DEADSPACE

01

Of all the things to miss from before the world was snuffed out like a candle, he found himself missing Twinkies. Goddamn Twinkies.

As he pressed himself against the brick wall, blade in hand, the memory of sickeningly sweet sponge burned on his tongue. They were always Angie's favourite. He'd bought one back for her every day on his return from work, swinging the convenience store bag against his hip with a 'look what I've got, baby!', grinning as his little sister pushed her way out from the kitchen table and stumbled towards him like he'd offered a freaking puppy.

The cakes were terrible, artificial rolls of crap but they made her happy. She'd offered him half each time and he'd stomached the grease and the sugar because watching her smile as they shared it used to be the most magical thing in the world. At some point, he started loving them, too. 

Kingston Crane held his breath as the overwhelming stench of death filled the tunnel.

"Crane, can we get out now? It's been hours, and Alex stinks of piss."

"That's not me. It's those zombie assholes." Alex's whine was a constant prod in the back. "And for the record, my dad used to say that these old subway systems always stank of piss. Even before the plague hit."

Crane felt the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He held his breath and listened. Past the sound of their low bickering, past the constant drip of water from the pipes above, he heard the slow, wet footsteps grow closer. Plague victims.

He remembered the end quite clearly. Crane had always envisioned the world collapsing in on itself slowly, but the plague had been near instant. It took one tropical storm to pull down half the planet's infrastructure and leave a virus that picked off those who weren't crushed by the initial wave of debris.

Some people seemed to recover—a glimmer of hope in a global field-hospital of death. Some people would spend two days locked in fever before sitting up, blank-faced, and smiling at whoever was left to nurse them. And then they'd dive, mindless, for the closest exposed flesh, and eat, and eat, and eat.

The kids went first. Then the elderly. Soon Crane had the neighbourhood to himself with all but the zombies for company. Industry shut down. People tried to barricade themselves in their homes. The president promised a solution that never came. In a few short weeks his world became unrecognisable. No more mom. No more Angie. No more freaking Twinkies.

"Crane? Stevie is being a dick. Crane!"

Crane dropped his knife, turned around and pulled both boys towards him by the shirt collars. They went kitten-limp in his arms. Funny, he thought, how they talked their asses off in a sewer of death, but got shit-scared the minute he touched them.

"Could both of you manage to put a sock in it for ten minutes? Shut the hell up!"

He let go, and they staggered back.

"Right."

"Sorry."

Crane rolled his eyes. His fault for picking two inexperienced kids for a retrieval job. His intention had been to get them out of camp, train them up into hunters, and bring in that much more food. Stupid plan.

"Do you at least hear their footsteps?" He resumed position against the brickwork.

"No. Wait, yeah. Past the water dripping."

"Good." Crane's breath quickened. "But they aren't aware of us yet. Amazingly." The last word slipped out as a low mutter.

"So... the victims' hearing isn't great?" Alex seemed eager to regain favour. "Why are we even hiding, then?"