once used to be a cinema and tried to recall what it felt like going to the movies—or even what the world looked like before the zombie apocalypse. Heck, he even missed the days when he complained about getting up for school. No one knew how the apocalypse happened or how it spread, except that one day people began devouring each other for no reason. He was only seven when it started, and the only thing he could recall with clarity was running from school, scared. 

Raphael stopped, and his arm hit Michael in the chest, startling him out of his thoughts. The young man glanced over his shoulder. Before them, two of the undead—or walking bone bags, as he called them—were devouring their recent victim. The man screeched and writhed in pain as their teeth sank into his skin, blood dripping from his wounds. 

Michael winced. Poor bastard. Being eaten alive was the common nightmare everyone wished to avoid. Tearing his eyes from the gory scene, he tapped his father on the back. The older man simply tilted his head, his signal that he was listening.

“Should we kill those zombies?” asked Michael. 

“Not enough ammo,” said Raphael, tapping his hand on his AR-15. “Let’s head back…Make no noise, Michael.”

He nodded and began stepping back, his father’s arm still pressed against his chest. As he heard the rustle of vegetation and a loud gargled noise, Michael started shooting at a zombie that sprinted from the bushes. The noise of the gunshots alerted the two that were still eating. Zombies were not able to see in color, but they were capable of detecting their prey by noise and by body heat. Their gray eyes landed on Michael and his father, and they opened their mouths, oozing putrid liquid and revealing sharp, rotten teeth. 

Shoot!, Michael thought.

“Run!” said his father, pushing him by the shoulder. 

They ran while shooting at the two zombies following them. Another zombie sprang from a window, falling over Michael, who blocked the zombie’s teeth with his semi-automatic shotgun. The bone bag tried ripping the gun away, until a sharp blade slashed off his head with one clean cut. 

“You okay?” asked Raphael, as he beheaded another of the undead. 

“Yes,” said Michael, rising to his feet and unloading his Colt 1911 on the zombie. 

His father slashed the zombies down with the two samurai swords that he “borrowed” from a shop. Running out of bullets, Michael picked up the thickest pipe he could find and began bashing skulls; brain material spattered his clothes and filled the air with the acrid smell of rotten meat.

“Michael!” His father called out as he tossed him a sword. Together, they slashed off the zombies’ heads, watching each other’s back. Michael searched for an exit when they found themselves cornered. His eyes landed on the wide stairs on their right that led to the upper floors. 

“Come on, Pa!”

Dragging his father with him, Michael cut across the mob of the undead and headed for the stairs. They reached the upper floor of what used to be a small apartment complex. To stop running and face the zombies would equal suicide. Michael spotted a building with a tree growing through a crack in the middle of its roof.

“There!” said Michael.

They reached the end of the balcony, and Michael grabbed his father’s wrist, spinning and then releasing him. The momentum sent his father to the other side, and he landed with a curse on his lips. Michael jumped, but one of the undead grabbed him by the ankle, and they both fell. He held onto the edge of the roof while kicking the zombie. His grip began to slip, and his heart dropped to his feet. No!

He caught a flash of silver and the zombie lost her head. Michael watched her fall before glancing at his father. His father stretched a hand toward him and pulled him up, wrapping him in a fierce hug.

“You okay?” Raphael asked.

“Yeah, thought I was a goner,” said Michael.

“Me too,” Raphael said, releasing him. 

An awkward silence filled the air, for his father was not the hugging type. He mussed Michael’s hair before rising and skimming the ground below them. Michael joined him, his eyes trailing to the remains of the man they encountered before the zombie attack. 

“Should we try cremating him and check him for ammo or provisions?”

“Too risky, Michael. Perhaps tomorrow when the zombie has forgotten about us. Besides, we have three days before the virus turns him into a zombie.” 

Michael nodded and gave the sword back to his father, and the old man sat against the trunk of the tree. Michael glanced at the sky, which was painted with orange and yellow as the sun set.

“Guess we’ll settle here for the night. Good, I always loved star gazing; makes me feel normal for a while,” he said, stretching his back.

“Yeah,” said his father, his voice devoid of emotion.

Michael watched Raphael wiped down his swords with a frown etched on his face. His father was not in fact his “real” father but a man that dated his mom three months before the apocalypse. The man was under no obligation, nor was it his duty, to save Michael that day, but he did. Michael remembered when he ran away from school after witnessing his classmates eat each other. Raphael had shown up, smashing everyone with his car. His father had escaped from a zombie attack in the hospital he worked for, losing his eye. After rescuing Michael, he took him home, but by the time they got there, his mom was gone—or so his father insisted.

