Minutes, hours, and days, all went by as slowly as the molasses I poured into the bowl mom and I used when we were making cookies just days ago. For the majority of that time, I stayed in the living room area of the bunker in the basement, my eyes would hardly ever leave the door in front of me. I would flinch heavily when claws would scratch at the fortified door, almost as if the creature on the other side was teasing me, like it was trying to coerce me into opening the barrier between us and accept my fate. Other times it would punch at it, angry screeches, though muffled, struck fear down my spine when I heard it. For whatever reason, the monster had decided it would wait for me, never once staying silent for long periods as if to let me know that as long as I was in there, it would be right outside. And it was because of that, that I always stayed in the vicinity of the entrance, a pistol remained close by for some sort of protection, and the only times I did move was to use the bathroom or run to the kitchen to grab some food. While using the bathroom, I was so afraid that it would somehow find a way inside, so that resulted in me always having the door open just enough to have the door in sight.
I only kept one light on because, in my mind, if I could convince the creature outside that no life was inside here, maybe, just maybe, it would find another poor kid to target. I kept all noise to the absolute bare minimum, well, the best I could. I managed to build a small fort of pillows, blankets, and couch cushions with food and water inside to limit the time away from my only goal: make sure that thing stays outside. If it did, ever get inside, there was one of two ways I thought of dealing with it. I can either try and kill it while running away or, if I get trapped, there was this one thing that mom told me I could do. It was the only thing I could do in that situation she would say. I would take the gun... and use it on myself. Just one bullet to the head and I would be spared from the death it would bring to me, or worse, turning into one of them.
Mom, while Dad was working late one night, sat me down in the bunker, on the very same couch behind me, and told me what to do in different situations. They raged from causing a distraction, sneaking by them, fighting them and where best to strike at, and... final resorts. She got quiet when she came to this scenario. In it, I would be at a dead end, with no way out, no help, and no weapons but only one bullet in the gun she told me to always keep by my side. To avoid falling prey to them while alive, or from turning into them, she told me, with a trembling yet firm tone, that I should use it on myself. I, of course, cried at what she was telling me, my mind trying to understand what she was telling me to do, but, once she calmed me down, she explained her reasoning. The world saw what happened in Harran, the dark clips that managed to squeeze through tight moderation about the city online managed to surface, and in them, we saw the corpses. Some were left on roads already picked clean, and others depicted monsters eating someone, like my neighbor outside. She said something like that would be unfathomably painful to go through and to survive that would only mean turning into one of them. Everything about them would be gone. Memories, their personality, all gone. And she didn't want that to happen to any of us.
Pointing to a few places on her head, she told me of the best places to hold the gun that would cause instant death. Just one bullet, one quick pull of the trigger, and I would be spared from that. When I wrapped my head around that, I nodded, feeling a bit numb yet... knowledgeable. I thought that I would never need to use that information, but every day, sitting in the darkness on the floor, I repeated the places around my head that she told me about... the ones that would save me from IT.
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'Run... Faster! RUN' My legs hurt so much, and my lungs were begging me to stop and breathe... but I can't. Not with what's behind me and what is about to happen.
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A Volatiles Claim
FanfictionI am Marcus Adams, I am 22 years old, and currently working as a medic in the Bazaar. 'Living' in a post apocalyptic world with most of humanity either dead (a walking decaying corpse) or alive and posing a bigger threat than the infected, is shitty...