by Haze Chestnut

It had been two days since I had eaten anything but scraps. The scent of summer, which would have been filled with smells of warm grass and crisp air, was now overpowered by odors of rot and acidity. If I really tuned into my senses, I could still smell the ghosts of flowers in nearby fields, but death and sourness that lingered in the air kept me from wanting to draw in too large a breath. Although, even that smell made my mouth water in these desperate times.

I walked with caution through the rubble of the broken-down convenience store miles away from camp. Despite the cramps in my legs and stomach, I refused to return until I had something—anything—to bring back for rations. Food was growing scarce; our weak were growing weaker, and our sick were growing sicker. I was weak myself before the infection invaded our town. I suppose that hard times can either break you down or force you to grow stronger. Luckily, I was able to adapt to the world around me. Adaptation can only get you so far, though. You still had to eat.

As I sorted through the garbage at my feet in search of something that could satiate my intolerable hunger, my thumb struck something sharp. I pulled my hand back quick to inspect the wound. Wiping blood on my already bloodied jeans, I reached back into the pile to reveal the culprit. Carefully, I removed the item from the rubble and dusted it off with the sleeve of my sweatshirt—the strands catching on the corners of the glass.

Beneath the dirt and grime was a picture frame with a photo inside. Typically I would have discarded an item like this, but something made me feel drawn to inspect further. I couldn’t make out the image through the dirt and jagged glass, so I turned the frame upside down and let the glass shatter on the ground by my feet. I removed the picture, which was remarkably clean compared to the rest of the trash in this long-abandoned building. A photo of a young girl with tight brown curls, playing next to a fluffy white puppy dressed with an orange handkerchief lived on the piece of paper. She stared at me, and I stared back at her. I studied her for a moment—her face was plump with life and a strap of her blue overalls slipped carelessly off her shoulder. The photo looked like whoever took it was moving with the girl—dancing, perhaps. I could almost hear the laughter through the ink.

My pondering was interrupted with a sharp pang of hunger that made me grab at my stomach in agony. Every part of my body wanted this journey to be done. I folded the photo quickly and tucked it into the pocket of my pants. I continued my rummaging. Most storefronts in this part of town had already been looted, but there were quite a few times I would find a bag of crackers or candy that were missed. Being thorough is the only way to survive.

My search was partially successful: I managed to get ahold of two breakfast bars and a small bag of potato chips. I sat on a curb in the parking lot and took a bite out of one of the stale bars—the sweetness and chewiness, although bitter with age, was enough to make me close my eyes tightly in relief. After a moment or two of rest, I pulled my things together and began my journey once more.

I left the store and continued walking until I found myself in the heart of a small neighborhood. The houses around the area were seemingly abandoned, but not destroyed. That was usually a good sign—that means that looters probably haven’t made their way there yet. I picked a house—a tiny yellow one—to search. The door opened with a light tug; it was unlocked. Inside, the cabinets were neatly closed. Everything looked clean.

Before I could even begin digging around in the fridge, I heard something outside that caught my attention. I craned my neck and lowered my breath to hear more clearly. A thud, followed by something metal dragging through dirt, was faintly audible. A sliding door led from the kitchen to the backyard where the noise seemed to originate. The noise repeated a few times and, as I grew closer, the sound of something breathing with sharp, labored breaths was growing in volume. I stood still before hesitantly sliding the door open. The breathing I was listening to turned into growling and hissing as I laid my eyes upon the center of the commotion.

In the center of the yard, surrounded by debris and dead grass, barely stood a short, hollow creature. Her brown hair was blackened with dirt and dried blood. It was tangled with mats. Her skin was a sickly grey and her eyes were sunken in, darting frantically. There was a trail of thick black blood that led from her nose and mouth down the front of her pink dress. The creature moved with great effort. A chain dog leash was wrapped around her bony leg, which tightened as she attempted to inch her way forward. This caused her to fall back and groan in something I could only describe as pain. She was very skinny, her bones being the only thing that held the bloodied dress on her body. Her pale blue lips parted and she let out a soft cry. I no longer felt hungry.

I had never before seen a child who was infected, but—for some reason—the sight was impossible to stomach. I spent a moment or two watching her twitchy movements as she pulled against the chain that held her in place. The spot on her leg where the chain was tightest was purple and veiny. Once the initial shock of the sight subsided, a realization washed over me. Pulling the photograph I found earlier from my pocket, I examined it before her. It was her. The girl in the picture, I noticed then, had chubby cheeks of rose pink. Now, those cheeks were drained of color and fullness. Her skin lost all of its pigment. Her once shiny brown hair was now disgusting and riddled with bugs—chunks of her scalp were bare and raw as if her hair had been ripped out in some places. I noticed then a collection of dirtied toys at her feet. Why would a zombie need toys? As I pondered this, my attention was caught on the girl’s arm. There was a bite mark on her hand. God, they knew she was turning. They left her here.

Mere feet away from me, the monster let out a sharp scream that shook the building and trees nearby as she spotted me. The noise sent pain shooting through my entire body. I dropped to my knees and threw my hands over my ears to try block the wretched sound. I looked up at her. Her jaw had unhinged like a snake and her bloodshot eyes locked me in my place. The veins in her face popped and twitched as she struggled against the chain. It was the most agonizing sight. I half expected her to scream forever. Thankfully, she collapsed. The silence that followed, however, was almost worse than her shrieks. There was no sound expect for the gurgling and babbling of the girl as she writhed on the ground—her body twisting and contorting. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. She stared at me, and I stared back at her. Turning my back to her nauseously, I held my hands out in front of me and examined them. I couldn’t tell if I was checking for bites or to see if my skin had turned grey, but I saw the red stain of blood on my thumb and sighed in relief.

I heard then, in the distance, a hoard of groans and howls coming from the woods behind the building. With the strength I had left, I fled, leaving the crumpled photo and little girl behind me. Innocence does not protect you from this world, I thought to myself as I ran.