If We Survive

Chapter 23

Thursday. I don't know how I keep track of the days, but I know that's the day. When I was younger, I always saw Tursday as the best day. We never had math homework on Thursdays, for some reason, and my parents had date night every Thursday. So Thursday mean one thing to me: freedom. 

And today is Thursday. 

Bright skies, blue. Raging headache. It used to get better, with my sunglasses, because the sun wasn't always shining directly in my face, but now I have trouble getting up in the mornings. It gets better, after I sleep, but I have to give something up. My sleeping hours are much worse than my waking ones, I'll tell you that. 

I do find something useful, though.

You could say that I, uh, fell into that fortune, excusing the pun. 

See, I was in this cabin, which was a miricle enough in and of itself, and I found an exess of food. This house, it was like made by some sort of Cold War maniac, because it was decked out. It was almost too good to be true, but... From the layer of dust, I could see that it hadn't been touched since July. I would've stayed, but I kept on moving. 

It's not like "OMG, I know what's going on, but it's not like totally possible!" Because honestly, from the crap I've seen over the past six months, anything should be possible. And I've heard of people having gut feelings, like when to get the hell out of a place, and I've heard of dreams showing people the future. 

And really, it doesn't seem that insane anymore. I mean, the the Goddamned world has just up and turned into zombies, and the other half is deader than a doornail pie. And here I am, thrown the middle of it, competely alive. Like, what the fuck is wrong with this picture? Like, everybody wants to think that they're special, but the thing is we're not. We're just a whole bunch of headless chickens, running around on the blue marble that we call Earth. 

Did I mention I'm competely drunk? Well, that wonderful thing that I found in the cabin, it's called Whiskey, and the shit relives headaches like a bitch. I mean, I know about hangovers, but honestly, I don't care. 

I don't feel... Euphoric, though. I always thought, from the movies, that you're happy, but I'm not. I still feel like Cassy, just a little bit more... Depressed. And a little bit more insane, too. It's been like a months, and some days I forget how to talk. I've tried before, but it just seems wrong talking to trees. I'm going batshit crazy either way. 

I stumble around, like an idiot. It's the dead of night, and the moon looks bigger than it should. Usually, it's some distent heavanly body, far away, not here. But it feels lke it could drop down on me, at any second. 

It wouldn't be the worst way to die. 

Hiss

I hear her, long before she makes a noise. She looks farther along than the rest of the creepers that I've encountered- almost to the point of deterioration. They're not really dead, per say- they just seem sick. She's big though, big like I used to be. Let's face it: I was never the willowy, small kid that shut her mouth when she should. I was always big, loud mouthed, and had a major left hook. I say that I had no idea why the jockes wanted me, but I do. I was one BAMF. 

It's strange, how easy I kill, now. A twirl of my arms, and a snap, and it's gone. Gone from anythng, everything. Everything exept my scattered drunken memories. 

On anybody else, that would be heavy. Being under stress, they say, can do a lot to a person, but this isn't even stress anymore. It's instinct. 

And if I look myself in the face and tell the truth, I'm becoming one of them. Maybe we all are, on the inside. Monsters from another demention. It sounds like a cheesy 20s horror flick. In the end, we are the monsters, if you're into that sort of philisopical stuff. 

I don't know. I find a place, a clearing. It hasn't snowed in a bit, and the snow here is gone. It's litterd with stones, rough hewn and scatted about the feild. Unnaturally. Man-made, obviusly. It's the first time in days that I'm sober- I have to save up until the next random widerness bar comes along. 

I run my fingers through my matted hair- if I had something to cut it with, I would. Brushing the stuff is like the most annoying thing ever. The end of the world- were you have a hairbrush but not a weapon. 

I don't know what's going on, either. 

I kneel over the first rock, with a name roughly carved name in it. Apparently we weren't the only ones to make a graveyard. 

"Kimberly Henson, 2015." The stone reads. No date of birth, unless she was just a baby. I take a breath, heading to the next one. The whole damn camp was in the valley, when it happened, and... Part of me wants to stop looking, because I know I'll find someone. Someone that I used to play foseball with in the lodge, or someone that I shared a cabin with, or...

"Dean Brad Yaxley, July 15, 2015." 

Dee. 

Dee the fighter, the one who sat on the sofa for countless hours with me, playing his Xbox. Dee, my best friend. I couldn't ever imagine him being dead. 

We made a pact, a long time ago. His big brother was-is-whatever it may be- a Marine. Before I ever confided in my parents about wanting to be in the Army, I told Dee. His big brother was MIA for like six months, in which we decided on something: if either of us was ever to die, we had to leave something of our's behind. 

I reach on to my right hand, were my mother's old garnet ring sits. She gave it to me, when I was like in the fifth grade, for some reason. It's got a gem, a huge gem that looks pink as hell in the light. And it's always been the thing I've loved the most, the part of me that I never thought I'd have to leave behind. I slide it off my chunky finger, digging a small hole by the base of the rock, just deep enough. I slide it in, a tear raceing down my face. 

Why him? I don't care about anything else, hell, I've killed people, things. I didn't give a shit when I found my family, nor when they booted me out of the house. 

Dee is still trolling me, after he died. 

Right then, I do something by far dumber than anything else. 

I punched a stone. I was mad, mad, mad, mad. Mad at everything, and especially Dee, Goddamned Dee. 

I slam my fist into the stone, until my knuckles are swollen and bleeding. It's a dumbass thing to do, I just can't react like a normal person emotianally.

You know, when I was a kid, when I felt like I was in the deepest pits of sadness, you know what I did? I laughed. I just didn't know what to do, so I just burst out. 

From laughing to punching stones, I'm not taking leaps mentally here. 

Being a psycopath isn't all easy, you know.