The Undead | l.h.

one

rayne

Walking towards the dust trailer park, I slowly begin to feel the toll of the day before. The car I had been using for weeks had started to break down on me. It was in the middle of a long stretch of highway in the middle of fucking Nebraska. I had never wanted to be in Nebraska, and I didn't plan on staying. I was trying to make my way to Washington state, and by the looks of things, I had gone about 700 miles in the wrong direction. Of course, the trip wouldn't be perfect until the car broke down in a complete cluster of them. I had to fight off so many of them — the undead.

I had to do it alone. I'll admit I did try to stall and waited a few hours, but It was getting close to nightfall, and I hadn't eaten in hours. Water and food, we're the only things definitively on my mind.

I eventually left and fought them off when the crowd had dwindled into a small group of five. One thing I've learned since this whole thing started is that if you stay quiet and they can't get to you, they'll eventually get bored and forget what they were doing at that moment. It could be considered ADHD for the undead. Yes, it can be helpful at times, but some of those fuckers don't give up. It comes down to a, sometimes three-hour waiting game.

After walking all night long after the dilemma with the vehicle was even worse than me having to fight them off. But as the day was breaking, I began to see a trailer park in front of me. It was apparent, not even a single squirrel in the area. It was a miracle that couldn't have come at a better time. With every single massive step of mine that touched the dirt, my lack of energy and sleep became more noticeable to me. My brain was wanting me to stop, but I knew I needed to make it inside safely at first. That was my goal. Get inside and make sure it's safe before trying to get rest and food.

As I walked past the short rusty fence, I began to question why it was even there. It had barely reached up to my hip, and there were holes all along it. If they were trying to keep anything out, they weren't doing an excellent job of it. Anything could waltz right in without a single issue, I mean even the front gate was barren of any lock. Coming up to the first trailer I could find, it looks "homey" for an old couple on the move across the states together. I reach for the rusty handle as my hand stays firm on my knife while letting out a much-needed breath. With a quick motion, the door is flung open, and I take a small step back, allowing one of the walking to fall onto the ground instead of me. Absolute silence fills the air before I slowly make my way up the steps and into the doorway. The inside looked like it had probably been refurbished around the early 2000s, contradicting rust and chipped beige paint being on the outside.

The cupboards contained random cans of beans and dust. Dropping my bag onto the ground, I rushed to the can, which now looked like a filet to me. I rummage through the drawers before pulling out a small, yellow can opener and getting to work. It may not be the most fantastic meal I had ever had, but I promise you my mind began to think maybe this was the best thing I had ever eaten.

While scarfing down the whole can, I began to look around at the photos, seeing what looked like a new family on vacation. In a drawer, there were postcards from a few random states, giving the impression that they were on a road trip at one point. I was mainly surprised by how untouched everything looked. It's almost as if they completely vanished — no signs of anyone dying or even anyone entering who wasn't part of the family.

Although I wanted to keep looking, my eyelids were drooping more and more every minute, and my feet began making their way to the bed. I quickly laid down and closed my eyes. The fall Nebraska breeze blew in from the small crack in the window as the first morning light cascaded onto my rosy cheeks.

I missed this. I missed having a bed and the feeling of home. Because even though the place was empty and silent, I still somehow felt how lively it once was. It kept its warmth and love inside the walls. As I drifted into a fast heavy sleep, I felt something I hadn't felt in months.

Peace.