[FIC] Original Fiction - Rated R - "Dying to Live"
Title: Dying to Live
Genre: Horror/Action/Macabre/Zombie
Word Count: 2717
Warnings: Blood, rotting corpses, a dude on the edge.
Summary: Takes place a year into a world-wide zombie outbreak. A day in the life of Frederick Scott, Los Angeles outbreak survivor.
Notes: Well, firstly, this is the final project in a creative writing class I've taken. Secondly, this is unbeta'd, as I don't have a beta. Thirdly, please, do not hesitate to point out typos/errors. Fourthly, please enjoy yourselves!
Dying to Live
It wasn't easy to live during a Zombie Apocalypse.
Then again, it hadn't exactly been easy to live before the undead were wandering the streets; now it was damn near impossible to go from one day to the next. Frederick Scott crouched in his backyard, staring down into a tub of stagnant, stinking water. It had sat in his backyard all fall and winter, collecting leaves and turning into soupy compost. He inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes burning from the stench. The smell of the water was better than the smell that permeated the rest of the city. Rotting corpses had a too sweet stink to them that made bile rise in the back of his throat.
His backpack was secured on his shoulders, empty and light; ready to be filled with whatever food stuffs he managed to find during the day's hunt. His bat was a comforting weight at his hip. One more deep breath of rancid air and he stood, his gaunt frame slipping easily between loose boards in the fence that surrounded his property. His sneakers were silent on the concrete; he'd chosen them for the tread and comfort.
Los Angeles had been the last city in the United States to fall. Great walls had been built up around it to keep the infected out, allowing the citizens to live moderately normal lives amidst the apocalypse. The rest of world had fallen in two months, and after six months Los Angeles had fallen too. The walls had only trapped survivors in when the infection sprung up among them.
Frederick was a survivor of the survivors.
He came out of the alley that ran behind his house, his steps measured; slow and easy. The sun was high in the sky, warming the pavement to the degree that the air above it warbled. The smell of rotting humans hit his nose, causing him wrinkle it in disgust. The streets were deserted, cars abandoned wherever their drivers had been parked when they died. The concrete and asphalt had cracked and decayed, worn down by the weather, and weeds had sprung up, painting the landscape in blotches of vibrant green. He passed by another alleyway and spared a glance down it. A zombie sat against one of the walls, twitching. Its legs had been cut away to the bones, the muscles severed. Its head lolled on its neck so that it faced him, and a long, tortured moan worked free of it's rotting lips. Frederick grimaced and continued on his path.
He'd almost grown used to avoiding the zombies over the past year. He knew where they tended to congregate, and just how to carry himself so that he didn't attract their attention. It was an art form, avoiding the walking dead, and he had mastered it. A Ralph's loomed before him, and he crossed the abandoned street to get to it. The doors no longer opened automatically, the power had shut off months ago. He pried them open, forcing them to move on their tracks, and slipped in. It was dim inside, the registers he'd entered near lit only from what light came in through the glass doors. Beyond them, it was pitch black.
He pulled his flashlight free of his backpack, clicking it on and slinking deeper into the store. His footsteps seemed to echo all around him, making him slow in his step as he searched for the canned foods isle. The grocery stores had been pretty well looted when the L.A. Outbreak began, but there was always something left behind. He turned down the isle, the beam of his light cutting through dusty darkness like a knife. At the far end he could see it reflecting back at him on a glass freezer case. He stared at his disfigured reflection for a moment as he drew neared to the end. The lack of light, and the distance, made him look like some sort of shadow. Not something real or alive, but a memory of times spent laughing and living.
He tore his eyes away from the image, focusing instead on the shelves, and the slim pickings of canned goods. It was all string beans and, for a reason he didn't understand, it pissed him off. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl, and he picked up one of the cans, turning and hurling it at the glass freezer case with as much force as he could muster. The glass dented where the can hit, a spiderweb of cracks branching out in all directions, then shattered so loudly that he was sure it could be heard for miles around. His entire body went tense, his ears straining. For a few tense seconds all he could hear was his own heart in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears; then something else.
The slow shuffling of feet.
It was a sound he had come to know all too well.
