Deterioration

I’m in a hospital gown again. This one’s light blue. I’d make a comparison to the exact shade of the colour, but I don’t remember enough about the world outside this little square room with its dinky little window to do so. I’ve never been much of a poet either. That at least, I’m sure of.

I sit up with ease and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet are bare and as far as I can tell, I’m not wearing anything underneath the gown. But I’m not cold so the heating’s still on. The power mustn’t be out here. Hospitals are supposed to have back-up generators, right? “Just in case.” It definitely won’t be this warm outside. We’re not in summer. I covered only a couple of miles yesterday. I know this because the memories are starting to come back. This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in a foreign hospital, hence the lack of surprise and dramatic questioning of my reality.

I look down at my wrist and sure enough, there’s my name printed neatly on a hospital band in bold letters; Constance. This is how I know it’s happened again. Because this always happens. If I didn’t wake up in a flimsy gown, then I’d know I was dead or something along those lines. However, it’s the recognition of the name, of the routine, that drives me to test out my new legs. Gripping the edge of the bed, I steadily put my weight on them. They’re the longest ones I’ve stood on in a while and as of consequence, they shake and threaten to completely buckle beneath me as I hobble around the room.

Now confident a half hour later, I survey the room. A tree outside the window obscures any possible view I might have of the landscape, and there are two doors inside. The one with the vertical slit window I know leads to the hall, the other, to a bathroom. I go for the latter and allow myself the first look at this face. I sigh when my gaze falls upon it. It’s not the most attractive one I’ve had to say the least but I seem to be about the right age; nineteen. I think. Well, today, I feel nineteen so it’ll do.

The girl staring back at me is quite gaunt in the face with prominent high cheekbones, all thanks to a lack of food no doubt. She has big, round dark eyes that bug out underneath high arched eyebrows, which have probably never seen a pair of tweezers before, and lank brown hair that falls past her, I mean my, chest. But I am ugly today. There’s no point denying that I’m shallow either.

I should be grateful that I’m not four years old again. I’ve forgotten a lot of the people I’ve been over the past few years so only the most recent and most horrifying are the faces I can recall. I don’t even remember what I looked like originally, before all of this; before the apocalypse and before body-hopping. Sometimes I get flashes of long, tanned fingers with nice, shiny nails and copper coloured hair flapping across my face in the wind and all it does is makes me yearn disappointedly for a life I’ll never have. I think I’ll never have.

I sigh again at the current appearance, leave the bathroom, and cautiously open the door to the hallway. It’s clear. Perfectly clear, aside from one upside down chair, considering it should look like a disaster zone. But reassured, I place my right foot on the first patch of white flooring outside the room and weave my way through the corridors till I find an elevator.

Next to all the buttons is a sign detailing what’s on which floor. I’m currently on the sixth. The second floor has the cafeteria and ground floor has the gift shop. It means I won’t have proper clothes until ground floor. There’s always a neat pile of supplies on the counter of the gift shop fortunately. When this first started and I realised there were clothes for me, I’d spend hours of the day trying to figure out if someone was following and helping me, but I don’t bother asking those questions now. It distracts from the one and only goal.

I hit the button for the second floor and feel my body tense all over once the doors shut. I’ll be venturing outside soon and I’m not looking forward to it. I never do. It’s like that weird adrenaline rush you get playing a video game when you’ve got only one life left and you’re on the final, most dangerous level.

The doors open on the second floor and I inhale sharply. I can hear papers rustling as if someone else is here and has moved suddenly to avoid detection. I stick my head out of the doors and look around. Left, right, nothing, so I quickly follow the signs towards the cafeteria. I’m hearing noises all around me now; the shuffling of feet, and a low, consistent groaning noise, all amplified by my heightened paranoia.

The cafeteria’s empty and I jump over the counter to get into the kitchen. I take two large knives and then exit. There’s no point in grabbing food. None of this stuff’s good anymore. The only places I dare to eat from are supermarkets with their large variety of packaged and highly processed foods, and fast food joints. My stomach growls at me at the thought of a cheeseburger. I think it’s been a few days since I ate now. Yesterday was a short day.

