Fallout

So, I've decided to write a story that takes place in a post-apocalyptic society because I find stories like that really interesting. Also, I'm obsessed with The Walking Dead, so there's that. XD (Though, please note that this story is in no way related the the show, and all ideas and characters are products of my own imagination.)

That being said, kindly refrain from plagiarizing! It's way more rewarding to receive praise for your originality than to take credit for someone else's ideas!

Please remember to vote if you enjoyed and comment anything concerning the story. Thanks!

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We burst through the threshold of a stranger's house, slamming the door behind us. Isaac fumbles desperately with the latch, trying to make it cooperate, but his attempts are futile.

"Don't bother," I sigh, "It's busted."

He is shaking violently, taking deep, gasping breaths to calm himself as he slumps against the closed door for support. It isn't until I notice his current state that I realized that I, myself, am trembling. I slowly lift the drapes which shroud the window closest to the front door, only enough to just peer out. My eyes scan the streets quickly for any signs that we are being followed. When I find nothing, I allow the curtain to fall, smothering any light that seeped into the home and enveloping us once again in darkness.

"That was a close one," I remark, referring to the horde of rippers we had just averted. Rippers are the undead corpses that now roam the earth, twisting fear into the heart of every survivor and turning the living against one another. "Trust no one." This is our new code. This is how we have to live now if we want a shot at making it until a cure is found. At this point, though, with who knows how much of the population dead (or undead), I don't think we are getting one.

They were referred to as "zombies" in the stupid horror movies Isaac and I used to watch on rainy days. I remember how we would make fun of the ridiculousness of it all, but the reality is, the mutations that now walk among us are all too real, and so much worse than anything Hollywood could conjure up.

I remember when this all first started- the end of the world, I mean. I remember I couldn't even think of a name for them, too afraid that having a name would prove how real this was. I was afraid that it would force me to accept that my family was gone and that I would never see them again. I didn't want to think about how Isaac is the only remnant of what used to be. I was in- well, I suppose denial is the right word? But then I grew up. We named the creatures appropriately for what was, as far as we could tell, the only thing they did. And the more I accepted that this was how the world worked now, the better I became at living in it.

The house is completely trashed, just like every other house in this town, this country-Hell, who knows? Maybe the whole world has gone to shit. A fine layer of dust has settled on practically every exposed surface. The air is stale and musty, having been stagnant for so long, only adding to the vacant atmosphere. There are visible outlines on the from where photographs used to be, and empty drawers are left open. It is obvious that whoever lived here must have left in a hurry with little care of the mess they left behind. But it's as good as we are going to get for now, being the nomads that we are, and we aren't in the position to be picky. Maybe, with a little reinforcement, we might actually be able to get some sleep tonight.

My eyes grow heavy at the thought of a good sleep, something of which we haven't been allowed since the outbreak two months ago.

No, not yet. There is still a lot that must be done.

"Here," I whisper. "Gimme a hand with this."

We push a torn, overturned chair toward the door, barricading it. I step back to evaluate how effective it would be before deciding to push another piece of furniture against the door. Just in case. This is another thing we've learned; you can never be too cautious now.

"We should probably clear the house. We may still have company," I say, nodding my head toward the staircase.

Isaac nods and pulls out his gun, but I put my hand on his and shake my head. "It'll be like ringing a dinner bell, I'm not sure how close the horde my still be to us. We also have no idea how long this thing is gonna last, so we have to start thinking about conserving our ammo. Every bullet counts." I hand him a knife instead.

He seems a little doubtful, but grips the weapon in his hand and nods. "Ready?"

I draw my own knife. "Ready."

Together we ascend the stairs, stopping every other step to listen for a shuffle of feet or the creaking of a loose floor board. When we reach the top, he gestures with his hands to split up. We have gotten good at communicating this way in the past two months. I point toward the room I plan on clearing and he points at his. The door to my room is ajar, so with my hand that is not holding the knife, I push it open slowly. I slip through the door as quietly as I can and scan the room.

In the far corner, a ripper snarls from its place trapped under a fallen piece of furniture. It gnashes its teeth and throws its arms out at me, wanting nothing more than to sink its fangs into my throat. I approach it slowly, making sure that nothing can take me by surprise, covering every scenario in my head. I lunge at the creature and plunge my knife into its skull, trying not to think about how I've lost my sympathy for those who used to be human, too, as I watch the light drains from its bloodshot eyes and feel it go limp. I rip a piece of its shirt off and wipe the blood from my knife.

Isaac walks into the room, "Mine was clear, what about- oh." He glances at the ripper, and then at my shirt, which is apparently stained with blood. At least it's not mine.

"I took care of it," I reply nonchalantly.

He gives me the 'concerned best friend' look. "Faith..."

"I said I took care of it."

"You could've called me so that I could help you."

"I didn't need help." I cross my arms, feeling as though he had just insulted my ability. "Do you think I can't handle myself?"

"Not at all," He defends. "You are the strongest person I know, it's just that..." He trails off, chewing on his lip.

"Well, go on. What's stopping you?" I move closer to him. "Just spit it out."

"Ok, um, I just think that- Well, you've changed, Faith. You're different, somehow, colder. I wish you would tell me what you are thinking."

"You don't want to know what I am thinking." I break my hold on his eyes, hating how vulnerable I must look to him.

"This is what I'm talkin' about! You put up this wall, and I feel like I don't know you anymore!"

I glare at the floor, feeling a tear slip down my cheek. "No, hey, don't cry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad." He cups my chin in his hand and looks into my eyes. "You don't deserve this, no one does. The world has turned everyone against each other, but we can't be like everyone else. We are better than that. If you can't depend on anyone else, you can depend on me. Okay?"

"Okay," I whisper back.

He wraps his arms around me and he feels strong and warm and smells of fresh pine, and I never want to let go.

But there are different plans for us.