Z vs V: Among the Living—Book 1
I point the AR-15 and turn the last corner, screaming. It’s a war cry, maybe a little pathetic, but it’s still a war cry. It’s supposed to intimidate the enemy and psych me up. I am not psyched; I’m scared.
If she had been standing up, I would have shot her out of terror-stricken reflex. My gun barrel is aimed about chest high and that’s where all my focus is. Fortunately, she is trembling on the floor in the far corner of the row. Having to look down gives me a millisecond before I spray the room with bullets to realize that it is a little girl. She’s not a corpsie little girl. She’s not a bloodsucking vee little girl. She’s just a little girl, about ten, sobbing on the floor, on the dusty concrete, looking at me through tears, knowing that I’m going to kill her because I just shouted it from the stairs.
“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” I think I mean it. My heart is still pounding in my throat. Adrenaline has me keyed for action, and I can feel my temples pulsing. But I think I’ve calmed down enough to know I don’t need to shoot a ten-year-old girl.
“You said you were going to blast me.”
“I thought you were someone else, something else.”
“You thought I was one of them?” And then she starts to cry. I don’t know how long she’s been down here, but I know she’s been scared to death of me for the last half hour. Me. I’m the bringer of death.
“Yeah. I thought you were one of them. But you’re not. So, it’s okay.” I doubt if she heard me very well, because I’ve never heard anyone cry like that. She must have been letting out everything she’s been feeling since this crap started.
Here’s the picture. I’m holding a semi-automatic weapon. I’ve got Glocks strapped to both thighs and a third Glock holstered in the middle of my lower back. I’ve got a military-looking backpack filled with survival gear, and I’m carrying tons of tools made for killing. I haven’t bathed or shaved in months. I still have on the bandana that I wear to stave off the stench of decomposing bodies, and I’m trying to comfort a little girl who’s scared to death—mostly of me.
She’s sitting in the corner clutching her knees with her face buried in her arms. She’s got on knee-length shorts that hang halfway down her calves. People can’t be picky about a perfect fit these days. They may have been khaki once. Now they’re a dingy grey, like almost everything else that used to be colorful. Her t-shirt has some fantasy scene on it, maybe a unicorn, maybe butterflies, maybe last night’s dinner. Hard to tell. She also has a backpack decorated with cartoon characters from an animated kids show. You can still see all the bright colors through the grime that coats it.
I kneel, and she pushes harder into the corner. “Honey, it’s going to be all right,” I lie. I didn’t believe that even when life was normal. I certainly don’t now. That’s when the flashlight goes out. I feel her slip past me and rush to the end of the aisle. It’s pitch, pitch black, so I also hear her banging into the lockers. I crank up the light and go after her. I don’t want to scare her more, but I really don’t want her to open the access door to the street.
She’s almost to the front stairs. Opening that door to the sidewalk is one of the worst ideas I can think of. I keep trying to reassure her, but she’s not buying it. Nor should she. Back when there were still enough survivors to form tribes and clans, we all learned not to trust anyone.
As we both get close to the front of the building, I see shadows moving around that end of the room. I nearly freeze. Is something in here with us? How did I miss it? Elongated shadows creep across the walls. They crawl up and down the stairs. I audibly exhale when I identify the source. It’s moonlight coming through a couple of the basement windows. The shadows are being cast by corpsies shuffling along 11th street.
“Don’t open that door!” I shout. She was just about to start pushing it open to get away from me. My voice attracts attention. Here’s the thing about corpsies, they’re out there day and night, but they’re incredibly clumsy. Their eyesight is bad, particularly at night. So, they bump into things a lot. They trip, frequently over each other. One of the corpsies moves toward the sound and falls into the window well. His face is scrunched up against the glass and he’s beating at it. The pus from his rotting skin streaks the glass. His clawed hands scratch against the window.
There are also several metallic bangs. Some of the corpsies heard the sound coming through the metal doors and start tripping and piling up on the doors as they moved toward my voice. At least there’s no way the girl can open that door now, but she’s pushing hard.
I grab her leg. She starts kicking at me. I just want to get her away from the door, but she’s still pretty sure I want to hurt her. Finally, I manage to pull her down the stairs. I just pull her to me and hug her as tight as I can. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”
She’s sobbing again. I can feel her relax and let me hug her. Oh my god. Another human being. I’m holding another living, human being. I can feel her heart beating. I can hear her sobs. I can feel her breath coming in gulps and spurts as she tries to get control of herself. And I can feel how hot the tears of a terrified little girl can be.