Scared till death

The main door screamed in pain due to the constant pushing and scratching, but Erik knew if he kept the silence, they would go. They didn't have brains to think, they were just hungry.

He waited inside the new unknown house, his chest rising and falling rapidly, he stared at the closed door, listening to the growls and the scratches. Not fans, just hunters.

Waiting.

The long blood dripping axe rested at the strong grip of his hand. Wait. Wait till they break in through the groaning door. His skin sunk in deep with every heavy breath, his grip slipping due to the sweat forming in his shaking palms.

Wait. Wait.

The afternoon rays reflected their shadow through the gap which separated the door to the floor. He saw them getting far and far until the rays were still. Gone. He yanked the axe to the floor and walked in, his breaths still not calming. 

The house in front of him was quiet. Of course he was least expecting their to be a living creature like him, and wished about the absence of them. No. He was alone.

Erik sat on the couch, ignoring the blood splattered at the walls and the unfinished noodle at the table beside him, if it would all be for the first time, he himself didn't know of his reaction towards the maggot filled noodles but no, this wasn't the first time. At least these creature stayed like they were before.

He pulled his bag closer to his side, unzipped it and grabbed a bottle, drank two gulps and put the bottle back, then, he stared inside the contents of his bags and thought;

3 days would pass with this food.

He went for the only book and pulled it out. His fingers traced the words on the first page, the corner of his lips turned up as he kissed the drawing of a stickman little boy holding his stickman parents, underneath the page was the only thing he had of his heart.

Dear dad,

Happy birthday!

Hope you live long and stay alive as long as you want to!

Love you! 

His son, the sweetest thing ever happened to him after sally. The thing was, for he cried now, was that he couldn't give them the time when the world was healthy. When they lived.

He carried the axe from the doorway and placed it right in front of him as he heard some growls and snarls outside the unknown house. He focused back on the book.

"What is wrong with you?", his son would ask when his father never looked up from his screen. "I have work", his father said simply. 

Dreams became ideas, ideas became setting and characters, then he drew his characters alive in his novels and published it, another idea, another story, another novel, another bestseller, another adaption. Whole lot of work.

"You've changed Erik", sally said every night when she saw him awake at 3 in the morning, typing words, sentences, paragraphs, pages. Whole lot of work.

He never thought, maybe he never thought it that way, what will happen without sally and their son?. He never imagined it. 

Until now.

The silence of this unknown house, his own house left far behind, along with the two person he never gave his time to. Erik felt his eyes getting heavy with every stab of his own actions.

He took them as his responsibility, what he earned, he gave, but never gave his time to actually ask them, "how was your day?".

Before this world turned dead, Erik always focused into the outside world. Media. To keep his fans updated of his current activities, new book releasing dates, snippets. But from the corner of his eyes, he saw Sally's and George's disappointed faces. "I'm giving you what you want", he simply said. 

Now that his every action is being traced, Erik realised what he had done, he failed to be a loving husband, a loving father.

Did he drowned too much into his passion that everything faded between fiction and reality for him? He hated to admit the truth, he was afraid to accept the bitter truth.

The floor above him creaked a little. Wind. His glassy eyes and heavy mind didn't want to get into action. Not yet.

Erik was about to finish his new novel, just 2 chapters for which he had gone to the publisher to talk about. But that was the first time of it all. Instead of his ever broad smiling publisher, their was the snarling creature, devouring the helpless gurgling staff. Zombies. He knew of it because he was a huge 'the walking dead' fan, reading books, watching movies, playing games, he liked the way protagonists bashed the skull away from the melting zombies. They looked cool. But not the publisher in front of him. Nor did Erik. He looked like a mouse in front of that growling creature.

He saw his publishers eyes dart up to him, how he snapped his bloody mouth, hands reaching for him, his usual black suit shattered in pieces, tugged out and covered in red. The staff lying stiff on the floor. Limbs out of her neck and stomach. Dead. Helpless.

How the fiction blended into reality, Erik didn't know. But before he could give up, he ran, he ran to his home, pushing past the startled people, he ran away from the publisher, to his home. Throughout his way, he went quickly past some of the zombies, that time, for the first time, he thought about them dearly. He felt as if he lost something. Was it too late?

The wood creaked slowly on top of the broken chandelier, the curtains danced softly against the long window, the sound of slow sound of dragging feet above him, than the sound followed behind the living room. He sank deep down on the couch, his eyes flickering, his fingers tracing the page. 

Bend to the side with hanging skin from most of its body, teeth visible in place of skin, eyes blood red, angry red fluid falling from its teeth. Clothes barely attached to it, very few strands of hair attached to the crumbling scalp. That was the antagonist of his favourite genre, he loved to live in fiction, where he always portrayed himself as a strong handsome hero. 

Because somewhere Erik knew his actions and his place in the real world. A coward who hated to admit the truth he created for himself. A coward.

The zombie creature walked slow, dragging one feet at a time, stumbling on every step as they stretched their rotting hands to grab their prey. The game he played showed the same creature which was posing in front of him.

Posing? Front of him?

Suddenly he jerked in the couch, snapping his eyes open and quickly placing the book inside his bag. No fiction! a zombie crept from god only knows where and was coming closer to him.

