15. Slumber
Mark; ds_zombies 'verse; R; 340 words; 15. Slumber.
Mark's gut twisted as his self-preservation tried desperately to cast for another way out.
His apartment building was swamped. Several pieces of furniture sat piled by his front door, and they did nothing to drown out the sound of what scratched from behind it. All his curtains were drawn, like somehow the damn things could make it up the fire escape.
It'd been forever since he'd slept.
Sick desperation kept him awake, kept him pacing, kept him watching from stories up as the world around him died. It was almost all he did. A few hours back, he'd taken it in his head to start throwing shit out the window. Cookware. Knick-knacks. Empty beer bottles. Furniture that wasn't barricading his door. A souvenir curling stone had disintegrated on the pavement below. It was a strange little game that gave him no satisfaction when he did manage to hit one of the infected on the street below. He hadn't run out of things to throw. Just ran out of will to throw them.
He was thirsty.
The disgusting things never stopped ravening. They could smell him. He knew it. They could smell everything.
The pills had been sitting out for a long time now. He lost track of the hours, maybe it was days, they'd been sitting there beside his last shot of Jack. How many times he stopped just to stare at them.
It was a big bottle. He'd go to sleep. Just... go to sleep.
He was so tired.
Something bashed at his door. Rattled it. That happened sometimes. Sounded like a body slamming up against it.
He couldn't... couldn't sleep...
There was another impact. This one was more stubborn than usual.
A chair fell off the pile. Mark didn't look up to see it fall. Just looked at his pills.
He was... so tired...
When the pills were gone and his mouth tasted like liquid fire, he shattered the bottle off his front door.
The shards glittered and fell like rain.
Mark's gut twisted as his self-preservation tried desperately to cast for another way out.
His apartment building was swamped. Several pieces of furniture sat piled by his front door, and they did nothing to drown out the sound of what scratched from behind it. All his curtains were drawn, like somehow the damn things could make it up the fire escape.
It'd been forever since he'd slept.
Sick desperation kept him awake, kept him pacing, kept him watching from stories up as the world around him died. It was almost all he did. A few hours back, he'd taken it in his head to start throwing shit out the window. Cookware. Knick-knacks. Empty beer bottles. Furniture that wasn't barricading his door. A souvenir curling stone had disintegrated on the pavement below. It was a strange little game that gave him no satisfaction when he did manage to hit one of the infected on the street below. He hadn't run out of things to throw. Just ran out of will to throw them.
He was thirsty.
The disgusting things never stopped ravening. They could smell him. He knew it. They could smell everything.
The pills had been sitting out for a long time now. He lost track of the hours, maybe it was days, they'd been sitting there beside his last shot of Jack. How many times he stopped just to stare at them.
It was a big bottle. He'd go to sleep. Just... go to sleep.
He was so tired.
Something bashed at his door. Rattled it. That happened sometimes. Sounded like a body slamming up against it.
He couldn't... couldn't sleep...
There was another impact. This one was more stubborn than usual.
A chair fell off the pile. Mark didn't look up to see it fall. Just looked at his pills.
He was... so tired...
When the pills were gone and his mouth tasted like liquid fire, he shattered the bottle off his front door.
The shards glittered and fell like rain.