The Last: A Zombie Novel by Michael John Grist Page B
Authors: Michael John Grist
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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slackly for a while, adjusting. My art doesn't matter now. Nothing really matters, now that everyone is dead. There's no sound from the city; no rescue helicopters are coming, because they're all gone. Cerulean saw it, and it's really over, the zombie apocalypse.
Lara though may be alive. I have to find her. That thought gets me up and moving.
First I need to prepare. My shoulder throbs where the indicator lever hit me, so I'll deal with that. I pull back my shirt to study the wound. It's capped by a stud of dried blood, which I nudge away. The hole beneath is puckered and sealed already, with only a slight red ring of inflammation. I rub it gently; it feels OK. I rotate my arm and it works well enough. I put two sticky bandages on top and call it a day.
Next I go to my computer on the floor, and swizz the mouse. The soft chime as it wakes up comforts me, telling me the power grid isn't down, though it probably will be soon.
I open the shared drive with Cerulean and survey the contents he downloaded. It was less than a gigabyte of stuff before, mostly texture maps and crafting patterns, but now it's packed to the gills and close to its hundred-gigabyte limit.
I scroll through the contents and find a mish-mash of html webpages, pdfs, videos and books about the 'prepper' lifestyle; people who spent their free time preparing for a coming cataclysm.
Judging from the titles they are mostly about basic survival; securing sources of food and water, finding and reinforcing shelter, sourcing weapons and using them in combat against 'hostiles', sourcing power and fuel and using these to employ vehicles, computers, walkie-talkies and so on. I notice that preppers like the word 'source' a lot.
I go to the desk and pluck out five thumb-drives, which I use all the time to back up my art. I slot them in to the computer and set the contents downloading. The prepper Bible needs to be portable.
The computer says it'll take at least an hour. I slump back against the bed, and a sound comes from beyond the door as if in response.
I freeze. I look. The door is sealed but the sound is still coming, a wheezing right outside my room. Is that…?
My blood goes cold. I listen to the low susurrus of breath rise and fall like one giant lung. I get up quietly and go to the door, then lean over the bed and put my eye to the spyglass.
Holy shit. They are in the corridor, packed five wide all the way back to the stairs, so tightly they can't move, like wieners in a vacuum-packed casing.
I jerk away. I back-pedal across the room until I hit the wall.
I'm trapped.
I make green tea.
It's gratifying that the kettle still works. I spoon green dust that smells like freshly mown grass into the cup, and pour boiling water atop it. The smell of bitter tannins wafts into the room, and I hold the cup in my shaking hand. There is solace in such routines, even though my brain may no longer need them to survive. They've saved me before, and they can save me now.
I'm barely even thirsty, but I sip anyway. I try to think about practicalities objectively, one at a time. I look at my phone; it's 11:33. Plenty of daylight left. Wherever Lara is it can't be that far.
I need to plan. I bring up my phone and click the app for Jeo. My geo-location still works, though the map it's built upon doesn't refresh. I am a blue dot in the midst of the gray blur of New York, pointing southeast. Good to know.
I'm not hungry, but I make up a bowl of cornflakes with crisp cold milk. I'll need fuel. I sit on the bed and eat it, trying not to think of Cerulean's voice on the phone. I try not to think of what remains of him now, in his basement.
I start making up a pack, adding my laptop, a kitchen knife, a water bottle, some clothes. What else do I really need? I add my comic, Zombies of New York, to the USB download tray, plus the latest build of the fulfillment center. I add my phone and laptop chargers like I'm packing for a trip.
The computer chimes, signaling the
Lara though may be alive. I have to find her. That thought gets me up and moving.
First I need to prepare. My shoulder throbs where the indicator lever hit me, so I'll deal with that. I pull back my shirt to study the wound. It's capped by a stud of dried blood, which I nudge away. The hole beneath is puckered and sealed already, with only a slight red ring of inflammation. I rub it gently; it feels OK. I rotate my arm and it works well enough. I put two sticky bandages on top and call it a day.
Next I go to my computer on the floor, and swizz the mouse. The soft chime as it wakes up comforts me, telling me the power grid isn't down, though it probably will be soon.
I open the shared drive with Cerulean and survey the contents he downloaded. It was less than a gigabyte of stuff before, mostly texture maps and crafting patterns, but now it's packed to the gills and close to its hundred-gigabyte limit.
I scroll through the contents and find a mish-mash of html webpages, pdfs, videos and books about the 'prepper' lifestyle; people who spent their free time preparing for a coming cataclysm.
Judging from the titles they are mostly about basic survival; securing sources of food and water, finding and reinforcing shelter, sourcing weapons and using them in combat against 'hostiles', sourcing power and fuel and using these to employ vehicles, computers, walkie-talkies and so on. I notice that preppers like the word 'source' a lot.
I go to the desk and pluck out five thumb-drives, which I use all the time to back up my art. I slot them in to the computer and set the contents downloading. The prepper Bible needs to be portable.
The computer says it'll take at least an hour. I slump back against the bed, and a sound comes from beyond the door as if in response.
I freeze. I look. The door is sealed but the sound is still coming, a wheezing right outside my room. Is that…?
My blood goes cold. I listen to the low susurrus of breath rise and fall like one giant lung. I get up quietly and go to the door, then lean over the bed and put my eye to the spyglass.
Holy shit. They are in the corridor, packed five wide all the way back to the stairs, so tightly they can't move, like wieners in a vacuum-packed casing.
I jerk away. I back-pedal across the room until I hit the wall.
I'm trapped.
I make green tea.
It's gratifying that the kettle still works. I spoon green dust that smells like freshly mown grass into the cup, and pour boiling water atop it. The smell of bitter tannins wafts into the room, and I hold the cup in my shaking hand. There is solace in such routines, even though my brain may no longer need them to survive. They've saved me before, and they can save me now.
I'm barely even thirsty, but I sip anyway. I try to think about practicalities objectively, one at a time. I look at my phone; it's 11:33. Plenty of daylight left. Wherever Lara is it can't be that far.
I need to plan. I bring up my phone and click the app for Jeo. My geo-location still works, though the map it's built upon doesn't refresh. I am a blue dot in the midst of the gray blur of New York, pointing southeast. Good to know.
I'm not hungry, but I make up a bowl of cornflakes with crisp cold milk. I'll need fuel. I sit on the bed and eat it, trying not to think of Cerulean's voice on the phone. I try not to think of what remains of him now, in his basement.
I start making up a pack, adding my laptop, a kitchen knife, a water bottle, some clothes. What else do I really need? I add my comic, Zombies of New York, to the USB download tray, plus the latest build of the fulfillment center. I add my phone and laptop chargers like I'm packing for a trip.
The computer chimes, signaling the
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