Daryl's Angel (10th Anniversary Edition)

Chapter 1: Awakening

Sometimes, I stand on the roof and look down at the silent city below me, and wonder if I should jump.

I'm holed up in the department store where I once worked: Bradbury's, the most mediocre place for middle-aged folks to get mediocre clothes. There used to be more survivors with me—some my coworkers, others just people searching for safety—but they've all left already. They wanted to try and survive out there even though they saw exactly what I did; they all heard the screams, the explosions, the honking and shouting as thousands of people tried to drive away from something that could not be outrun. The broadcasts said the city would be safe, that people would be protected, but I saw it all fail.

The only thing that rang true were the warnings to stay inside. I'm glad I listened to that part of the broadcast. That's probably the only reason I'm still here.

My fellow survivors chose to leave, to take their chances. Some stayed a bit longer. A few of them tried to do supply runs to gather food and never returned. I swear I've seen their faces in the corpses that wander past the windows. Their voices have started to echo in my head, repeating all the things they said as they left, one by one, until I was suddenly very much alone.

"You may have nothing to live for, but I do. My daughter...my little girl...she's out there."

"You're either the smartest bitch here or the craziest, but I ain't sticking around to find out."

"I can't take it. I...I-I I can't take it anymore! I have to leave! I can't stay here!"

I try not to dwell on it for too long. It's easier to act like I'm numb to it.

I've kept the doors locked, barricaded them with whatever I could move by myself, and tried to lay low on the upper floors. I have supplies, mostly gathered from the staff room fridge and vending machine, some left behind from the few people who were brave enough to do supply runs. I never thought I'd be using our emergency fire extinguisher to get my hands on a bag of chips, but here we are. It won't last me long and, after that, I'll be a goner.

Probably still a better fate than being eaten, but it still brings me back to the roof. Is there a life worth living anymore? I never want to see a dead person again but now the dead outnumber the living. Should I take my fate into my own hands and go out on my own terms? If I wasn't such a coward, I would have made the decision already, but I can't deny it. Deep in my bones, I want to live. There is still so much life I want to live.

I leave the roof. I tell myself I went up there because I keep hearing gunshots and the undead noises keep getting louder. I tell myself I wanted to see the commotion, but I couldn't bring myself close enough to the edge to get a peek. Whatever's going on, I'll handle it the same way I've been handling this whole ordeal—with barely concealed foolish hope that it'll all be over soon anyway, with a prayer to a God who may not be listening anymore, and with curling up and clamping my hands over my ears, singing all the parts of the songs I can remember.

I emerge from the stairwell onto a lower floor and start wandering. I used to lie around and cry, grieving the life I've lost, grieving my parents, but eventually I was too exhausted to cry anymore. I forced myself to get up and do something, to carry my grief instead of letting it pin me to the floor.

I think I must have walked the entire building by now, top to bottom, meandering because there's nothing else for me to do. I keep waiting for something to pop out at me. I hear footsteps sometimes, but I file them away with the rest of the noises. At this point, I'm sure my brain is just trying to trick me into thinking things are normal because it can't process anything else.

I emerge onto the fourth floor, where I've made my hideout. There, behind one of the payment counters, I've made a stash: sleeping bag, supplies, extra clothes, whatever I need to try and feel normal. There's a pad of paper by the register and each day at sundown, I make a little tally mark. Another day gone. I only started after I realized that I was well and truly alone, as a way to keep myself accountable, sane.