The zombie came from around the corner of the isle, feet dragging over shattered glass, yellow eyes seeking him out and fixing on his form. It began to advance, slow, jerky movements bringing it close. His hand tugged the bat free of his belt and the wood handle was cool and smooth in his hand. He made no move to lift it, his eyes locking on the rotting fingers that were raised in his direction. Slowly they trailed up to the decaying mouth, where brown, chipped teeth were displayed in the absence of lips. Their eyes met, and he wondered what it would be like to let it all go. His heart sped up in anticipation. He could let it have him, let it destroy him, and then he would be free of the constant game of survival he had been forced to play for too long. His breathing quickened as it neared him, almost in touching distance. He had maintained eye contact, entranced by the glowing yellow, so perfectly preserved when all other parts of its body had begun rotting away.
It's fingers brushed over his cheek, spasming, and his eyes almost closed.
CRACK!
The thing crumpled to the floor, a spray of blood soaking Frederick's shirt and face. He hadn't even realized he was moving the bat, but the pain of the hard contact of its end with the zombie's skull reverberated up his arm, jarring him into clear thinking. He had almost let it eat him. He dropped into a crouch, reaching down to graze his fingers over its cheek in the same way it had his.
“I was almost ready to die,” he whispered to it. “And I was going to let you be the one to kill me.”
They had stood as equals, each close enough to hold the other's life in their hands. It had been exhilarating, letting it so close. He tilted his head. The eyes weren't yellow anymore, they had dulled down to something reminiscent of blue. That had probably been the person's true eye color before they'd been infected. Now they would rot with the rest of the corpse. He straightened, shrugging his backpack from his shoulders and unzipping it. He filled it to its capacity with string beans, and at the back of the shelf found one can of pineapple chunks. He spared the zombie one last respectful glance before leaving.
Compared to the stuffy, stale air of the Ralph's, it was refreshingly cool outside. It hadn't felt so stuffy when he entered. He glanced around, checking for any approaching undead, and then made his way home, the cans clonking together in his backpack. He slipped quietly through the fence, eyes darting to the tub of stagnant water briefly before he made for the door. He was beginning to understand what that tub of water must feel like. Trapped in its circumstances, stuck in place.
His house was dark, the windows boarded up from the inside with wood he'd scavenged during the first few months of the outbreak. He kept the house spotless. Nothing was ever out of place. This wasn't from a tendency towards cleanliness; before the outbreak he'd been a disorganized individual. This cleanliness was born from a need to know where any given item was at any given second. Makeshift weapons were scattered throughout the house, readily accessible if a zombie managed to breach his defenses and get inside.
His backpack was abandoned in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. His bat, covered in the drying blood and brain tissue, was propped against the door frame. He struggled out of his shoes, kicking them off as he wandered into the living room. The leather upholstery of his couch squeaked beneath him as he collapsed onto it, his eyes closing and a sigh of an exhale escaping his lips. He draped an arm over his face, his nose hidden in the crook of his elbow. He was exhausted, a sudden weariness overtaking him that he hadn't experienced in a long time. It pulled him into a deep and troubled sleep.
Dreams plagued him in the darkness of his own subconscious.
Visions of the zombie from the grocery store played out behind his eyelids. In his dreams the zombie was less decomposed. It was female, with full lips, and when he looked into its eyes they glowed blue instead of yellow. It reached for him and cradled his face in its hands, a gentle, loving touch, drawing him closer. But then, when their faces were flush, his lips pressing against hers in a familiar kiss, she opened her mouth and began to devour him. In his dream he relished the touch, and her teeth tearing the flesh from his bones wasn't painful, but the tingling sensation of being set free.
When he woke up he was sweating, his heart fluttering in his chest. He sat up slowly, planting his feet firmly on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He was shaking, and he didn't know why. He couldn't stop thinking of the zombie, of whether or not it had been female. Couldn't help but wonder if he had known the person before they'd been infected. He'd known so many people before they were infected. His coworkers, his friends... his family. He tried to clear those thoughts from his mind, abandoning the couch and making for the kitchen. The clock above the sink said that it was just past twelve, and there wasn't any light coming from the cracks between the boards over the windows. He'd slept a long time.
