Static Screams

Logan and I stood frozen as the blood covered hand slide down the glass, leaving a red handprint streak behind. Moving as quietly as I could, I set the dolly back into a standing position, and removed my hands. My bow and machete were back in the room. I never should have walked off without them. I reached for my dads gun on my thigh, clicking the buckle that held it in as quietly as possible.

In the same second that I spent arming myself, I was listening closely to the door. It was eerily quiet for a bloodied hand to be existing beyond the glass.

I glanced at Logan, she had her Glock in her hand, and her eyes on me.

I waited. I waited for a sound. For the owner of the hand to grumble or screech. And no sound came. I stared at the hand print while I waited. Against my better judgement I reached my arm forward, resting my hand against the cool glass, comparing it to the mark on the other side.

It was small.

I couldn’t wait another moment. My brown pistol in my right hand, aiming in front of me, I opened the door, and froze.

Seven was splayed out on the ground, covered in blood, with a pant leg from his jeans torn off below the knee. “Shit!” I clicked back in to my brain and quickly looked both ways down the hall. Logan had stepped forward and helped me pull the kid into the supply room.

“Seven!” I hissed through my teeth, an effort to remain quiet when all I wanted to do was scream. He groaned, reaching for his shoulder with one hand and his bare leg with the other.

“Scar,” Seven tried to string a sentence together between pained moans.

“I’m here kid, I’m here. Hold on, kid.” I frantically started tearing at the cut pieces of his shirt, looking for the wound. I moved down to the torn pant leg, and masked my facial expression so he wouldn’t worry.

“Scar I’m okay I’m big now” Seven begged. “I’m okay scar I’m okay”

Logan’s face mirrored mine. Where his jeans were missing, his leg had been clawed at. Large scrapes from a sharp implement wrapped from his knee to his shin.

I brushed his growing hair back from his head, taking in this pure kid with his milk chocolate brown eyes. Trying to memorize the shade before they turned grey.

“Scar.” Seven flapped his small bloodied hand towards me, asking for my own. I quickly enveloped his little hand, ignoring the blood. He smiled at me. “Henry is lucky. I wish you were my aunt.”

“I’ll be your aunt, Seven. I’m your aunt. Just hold on a little longer, I’ll be your aunt.” I moved the hole in the shirt to see his shoulder, a clear perfect bite out of his muscle. I choked on a sob, cheating us all as a few tears escaped my burning eyes.

His eyes were so cloudy now. So fast. It was so fast.

“Cosmic…” Seven mumbled, voice raspy and drowsy.

“She’ll be back in a minute, Seven. Just hang on.” I looked up to Logan in desperation. She merely shook her head, squeezing the kids other hand tightly in her own.

“Eight.” I looked up, shocked. He smiled. “I’m eight today…”

I cleared my throat, and softly sang a happy birthday tune while brushing his hair back and watching his eyes slowly glaze over.

He stopped breathing with a smile on his face.

The moment I knew I could no longer upset him, I screamed in pain. I howled in anguish. This kid was so much like Henry would be now. He fought this whole time because he wanted to one day have a friend again. He wanted to meet Henry.

I continued to sob and looked away while Logan silently pushed a small knife she kept in her boot into the base of his skull. Saving him from being the undead.

One night at the house, Eight crawled over from his bed to ours, and asked to come on it too. He had had a bad dream about his parents death. I held his hand, shared my pillow, and sang him twinkle twinkle little star until he fell asleep.

He was pure innocence.

Then it hit me.

What happened? I quickly glanced up as each thought appeared, shoving past the state of shock I was in. Lila. The girls. Nat. Wren. “Oh my god.” I screamed, and took off running. The path to the room was easy to follow, as Eight had marked the trail with his blood.

“Lila!” I screeched as I ran, listening for sounds. Sounds of screaming, sounds of the hungry undead. Anything in this god forsaken silence would be better. Anything beyond the sound of the blizzard on the metal roofing and the winds high pitched tone. “Son of a bitch! LILA!!!!”

Any sound of life. Anything but the echoing sounds of silence. The heavy quiet that meant death.

I rounded a corner, skidding on the floor in a drift and taking off the moment I landed. The floor in the hallway was streaked in blood. The image of Eights hand print on the door flashed in my thoughts. I slowed down as the sight of crimson, no, of scarlet, paralyzed my heart. I caught myself on the frame of the door, catching my breath. “Lila?”

When I looked up, the sight before me had me falling to my hands and knees.

“No.” I muttered. “No, no, no!!”

My scream was eternal. For it was endless.