Ding goes the elevator when I reach the ground floor. It’s the first proper glimpse I get of my world. The car park is filled with cars that will never be driven again and a few that could only possibly be used as scrap metal. The street looks pretty normal too, aside from the occasional overturned car. It always does. Not that much has really changed. The only noticeable difference is the lack of people, and their replacements of course.

Working on my stride, I hasten over to the counter of the gift shop and pick up the neat stack of items; undergarments, cargo pants, a t-shirt, a thick jumper, a pair of sneakers with socks and to my joy, a backpack with a bottle of water inside as well as a handgun. Today’s going to be a good day. I don’t think I usually get this much. I strip and pull on my new clothes and secure my knives onto my pants for easy access. I keep the gun in my hand. Then I take my first steps outside the hospital.

The air outside is crisp, despite the height of the sun in the sky. I was right about the season then. I look over at all those empty cars mournfully and then start heading toward the road. It’s a shame I can’t remember how to drive. My instincts tell me to head west so I start jogging. All I can feel now is my feet against the asphalt and a drive within me to cover as much ground as I can.

When I run out of water, it’s about midday. I stop at a rather conveniently placed gas station, check the safety’s off on my gun then go inside. I haven’t seen any of the infected today but having a false sense of security now is almost as dangerous as holding onto a live grenade. First I check the store for any nasty surprises then start filling my backpack with supplies. I shove a candy bar into my mouth as I do this. Then I exit the building.

The first thing I notice is the sound of the safety on the gun being switched off with that dreadful click. I freeze.

“Are you infected?” a rather childish voice asks and I feel the gun press against the side of my head.

“No,” I reply. He already knew the answer.

“What’s your name?”

“Constance. What’s yours?” The gun is then retracted and the safety switched on again.

“Today I’m Raphael.” I turn to the side and look down at a thirteen year old boy with both dark eyes, and dark hair and a lovely honey-caramel complexion. I make my lips curl into a smile, which he returns as a grimace probably trying to serve the same purpose.

Then we hear them. My blood runs cold but my heart beats faster like there’s a hummingbird in my chest, beating its wings against my ribcage, desperate to get out. The sound of the infected is a low, mournful groan. I estimate them to be about a block away and currently unaware of mine and Raphael’s presence. It is amazing how quickly they turn from placid, slow and rather dopey creatures to rabid and savage cannibals within a second of realising food has wandered into their vicinity.

“We have to go,” Raphael tells me calmly but with an eerie level of authority, “I’ve got a car behind the gas station.” My eyes widen.

“You do?” I whisper and he nods.

“I can remember how to drive. It helps, you know. But we have to hurry now. They’ll catch our scent in about thirty-five seconds.” He then grabs my hand and half-tows me around the back of the small building. There’s a dark blue pick-up truck there and Raphael’s already climbing into its driver’s seat. I stand here for a moment, thinking what an odd sight it is and then I hear them again and I scramble for the passenger door.

“Three, two, one,” Raphael counts down then turns the key in the…ignition I think it’s called. The vehicle roars into life and so do the creatures outside. “Buckle up, Constance. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

“Isn’t that off a movie?”

“Or two. Yeah, I’ve just always wanted to say that. Well, I think so.” I chuckle at the similarity between our expressions of identity-uncertainty.

Raphael lifts the hand brake, pushes in one of the pedals on the floor, messes with the…stick shift, then eases of the pedal and pushes onto another. Except of course I’m slowing this down for my own educational purposes. He does this expertly; second nature. Driving seems instinctual to him.

“How much gas have we got?” I ask as he rounds the first corner.

“Half a tank. It should be enough to get us to Austin.”

“Austin?”

“That’s in Texas.”

“I knew that,” I say quietly and he laughs.

