TWO #2
The Zed topples forward with snapping jaws, and I leap over it with a whole lot less grace than desperation. Its gnarled fingers snag the strap of my backpack, and for one sickening moment, the weight drags me backward.
At the last second, I twist and slash my knife and cut through the strap before it can yank me down.
The backpack tears loose, and a horrible sinking sensation rips through me as several things spill out of my backpack.
My heart falls to my ass as I almost lose the backpack entirely, and it’s a true miracle that it remains on my shoulder.
My stomach twists painfully, just as another Zed appears in the doorway, and I’m forced to choose my life over the spilled contents with a personal sense of despair.
With one last lingering look at one of the water canisters, the hoodie, and the can of soup, I curse before I run.
Behind me, the sound of men shouting follows after me. I’m pretty sure Dale is still making those wet, pained sounds, and the scarred Alpha shoots another shot, but this time, it's not at me. It’s at the Zeds that are now pouring in toward the pharmacy.
And you know what? Good. They can deal with the consequences of their poor survival skills and decision-making.
With my jaw clamped tightly, I haul ass down the street with one backpack strap uselessly hanging from my shoulder as it fights for its life to keep the backpack intact.
The other strap is long gone, my arm is bleeding, my blockers are pressed against my chest in the inner pocket like a stolen jewel, and the hoard of Zeds I worked really hard to lure away have now started to turn back.
Not all of them, but enough to cause issues that I didn’t need today.
“Oh, great. Perfect,” I pant. “Love this for me.”
I cut left through an alley riddled with weeds and old trash, boots splashing through puddles left over from last night’s rain. A chain-link fence becomes my newest obstacle blocking the end of the alley, bent inward near the bottom where something evidently forced its way through years ago.
Dropping it like it’s hot, I fall flat and wriggle under it, catching my jacket on a twisted wire halfway under the fence. For a single breath, I’m stuck, and panic flares with a heart-stopping spike of scent beneath my skin.
Yanking hard on the fabric, it tears roughly, and I manage to topple out the other side just as a Zed slams into the fence behind me.
Its bony fingers hook through the links, reaching for me, hungry and frantic.
More pile in directly after, pressing their bodies against the metal until it bows with an alarming screech, and another flare of panic boils through me when I almost lose the backpack again.
“Fuck me running up a steep hill,” I breathe, shaking my head before staggering to my feet as I worry about the integrity of the fence right before I start moving again.
My lungs burn fiercely, my arm is absolutely throbbing, and the ruined strap almost seems mocking now as I try to put as much distance between me and the freshly formed hoard of Zeds that separate me from my damned backpack.
Sadly, what I need more than that can of soup right now is distance, height, and somewhere to breathe for thirty seconds without the dead, the living, or my own stupid ass biology trying to ruin my day any more than it already has.
That haven comes in the form of an old school that looms ahead, situated behind a low brick wall.
The playground is massively overgrown, bright-colored climbing frames rusted beneath vines of ivy.
Seeing it hits something strange in my chest, a small bruise of a memory I don’t have time to poke and prod.
I scale the wall, hauling myself over it before I drop into the playground, limping my sorry ass toward the main building with a white-knuckled grip around the remaining strap of my backpack.
The front doors are chained shut, because that is my luck right now, but I spy a cracked window on the side that I’m pretty sure I can fit through.
Using the butt of my knife, I clear as much of the glass away as I can before climbing through the window, dropping my backpack inside before hauling myself into a classroom that stinks of damp carpet and old paper.
Tiny chairs sit atop tables neatly, untouched for six years, coated with a thick layer of dust. Faded drawings and paintings still cling to the walls, curling at the edges, still displaying rainbows, houses, and families all holding hands under corner suns and flat lines of green grass.
I look away. Not because it hurts, but because I know that letting it hurt will force me to feel it. And feeling things is a luxury I don’t bother with anymore. Feeling things fucking sucks, and I’m not about that business.
After dragging a cabinet in front of the classroom door, I shove a desk under the window to make my escape easier later on if needed. Only then do I actually allow myself to sink to the floor behind the teacher’s desk, trying to catch a breath that feels like it won’t come.
Tearing the bandana down my face just enough to breathe properly, I suffer with immediate regret when the air hits my tongue, full of dust and mildew.
Fighting a gag, I check my jacket pockets with shaking hands.
The blockers are still there, and I couldn’t thank the imaginary Gods enough.
All four blister packs are still tucked away in my makeshift pocket, and I sigh with relief.
Nodding to myself, I whisper, “Okay. Okay, that’s something at least. Not all is lost.”
I laugh, but it comes out all wrong. It’s thin, and it flirts a little too close to a sob, so I stuff the heel of my hand against my mouth until the sound dies a swift death.
I’ll be damned if I cry right now, because crying clogs your nose and ruins your vision and sharpens your scent and gives the universe the okay to dick you down with a cactus-style dildo.
And the feelings. The feelings, goddamn it. I want no part of this shit.
Instead, I distract myself by peeling my jacket away from my bleeding arm.
The shotgun blast didn’t directly hit me, thank fuck.
The splinters and debris cut through the fabric, though, slicing lines across my upper arm.
It hurts, but thankfully, it’s clean enough that it shouldn’t cause me any problems. There’s no bite.
No bullet. Therefore, there’s no reason to panic.
Much to my annoyance, however, my skin now shows through the very obvious tear. Olive skin beneath the blood, with pale patches of vitiligo spilled across my arm like creamy coffee over pale paper.
I stare at it for a long second, then pull my jacket closed, adding it to the list of things I’m forced to hide. Hell, what’s another thing, right?
Reaching for my backpack, I drag it close before delving into the pocket, retrieving an antiseptic wipe.
I tug my arm from my jacket sleeve before cleaning the wounds, hissing through my teeth with the sudden sharp sting.
I hate how the sound echoes around me, bouncing off the alphabet posters and moldy storybooks that line the far wall.