Opening his backpack, he pulled out the canned pineapples, shaking them to hear the heavy thud of the fruit against the inside of the can, before setting it on the counter and digging through a drawer for the can opener. It took him a few minutes to get the can open, his shaking fingers refusing to work the can opener properly. When he finally did get it open, he didn't take his time to savor the treat. He shoveled the canned fruit down by the spoonful, barely tasting the syrupy sweetness that came from them soaking in their own juices for too long. His mind was elsewhere; he was still within his dream. When the can was empty it was thoughtlessly discarded, tossed into the trash can in the corner where all the other refuse was piled.
He was too caught up in his thoughts to really pay attention to what he was doing, pulling on his shoes and strapping his bat to his side. He had to see another zombie up close. He had to look into its eyes and see if there was any trace of humanity in them; any life. It was exceptionally stupid to wander the city at night. They could see in the dark, he could not. But there wasn't any other option in his head. There was no alternative. The wind was blowing, a gentle reminder of the coming Santa Ana's, and he inhaled deeply. For a second there wasn't any smell of rot in the air. There had been a teasing waft of wildflowers and moss. Steeling himself, he darted out of his fence, eyes squinting to see in the semi darkness. Only the stars and the moon lit his path, bathing the entire city in pale white light.
He was heading for the alley where he'd seen the zombie during his earlier outing. It couldn't move, which made it safe. He could allow himself to look into its eyes from a distance and it wouldn't be able to get him. He dodged a few wandering undead on the way, one of them a little girl in a torn blue dress, staring up at him balefully. He would swear he saw sadness in her yellow eyes, but he wasn't positive. He turned down the alley slowly, eyes seeking out the dark form of the immobile undead. It was still there, body twitching, eyes roaming wildly. They fixed on him immediately, its entire body tensing as though it was trying to move, fingers reaching for him.
It was a mockery of the come hither look.
He crouched down a foot away from it, staring at it with his head cocked to one side, “Can you understand me?”
It groaned in response, its fingers grasping at him wildly. “I suppose not... but you can see me, and you can hear me.”
With a grunt it jerked forward, back pulling away from the wall a bit, and almost grazed him with its fingers. He jerked away in response, eyes widening, then narrowing. It couldn't walk, but it was still dangerous.
“My name is Fred,” he said to it, half tempted to shake its outstretched hand. “What was your name? I bet it was something to do with the Bible. Ezekial; something like that.”
It made a noise that sounded frustrated, lunging for him again. This time he laughed, batting its hands away. “Bet you were married too. Some pretty little thing right out of high school. A hoard of ill-mannered children. I never had any children. Wife didn't want anything to do with them.”
It was desperate now, its jaw snapping open and closed. Frederick cocked his head a bit further, grinning. “You want me that bad, Ezekial? A midnight snack?”
He was feeling cocky, wasn't paying attention to anything but the zombie before him; didn't notice the one coming from behind. Its tiny hands clamped down on his shoulders, and he twisted, losing his balance and falling onto his butt. Blunt teeth fixes themselves onto the juncture of his shoulder and neck, breaking through flesh and tearing it away. With a scream of pain he wrenched himself free, drawing his bat at the same time and whipping around. It was the little girl, her blue dress now spattered with his blood. With one hand he gripped the handle of his bat tightly, with the other he made a feeble attempt at staunching the flow of blood.
Lashing out, his bat smashed the girl's nose, breaking through her brittle skull. Her corpse crumpled to the ground, and he dragged himself away, scooting on his butt until his back was to the wall of the building opposite the other, immobile zombie. His breathing was ragged, his head beginning to ache from loss of blood. So much blood. It poured between his fingers, painting black looking streaks down his shirt. He blinked rapidly, trying to fend off the darkness that creeping into the corners of his vision.
He didn't want to die! He wanted to live!
His eyelids drooped, is heart was slowing in his chest. His lungs burned for air he couldn't find the energy to breathe. Everything was fading away except the pain. It wasn't the release he'd felt in his dream. It was a trap. He was tired, exhausted, but he knew that the rest he was craving wouldn't come. Already a hunger was awakening in him, demanding that he seek out the flesh of the living. His heart stopped, his mind went blissfully blank, his eyes slipped closed.