The noise is cut short though when we see our first lot of infected. There are only two but two’s plenty enough to kill you when you’re on foot. I look across at Raphael whose face is now contorted into an expression I can only describe as bestial. The animals are running lopsidedly towards us. One of the arms on the left one has just detached itself. It’s a reminder that they do have the habit of decomposing right before your very eyes and therefore, are no longer of your kind. You kill them without hesitation.

Raphael reaches down with his feet, changes gears and the pickup lurches forward at speed. The infected hit the front of the truck with a large smack. The bodies just don’t have the same heavy consistency of a human. Despite their brutal nature, they really are quite fragile.

“God, I hate zombies,” Raphael says as we drive over the remnants. I raise an eyebrow at the word; sometimes I can’t do this simple action but I believe my original face could.

“Zombie?”

“Yeah. That’s what they’re called,” Raphael looks over at me and analyses my frown, “You’re one of the ones who knows them as ‘the infected’ right?” I nod and he turns his eyes back to the road, silent.

“Are there others?” I ask him hopefully, but watch as his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“How many?”

“No idea.” This statement almost closes the subject but I’m determined to learn all I can from this boy.

“So…how much do you remember?” I press.

“What do you mean?” he asks in a slightly irritated tone.

“Well you said your name was Raphael today. How come your name isn’t the same every day like mine?” He sighs.

“It’s a side effect of the radiation or something.”

“Radiation?”

“See this is what’s the most frustrating about your kind. You don’t know anything apart from who you are.”

“Then tell me.” His eyes narrow and then he starts talking.

“The beginning’s the hardest part to explain and I don’t know the full details but something went wrong and a disease mostly found in animals was mutated by the explosion of a nuclear power plant. The disease found its way into our species and those infected were changed into zombies, which is part of the reason for the apocalypse we live in.

“The other reason is that the radiation spread and poisoned the rest of the humans – something like that anyway. I’m not sure if it’s another mutated disease or what but it means all of us who are left, body-hop. Half of the survivors can remember their actual name as well as a few of the bodies they’ve hopped into, and remember more details of what’s going on and who they are throughout the day. That’s you now.”

“But I know I die every day as well,” I say.

“Everyone does. Well, not properly, but in the sense that you mean.”

“Yeah, but do I remember everything before I die?”

“Just before. It takes a full twenty-four hours from your last death to totally regain your memories, on the days you aren’t killed prematurely.” I ignore the last bit. It sounds like an insult in his voice.

“And then I die again.”

“Yeah. Brutal, right?”

“That’s the world now, I suppose. But what about you?”

“My kind remembers almost everything except for who we were both originally and by body-hopping. I get the feeling I’ve met others before but I can’t be sure, though I’m certain you can understand trusting your instincts.” I look down at my bony fingers that are fiddling with the zipper on my pants.

“That must be awful though.” Raphael gives me a puzzled look and I explain, “Not remembering who you are. I wake up in a hospital every morning and can take comfort that I’m still me, if that makes sense at all. It keeps me sane, you know? It stops me from uh, panicking?”

“Yeah, freaking the fuck out,” he confirms. The curse word sounds harsh coming out of his mouth and it makes me realise that of course this isn’t just a boy I’m talking to. Thirteen year olds typically can’t operate a stick-shift with such ease nor have the callous and cynical wizened air that he does. Raphael’s probably older than I am by a few years but I’d estimate no more than ten.

“It’s okay though,” he continues, “I wake up in a car with a killer headache and know almost exactly why I am where I am. It helps.”

After a few minutes of silence where I get to mull his words over, I tell him “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he replies. “Just tell me one thing.”

“What?”

“What do you remember from before?” I sigh.

“Not a lot. My hands though. I remember my hands.” He laughs.

“Were they good hands, Constance?”

“Yes. They were the best.”

“What else?”

“My hair. It was nice and long and smelled like strawberries.”

“Was it blonde?”

“No. Why’d you think it was blonde?” He shrugs.

