You're Hoping For A Taste

It has been exactly two months and three days since the world as we knew it ended. The power shut down, the lights went off, the people began to die. All I know is that some of those who died didn't stay dead.

I don't know what went wrong. I was supposed to be taking a gap year before university, travelling round the USA on my own, taking in the sights and the sounds and the smells. It was supposed to be character building, as my Dad would say, the first time I've been outside England without my parents. It was supposed to be an adventure. I guess I just got more of an adventure than I bargained for.

It's getting late. I lost my watch a while back and when I don't have a clock to look at I tell the time by the way the blue of the sky starts to fade at the bottom, yellowing like the pages of old books. According to my map I should be coming across a small town soon. It'll be infested, yes, more infested than the wilderness I prefer to stick to, but I need shelter. I can only go so long lying in a tent, jumping at every twig that cracks, every owl that hoots.

I turn the key in the ignition, wincing when I see how little fuel I have left. First, shelter. I'll worry about siphoning fuel in the morning.

I pull away from the road, the car chugging along. I put a CD on to stave off the silence, but I keep it quiet. It isn't long before buildings appear on the horizon, a sign looming into focus, welcoming me to the town. Someone's sprayed a hazard symbol onto it, and I feel a shiver claw its way up my spine.

The sound of the car engine echoes off the empty streets. I always find it unnerving to pass through an abandoned pocket of civilisation like this. All the noises and smells that ever told you it was inhabited are no longer there, but the sights remain. Not enough time has passed for buildings to start crumbling. They're just dusty, the gardens overgrown. What damage there is is entirely man-made; broken windows, caved in doors, buildings gutted by fire. So far I've only stumbled across a few living people. Some of them were helpful, offering to share supplies or shelter for a day. Others haven't been quite so nice. You forget that in a decaying world it's not just the walking dead you have to look out for, it's the living ones too.

I keep to the residential area of the town, away from the centre. That's where you're most likely to find other people scavenging, or the Walkers. Passing house after house, I peer out the window, my body pressed close to the steering wheel. I come across a house that's in reasonably good condition and park right outside, driving my car up to the front door in case I need to make a quick getaway. I check my gun and knife are strapped to my waistband before I step out the car, dragging my duffel bag from the passenger seat. I had never used a gun until that first day.

Locking the car behind me, I gingerly approach the front door. I wait, listening for sounds. Outside there's nothing but bird song and a wind chime in the distance. I hear no sounds emanating from inside the house.

I check around the front door for a spare key first. Under the doormat, in the gutter, beneath the flower pots. Eventually I find it wedged into a tiny gap in the wall where the mortar has been rubbed away, thankful that I don't have to break in. I take a deep breath before I put it in the lock. My heart is beating like a pneumatic drill and my hands are slick with sweat. But then I think of a bed, possible food, and that alone is enough to make me turn the key and push open the door.

I stand in the hallway, listening. Nothing stirs. I pull the key from the lock, shut the door. My footsteps creak on the floorboards. I check downstairs first. Some of the furniture is overturned, but I can't discern if that's from a fight or just simply the owners packing their things in a rush. When all is clear downstairs I make my way upstairs, taking each step slowly. I don't like how the floor groans beneath my feet.

A noise.

I pause on the top step, my hand reaching for my knife. I don't like to use my gun unless it's absolutely necessary, seeing as I have few bullets left. It made me laugh at first because I realised I was like Jack Sparrow, saving that last bullet. Except a part of me thought that bullet might be for me.

I tentatively make my way across the landing, heading for the sound. It's a persistent scratching, like a dog pining at a door to be let out. It could be just that, a dog, or it could be something else, and some rational part of me is screaming at me to not go any further, to turn around and get the fuck out of here. But then there's man's original sin: curiosity.

I stop outside the door, my hand hovering just over the doorknob. My duffel bag swung over my shoulder and my other hand drawing my knife, I decide to get this over and done with quickly.

Three.

Two.

One.

I fling the door open and my heart forgets to beat for a second, suspended like a hawk above its prey. My eyes meet another pair of eyes, but these ones are clouded, milky. I'm staring into the eyes of a dead man.

I don't waste any time. In less than a second I am spinning on my heel and running, hurtling down the stairs. But he's in pursuit, his footsteps clumsy but fast, clearly newly Turned. I remember how I closed the door and I want to give up there and then, let him bite me and be done with it. Yet more than that I want to live, and so I reach for the door handle and yank it open, wasting one precious second.

And it's one second too long.

The Walker knocks me to the ground, sending me sprawling. He snarls and growls with broken vocal chords, scrabbling desperately for me, but my duffel bag is on my back, blocking his way. I can smell his rotting flesh, can feel his cracked fingers entangling themselves in my hair, and I scream desperately. I throw an arm out, knife still in hand, and it connects with something soft. Almost immediately my side becomes wet with some fluid and I know it's his blood. I manage to elbow him off me and I scramble to my feet.

I forget all about my duffel bag, my car, my everything. I just run. Down the street, as far away from that thing as possible. But I can hear him chasing me.

I'm almost at the end of the street. I just need to round the corner of this house, lose him amidst the buildings. I just need to run until my lungs start to burn.

And that's when I run into someone else.

I scream and slash out with my knife, but the person ducks nimbly, stumbling backwards into a wall. It's a guy, his hair messy and black, his eyes wide and shocked. We stay like that for a moment, eyes locked on one another, desperately thinking over the situation that's unravelling.

Then he's holding out his hand, his mouth set in a determined line. “Come with me,” he says, but I can only stare at his outstretched hand. “Come on!” he adds more urgently, and when I don't immediately take his hand he reaches for mine instead, and I let him.

He drags me down the road, our footsteps echoing, and I can hear the Walker behind us. The guy jerks me down a gap between two houses, and then he's throwing open a set of basement doors, pushing me in first. I stumble down the steps and he follows suit, reaching up to pull the doors closed. A second later the Walker crashes into them, the metal shaking under the weight. The guy slides a lock into place before striding down the steps past me.

The basement is dark, but then, just audible over the Walker thrashing on the doors, I hear the scratch and hiss of a match being lit, and the guy's face becomes illuminated by a sickly orange glow. He goes round the room lighting candles, and I stand at the base of the steps, my legs threatening to go from under me. My heart won't slow, my hands won't let go of my knife, and I can't take a single step.

I lick my lips and force myself to say something, anything. “Thank you,” is as far as I get, and it sounds feeble to my ears.

The guy looks at me. His mouth is still set in that determined grimace. “Were you bitten?” he asks, his voice hard, cold, but there is the faintest wavering to his words.

I shake my head.

He studies me for a little longer, his eyes taking in every inch of me. And then his features soften, the wall he put up lowering just a little. He stands there awkwardly for a second, not looking at me, before he says, “I'm Kellin.”

“Alexa,” I reply. My voice is a little hoarse. “Thanks again, for saving me.”

He meets my eyes again, attempting a smile, but by the way the corners of his mouth are barely able to stretch I get the impression that he hasn't smiled in a while. Nor have I, to be honest. “Don't mention it,” he answers. “Now let's get you some clean clothes.”