A Tale of Two Earths

Chapter 4: Myron (Final Draft)

Fists, knees, and heels rained down on Myron. The skylight disappearing behind the silent horde. Covering every inch of him, the pressure mounted, forcing the air from his chest. A knee thudded on his forehead, driven by its owner's full weight. Rolling his left ear to the tile, Myron experienced mild relief.

An opening in the body parts appeared and Myron saw Tommy. He was a few feet away, under his own pile of scrabbling zombies. Myron adjusted to make room for a breath.

"Give a sign if you're okay," he forced out.

Tommy's arm twitched, or maybe a zombie pulled it. Myron inhaled again, but hands settled around his throat before he could speak. His last breath spent on a dead friend. The irony was not lost.

Darkness closed in. Myron's vision blurred. In those last moments, he swore that Tommy's hand balled up and extended a middle finger. He wanted to laugh.

Everything went dark and numb, yet he could hear quick, panting breaths, scuffling shoes, and rustling fabric. Gunshots rang out. Too far away, he thought. Soon the sounds of his attackers drifted to a distant memory.

Did I just die, Myron wondered? If so, it didn't completely suck. A great weight had been lifted from him. He felt nothing, he felt free.

Zombies, he queried? Fifteen minutes into the zombie apocalypse was not how he envisioned himself going out. Countless hours of hypothetical planning and preparation, out the window. Myron cursed himself for not being more athletic.

As he did, pulsing bright lights cut through his consciousness. Flashing with vivid clarity, they formed images that came and went. One after another in rapid succession, their details unintelligible. Towers, dishes, machines, and something too large to comprehend.

It ended as quickly as it started, leaving Myron in darkness. Like a grain of sand, floating in the ocean, his insignificance was profound. No arms, legs, hot, cold, up, down, only the awareness of self suspended in a gentle current. Where was heaven, Myron wondered? This felt too good to be hell.

Suddenly, Myron was thrown back. Or was he hit? No matter the cause, the sensation was undeniable. He moved backwards through the darkness with speed. Then, with a jolt, Myron stopped and opened his eyes.

Blinking the lights away, the exit of the mall lay before him. Tommy's arm jutted out from a mass of writhing bodies. There was no biting or chewing, a revelation that negated the zombie theory.

Next to Tommy, Myron's shoes stuck out of a similar pileup. Thick, red puddles spread wide as the creatures slipped and fought over the corpses.

Dead, he thought? Where was the afterlife? What about heaven and hell?

Chill air between Myron's legs, called his attention downward. There were two legs, hidden under blue hospital scrubs, holding him upright. They were not his legs, but he could feel them. He could feel arms, a chest, and the rest of a body. Myron bent low to glance under the mountain of non-zombies.

The resemblance was unmistakable. He was definitely dead and lifeless on the floor, yet standing and looking at himself a dozen feet away.

Myron was presented with a miraculous opportunity. A chance to do things over. Without delay, Myron seized his second chance at life and took it out of the mall.  

The mechanics of his new body were smooth. It had muscles and speed, two things that Myron had never before known.

Joy and giddiness propelled Myron along even faster when he saw them. His friends had made it. They were alive, which meant he was not alone.

"Wait up!" Myron called.

The three looked at Myron and scrambled for the faded, blue sedan. Darla took to the driver's side and Nestor slid into shotgun. Vlatko on the other hand, stood his ground and pointing a gun.

"What the hell?" Myron said, coming to a halt. Like a criminal, he raised his hands.

"Turn around," Vlatko ordered, his arm shaking.

What has gotten into him, Myron thought? Leaving me to die, threatening to kill me.

Punching Vlatko in the gut seemed an appropriate reaction, however Myron knew his own weaknesses, plus Vlatko held a gun. Diplomacy would have to suffice.

"Put that down and let's get in the car. We can talk about this later," Myron said. He lowered his hands and approached.

Vlatko pulled the trigger, flinching at the sound.

Myron recoiled. That bastard shot at me.

"Holy crap you dummy, I'm not one of them!" Myron cried. "Check my eyes."

"Don't come closer!" Vlatko said, his voice cracking.

"Vlatty, it's me," Myron begged. "C'mon man, your mom screams my name every night. OHH MYYYR-"

"Shut up," Vlatko said, cutting Myron off, "my mom's dead."

"I know, that's what makes it extra funny," Myron said.

Devoid of emotion, Vlatko's face was a blank slate. Vlatko loves a good mom joke. Oh well, Myron thought as he gave Vlatko the finger and let out a hearty laugh. A laugh that felt natural, yet sounded alien.

In that moment, Vlatko's defenses lowered, along with the gun. It could have been the mom joke, the cheesy grin, or the department store window that shattered behind them; either way, Myron was glad that Vlatko opened the back door of Darla's car and ushered him in, even if it was at gunpoint.

"Put that thing away," Myron said, climbing in and watching the flood of non-zombies pouring out of the department store.

Vlatko's expression remained unchanged.

Looking at his scrubs, Myron understood that nothing made sense. He knew who he was and they didn't. Myron couldn't blame Vlatko for being cautious, but he could blame Vlatko for leaving.