Alone to die.
I’m worried, surrounded, and forlorn. They, the dead, had surrounded my place of temporary refuge, and are close to getting in. This can’t be the end. No, not yet.
“I must be able to survive, my time is not up. Nor was her’s.” I sighed, looking down at the limp body that once held a bright and courageous soul. Emma–I believe, was her name, and she was about ten or eleven years old. Such a young age to be left for dead. Yet here she was, bruised and bloodied and dead. When I came here, she was alone. Alone and scared. But she was a clever girl, having set up traps and rigs, and simple contraptions that may have saved her when she needed it. She did what I would’ve done in that situation; hang on to whatever life or sanity you have left, and keep it, surviving. Keeping it dearly close to your heart. Never letting go until the last moment.
To think that she had made it this far gave me hope. Though I’m sure that it is false hope. I look up to her once porcelain like face, to see it torn and bloodied. The gash from the bullet that went through her head was the only imperfection on her body, other than the bite mark on her arm. Though she may have died in fear, she looked peacefully relieved. Relieved of the weight of survival that once lay upon her shoulders, tugging her down more and more each day. She looked at rest.
But I wasn’t.
She had pulled the trigger in front of me, crying for forgiveness. She was rambling through regretful sobs about how she wondered if she would see her parents or her dogs in heaven. But before she pulled the trigger, she lost hope, saying the words that I never, ever wanted to hear from such a young mind. She stopped her crying and said farewell to the Earth with a simple “What am I saying? There is no heaven anymore.”
It was twisted what she said. Twisted, depressing, and terrible. She had left me alone with those words to remember. But, I know she only meant well, disposing of herself so I wouldn’t have to. But still, why like that?
I was awoken from my deep thoughts when I heard a snarl outside the window. I picked up the pistol that was still on Emma’s limp lap, and loaded the barrel, preparing to fire. Instead, I dropped it, pulling my bow from behind me. I didn’t want to attract any more rotters. I quietly grabbed an arrow from it’s quiver and pulled back, releasing it. With a quite disgusting splursh I heard the arrow go through the rotter’s skull. The noise made me gag.
The noise was accompanied by many other splurshes when the rotten body fell back. I slumped down, next to Emma’s pale corpse, picking up her pistol.
“So, this is how I’m going to die,” I said, slipping the bullets out of the barrel ensuring myself that I wouldn’t go like Emma did, “Alone? Alone and scared?”
Well. That was deep of me.
This story took place in some sort of infection breakout, somewhat like The Walking Dead. I am a fan of zombie themed ‘things’, may it be a show, a game, or a book. So, I felt I should write something like that. But not as exhilarating, but more forlorn and sad. It’s how I pictured it would be– to be alone, prepared to die.