Outlast

Ryse Sanders

The drawstring of a bow is pulled back, one after the other, and aimed at their respective targets. The resounding hits are deafening to those unaccustomed to the noise, and some of the very few spectators present cover their ears, cringing as they do.

It's only practice, but there are people who insist on attending each time, camped out on the side with chairs and towels like they're at the beach. I don't understand it.

There are only three targets, and seven of us, so four at any time are just watching.

"Rachel, remember the form," someone says from beside me. My friend flushes in embarrassment and lowers her bow, walking away from the target.

"You're up, Ryse."

"Watch and learn," I grin, knowing full well that I am the best archer here. I take up my usual bow, just a bit too large even after all these years, and pull out an arrow. I make a big show of adjusting my feet and smirk at the others, mostly the ones who had stopped to watch. One girl stares right at me. Jessica? Amy? I never was good at names.

"See something you like?"

No, she's looking past me. All eyes on her now, an arm rises from her side, shaking, as she points to the window on the far side of the building, in time with a loud banging.

What appears to be a man in his thirties knocks purposefully. Why?

"We'll let you in, go to the door like a normal person," I mutter.

I walk closer before stopping dead in my tracks. Someone else walks another couple steps before following my lead.

"What in hell.."

The thing at the window pounds wildly, snarling, frothing at the mouth, clawing at the glass. Blood covers the entire left side of his body, and one hand lashes out weakly. A hole in his shirt on the shoulder, among other things, draws my attention, and I can't help but stare. A nasty wound makes its way into view as he shifts about.

"He should be dead," the girl says.

"What are you talking about, Jesse?" I don't know how else to reply other than with the name I've only just remembered.

"He's clearly moving." My eyes are fixed on the zombie-like being, feeling sick to my stomach, and fascinated beyond words. It's probably a good thing I'm not hemophobic or the type to pass out at the sight of blood.

"But I killed him!" A startling confession forcefully tears my gaze from the strange visitor. Our spectators have lost their calm atmosphere and now watch warily. Some stand and walk quickly to the other exit. They know something is wrong.

"When did this happen, Jesse," I ask, my voice monotone, trying to keep control over the situation.

"Before I came to practice," she stammers, glancing at the others.

"I think it's a zombie. No one living could take a bullet, bleed that much, and walk all over the place like that."

I glare at the one speaking. It won't help to frighten anyone, and he's done just that. His words drift over to where there are still people sitting, and I can see the building panic in their eyes, coupled with disbelief.

I look over at the man once more, only to see a spiderweb crack forming in the glass, steadily increasing in size.

"How did you know it was a bullet?"

"You think stabbing would leave such a clean entry?

Just as we turn to resume practice, the zombie slams its body into the glass. Red smears are left as its limp arm drags against the glass.

Someone screams, quick and short, more startled than genuinely terrified, but it scares the others, and many make a run for the door, abandoning their belongings and common sense.

The door near the zombie opens, and someone runs through, followed by a few more who were nearby.

It turns to watch them for a few seconds, then shambles toward the entrance, seeking something other than fast food.

Everyone watches its calculated desperation, myself the exception.

I'm trying to find a way out of this mess, and preferably alive.

There are too many people. Easily twenty. I know a few and recognize several others, but that still leaves a dozen strangers to be dealt with.

I raise my bow and aim. Breathe. Fire.

And arrow flies through the air and shatters the glass. The zombie falls horrifically, shot through the eye.

Those nearest the window suffered a few cuts, but they'll live.

This shocking action has drawn most of the attention to me, but some stare at the window, and still others cower in their respective corner.

"I figure by now, in this room, everyone has unconsciously put themselves into one of three groups."

I lower my bow, observing the reactions of the others. I count three who might follow me out right now.

"The first is those who'd rather group up with someone who knows what they're doing. I'll be honest, I don't think anyone knows what they're doing. This-" I gesture toward the zombie. "This could be an isolated case. Maybe it was a prank. At this point, it would be too risky to do anything.

"I'll tell you now, I'm part of the second group. I would willingly choose to go off on my own, with maybe one or two others."

I fix my gaze on the few I noticed earlier, steadily making my way to where the arrows are kept, quiver in hand. I grab a second and fill them both to bursting. The others watch in silent confusion. They didn't take my words seriously.

"Good luck to the cowardly third group, who can't do anything except cry and moan and try not to piss themselves."

And I walk out, bow in hand, whistling quietly, feeling their eyes on my back.