“Just a guess.”

“It was red; copper red.”

“That sounds nice.”

***

We manage to get a few miles into Austin before the gas runs out. I watched the needle on the gauge steadily drop as we drove and felt the dread pit in my stomach as it did. Raphael now turns to me and undoes his seatbelt.

“We’re not going to find another car today,” he tells me softly.

“Why not?” I whisper but I already know the answer. We never last the night and the daylight’s already starting to disappear.

“Because we have to die soon,” he reaches over and grabs my hand before saying, “Get ready.”

“We should just kill ourselves now and be done with it,” I tell him defiantly. I’m in denial now and I know it. I’m not going to shoot myself or him for that matter. I don’t have the strength to do it. He even shakes his head at my weak suggestion.

“We may as well kill as many as we can for the next people to come through here. Plus we’re trying to get west right?” We both agreed earlier that we are travelling towards the west coast for a reason, even though we don’t know what we’re eventually going to find. “Well we should try and cover as much distance as possible. We have to get out of the truck now.”

“Okay,” I whisper and he lets go of my hand.

I can hear the zombies already. They’re waiting for this; to catch our scent (Raphael says they count on their sense of smell rather than their eyesight when it comes to hunting.) Raphael nods at me and we open the doors. I hear their screeching before I see them. We said we’d keep the guns for desperate measures, as we don’t exactly have hundreds of bullets at our disposal. We don’t even have twenty. Blades don’t need reloading. My two knives are in my hands and my gun secured in a clip button pocket of my pants that I can easily rip open when I get desperate.

There are three running towards me and I know Raphael’s probably going to have similar trouble. A scream of utter terror threatens to tear its way through the tense moment before the chaos but hitches in my throat instead. I’ve done this enough times now to know it only distracts me and elevates the probability of disaster. It’s why when the first zombie gets within range I bring my dominant right hand up and slash its face.

I don’t apply enough force though and all it does it enrage the beast more. Its friends are closing in on me too. Instinct takes over and I adopt an almost animalistic attack style. I can’t focus on any one thing. My heart is pounding in my head and my eyesight becomes tinged with red from the blood spray as I plunge a knife into the neck of one of the zombies. In and out, in and out. I can’t stop. Stab. Stab. Stab. Die. Die. Die. No mercy. I have no higher brain function other than “kill or be killed.”

Eventually I’m crouched over the last zombie, stabbing it through the eyes again and again. That’s when something grabs my shoulder. I gasp, jump and slash around with my knife but it doesn’t meet any flesh.

“What the hell?” I shriek at Raphael when I realise who it is. “Don’t sneak up on me! This isn’t exactly a fantastic time.”

“Sorry. But it’s probably better if we’re quiet, you know,” he says pointedly.

Raphael then lifts his head and I take the hint to do the same. I can no longer see the river we drove past on the way into the heart of the city. The buildings rise up higher than the setting sun, casting sinister looking shadows everywhere, and all I get is that feeling of hopeless doom at the recognition of the fact that we’re oh-so-very trapped here. The fact that we’ve only encountered this many zombies, is remarkable. We are going to die in this maze.

“What do we do now?” I ask Raphael.

“Dark’s coming,” is the simple reply but I get the meaning. Time’s running out on us.

“So we’ll try and cover as much distance as possible?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my knives then wipe the gore off the blades onto my sweater. “C’mon, then,” Raphael says, grabbing my wrist.

We keep a steady pace, jogging the main street. Both of us try and ignore the rustling sounds that are far too unnatural to pass off as something caused by the wind. I know that it’s not working. There’s a pit in my stomach and my ears are prickling too much to be classed as anything but paranoid; searching for a sign of the abnormal. We’re still travelling the same direction we have been for the past several hours but it’s a fucking nightmare this; this maze of gigantic concrete buildings. It makes me feel like I’ve shrunk to a thousand times less than my normal size.

Then it starts again. There are one, two, four, seven, nine, fifteen zombies, running at us. Holy shit.

