flinches, recoiling with sharpness showing in his eyes. The pain is brought back and he spins round flailing an arm that knocks over the half-naked shit covered woman. He recovers, turns and stares again at the dog poo. A small meaningless mound of faecal matter left on the pavement that sends a claxon warbling through his mind as the infection within ramps the hormonal production to cease this cognitive behaviour. This place means something. The minivan means something. The cinema posters mean something. The dog shit means the most.
Survivors of drowning and near fatal accidents frequently report a feeling of calm descending as they face their own mortality. The human body is an amazing instrument and at times of severe peril, when fight or flight is no longer an option, it can dump chemicals to give an overwhelming sensation of peace and tranquillity to protect the mind against the horror faced. The man gets that now and is flooded with tranquillity. The pain the infection gave him didn’t work so it tries this tactic instead and it works. The man relaxes on the spot. His shoulders sagging. His head dropping as though fighting sleep. He smiles, wan and weak but a smile nonetheless. He is at peace with everything. This precinct means nothing. The posters, the minivan, the dog shit are all meaningless. He drools. He stands and drools and through his damaged voice box he emits a long gargled sigh of contentment.
Minutes go by. The day starts to fade. The horde shift and shuffle. Low groans are given. Heavy breathing and wheezing from the obese man. The half-naked shit covered woman gets back on her feet. The blue sky of daylight becomes darker and deeper as the earth spins at a thousand miles an hour with a force that can never be stopped.
The horde shift with a restless energy, sensing the daylight fading. Shadows grow longer. Evening turns to twilight and the sun dips the horizon. As one they lift heads and as one they howl. Lungs filling to expand so they can push air through windpipes that resonate with vibrations to make voice that’s animalistic and preternatural. A noise not of this world. A sound that belongs to the demons of hell that have transcended this plane of existence to be here, to cause misery and invoke fear.
That howling screech bounces to roll and echo down the high buildings. Waves of noise that sweep through street after street. Growing louder, longer and more unearthly with every second. The town is consumed with that noise of undead giving it everything they have got.
The man is there. His face turned up and screeching warbled and disjointed from a voice box damaged by the teeth of a dog that took a shit on the pavement not yards from where he stands. A dog that protected him. That fought for him and with him. A dog that remained at his side until he fell and became one of the infected that had to be slain. He howls with memories flashing and emotions desperately trying to be felt but that are denied.
Night is here. Darkness is upon the town and the monsters grow hungrier by the second.
Eight
Doubled over in pain. Breathing hard with her left hand rubbing her stomach as her right clutches the stock of the shotgun. This is hell. This place, this feeling. Everything about it is hell.
She forces herself to stand straight and keep moving. Her mouth is so dry but every door is still broken and unusable. She spots doors that are still closed but they’re locked tight. She tries handles, pushing and grunting while all the time worried about the noise she’s making.
It becomes frantic, running between doors. Ones that look half okay are checked but the blood stains inside soon have her pushing on. Others look clean enough but the locks are ruined. She breathes harder. Panting from the exertion of a long day walking in the super charged heat. The sweat doesn’t come so much now and she knows that’s the first danger sign of exposure or dehydration. Whichever. Whatever. Not sweating when
Survivors of drowning and near fatal accidents frequently report a feeling of calm descending as they face their own mortality. The human body is an amazing instrument and at times of severe peril, when fight or flight is no longer an option, it can dump chemicals to give an overwhelming sensation of peace and tranquillity to protect the mind against the horror faced. The man gets that now and is flooded with tranquillity. The pain the infection gave him didn’t work so it tries this tactic instead and it works. The man relaxes on the spot. His shoulders sagging. His head dropping as though fighting sleep. He smiles, wan and weak but a smile nonetheless. He is at peace with everything. This precinct means nothing. The posters, the minivan, the dog shit are all meaningless. He drools. He stands and drools and through his damaged voice box he emits a long gargled sigh of contentment.
Minutes go by. The day starts to fade. The horde shift and shuffle. Low groans are given. Heavy breathing and wheezing from the obese man. The half-naked shit covered woman gets back on her feet. The blue sky of daylight becomes darker and deeper as the earth spins at a thousand miles an hour with a force that can never be stopped.
The horde shift with a restless energy, sensing the daylight fading. Shadows grow longer. Evening turns to twilight and the sun dips the horizon. As one they lift heads and as one they howl. Lungs filling to expand so they can push air through windpipes that resonate with vibrations to make voice that’s animalistic and preternatural. A noise not of this world. A sound that belongs to the demons of hell that have transcended this plane of existence to be here, to cause misery and invoke fear.
That howling screech bounces to roll and echo down the high buildings. Waves of noise that sweep through street after street. Growing louder, longer and more unearthly with every second. The town is consumed with that noise of undead giving it everything they have got.
The man is there. His face turned up and screeching warbled and disjointed from a voice box damaged by the teeth of a dog that took a shit on the pavement not yards from where he stands. A dog that protected him. That fought for him and with him. A dog that remained at his side until he fell and became one of the infected that had to be slain. He howls with memories flashing and emotions desperately trying to be felt but that are denied.
Night is here. Darkness is upon the town and the monsters grow hungrier by the second.
Eight
Doubled over in pain. Breathing hard with her left hand rubbing her stomach as her right clutches the stock of the shotgun. This is hell. This place, this feeling. Everything about it is hell.
She forces herself to stand straight and keep moving. Her mouth is so dry but every door is still broken and unusable. She spots doors that are still closed but they’re locked tight. She tries handles, pushing and grunting while all the time worried about the noise she’s making.
It becomes frantic, running between doors. Ones that look half okay are checked but the blood stains inside soon have her pushing on. Others look clean enough but the locks are ruined. She breathes harder. Panting from the exertion of a long day walking in the super charged heat. The sweat doesn’t come so much now and she knows that’s the first danger sign of exposure or dehydration. Whichever. Whatever. Not sweating when
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