When they opened again they glowed yellow in the dark.
Genre: Horror/Action/Macabre/Zombie
Word Count: 2717
Warnings: Blood, rotting corpses, a dude on the edge.
Summary: Takes place a year into a world-wide zombie outbreak. A day in the life of Frederick Scott, Los Angeles outbreak survivor.
Notes: Well, firstly, this is the final project in a creative writing class I've taken. Secondly, this is unbeta'd, as I don't have a beta. Thirdly, please, do not hesitate to point out typos/errors. Fourthly, please enjoy yourselves!
Dying to Live
It wasn't easy to live during a Zombie Apocalypse.
Then again, it hadn't exactly been easy to live before the undead were wandering the streets; now it was damn near impossible to go from one day to the next. Frederick Scott crouched in his backyard, staring down into a tub of stagnant, stinking water. It had sat in his backyard all fall and winter, collecting leaves and turning into soupy compost. He inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes burning from the stench. The smell of the water was better than the smell that permeated the rest of the city. Rotting corpses had a too sweet stink to them that made bile rise in the back of his throat.
His backpack was secured on his shoulders, empty and light; ready to be filled with whatever food stuffs he managed to find during the day's hunt. His bat was a comforting weight at his hip. One more deep breath of rancid air and he stood, his gaunt frame slipping easily between loose boards in the fence that surrounded his property. His sneakers were silent on the concrete; he'd chosen them for the tread and comfort.
Los Angeles had been the last city in the United States to fall. Great walls had been built up around it to keep the infected out, allowing the citizens to live moderately normal lives amidst the apocalypse. The rest of world had fallen in two months, and after six months Los Angeles had fallen too. The walls had only trapped survivors in when the infection sprung up among them.
Frederick was a survivor of the survivors.
He came out of the alley that ran behind his house, his steps measured; slow and easy. The sun was high in the sky, warming the pavement to the degree that the air above it warbled. The smell of rotting humans hit his nose, causing him wrinkle it in disgust. The streets were deserted, cars abandoned wherever their drivers had been parked when they died. The concrete and asphalt had cracked and decayed, worn down by the weather, and weeds had sprung up, painting the landscape in blotches of vibrant green. He passed by another alleyway and spared a glance down it. A zombie sat against one of the walls, twitching. Its legs had been cut away to the bones, the muscles severed. Its head lolled on its neck so that it faced him, and a long, tortured moan worked free of it's rotting lips. Frederick grimaced and continued on his path.
He'd almost grown used to avoiding the zombies over the past year. He knew where they tended to congregate, and just how to carry himself so that he didn't attract their attention. It was an art form, avoiding the walking dead, and he had mastered it. A Ralph's loomed before him, and he crossed the abandoned street to get to it. The doors no longer opened automatically, the power had shut off months ago. He pried them open, forcing them to move on their tracks, and slipped in. It was dim inside, the registers he'd entered near lit only from what light came in through the glass doors. Beyond them, it was pitch black.
He pulled his flashlight free of his backpack, clicking it on and slinking deeper into the store. His footsteps seemed to echo all around him, making him slow in his step as he searched for the canned foods isle. The grocery stores had been pretty well looted when the L.A. Outbreak began, but there was always something left behind. He turned down the isle, the beam of his light cutting through dusty darkness like a knife. At the far end he could see it reflecting back at him on a glass freezer case. He stared at his disfigured reflection for a moment as he drew neared to the end. The lack of light, and the distance, made him look like some sort of shadow. Not something real or alive, but a memory of times spent laughing and living.
He tore his eyes away from the image, focusing instead on the shelves, and the slim pickings of canned goods. It was all string beans and, for a reason he didn't understand, it pissed him off. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl, and he picked up one of the cans, turning and hurling it at the glass freezer case with as much force as he could muster. The glass dented where the can hit, a spiderweb of cracks branching out in all directions, then shattered so loudly that he was sure it could be heard for miles around. His entire body went tense, his ears straining. For a few tense seconds all he could hear was his own heart in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears; then something else.
The slow shuffling of feet.
It was a sound he had come to know all too well.
