Light Amidst the Darkness

Chapter Four: CR

Caden Richard

Outside, it's raining.

My knees are pulled up to my chest. My phone is buried somewhere in the cushions. After trying and failing to contact several friends (I'm an only child, my mother left my father and I when I was four, and my father was killed in a car crash shortly after my eighteenth birthday), I feel kind of detached from everybody else, a similar feeling to when I lost my father. There is no longer anything tethering me to things. I can go anywhere, do anything, and nobody will be worried about me, or angry with me, or demand I keep in touch or don't do something irrational. I've learned to embrace my solitude, my freedom. Except now, my solitude feels like a cage--like iron bars constricting over my chest. Telling me I can't go outside, I can't see what's going on, because there is no one to protect me anymore.

So, I listen to the thunder, the moans, the screams, and I feel utterly helpless.

There is nothing I can do. I'm alone in my apartment. Zombies are spilling into the town from all directions. I have no weapons, and no access to them--the stores have already been thoroughly raided, especially the supermarkets, though it's barely been three hours since the reports came into the town of zombie invasions, all around us. Nothing to fight with, no resources, no company, and a dwindling supply of food in my second-class, beaten-down fridge.

Worst of all, I have no help.

Thunder rumbles outside. The ground shakes, and people scream.

Something inside of me cracks. I'm not going to sit here and let them die out there. No one in this world cares about me enough for my life to be more valuable than the lives outside.

A wall of bricks separates me and danger, and I am about to forsake my safety in a desperate bid to do what's right, maybe for the last time.

I stand, leaving my phone behind, and grab my college bag, dumping out my laptop and textbooks. I then go through the process of filling my bag with provisions: meals and snacks, a full water bottle, a First Aid kit taken from under my sink (it was stored for emergencies, and this definitely qualifies), a knife from the kitchen (with a makeshift tinfoil sheathe), Dad's old pocket knife, a flashlight with batteries, and a second-hand waterproof watch from my childhood.

For a moment, I think I'm done, and then I realize that a kitchen knife and Swiss Army knife hardly classify as a full weapon display. I need a solid, long-range option that I can rely on to hit its mark. Turning away from my backpack, I walk into my bedroom, quickly surveying everything and picking things out from the mess of clothing strewn across the floor. My eyes zero in on the wooden baseball bat I borrowed from Tommy for last week's game, and kept forgetting to return. I wonder how he's faring now. He hasn't answered any of my calls, which is enough to tell me he wouldn't mind me borrowing his bat. I shut my eyes tight against the dark humor, and hope that he's okay. Then I walk back to the foyer, bat in hand, and face the fire exit.

Thunder. Lightning. The ground shakes worse than before, the entire apartment illuminated in an eerie white light for a split second. I listen to the china in my cupboard rattle, and stand still for a moment or two. Fear seems to stop me cold. I'm usually not scared of thunderstorms, nor have I ever been in the past. But this one is huge, and close. I feel a moment of cowardice--I want to stay inside, protected by the many stories of solid brick above my head.

Stop being a wimp, my friends would say.

Think of the other people, my father would say.

I imagine a good, faithful mother saying to me, You know what the right thing to do is, Caden. I trust you to make the right choice. Just thinking those words almost makes me break down, but this is no moment for self-pity.

Steeling my nerves, I open the door.

Below me: bedlam. A crowd of zombies is slowly succeeding at forcing a group of people backwards, one step at a side. They are a lot faster than I'd originally thought; they lunge, snap, and snarl like aggressive dogs, ripping at people who get too close. Dead bodies litter the streets--people who were mauled so badly by zombies that they couldn't even survive for a minute or two for the venom to take root, and died right there in the street. Pools of blood spill down the pavement, and screams rent the air.

My stomach churns at the sight below me, but I close the door behind me so I can't change my mind. It locks automatically, sealing me out, confirming that I can't afford to get cold feet at this point.

I study the scene. I can't save everyone. Already, the line of people is falling, gaps becoming apparent. The zombies are gaining the upper hand. There are just too many of them, and they are steadily overpowering the humans.

And yet, I manage to tell myself that I'll save one person. I'll pick one person and do everything I can to save them.

The youngest person, I decide. They'll have the longest to live for.

I find her. She's towards the back of the mob of people, holding a gun in one hand and a small, glinting knife in the other. She wipes her sopping hair out of her eyes with her forearm and looks up just in time to see a zombie preparing to lunge straight towards her.

In the open space between all of these buildings, I watch the zombie jump highest out of everyone. Everything seems frozen in the space of a moment.

The girl vaults into the air, straight backwards, to get away from the zombie. A gigantic bolt of lightning charges straight out of the sky--through the airborne zombie, down into the ground. The girl, in the air, is unaffected. Around the bolt, zombies and people alike are killed, and fall to the ground immediately, electrocuted and smoking, some even catching fire when the bolt travels through the ground.

The sound seems to drive me straight int the ground, and my feet hurt from the electricity of the bolt. Momentarily blinded by the light and effectively deaf from the sound of the bolt, I grab the railing for comfort as my vision quickly returns.

The girl, along with the few survivors left, are beating a rapid retreat, staggering as fast as humanly possible from the carnage. Steam and smoke rise into the air. Finding my legs, I tumble down the rickety fire escape after them. Rain beats to the ground--I can't hear it, but I can feel its steady rhythm and feel the drops on my head--and I don't look back as I chase the group, the last survivors, down a secluded alley.

Then, they stop. Half a dozen zombies stand in front of them. The girl, now in the lead, stops and stares at the closest zombie, several feet away from herself.

Everything escalates from there--the zombie charges at the girl, the other survivors flee, and the girl recoils, flinging the blade upwards and piercing the monster in the chest.

The zombie opens its mouth, makes a sound I can't hear, and falls limp. The girl abandons the knife to get away when the other zombies run towards her as well, turning and running towards me as fast as she can, the zombies gaining on her. I grab her hand and yank her forwards.

"Come on!" I scream. I can't hear my own voice, so she definitely can't, because she was much closer to the blast. We run for a solid thirty seconds, and then I drag her sideways into an empty street. She offers minimal physical protest, and we huddle into the doorstep of a shop, where the door is boarded up. I pound on it, but no one opens it, so we hide behind the doorframe and peek outside.

The zombies don't pause at our street; they are too busy chasing the other survivors.

The girl looks at me. Her eyes are red and puffy from excessive crying, but even in the darkness, I notice that she is beautiful. I see her lips form the word, Thanks. My ears still ringing from the lightning bolt, I nod stiffly and gesture towards the shops down the street, pressing my hands together and resting my head onto my hands to signify sleep. She nods in understanding, and we flee into the safety of darkness.