Becoming Them: A Zombie Novel

Five

     For the next few months, whenever the group went out on a looting run, I'd rehearse all that I had learned in continuous repetition until they returned, even the day that I had officially become a teenager. I had always worked outside, near the well, where the sandbags were littered around. I strung one up onto a tree with a rope, pushing it slightly so it moved, then tried to pierce into its material when firing my knives at it.

     When that sandbag had become brutally damaged —which I was pretty proud of, I must say— I propped up another sandbag and used it to perform countless punches and jabs, dodging and ducking whenever the bag swung back towards me. That bag had also successfully ripped open, its insides flooding out. It surprised me how easy it was to motivate myself to keep at it. It was easy to keep going when I channelled my anger into it. Anger over how hard it was to survive in this world. Anger over how easy it was to lose my loved ones.

     Additionally, whenever either Aaron, Paula or Cara stayed back for their shift, they'd give me a few pointers on what to do and how to do things. Aaron also thought I was ready to do a bit of one-on-one fighting with him. I lost most of the fights, but when he went a little easier on me the first few times, I did succeed in making him plunge to the ground which fed my already-growing ego a bit more each time.

     Now, I felt like I had transformed into a whole new person. The sensation of finally cracking the codes of fighting and being able to defend myself was indescribable and for once in my life, I felt confidence in surviving. And all this without Adrian finding out. A part of me believed he didn't really care what I was up to, feeling like I was merely a piece of dirt that can be gotten rid of easily. But I'd show him. I just needed to wait for the right time.

     I gave attention to the sound of nearby trucks and people hollering. The group must have come back, and by the sound of it, it was a successful run.

     I was perched on my bed when I heard them, and I almost rushed off downstairs to see if I could get a sneaky first pick of whatever they found. However, before the tips of my fingers could even touch the doorknob, my ears were filled with the deafening noise of repetitive gunshots, and I pulled back.

     It wasn't them.

     Creeping over to the window, I peered behind the soft lace curtains and detected five cars, along with two motorcycles. I counted seventeen men, evil smiles etched on their faces and sunglasses veiling their eyes. The one at the doorway sent another shot in the direction of ... who was on watch?

     ... Oh, Caleb.

     "Stop wasting bullets, Coop!" one of them bellowed.

     Another man shrugged in response. "I thought I saw the fucker move," he said.

     The thought of bloodshed of someone close to me enabled a shiver to run up my spine. Caleb was a good friend and he didn't deserve to die. A gasp escaped my lips when I saw a small trail of blood trickling down the sandy floors. Sweat began to dribble down my forehead. My hands became clammy. My head was filled with pessimistic outcomes. And suddenly, I heard the front door being slammed open.

     Instinctively, I halted my breathing as if the intruders could hear my raspy gasps. My ears could detect laughter, more gunshots, talking. Their voices were rough as if each of them already had a lifetime's worth of cigarette smoke caught in their lungs.

     "Anyone else here? I think you should, uh, check out how your friend's doin' outside," one of them shouted, a croaky chuckle trailing after, then others joined in, like killing someone was hilarious. It was frightening enough to see someone die, but dying at the hands of people who actually enjoyed killing was even worse.