Static Screams

Lila’s oldest and strongest memory was a marred moment of near-death on a beautiful summer day. It was hot that August, the air thick and muggy, like stepping into a sauna when you walk out the door.

She had just turned six years old, and her parents rented a small cottage on the beach. It was a modest beach cottage, barely two bedrooms, with wicker furniture permeated by the smell of the sea.

They ate their breakfast on the porch facing the ocean. Lila nibbled happily on her peanut butter toast, giggling at her parents’ antics to make her laugh. She kicked her legs back and forth in the chair, eating a forkful of scrambled eggs to appease her mother.

The other children of the families in the cottages around them, well, they were destined to be her friend. As soon as the last of the sunscreen had soaked in to her paper white skin, she ran across the burning sand to join the other children in a mess of raucous joy.

It was lost on everyone how she ended up there, in that perfect moment, like when the breeze catches fallen leaves and swirls them around. But it wasn’t a breeze, and she wasn’t fallen leaves; it was the ocean, and she was a child.

It was probably because of the bigger kids, the nine and ten year olds who braved the rougher waves and journeyed out a little bit farther than they were supposed to. Lila traveled with them too, her little legs kicking fiercely against the water. Even as a child, she was always out to prove that she was so much bigger, so much stronger, than she actually was.

Her heart craved adventure, but she found a rip current instead. For the other, older kids, it was almost a nonissue. But she was so little.

Even with her little life jacket, the water whipped at her furiously, tumbling her around like a pair of tennis shoes in the dryer. Sea spray stung her eyes, she swallowed what felt like gallons of salt water. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly, she didn’t have time to call out for help. She didn’t have to, though - her father, always watching and waiting, lifted her from the water and carried her to shore. She coughed up copious amounts of water as her mother fretted over her. After twenty minutes, Lila was ready to get back in - albeit at a safer, calmer depth - and her father just laughed.

“You didn’t cry, not even once,” he told her years later, the corner of his eyes crinkling into a smile. “Even in the face of death, you didn’t cry.”

Some things stayed consistent. She still felt bigger than she was, and she still wouldn’t cry when death came knocking.

Not that it came knocking this time, either.

The mystery is where they came from - the rotten, slimy flesh eaters seemed to just sneak in. In those moments, Lila wondered to herself if she had left the front door open. The building had been cleared on multiple occasions by multiple people, so what other explanation was there?

There were several of them, they wandered into the suite as if they knew there were people in there. As if they knew Nat, Wren, Lila, and the babies were perfectly wrapped meals.

The women locked themselves in the bathroom, but the zombies were fierce, banging at the door in a frenzy.

Lila knew she wouldn’t make it out of this one, she knew she couldn’t get her babies away from the small (not small enough) horde.

“Don’t worry,” Lila said to Nat and Wren, “I’m going to get you out of here. But I need to do something first, and I don’t want you to see it.”

Both Nat and Wren turned their backs on Lila, though Nat turned back when Lila’s own back was turned. Nat was a silent observer (mostly due to shock, to fear) as Lila did the most unthinkable and, perhaps in this situation, merciful, act any mother could do.

Natalie would never judge Lila for that decision. She knew she would have to tell Scar and Holland about it soon, and her stomach recoiled at the thought.

Lila turned around and met her gaze, staring silently at each other as the banging on the door grew more severe, more concerning. Nat’s only response was to hand Lila the towel hanging on the rack. Wren turned to look at them then, watching as Lila wrapped the babies in a towel before placing them in the bathtub and pulling the curtain across.

“You’ve got one chance to get out,” Lila said to them. “Don’t waste time. Just go.”

“Lila…” Wren couldn’t speak, the lump was growing in all of their throats.

She gave them both a soft smile. “It’s okay,” she said gently. She grabbed their hands and held them tight. “Take care of Holland…” she sighed, shoulders slumping. “Take care of Scar.”

She pulled open the bathroom door, barreling headfirst into the crowd of the undead. She felt sharp fingernails and scrapes of teeth against her skin as she fought through the horde, slowly pulling it away from the bathroom, away from the suite, into the hallway, as far away from the door as she could before they overtook her.