The zombie came from around the corner of the isle, feet dragging over shattered glass, yellow eyes seeking him out and fixing on his form. It began to advance, slow, jerky movements bringing it close. His hand tugged the bat free of his belt and the wood handle was cool and smooth in his hand. He made no move to lift it, his eyes locking on the rotting fingers that were raised in his direction. Slowly they trailed up to the decaying mouth, where brown, chipped teeth were displayed in the absence of lips. Their eyes met, and he wondered what it would be like to let it all go. His heart sped up in anticipation. He could let it have him, let it destroy him, and then he would be free of the constant game of survival he had been forced to play for too long. His breathing quickened as it neared him, almost in touching distance. He had maintained eye contact, entranced by the glowing yellow, so perfectly preserved when all other parts of its body had begun rotting away.
It's fingers brushed over his cheek, spasming, and his eyes almost closed.
CRACK!
The thing crumpled to the floor, a spray of blood soaking Frederick's shirt and face. He hadn't even realized he was moving the bat, but the pain of the hard contact of its end with the zombie's skull reverberated up his arm, jarring him into clear thinking. He had almost let it eat him. He dropped into a crouch, reaching down to graze his fingers over its cheek in the same way it had his.
“I was almost ready to die,” he whispered to it. “And I was going to let you be the one to kill me.”
They had stood as equals, each close enough to hold the other's life in their hands. It had been exhilarating, letting it so close. He tilted his head. The eyes weren't yellow anymore, they had dulled down to something reminiscent of blue. That had probably been the person's true eye color before they'd been infected. Now they would rot with the rest of the corpse. He straightened, shrugging his backpack from his shoulders and unzipping it. He filled it to its capacity with string beans, and at the back of the shelf found one can of pineapple chunks. He spared the zombie one last respectful glance before leaving.
Compared to the stuffy, stale air of the Ralph's, it was refreshingly cool outside. It hadn't felt so stuffy when he entered. He glanced around, checking for any approaching undead, and then made his way home, the cans clonking together in his backpack. He slipped quietly through the fence, eyes darting to the tub of stagnant water briefly before he made for the door. He was beginning to understand what that tub of water must feel like. Trapped in its circumstances, stuck in place.
His house was dark, the windows boarded up from the inside with wood he'd scavenged during the first few months of the outbreak. He kept the house spotless. Nothing was ever out of place. This wasn't from a tendency towards cleanliness; before the outbreak he'd been a disorganized individual. This cleanliness was born from a need to know where any given item was at any given second. Makeshift weapons were scattered throughout the house, readily accessible if a zombie managed to breach his defenses and get inside.
His backpack was abandoned in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. His bat, covered in the drying blood and brain tissue, was propped against the door frame. He struggled out of his shoes, kicking them off as he wandered into the living room. The leather upholstery of his couch squeaked beneath him as he collapsed onto it, his eyes closing and a sigh of an exhale escaping his lips. He draped an arm over his face, his nose hidden in the crook of his elbow. He was exhausted, a sudden weariness overtaking him that he hadn't experienced in a long time. It pulled him into a deep and troubled sleep.
Dreams plagued him in the darkness of his own subconscious.
Visions of the zombie from the grocery store played out behind his eyelids. In his dreams the zombie was less decomposed. It was female, with full lips, and when he looked into its eyes they glowed blue instead of yellow. It reached for him and cradled his face in its hands, a gentle, loving touch, drawing him closer. But then, when their faces were flush, his lips pressing against hers in a familiar kiss, she opened her mouth and began to devour him. In his dream he relished the touch, and her teeth tearing the flesh from his bones wasn't painful, but the tingling sensation of being set free.
When he woke up he was sweating, his heart fluttering in his chest. He sat up slowly, planting his feet firmly on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He was shaking, and he didn't know why. He couldn't stop thinking of the zombie, of whether or not it had been female. Couldn't help but wonder if he had known the person before they'd been infected. He'd known so many people before they were infected. His coworkers, his friends... his family. He tried to clear those thoughts from his mind, abandoning the couch and making for the kitchen. The clock above the sink said that it was just past twelve, and there wasn't any light coming from the cracks between the boards over the windows. He'd slept a long time.