Michael never knew what his mother’s fate was—whether she was dead after a zombie ate her or if she became one of them. He suspected the latter. He remembered hearing loud thumping sounds coming from the main bedroom and his father coming out with a haunted look and with blood splattered on his lab coat. That was also the day his sweet father became stern and aloof. At first, he hated their new reality and the sudden change Raphael went through. He hated that his mother was no longer with him and that the man dared to force a seven-year-old to learn how to kill and fend for himself. But as he grew older, he understood why, and he no longer resented Raphael—and even thanked him for it. 

“You did well today,” said Raphael, startling him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“You did well today, my son,” he said. “You’re becoming more wary of your surroundings, and you’re sharpening your ears. I’m really proud of you.” His father smiled, wrinkles appearing in his face and deepening the scars on his cheek and underneath the black eyepatch he wore to cover his left eye. 

“Thanks. I’ve had a good teacher.”

His father nodded before his face turned serious once more, his gray eye pensive. Michael sighed. Being seventeen and seeking his own identity while dealing with the apocalypse was no easy feat, but he tried following Raphael’s advice and taking his lessons to heart.

“I’m hungry. Could you cook some beans for us, Michael?”

“Sure.” 

Michael started a small fire and cooked beans while his father fished out canned vegetables and crackers. 

Michael lay on his back, counting the stars and trying to recall the names of each constellation. Bored, he glanced at his father, who still rested against the tree with his single eye glued to the fire. The flames casted shadows on his scars and shone on the gray hairs in his black locks.

“Everything okay, Michael?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was thinking of Mom.”

“Me, too.”

Michael sat up, startled by the soft tone of his father’s voice. The man glanced at his hands.

“Sometimes, I can’t help feeling that I failed to save her.”

Michael held his tongue. It wasn’t every day that his father talked about his mother. Raphael’s single eye watered, and his Adam’s apple wobbled. He blinked and glanced at Michael, recalling that he was there.

“We shouldn’t dwell on ancient history,” he said.

Michael nodded. "Ancient history" was the term they used to refer to their past, their own coping mechanism of accepting their new reality. Raphael removed his swords from his belt and settled down.

“I’m going to sleep; please make sure you extinguish the fire before going to sleep, son.”

“Understood. Um, Pa…”

Raphael cocked an eyebrow.

“You didn’t fail my mom…I’m still here, and I’m sure she would agree with me.”

A sad smile crept into his father’s face before falling asleep. Michael lay back and lost himself among the stars, imagining what his life would be like if the apocalypse had never happened. 

Two days later, he and his father walked through the empty streets of Orlando. In the background, the rusty amusement park of Universal Studio and Disney World rose like a ghostly monument in the fog.

“You know, with the apocalypse, all entrances to Disney World are free, Pa.”

“And face a zombified Mickey Mouse? No thank you.” His father stopped and glanced at him, eye gleaming with mischief. “But you go ahead and enjoy yourself; just don’t come crying to me when a zombie eats your butt off.”

“Mean,” he said, narrowing his eyes at his father. 

Raphael chuckled, ruffling Michael’s hair before resting his arm over his shoulders. Despite the humor, they both kept their eyes on the park—not for the zombies but for the clans of looters that were known to kill nomads, and in some cases, recruit them for clan wars if they proved useful. It was also rumored that some would be used for entertainment; Michael had heard the stories from other nomads who were lucky enough to escape them. 

“Oh, look, a Walgreens!” said Michael.

“The nightmare,” said Raphael, making a face.

His father hated Walgreens, referring to it as “the plague,” for every corner of Florida was “infected” with one. Michael laughed and then coughed, the sound wet.

“You shouldn’t have run toward the lake.”

“I was being followed by zombies. What did you expect me to do?” he said, coughing. 

“You know what? I’m heading to that infernal place to see if, by some miracle, there’s any medicine left.”

Michael was going to protest, but another cough assaulted him, and Raphael dragged him to the run-down Walgreens. They stopped, muscles tense, guns ready for zombies and looters. Raphael picked up a piece of glass, tossed it, and waited. 

“Coast clear,” said his father.

They trudged inside, and Raphael headed for the medicine aisle while Michael paused at the card aisle, admiring the Christmas cards.

“Michael!” 

He jumped, concerned by the alarm in his father’s voice, and ran toward him, gun ready—but he stopped when he reached the end of the aisle. A burly man, hair dyed green and face covered in scars, held his father at gunpoint with his thick arm wrapped around his father’s neck. 

“Well, looks like we caught two,” he said. 

Michael stepped back as he found himself surrounded by the man’s gang. He raised his semi-automatic. Concentrate!

“Shoot any of my men, and I’ll blow his brains out, boy,” he said. 

Michael’s clammy hands shook, and blood pounded in his ears. The men surrounded him, armed with pipes, morning stars, and guns. He glanced at his father, who made a swift movement of his hand, their code for “not worth it.” Michael tossed down his weapon and raised his arms above his head.

“Take them; we could use them to increase our numbers,” said the leader, pushing Raphael forward.

