They Live

It's been so long since the world's gone mad, and I'm so hungry. My stomach twists in on itself, desperately gnawing at my organs in search of sustenance. I feel very hollow and light-headed, like I'm wandering in a daze.

I'm a not a street rat, but I still know a lot about skipping a few meals. This is not that. Wanna know how you know you're in trouble? When your stomach stops growling. That means there's nothing left for your body to digest. That's what your body is doing when you hear that wet bubbling noise-- it's digesting what remains of your last meal. If nothing remains, you're quickly approaching those pearly gates, my friend.

I came from a not-so-well-enough-off family. We lived paycheck to paycheck but we always made it work somehow. I've never been this hungry.

Yeah, my mom sent me to bed without dinner sometimes, like when I was being a persnickety brat about my vegetables, but oh sweet baby Buddha what I wouldn't give for her green bean casserole right about now.

If I live through this, I will never be picky about food again. I'll even eat liver and onions -- and actually, in this starved state, the iron would probably do wonders for me.

The noise I make is almost like a moan and almost like a grunt. Thankfully or not thankfully, no one is around to comment on the sound I just made. Wrapping my arms around myself as best I can, I try to crush the ever growing hunger pains and gaze morosely into the streets.

I'd holed myself up in this little convenience store but now supplies are bare; there is no way I am going to try to make a meal of of rat poison and Clorox wipes, no matter how hungry I get. That said, supplies are still low, and civilisation is taking its darn sweet time in returning, so I best get moving.

As I place my hands on the door, my mouth opens reflexively to bid my non-existent companions farewell. See, I have a habit of telling people when I'm fixing to go down to the store or out for a bite to eat. Not doing it now just further cements the fact everyone is dead.

Though it feels mighty strange, I leave without telling anyone but myself.

The streets are packed full with people and cars but the engines don't run and the people don't breathe. It's surreal. In this part of the city, it happened so fast a lot of people died while on the phones or jogging or commuting to work and they never saw their death coming. The result is gruesome and almost more sickening -- it makes it seem like if only everyone would wake up, life would go on as normal.

Still. Nausea and disgust do not do anything to hamper my hunger so I keep going. I haven't been outside in three weeks. Once I found that store, miraculously still standing and with a roof to boot, I holed myself up in there.

I ate out the place. The shelves were already a little bare, which sucked, and all last week I subsisted on sandwiches made with stale bread and little Heinz catsup packets. Maybe I should find a new shelter. If possible. If not I'll just bring stuff back. Shouldn't be too hard.

There is a little diner just north of here. The tiny little thing is jammed between two corporate buildings, causing a sudden plummet in the skyline. It's always been my favourite because of that. I hope it still stands. Maybe because it's low to the ground, it survived? I can only hope.



And hope wins out!

I catch sight of the familiar eatery and race towards its welcoming doors but halfway there, a voice cries out for me to stop.

So shocked am I about another living human running around that I don't notice the knife in their hand or the gleam to their eye. Once I do, I imagine it's a bit like the one in mine: desperate, hungry, tired, terrified.

"Stop," the man says again. I go to raise my hands up in a placating motion to show I'll do as he asks, but he shouts, "Don't move!"

So I freeze, my hands almost at my ears. He inches closer, keeping his knife handy. The look in his eyes becomes more predatory, cold and calculating.

"What are you doing on my turf?" he demands.

I stammer out that I didn't know this street belonged to him and I mean it sincerely but the way his eyebrows pull together worries me.

"Wise-ass," he spits. "Tell me, Smart Mouth, why I shouldn't just kill you? You're only going to take up resources."

Before I can stop them the words "Oh my God" escape my lips.

He gives me a wicked smile. "Oh, God's forsaken us. You still holding onto a security blanket like religion? After this?" His voice is downright snide and condescending. "Boy, know I'm doing you a favour. You won't last a day out here."

And like that, he's on top of me, trying to bury his knife into my chest. My heart pumps adrenaline at an unbelievable pace and my body shakes as I fight back his murderous hands.

The blade, ever eager to explore my chest and neck, creeps closer no matter how I struggle. Never have I more keenly wished that I'd taken my uncle's weight set all those years ago.

Sweat rolls down my brow. My biceps shiver and burn with lactic acid. My assailant's grin stretches impossibly and suddenly it's all teeth and malice. Terror shoots through me, causing my heart to falter then race. It carves an S.O.S message into my rib-cage.

I don't want to die.

I don't. I like living. It's why I spent nearly three weeks camped out in a drafty convenience store, rationing out my meagre resources. I didn't survive just to die at the hands of some madman.

Fury, white hot and oh so precious, sharpens my fighting instincts, long ago deadened by a sedentary lifestyle. I crack my head against his.

The pain is brilliant and my vision goes white for a moment, but the insane asshole jerks back and presses one hand to his now bleeding forehead. I throw our weight to the side, rolling so that I straddle him, and wrench the knife from his hand.

Holding it out of his reach, I use my other arm to pin him down by his throat.

A raspy chuckle escapes him. "Kill me." The words vibrate in the air and hang like dead weight. Despite his fearless words, there is an unmistakable sheen to his eyes.

I should get off him. I should get off him and let him up and let him live but I don't move. Instead my breathing quickens as I bring the blade into contact with his throat. Can I really take a man's life?

There. A single tear breaks free and dribbles down to his temple. He just wants to live, like me. Just like me.

I gulp.

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lower lip.

My hands shake as I tighten my grip around the handle. It feels impossibly heavy in my palm; a man's life. I grit my teeth and breathe deeply through my nose. Can I really take a man's life?

I drag the blade roughly across his neck.

Blood spurts forth, splattering my front and my face. He gurgles and spasms twice before going limp. Immediately I projectile vomit onto him and roll off his body. I heave and my body shakes uncontrollably; desperate for something solid to fixate on I press my bruised forehead to the sidewalk.

My mind is blank.

Eventually the tremors pass.

I'm still holding the knife in a white-knuckled grip. My fingers feel stiff as I slowly unclench my fist and let the weapon clatter to the concrete.

I ghost into the diner, but my appetite is gone.