Opening his backpack, he pulled out the canned pineapples, shaking them to hear the heavy thud of the fruit against the inside of the can, before setting it on the counter and digging through a drawer for the can opener. It took him a few minutes to get the can open, his shaking fingers refusing to work the can opener properly. When he finally did get it open, he didn't take his time to savor the treat. He shoveled the canned fruit down by the spoonful, barely tasting the syrupy sweetness that came from them soaking in their own juices for too long. His mind was elsewhere; he was still within his dream. When the can was empty it was thoughtlessly discarded, tossed into the trash can in the corner where all the other refuse was piled.
He was too caught up in his thoughts to really pay attention to what he was doing, pulling on his shoes and strapping his bat to his side. He had to see another zombie up close. He had to look into its eyes and see if there was any trace of humanity in them; any life. It was exceptionally stupid to wander the city at night. They could see in the dark, he could not. But there wasn't any other option in his head. There was no alternative. The wind was blowing, a gentle reminder of the coming Santa Ana's, and he inhaled deeply. For a second there wasn't any smell of rot in the air. There had been a teasing waft of wildflowers and moss. Steeling himself, he darted out of his fence, eyes squinting to see in the semi darkness. Only the stars and the moon lit his path, bathing the entire city in pale white light.
He was heading for the alley where he'd seen the zombie during his earlier outing. It couldn't move, which made it safe. He could allow himself to look into its eyes from a distance and it wouldn't be able to get him. He dodged a few wandering undead on the way, one of them a little girl in a torn blue dress, staring up at him balefully. He would swear he saw sadness in her yellow eyes, but he wasn't positive. He turned down the alley slowly, eyes seeking out the dark form of the immobile undead. It was still there, body twitching, eyes roaming wildly. They fixed on him immediately, its entire body tensing as though it was trying to move, fingers reaching for him.
It was a mockery of the come hither look.
He crouched down a foot away from it, staring at it with his head cocked to one side, “Can you understand me?”
It groaned in response, its fingers grasping at him wildly. “I suppose not... but you can see me, and you can hear me.”
With a grunt it jerked forward, back pulling away from the wall a bit, and almost grazed him with its fingers. He jerked away in response, eyes widening, then narrowing. It couldn't walk, but it was still dangerous.
“My name is Fred,” he said to it, half tempted to shake its outstretched hand. “What was your name? I bet it was something to do with the Bible. Ezekial; something like that.”
It made a noise that sounded frustrated, lunging for him again. This time he laughed, batting its hands away. “Bet you were married too. Some pretty little thing right out of high school. A hoard of ill-mannered children. I never had any children. Wife didn't want anything to do with them.”
It was desperate now, its jaw snapping open and closed. Frederick cocked his head a bit further, grinning. “You want me that bad, Ezekial? A midnight snack?”
He was feeling cocky, wasn't paying attention to anything but the zombie before him; didn't notice the one coming from behind. Its tiny hands clamped down on his shoulders, and he twisted, losing his balance and falling onto his butt. Blunt teeth fixes themselves onto the juncture of his shoulder and neck, breaking through flesh and tearing it away. With a scream of pain he wrenched himself free, drawing his bat at the same time and whipping around. It was the little girl, her blue dress now spattered with his blood. With one hand he gripped the handle of his bat tightly, with the other he made a feeble attempt at staunching the flow of blood.
Lashing out, his bat smashed the girl's nose, breaking through her brittle skull. Her corpse crumpled to the ground, and he dragged himself away, scooting on his butt until his back was to the wall of the building opposite the other, immobile zombie. His breathing was ragged, his head beginning to ache from loss of blood. So much blood. It poured between his fingers, painting black looking streaks down his shirt. He blinked rapidly, trying to fend off the darkness that creeping into the corners of his vision.
He didn't want to die! He wanted to live!
His eyelids drooped, is heart was slowing in his chest. His lungs burned for air he couldn't find the energy to breathe. Everything was fading away except the pain. It wasn't the release he'd felt in his dream. It was a trap. He was tired, exhausted, but he knew that the rest he was craving wouldn't come. Already a hunger was awakening in him, demanding that he seek out the flesh of the living. His heart stopped, his mind went blissfully blank, his eyes slipped closed.
When they opened again they glowed yellow in the dark.