Someone kicked Michael in the stomach; his face was covered, and his hands were tied up. The men then dumped him and his father in a corner. Michael tried to get a glimpse through a hole in the potato sack they had put over his head. The men wandered among the shelves, taking first-aid kits, medicine, and food. 

“Hurry up. We need to get to base before dark,” said the leader, keeping watch over his two captives. 

Looters! Of all the rotten luck, they had to run into them. Michael struggled with his bindings. How the hell would they get out? He tried not to panic, but the idea of becoming a soldier or facing a zombie armed with nothing but a wooden sword was nothing to look forward to. He coughed, and the green-haired dude knelt before him, removing the sack from his face. 

“What’s the matter with ya, boy?” he asked. “Are you infected?” He took out his gun. “If you are, you know what they say.”

“A man bitten is a dead man,” said Michael, struggling not to cough in the man’s face. The idea was tempting, but Michael knew when he should behave. 

The man grunted and removed the sack from Raphael’s head. “Do you have any special talents?”

“I was a surgeon,” said Raphael. 

“Were you now?” said the man, his attention on Raphael now. “You know surgeons and hospital staff are very valuable today.”

Michael glanced at his father. Why would he be telling the man that? That was a big no. His father shifted closer to him.

“I cannot imagine why,” said Raphael, keeping eye contact with the man.

Something cold poked Michael in the hand. He suppressed a smile as he reached for the Swiss blade and began working on his bindings. His father always had a trick up in his sleeve. The man chuckled and tilted his head at Michael.

“And you, boy, any special talents?” 

He paused and licked his lips, his mouth dry. “Um…cooking?” 

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Guess it’s the gladiator arena for you,” he said, smiling. 

Michael froze, but a loud noise startled him. One of the men had made a shelf collapse, spilling nail polish and cosmetics on the floor. 

“Watch it!” said the leader. “These walking corpses are attracted by noise, you fools!”

Before Michael finished cutting his binds, Raphael broke free of his bindings and jumped over the green haired man, snatching his gun before getting punched on the jaw. Michael, free of his bindings, kicked him and was aiming for a punch when the leader blocked him and punched him. 

“You’re a fighter, I give you that, boy,” he said, pinning Michael to the floor with his foot. “But you made me angry, and that was a very big mistake.”

He pointed the gun at Michael’s forehead, but before he could press the trigger, they heard a man scream—and both turned to see one of the gang members being eaten alive by zombies while the others began shooting at the walking corpses. Michael counted more than twelve, not a good sign. The man removed the weapon from Michael’s forehead and shot at the corpses running toward them. 

Recovering from the punch, Raphael kicked the man in the stomach, knocking him down. He grabbed the man’s weapon and pulled his son up. Together, they ran toward the back exit, only to find it blocked by another pack of zombies.

“What now?” asked Michael.

Raphael grabbed one of the discarded morning stars and threw it to him.

“We fight our way out,” he said, shooting one of the undead in the head.

Michael bashed another one in the head, and they cleared a way out of the Walgreens, knocking down the undead and looters alike.

“Remind me to never visit another Walgreens while I’m still alive,” said Raphael.

“Agree.”

They reached the exit, but Raphael paused at the door. Slipping, Michael grabbed his father’s elbow. 

“Come on, Pa!” 

He almost choked when he spotted the grenade that Raphael held in his hand and then tossed it into the hoard of zombies and looters. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” asked Michael. 

His father dragged him by the arm, and they ran as far as they could. 

“From the green-haired dude when I jumped over him. The idiot had it hidden in his belt.”

The blast swept them off their feet. Michael grunted in pain as his father landed on him. They lay on the asphalt and listened to the fire consume the old pharmacy. 

“I’m too old for this.” 

“Just a normal day for us, right?”

“Oh, here you go, son.”

Michael caught the bottle that his father tossed to him. He glanced at Raphael, cocking an eyebrow. His father shrugged, lying on the floor again. 

“Got it before the brute knocked me out,” said Raphael.

“Pa, sometimes you scare me,” said Michael, taking a sip of Dayquil.

His father, the old sly fox, never ceased to amaze him, but he guessed that was what helped them stay alive this long. He was closing the bottle and glancing at the ancient park, when he stumbled upon an interesting discovery. 

“Hey, Pa…I think I’ve found their car,” he said, shaking his father.

Raphael raised his head.

Inspecting the car, they stumbled upon a precious cargo of provisions and ammo. Michael almost fainted with joy. This day was not so rotten after all. Raphael whistled and glanced at him.

“Are you bored with Florida yet, son?” 

“Road trip, Pa?”

“I heard Atlanta was beautiful…well, before the zombie apocalypse, of course.”

“Sounds good enough for me. Can I drive?”

“Nope.”

“Not fair.”

Chuckling, his father closed the trunk and stepped into the car. Michael settled in his seat as his father turned on the engine. He watched the amusement park fade as they left Orlando behind.