Skeletons - 𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 𝐷𝑖𝑥𝑜𝑛

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 1 - 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒂𝒈

Fuck.

It was Iris' favourite word lately. Repeated like a mantra, over and over. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The repetition gave her a little bit of comfort, but not enough. Nothing was ever enough. During trying times such as these, Iris took comfort in whatever she could. But it was hard to feel comfortable with blood on your hands. And face. Neck. Clothes. The butchered end of what was once a sledgehammer. The actual hammer part had been gone for a while, but a big stick covered in blood was as best as you could do these days.

Iris sat panting against the door to the bar, trying to ignore the smell of rotting human flesh that seemed to follow her around. A few hungry fists beat against the wood at her back, but the door held strong.

The bar was once a cheerful place, as cheerful as it could be when it smelled like stale beer and the old velour barstools it was soaked into. The wall to her left was decorated in frames filled with leather vests, the biker gang logos on the back dating back a few decades. The most recent one matching a small patch Iris kept in her pocket.

A few months ago, there were still people milling about the bar. Stu, the bartender, kept the place as tidy as he could while people took shelter from the infection. Now Stu was laid out all pretty behind the counter with his throat in shreds and a bullet hole between his eyebrows.

Corpses, memories infested the bar. Ted's reanimated body was impaled on a chair, his wiry, blood-covered arms reaching out toward Iris as she scanned everything. He was too weak to lift a pint when he was alive, nevermind pry his lifeless body up off the broken furniture. Iris used to be the only one to ever beat him at darts.

As the dead gave up with the door behind her, Iris stood up, pushing the jukebox in front of it. Her footsteps were too loud on the creaky wood, following beer and blood stains up to her little camp. Other sleeping bags were left abandoned around the small apartment over the bar, hers the only one left who's occupant had a heartbeat. She was the last one.

Carefully, and sparingly, Iris poured a bottle of water onto her hands, washing them clean of their daily sins. She never was religious, but extinction events such as this were too often associated with the wrath of God.

There had been a bag of guns out there today. Iris had made a habit of hopping rooftops across Atlanta. It was the only real way to get around when the dead flooded the street below, mindlessly wandering. She remembered the day the tanks came in, blowing up cars, shops, banks filled with people, living people dying, dead people getting back up.

There was one tank in particular that she ran past every time she went out. But someone living had been there on that roof. She'd climbed the ladder, eyes immediately drawn to the pool of blood and a pair of handcuffs. One cuff was locked to a steel bar, which had been welded to the roof, and the other was covered in fresh gore.

The door was open, but Iris had no intention of entering the department store building, not when a severed hand lay halfway between her and the door. He'd been living when he cut his hand off. But he did it well, considering the little amount of blood and flesh covering the hacksaw a few feet away.

In addition to the severed hand, there was a dead horse on the road. That was unusual only for the fact that they were in the city, and the horse was wearing a saddle. Someone had ridden it in, expecting... not this, probably. Making the point to a triangle involving the horse and the tank was a black Sheriff's duffel bag with a few gun barrels poking out of the top.

That was what she really needed, even though she appreciated the few cans of food she'd taken out of a food bank box. The city was good for scavenging, but dangerous, and unsustainable. There was a part of Iris that didn't want to leave, despite every nagging instinct telling her the opposite. The bar she inhabited had been home to her for a long time, way before the dead started walking. She didn't want to leave it behind.