“Back to back,” Raphael yells at me and he slams up against my back. I’m lucky he hasn’t actually winded me. He doesn’t seem to know his own strength. But there are other things to worry about now. Knives are flashing and I can hear Raphael’s gun too. The sound partially deafens me in my left ear. Without his support, I’m sure I would fall over. My balance is now shot. Fucking perfect.

The gruesome faces of the cannibals spur me on despite my handicap, and I stab any one of them brave enough to get within my reach. It’s a rough fight though. I can feel myself being clawed, and my hair pulled at. I can smell decaying flesh on their breath and it makes me want to hurl. I’m helped when the zombies start grabbing at each other in their haste to get to myself and Raphael. Their limbs start to fall off, their flesh deteriorating faster with the friction.

It takes at least half an hour to finish them off and when we do, all light in the sky is gone. We’re immersed in darkness. Raphael’s breathing heavily when he finally turns to me, kicking the corpse of a former human. His small chest is heaving but I’m sure if I could make out the features on his face, his eyes would be blazing.

“Let’s find somewhere to rest. We’re not going anywhere now,” he tells me and I nod. He grabs my wrist again and pulls me over to the nearest building. I can hear him running his hand along the stucco as we walk.

Eventually he stops and pulls me into an alleyway. I can just make out the silhouette of a car and Raphael drops my hand. He runs to the vehicle and opens the door. Then the interior light is switched on. He laughs.

“No gas, but the battery’s still good.” I smile when I see the look of relief on his face. He’s probably happy for somewhere to sit down and go to sleep after today. I hope he’s forgotten that we’re going to wake up tomorrow in different bodies again; no memories whatsoever. I know I’d give anything to forget that fact.

Then his face falls as he looks at me. I clench my eyes shut, hearing the pounding, erratic footsteps right behind me. I have no time to react. The teeth clench down through my sweater and into the flesh of my shoulder. I let out a weak cry of pain as I hear Raphael’s gun go off and the zombie collapse behind me.

“Constance? Constance? Please tell me it didn’t,” Raphael pleads as he sits me down on the concrete, propped up against a wall in the alley. His black eyes are filled with a strange kind of sorrow and I realise this scene has a touch of familiarity. One I can’t quite place. But the throbbing of the bite mark is blurring my thoughts on this matter.

“Sorry, kid,” I tell him through the pain.

“What am I going to do now? I can’t do this without you,” he tells me desperately, shaking me violently like I’m a rag doll. All it does is intensifies the agony, the agony which seems to numb everything else. It’s like I have become pain itself. If you were to bottle my sweat it would be called la douleur; eau de parfum. Ha. I can remember high-school French.

Raphael’s rambling now but the content is much the same as the first two sentences. My suddenly heavy head just can’t comprehend why he’s saying what he is. I’ve known this guy for what, six hours maybe and he’s acting like I’m holding his heart in my clammy hands.

I remember vaguely how people are supposed to act in the company of the dying; it’s dependant on the relationship. Raphael’s acting like someone much closer than just a travelling companion, regardless of the seriously messed up situation. I hate to even think the word of the relationship he’s acting like we have, because it feels like acid in my mouth. Lovers.

No. It’s not acid. It has that familiar iron taste; blood. A crippling sensation hits me square in the chest and I start to choke to shift the slightly viscous liquid off my lungs. Blood wells in my mouth and spills out over my chin, and onto my hands, my jacket and some even gets in my hair. Gross. It’s ridiculous and maybe even slightly amusing that I’m even thinking about how much I don’t want to have to clean that shit out considering the circumstances. I must be a really superficial person.

“Connie…Connie, not again, not again…please no. Fuck. Please. You stupid girl! What the fuck?! You can’t do this. Why? Why did you get yourself bitten again? Why? Fuck!” Raphael’s screaming, and sobbing now too. But something in there rings a bell.

