I can hear the moan and groan of other Risen falling in close on me from all sides. They smell the blood on me. Caroline’s blood. It’s all over the shirt beneath Tim’s sweater. Even now with that sweater covered in the cold black tar that this zombie just sprayed all over me, they smell Caroline. There are too many here and I don’t have the kind of weaponry I need to survive this. Even with my ASP and a gun I don’t know if I’d survive this swarm. This is part of the Colony’s defenses, I realize. This is just another way they keep us locked in. Or dead.
I give up running. I’m lost in the dark at this point and exhausted beyond reason. I decide to head for the nearest building. It’s my only shot though it’s not much of one. I’m shivering and shaking as I sprint clumsily inside, feeling the agonizing press of the walls around me and the hands at my back. They’re everywhere, literally everywhere here and I wonder if this wasn’t the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. I make it to the stairwell and start to climb, my legs shaking beneath me. I stumble twice and each time it’s harder to get back up. I can’t see a thing in here and I’m working entirely on feel. Do you understand how horrifying that is? Being in the dark, nearly unarmed and surrounded by your worst nightmare. I expect every step to stumble me, every breath to be my last. Every corner holds the promise of stepping straight into the crushing embrace of a hungry risen, primed and ready to devour me with yellow, rotted teeth. They’ll sink into my flesh. They’ll tear it from the bones. All while I live and breathe and scream.
By the time I burst through the opening to the roof, I’m crying. I’m weeping, nearly hyperventilating and shaking from head to toe. I slam the door behind me, nearly screaming in relief when I find a working lock on it. I don’t hear the infected coming, but that doesn’t mean they’re not. They’re down there in the streets below, shuffling and moaning. They were in the building as I ran through. They know where to find me. It’s only a matter of time.
I collapse against the door, sinking down onto the rough rooftop. I’m feeling like this is as good a place as any to die. I work harder than I ever have before to find my numb. To get it back, to be the unfeeling, uncrying, unafraid, unaffected husk I have been for the last six years. To be the girl who survives. But I’m not her anymore. I haven’t been since the comet and the music and the kiss. Since the words on the wall. Since the back of the van. Since the kitchen and the laughter.
I’m not a survivor anymore. But I am alive.
“I’m awake.” I whisper into the cold darkness.
I doze off. Somewhere in the night my shivering isn’t enough to keep me awake anymore. But the sudden banging on the door is.
Directly behind me, separated by only inches of steel door, are clawing hands and shuffling feet. Gnashing teeth and hungry, dead eyes. I can feel the salty trails of my tears dried on my cheeks, making them feel stiff and strange. My body is achingly cold and angry from sitting in front of this door for so long. I can’t run. I doubt I can fight. Even if I can, how many are there? One for sure, for now, but how many will follow? Given enough time there will be enough to bring the door down and where will I go from there?
Light is building in the sky, telling me where east is. Taunting me with the knowledge that now means nothing to me. I’m sitting facing it, watching the warm glow grow and grow as the pounding behind me builds as well. Another set of hands has joined in. How many can the door hold? Not many, I imagine. The light is turning yellow, rays of the sun piercing the dark sky and falling on my face. In my eyes, blinding me. I wince against the light, reminded of my last moment out in the wild before they shut me in the van.
Then I’m on my feet, falling as my numb legs try to support my weight. I rise again, stumbling and crawling toward the edge of the building, looking for the perfect spot. A place where the skyline gives me a clear view toward my neighborhood. Toward a red brick building on 7th and Boren.
I pull the trowel from my pocket and shine it with my shirt as best I can. I spit on it again and again, moistening the dried blood that I try so hard not to think about. Some of it is the Risen’s. Some of it is not. Finally it shines like new and I hope so hard it hurts my heart. This will work. This has to work.
I use the rays of the sun, reflecting them on the clean shine of the metal. I create the most erratic pattern I can manage. I’m not going for an SOS, I don’t know Morse Code. All I can do is get someone’s attention. I can only hope that I’m not too far away. That he’s watching. That his sharp, unnerving eyes are enough to save me.
The moans at the door increase behind me. The sun’s rays disappear behind a walking bridge between two nearby buildings. I drop the trowel by my side and I wonder if it was enough. If the Lost Boys will save me.
But when have I ever needed saving?
“Are you a Wendy?” I whisper to myself, scanning the low rooftops on the surrounding buildings. It’s a long drop to every one of them. But is it too long? How would a person know unless they tried?
I take several steps back from the edge, bouncing on the balls of my feet. Then I crouch.
“Or are you a mutherfucking Tinkerbell?”
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Copyright
Writing on the Wall
Survival Series
Book One
By Tracey Ward
Text Copyright © 2013 Tracey Ward
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.