First Steps | A Zombie Apocalypse Story (Completed)

Day 15.3

Clarissa

I look forward, messing with the ends of my hair. There are a lot of those creatures up ahead; there's at least a minimum of a dozen and a half. I don't know how Bobby got around them.

"How are we gonna avoid all of them?"

"We just gotta run through," Jerry replies, rubbing the sweat off his forehead.

"What about your ankle?" I ask, chewing on the bottom of my lip anxiously. The odor of the walkers strengthens as they come closer.

"We don't have time to think about that. Just go and don't look back or worry about me," he says, pushing my back forward. I look back at him with worried eyes before running as fast as I could with a heavy backpack on me. A few of those creatures begin to crowd around me. Panicked, I pull out the gun I have. I aim upward, shooting one blank in the head. The putrid smell of its blood overwhelms my senses as it splatters all over my face and shirt. I quickly rub my face with the inner part of my arm. Another one grabs my arm in the middle of me rubbing off the blood. I also shoot it straight in the forehead, fortunately not missing my target because of its close proximity.

Shoot.

I've gotta be more careful with my ammo. The third one that tries to get at me, I push away instead, causing another one to topple over beneath it. I look back again, looking for eyes on Jerry. Where could he be? More of the walkers shuffle their way closer again. I look over the crowd one more time, not seeing him nearby or amongst them. Something grabs my shoulders from behind, a slurry of fear and panic rising. I try turning around, but am unable to with the strong grip.

"Shit!" I say, thinking this is the end as the walkers continue to crowd closer to me. I raise my gun quickly, ready to pull the trigger when I hear a voice.

"It's me," a voice I couldn't make out said. Amidst the chaos, my senses become weak. I'm able to turn around, almost expecting it to be my fiancé, taking me with open arms to death, whatever that may conclude to.

"It's just me! Don't shoot," he says, dark, thick blood and strings of fleshy chunks all over his face, hair, and clothes.

"Oh my God, Bobby. I thought you were an infected."

Instant relief, but also sadness lays over my being. A large part of me wanted it to be Taylor. He clears a walker, making us safe for a short moment.

"We'll talk later. Put this on." I look at the article of clothing, my face primed with disgust. It was a long jacket that was covered in blood and gobs of what I think was human just a short while ago. Or at least the walking corpse of what was a human in the old world.

"Trust me how I trust you," he whispers. Not having much time before I'd become a five-course meal, I take of my bookbag reluctantly. I put it on, almost gagging as the soggy jacket went over my skin. He stops me for a moment, reaching down. I put my bag back on. My eyes widen when he dips a piece of cloth into a pool of blood that was spread around a dead body. He brings the cloth to my neck and parts of my face, rubbing the warm, sticky blood on my bare skin.

"Put the rest on the front of your shirt," he whispers, putting the cloth out for me to reach.

"I-I can't," I say through a gag, ready to throw up at the gore caked on my face like a ninth-grader who puts on way too much foundation. He began to rub the cloth up and down my shirt.