He should've checked. He should've checked. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

With blurred vision he picked the axe up and waited for the growling monster to come within his target reach. He shook his head, as if to command his trembling hand to focus. Focus.

He held the axe up as it came forward, flew the weapon as hard as he could and thrashed the sharp metal all the way through the zombie's neck, sending the creature to fall to the side, the skull flew and rested on top of the noodles.

More food for the maggot.

He walked upstairs slowly and steadily, turning his head in every direction with every tiny step. His eyes went glassy again. His throat turning heavy. Sally.

The same way he saw sally that day, he knocked on the door, his mind still not rationalising the fiction and the reality. But from through the closed door of his house. He heard the similar cursed sound of growling and scratches against the door. He stopped knocking the door and slipped to sit down on the cold porch. He was scared to admit it that time, so he told himself that this all was his crazy imagination. Nothing was true, and he ran away.

Now he reminded himself; My family is dead, because of me.

Quickly he turned his head to the sound of something. Something. The reality for him only had one news. Zombies. 

To his horror, the unknown house had a door in the backside of the kitchen, open!. The walking creatures, many of them, slowly approached the open house, fighting through the bare fence. How did they know he was here? Weren't they dumb. 

He hurried upstairs, to the second floor, keeping the axe steady by his side, he climbed up to the attic as fast as he could and without any second thought, his hand started breaking the weak wall above his head. Fast. Quick. Before they come close.

He kept on alarming himself as the sound of growls came closer with every beat. One. Two. Three. In the fourth time, the hole became wider, exposing the afternoon rays. He put his one leg up to the roof, followed by another. He heard steps, they were usual, but running?, he never saw a running zombie. But he didn't care anymore. He climbed up the roof and ran to the next roof.

If it was a survivor. He cant help them except creating the hole to escape if the survivor is lucky enough. He never met a survivor since, if he did, he ignored them. Not because he was helpless, but because he was too afraid to loose someone he cared for. Again.

He drowned deep in the river of loneliness, but he didn't care anymore as he was to be blamed If he realised it a bit earlier, his family would've been there by his side. But he was alone. 

He stood above the neighbouring rooftop, starring blankly at the overrun road. At least they had a group, he only had one book filled with his sons letters. No sally, not even her photo, just the image he had in his mind, his sweet sally. George, his son, the way he gripped his fingers during his toddler days. "Da" George said for the first time. His gulps again held the tears back, why did this happen? How did he end up alone?

"Dad?" A small voice called.

George. 7 years, he would've been 19 by now, his voice would change, his appearance would change, his style would change. Only if-

"Dad?" A more firm voice called.

He frowned, fiction? Do fiction talk?, hallucination?,What?

He turned back and widened his eyes, in front of him stood a tall and thin boy with his golden hair hanging in front of his face, the boy stared down for a bit then pushed his overgrown hair back to show his face. His eyes were wide in shock. The boy looked shyly and held the mans hand and squeezed it. His eyes never shifted its focus, slowly it started becoming glassy as streaks of water fell down his cheek. 

He never left the hand, "Dad?"

He couldn't believe it. George?. Somewhere he knew his son, the same soft brown eyes, the same golden hair. His same shy George.

He wanted to run, no, he cant face George, though he was impressed that his son survived for 7 years without him, but still, this new world was capable of snatching the closest companion. No, he cant suffer through the pain of losing anyone, particularly not George.

But how can he turn his back to his boy, his only boy, George. His George. Their George. No, he cant leave him. 

But Erik wanted to hug him so badly before he realised the truth.

"Dad?" George hugged his lifeless father. He cried loudly over his dad's body. "Talk to me!" His grownup hoarse voice muffled as he dig his head in his fathers chest.

"Tell me you love me!"

I do.

"Cant you see how....how I've kept myself safe!"

I do.

"I want to tell you how happy I am to see you again. Dad!"

"Why are you sleeping? Get up!"

Erik realised, his son was same as his father. He took time to realise the truth. While jumping between the roofs, Erik slipped, fell and crashed his skull. Again not wanting to admit the truth, but his eyes couldn't ignore his spiritless body beside his mourning son.

But soon Erik felt more powerless as he saw his body move, his hand raising towards George not to hug him, but to devour him. 

No.

George jumped away from the zombie, he stepped back promptly, his hands searching for a weapon in his bag. The new zombie stumbled to grab George, dark red fluid flowing from his skull and teeth, eyes lost their emotion, brownish green colour around its eyes. Skin losing its colour. George looked at it with horror, finally he found his butchers knife and held it tight, he still stepped back, tears streaming down frequently. 

But the zombie stepped closer, its fingers touching George's shivering skin. George squeezed his eyes shut and swung the knife through the monsters head, "you are not my dad!"

The zombie uttered soft gurgles before stopping, bloody set of jaws closed. George slipped down beside it and lay his head on top of his fathers back.

He continued to cry softly. His beautiful long fingers shaking his dad to wake him up, "no" he said softly. "No"

Erik wanted to talk to him, very badly. But he was helpless. He stood still, seeing his grownup son cry above his dad's bleeding body. He felt vulnerable, he wanted to pat George's shoulder ,"I'm proud of you!" He wanted to say him, like a dad did. But he was too late.

Too late.

"I love you dad", the young man said as he stroke his father's hair gently.

I love you too. I always did.