Light Amidst the Darkness

Chapter Two: RR

Rose Ryan

I've known about the zombies for quite some time. The invasion started in little trickles: One boy was announced dead after being nearly ripped to shreds by one of the monsters; a family discovered one in their home a week later. I was visiting my friend in the hospital, who is dying from leukemia, when they brought in the body of the second zombie. What must have been congealed blood--lumpy and black and oozing, it made my stomach churn--was leaking from its chest. Its eyes were a blank white and its mouth was open, with a row of rotting, crooked teeth inside. Its skin was loose and a mottled green, its hair sparse and long. I shuddered and wouldn't let Lizzie see what I had just seen.

I went home, traumatized, only to find out two days later that Lizzie has finally passed. I go to her funeral and am glad that she has not seen what I have seen; it will be forever imprinted on my mind and I'm glad it hadn't tormented her in her final moments. Her little brother John, who is thirteen, can't really hold himself together and it is an awful sight for me. Afterwards, I go home and lock myself in my room and cry for three or four hours straight. I have just lost an irreplaceable friend. It isn't fair.

Afterwards, I turn on the TV, trying to keep myself busy. The news says that a horde of zombies is stumbling around the outskirts of New York. The entire lower half has evacuated and they are trying to blockade the Washington Bridge, where the zombies are inching their way across, as they find suitable guns.

The lower half has my family in it. I want to contact them. I reach for my phone, when I hear a muffled sound through my window. Is that a scream?

I leave the TV on and run to my porch. The second I open my window, I confirm my fear: yes, people are screaming. People are running through the streets, trying to get away as a pack of five zombies, missed by the television, stagger towards pedestrians. I run inside, grab the key hidden in my wallet, and scrabble at the lock for the drawer right by my night table. Opening it, I seize the little pistol that I've locked up in my drawer and return to the window.

Remember what Dad taught you, Rose, I think to myself. Knees shoulder-width apart. Steady. Both eyes open. That's good--finger on the trigger. Keep your aim. There are people running around. These are moving targets. This isn't practice anymore, Rose. Steady now. You can't mess up. You can't hurt someone.

One, two, three, four, five. I expected time to slow down, but instead it has sped up. Three of them fall; two get shot in their arm or leg and don't even react besides being pushed backwards by the force.

Very good, but I can't afford to get distracted. I aim at the head of one of the remaining zombies, fire, and miss. The bullet hits the sidewalk.

That could have been a person, Rose. Watch it.

I shoot again, and hit it directly in the head, which snaps backward as it immediately falls as limp as a rag doll, collapsing in the middle of the street. Its fellow looks at the bodies of its four fallen companions, roars, and starts directly towards me, its blank white eyes unblinking.

I aim, fire at its chest, and hit its stomach. It looks down, then back up at me, and opens its mouth in a taunting way, revealing yellowing teeth and dark blood, darker than it should be.

CONCENTRATE, Rose!

I hit it again, this time in its chest, and it immediately collapses like a puppet whose strings were cut.

The forehead and the chest are the only two places you can hit where it goes down--kind of like a regular person. I tell myself they were alive, even though you can smell the rotting reek of decay from here.

I set the gun down on the windowsill, my fingers trembling. I remember the raw force that shot through my arm as I pulled the trigger. I want comfort; I want home.

That reminds me. I go straight to my phone and dial my mother's cell. One ring, two rings, three. I tap my toes impatiently on the floor. The call goes to voicemail. Tears fill my eyes and I want to fling the phone down in frustration, but I force myself to calm down and dial my father's number. He picks up on the fifth ring, right before the call goes to voicemail.

"Rose." I hear sirens on his line, and people screaming. "I'm glad you're okay. Have you reached your mother?"

I feel like I'm being punched in the gut. "No. Where are you?"

"Seventy-second street. And you?"

"In my apartment. Dad, is Georgia okay? And Eliza?"

Georgia is my younger sister. She's only eight. Eliza's sixteen, my other sister.

"Yes, they're right next to me. We're going to your apartment, alright?"

"Okay," I say. "Do you know where Mom might be?"

"I haven't seen her since they told us to evacuate. She was supposed to be going to the supermarket, but I don't know where she is now. Try her again. I have to go. Love you."

"Love you, too," I say, but the line's already dead. I sit on the floor, my breathing shallow. Mom is okay, I tell myself. Mom is okay.

I dial her number again and press speaker. Again, the call goes to voicemail. I slam my fist against the floor, tears now streaming down my cheeks, as I call her again. "Mom," I whisper.

Twenty-three calls. They all go straight to voicemail. I scream in fear.