by MC Mars
The sun pours through the large windows, bathing the ransacked room in a bright light. He feels an unexpected sense of shock and confusion. He has been in countless houses just like this one, all of them ransacked, dirty, rotting and messy, but this one sets him back. Its familiarity pokes through under the layer of grime and neglect. The old record player his father used to play worn Beatles vinyl on, the sound clicking as the needle picked up tiny imperfections. The last book his mother was reading left open and face down on the coffee table. Their collection of films, mixing both the terrible and classic, most of them still on the shelf. Two picture frames, both of them holding fond pictures of them. He can't see the ones that he used to appear in. He imagines they were taken down before the zombie plague. The house was always kept spotless, rarely a thing out of place. There is no reason why this house should be in a different state than all the others, but still, a part of him expected it to be unchanged. He almost expected them to still be sitting there, their faces a mix of surprise and anger as he walked in. Instead he looks upon an empty and disordered room, robbed of its soul and purpose. He needs to put them to rest.
He nudges himself onwards as he walks through the living room to the bottom of the stairs. He slowly ascends them, one hand on the rail, the other clutching the hammer, ready to strike. His worn shoes pad against the wood of the steps. Reaching the top, he gives a quick glance down the corridor. It sits in a sullen gloom, snatches of light from under doors and between doorways, dulled by the plastic visor of his gas mask. All seems quiet and still. He sets his eyes on the hanging string of the attic door. As he walks down the hallways he glances to his side and catches a glimpse of a room through a small gap in the open doorway. He stops and stares inside. The room where he'd hidden so many times, where he'd sought sanctuary and tried to forget about the rest of the house and everything that engulfed him.
He turns his back on the expanse, and closes the door behind him. He walks to the end of the corridor and tugs at the hanging cord, releasing the door and stairs up to the attic. The torch rattles as he pulls it from his backpack and ascends the stairs. The white beam from the illuminated bulb pierces the darkness of the attic, sweeping over carefully stacked cardboard boxes, each with their own handwritten labels. Linen. Photos. Crockery. Books. And behind the crates he saw them.
He steps closer, his weary muscles dragging him forwards. They burn in his thighs and his feet ache, trapped in the stuffy confines of his shoes. His laboured breath echoes loudly inside his mask, whispering his own weakness to himself as he dropped his cudgel on the floor in teary eyes.
