The Last Alive

Chapter Three - What Life?

 Chapter Three

What Life?

I rolled off the old bed and dragged myself up. The nap had been restless and nothing, but images of my zombie sister flooded my mind. I stood in front of the dirty window watching the sun set beyond the border. It sank below the remains of the city casting purple and orange streaks across the sky. Despite where we were and what was going on the sunset was beautiful. Just another day in paradise, I bitterly thought to myself. I hated the rare quiet moments I got to myself. I felt so alone and ended up lost in my memories. I glanced at the photo of Becca and me from years ago that sat on the milk crate substituting for a night stand. I remembered the day that photo was taken. We were on our first spring break. The beach was beautiful, the sand hot, the water warm, and the sun kissed our skin. That was one of the best days of our lives. We were so happy. So carefree. Becca's warm smile could brighten any room she walked into. Her happiness was infectious. Now Becca was dead. Well she was undead, and she was still infectious. I wanted nothing more than to go back to that day. I wished I could have told her how hard the past four years had been without her.

"Emma? Where are you, Emma?" My mother's panicked voice floated up from the small kitchen.

"I'm up here, mom," I called down.

"Don't do that," she replied sternly.

"Don't do what? I'm just up here. Don't worry. I'm not going to venture out of the city limits from my room. There isn't some mystical portal from my closet to the rest of the world." I stood at the top of the stairs looking down at the woman.

"I know. I just worry," she said quietly.

The zombiepocalypse sucked her of life more so than the rest of us. She'd lost one child, the other was there when it happened, and she had no idea what happened to the rest of the family. Dad should be as affected, but he did a better job hiding his feelings than mom. Her tired face aged her way beyond her forty-eight years.

"You don't have to, Mom." I tried to reassure her.

"I know." She furrowed her brow and wiped her hands on the worn apron around her waist.

It was the one Becca and I got her for Mother's Day six years ago. At one point it had been pink with small blue flowers on it. Now it was nothing more than a faded rag with strings. She sighed heavily and walked away. I could hear the clinking of dishes as she finished cleaning up from dinner. I went to the tattered mattress lying on the barren floor. The faded purple comforter smoothed and folded over nicely was mom's mild attempts at making the old building a home; but it wasn't. The remains of that building would never be home. I craved the wide-open spaces of our farm. I stared out the window again. The lighters went around to the street lamps and the occasional barrel fire. Now-a-days it was the only light we had at night. Electricity had been long gone. Indoor plumbing was unfortunately gone. Hot showers were on-existent. The luxuries of life we had before the zombiepocalypse were nothing but a distant memory. What few belongings we could squeeze into our suitcases was all we had in the entire world, and our two pets. Sadie, my German shepherd, lay near me snoozing peacefully and Muffin, my fat cat was perched on the window sill. Her tail twitched, and her ears were alert. Every now and then a low growl escaped her throat.

"Calm down, Muffin. It's okay here. Nothing can get us here. We're safe," I said scratching the cats head.

She purred in response pushing up on my hand. I looked down at the street and watched as people filed into the many buildings of what remained of downtown Pittsburgh. Those of us who survived the first wave of infection took up refuge in the city when we were overrun on the outskirts. Two sides were blocked off from the world by dark, murky rivers. The only area left connecting us to the outside world was thoroughly protected by police, military, and armed civilians. Of course, the reinforced blockade didn't hurt. The bridges leading to the city were blown up at the beginning to prevent any of the undead from coming over. Four years. My twenty-fourth birthday just passed, and we were twenty when Becca got sick. She's still out there somewhere. At least I think she is. I didn't kill her. Who can kill their sister? Even if they were a flesh-eating zombie. I thought I saw her last year at the border, but they all look the same after a while. So, I can't be sure it was her. I closed my eyes and sighed heavily. Of all the people that I'd lost over time I missed Becca the most.