Young Writers Society

CHAPTER ONE

       Combat boots, tattered cargo pants, and a dingy white tank top were what I wore above ground. I forced my weight on the heavy circular steel door that protected my city from the zombies and lead to the outside where the maddened undead roamed freely. I was welcomed by cool afternoon air that reeked of rotting flesh, which to me, smelled like roses only because it meant that me and my friends would not run out of things to shoot for target practice that day. “Patrick,” I called one of my friends by his name. “Pass me an arrow.” He crouched over our haphazard pile of tools and handed me one of his homemade arrows. I gazed in awe at the intricately carved wooden stick he handed me. The handiwork he produced was astonishing even though it was not commercial grade.

       “Thanks,” I say, and then I stared at him. He stared back, but blushed, and turned back to building a gun. He was a strange-looking boy: cobalt blue-eyed with ebony skin that glistened in the fluorescent lights back in the shelter but seemed to get darker each day. This was a peculiar phenomenon since most everyone spent their days in the shelter, and when not, there was rarely enough sunlight to penetrate the skin layers as much as it used to. 

       I raised my arms and pulled the arrow string back, pointing it toward my target: a (freshie) zombie was about 20 yards away. I slowed my breathing and let my gaze focus on the freshie. Thoughts of who that person used to be raced wildly in my head. By the height and physique of the freshie, I had guessed it used to be a woman, most likely past the child-bearing age. It was wearing the typical shelter clothes: cargo pants and a tank top—an indication that she was caught by a dead at the last minute. I inhaled the air of death, and then I let go. The arrow whizzed down the field penetrated the freshie’s skull right between its eyes, causing it to fall backward and squirm. For a short minute there was squirming which caused my friend Cassie to get into a defensive mode. I gently touched her forearm and told her to wait. There was complete silence as we watched the freshie squirm slowly, slowly, until finally: death. Silence.

       The somber mood became broken by a squeal and cheer from Cassie who high-fived me for what she called an “accomplishment”.

      “That was awesome! Let me try.” She said. I gave her the tools and she turned around. Before I even saw her release the arrow, a zombie that was about seventy yards from us had an arrow lodged in its chest. Its zombie juice squirted everywhere and it fell to the ground.

      “Damn, Cassie,” I exclaimed. “That was fast. A new record, I say!” “I'm like Speedy Gonzalez—whoever that is.” We all laughed heartwarmingly but with emptiness in our minds. Nostalgia from generations back always lingered in our people’s souls, almost like a genetic trait. I found our picnic basket and took out the bread rolls, handing one each to Patrick and Cassie. We had obtained this food from our dinners the night before and we also stole some of it from the kitchen.

       “I’m ready to dig in,” Patrick whispers. “It’s been a long day.” Cassie and I agree accordingly, and lift the rolls to our mouths. Suddenly, a distinct and all too familiar sound stops us mid-bite. “Do you guys hear that?” Patrick asked. Cassie gulped and I nod my head gravely. I was feeling terrified for some reason and Cassie looked like she was a little afraid too. Patrick’s expression was dark and pressing. It was like the kind of expression he got when talking about his father.

       “Yes,” Cassie replied. “And it sounds almost like the--”

        Hoards of zombies appeared at the horizon. That was what the horn was for; it was a warning alarm that a zombie invasion was happening. The severity of the attack depended on how large the hoard was. This one was almost deafeningly loud and bound to attract another batch of zombies from miles away because of its loudness. Yet too soon, too soon it had happened. Sleepers were instantly cornering us. We had a little bit of time to get back since they were about fifty yards away, but Patrick had brought all of his weapons out with him that day and some of his tools to build more because he heard the forecast on the level of zombie invasions the night before (which was low).

       “It's going to take us hours to clean all this up. Just leave it here!” I screamed over the horns. It was a bad idea because after I had said it, I caught the attention of a small crowd that was close to us. They tilted there poorly supported heads into my direction and ran even faster than they were running before.

       “Crap!” Cassie cursed as she was shoveled nuts and bolts into an impromptu marsupial pouch she'd created with the bottom of her shirt. Patrick tossed his tools into the food basket. Ruined food, I thought. I grabbed as many bows and arrows as I could carry, and dashed off, dropping arrows along the way. Cassie and Patrick followed. We ran fast, but the zombies were caught up quickly. Fortunately the door was only a few feet away. I got on the ground and pulled the steel knob expecting the door to fly open. But it didn't. I tugged and pulled but it still didn't budge.

       “What's going on?” Cassie shouted.

       “I can't get it to open!” Instantly, she dropped to the ground next to me, dropping all the tools from her pouch and tries to help me pull the handle. She worked her hands meticulously upon the handle and with calmness I had not yet acquired. Then instinctually Patrick joined in. We stayed there, pulling yet getting no positive results from putting so much strength on the door.

       “It's not going to work.” He says. “We need to try something else.” He blinked for a second to think of an alternative. I silently cursed him for trying to be a smart-aleck in a time of danger. A look of dread appeared on his face and he raised a fist. That was when he began to bang on the door. I grabbed his arm and dug in my fingernails to get him to stop. “Are you out of your mind?!” I said through gritted teeth.

       “It's the only way it'll open up!” Then I let go of his arm and blinked into sensefulness. He was right. We weren't going to have any luck by attempting to force the door open. There were no other options other than to dig one-hundred feet deep holes with our hands to the shelter in under an impossible two—three minutes at best. Cassie and I stared at each other with dread and then we joined in hesitantly. We banged and screamed at the door, hoping to a higher power that someone would hear us. The zombies reached the area where our picnic had been set up only a couple of minutes ago. We will die here, I thought. I cried with unprecedented fatalism. Tears ran down the sides of my face, and occasional outbursts released from me until I sobbed and heaved like a child. Never had death felt so imminent before.

       Cassie stopped banging on the door and stared me puzzled for only a moment. I cried back at her. After that, I swore I saw an intense glare on her face but I could not determine it fast enough because immediately, she reacted by standing up straight and calling upon another death wish by grabbing a bow and arrow and shooting at the zombies. Patrick followed by picking up a gun with his left hand. He used his left hand to shoot at them with a gun while using his right hand to continue to bang mercilessly on the door. There we were, shooting at zombies and me, crying. So this is the end, I thought again and sat. I waited for the end until suddenly the door swung open, almost knocking Patrick and Cassie over. They hurled me inside the shelter and I landed face-flat on the unforgiving concrete floor and blacked out.