Hard Candy [Carl Grimes/The Walking Dead]

Apocalypse

I can't look away. It's almost as if I'm being forced, drawn into looking at the sheer horror.

My siblings--my dear, naive little brother and sister--are bent over my mother, gnawing at her body. Her torso is eviscerated, her abdomen completely emptied of its contents, which are going into my siblings' mouths.

Oh my god, there is blood everywhere.

It's all over my siblings, my mother is soaked in it, and I'm now standing in a puddle. It's even starting to run down the stairs. I can't even move. It's as if I'm in a tableau, frozen in time. Lex and Mel don't even notice me. They're too intent on their vicious task.

I cannot describe the sheer horror of watching two young children you've known and loved most of your life butchering the woman who gave birth to you and loved you unconditionally. It's like your mind and body shut down almost, simply unable to cope with the situation. You can't think, you can't move, you can hardly even breathe. Awful doesn't even begin to describe it. It's not just horrible. It tears you apart from the inside out. Everything you ever believed it suddenly a lie. You can never unsee it. It haunts you like a vengeful spirit.

Unlike the movies, I don't drop to my knees and start wailing over my mother's corpse. I don't even shed a single tear. The paralyzing nausea won't let me. I don't even make a sound, knowing it will trigger something, mainly a reaction from Lex and Mel, which is something I cannot deal with. They're not my siblings anymore. They're gone. They don't even look like them. Their faces are rotting, chunks of flesh just fallen off. You can see their jaws and teeth.

What in earth do I do now? My brain is slowly starting to resume like a scratched DVD tries to play. I have my situation now. What do I do though? They still haven't seen me. I turn my head back to my room, which is neat and tidy and unassuming, as if the most brutal sight is not happening less than two yards away. My bed is still warm and comforting. I could crawl back under the covers and wait for them to come for me. My desk is still well-organized. I could sit down and finish my book before they come rip the flesh from my bones like licorice strips. The window is still slightly open. I could--

The window. Hallelujah.

It leads straight to the room and locks from the outside. I always thought a lock on the outside was the most ridiculous idea, but now I see it might just save my ass. Taking one last glance at the bloody mess that used to be my mom, I slowly pull the door closed. Or at least I try.

It creaks.

Lex's head whips around so fast it looks like it's unhinged. I gasp. She bares her (already bared) teeth and leaps to her feet. I don't even have time to scream before she and Mel are on their feet and hurtling towards my room. I close my eyes as my hands automatically raise and I shove them back into the hall. Mel's head smashes into the wall, and he seems still. That's when I start bawling. What have I done, what am I doing, he's just a child. Then I remind myself he just ripped apart my poor mother and that he is no longer the adorable, blue-eyed little boy I loved even when he woke me at dawn. It takes me much more strength and consoling to do the same to Lex, because she's so much younger and didn't deserve this. I almost don't shove her, until I see Mel's head lolling around and realize it's my life or... my life for them.

I slam the door shut and lock it. Almost immediately after the latch clicks into place I can hear them resume scratching at my door, and the gnawing continues. Sick to my stomach, I bend at the waist and vomit. The tears really start flowing now. I collapse on my rug in a fetal position and just wail, not caring if they hear. What is this, why is this happening, why me? Why THEM? I can't pick myself up for a long time.

* * *

Finally, I've cried myself out. Shakily raising myself up on my hand and knees, I look at the clock, which now reads 5:07 am. The new sun is just starting to rise. I finally have a theory for what's going on here.

It's a zombie apocalypse.

We've all seen them glorified--what with the success of Dawn on the Dead, Shaun of the Dead, and countless others. I happen to love horror movies, especially zombie ones. I love the feeling of being scared, of being on edge. In fact, my friends and I spent many an hour over weekends and free periods thinking up plans and making blueprints in case it actually did happen. We made checklists and maps and reminders; in fact I still have mine from a few months ago...

I sit up. I still have them.

Would they actually be of use now? They must in some way. The maps are detailed and precise--I would know. That was my job to make them. I have my survival kit, my bag I decided would be used in such an event, my outfit. We had thought out every idea and logic or our plans. We truly spent time on these ideas. Maybe I can actually survive this. For a decent time at least. I'm starting to get excited.

No. I shake my head. You think you can survive a plague of flesh-eaters with a little survival map and duct tape? Forget it. It won't work.

No. I have to try. I look over at my door.

For them. I have to outlast this. For them and the life they never had.

It takes a bit of time hunting down everything I need. First I get dressed into my outfit of choice: A plain black T-shirt with a camo hoodie overtop and a forest-green windbreaker. Cutoffs that seemed a lot longer (and less tight) when I bought them because it's mid-July. Ankle socks underneath beige, leather knee-high boots with excellent treads for running.

Then I look through my pre-packed bag, a plain black backpack. Multiple maps of the neighborhood, city, state, and entire country, copied from Google Maps, check. Sleeping bag, check. A flashlight and headlamp and three packs of batteries, check. Several water bottles, check. Dad's favourite steak knife (he's been "missing" it since November), check. Six cans of Alphabet Soup, check. Three of my favourite books, timeless classics I never get bored of (Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer, To Kill A Mockingbird), check check check. Seven packs of Trident, check. And what else? Ah right. Duct tape. Serves for every purpose but food. CHECK.

I add to my already-full bag my notebook and iPod, for the soul reason that I absolutely cannot live without music. Preferably dubstep. The kind of music that does a good job of distracting you from everything, which is exactly what I need right now.

The window isn't very big, but I manage to squeeze through. It's now almost 7. I'm wide-awake. I crawl around the side of the house and find a spot that I can clearly see the street from, but that at the same time I'm well hidden by the trees. Which is good, because the street is filled with zombies.

Well, maybe not filled (I live in a pretty small community outside of Atlanta), but there's a good number, between 15 and 25 I'd say, just wandering about. Still, it's a lot, and I'm not too keen on the idea of taking them all on myself. I suddenly realize hours of grief, horror and preparation have taken their toll on me. I'm extremely tired. Yawning, I stretch my sleeping bag out on the sun-softened shingles and curl up inside it.

I dream horrible dreams.