“Say it again,” I try to tell him. My voice is so hoarse it barely comes out a whisper. He stops for a moment and looks at me.

“Connie?”

The nickname is familiar, I’m sure. But any actual memory is trapped behind a frosted window; I can see the shadow and maybe know it’s there, if it’s not just a trick of the light, but I can’t touch it. I go to say something again but this time, all that comes out is more blood. I look down at my hands and they’ve gone an awful purplish hue. Not long now.

Raphael looks at my no doubt pathetic expression then gets up and puts his fist through the car window. My head is spinning. I’m drunk on the disease; the disease of death. Ha, ha. I should have become a poet while I had the chance.

My eyes still manage to focus on the boy though. I don’t know how. I can literally feel this body deteriorating. Along with my mind, probably. Raphael wrenches his hand back through the broken glass and reaches for his gun. Some part of me is laced with the fear that he’s going to shoot me, which is silly. I should be begging to be put out of my misery. But the barrel of the gun is in his mouth. Not mine.

In that moment, I feel like the stupidest person in the world. The world around me is suspended in time as I remember.

I smirk at myself in the rear-view mirror. I am gorgeous. And I am vain. My eyes are big and green, lined in mascara and liquid eyeliner, against an even, sun-kissed tan. I have a light dusting of freckles and my hair is long, thick, and the most beautiful copper colour I’ve ever seen. My lips are small, pink and covered in clear lip gloss. My nose is slightly off centre but hey, no one’s perfect.

“Stop admiring yourself, Narcissus,” a sarcastic voice teases, though the affection does outweigh the insult. I turn to the side and see Jeremy’s already outside, his face looking at me through the car window. I can just make out the Pacific Ocean behind him and the warm sand all bathed in a pink and orange glow. But all I really see is him, all hazel eyes and dirty-blonde short, unkempt hair. The look on his face is warm but also has that mature look I used to hate, reminding me how much older and, admittedly, wiser he is than I am. Seven years and five months older to be exact, as he’s twenty-six.

I raise a sculpted eyebrow then say, “stop leaning on my car.” He snorts but takes a step back. I get out then jump into his arms. I hear the door slam behind me. It’s only now, when he holds me like this, looks down at me like this, that I feel so…human. He leans down and kisses me firmly. His lips are soft but he refuses to treat me like girls reading romance novels (which, let’s face it, are a bit on the erotic side) would expect out of a guy; all gentle and delicate.

You’re a survivor, he always replies when I have the nerve to question his less than fiction-novel standard of conduct. After all that’s happened, and being able to look back on it retrospectively from a solid and content place, I’m starting to believe him. There’s a reason I was named Constance.

I hear the boom of the gun and then the splatting noise of Jeremy’s brains hitting the roof of the car behind him. My eyes close tightly and I wait for the thud of his body falling to the ground. I’m always too late for him. Always. I’m a stupid little girl and I’m stupid enough to get myself killed every day. What’s really the point? I manage to tilt my head upwards and can gauge the height of the moon. Not long now, surely.

Is it wrong that death has become a rather boring prospect for me? Possibly, but waking up in a hospital bed every day will do that to you. I’ve woken up exactly six-hundred-and-thirty-nine times now since the radiation leak. I will wake up tomorrow just the same. My cough stutters and I can feel the disease ready to take over but I use the rest of my strength to take the gun from my pocket and place it in my mouth, switching the safety off. I take a rare comfort in knowing that when we eventually get west, we maybe, just maybe, will get to be together again, but until then…

I lean my head on Jeremy’s shoulder and his hand tightens around my own as we both take another swig from our beer bottles. The sun sank a long time ago.

I pull the trigger.

***

This hospital gown is pink, like the polish on my toes. I tilt my head to the side and see a small girl, maybe about fourteen, looking back at me in the mirror. Her immaculate blonde curls and giant blue eyes make her look younger than she is. Then I look down at my wrist. A name is written in big bold letters on the hospital band; Constance, my name.

It’s time to get ready.