3: Last Days as a Human

II: Living With the Undead

Some women are lost in the fire.

Some women are built from it.

Michelle K.

“It’s not looking good, Ed.” Rose arranged the spare shells, loading each weapon and arranging them within easy reach. She glanced around the house, worry lines etched along her forehead. “There are a lot of those... things out there. We can’t hope to fight them all off.”

“I know,” her husband acknowledged, glancing out the window at the shadowy figures banging on the sides of the house. “I’m trying to think of a way out, but I’m drawing a blank.”

“Maybe I can try something?” Lisa Maria offered. “I can run outside and start the truck so you can hurry out and jump in.”

“Honey, we’re not about to risk you venturing out. These things smell blood and will rip anything living apart. You got lucky before, but now it’s a ... fight to the death.”

“Hopefully theirs,” Ed said, hefting his rifle as he peered out another crack in the boarded-up windows.

The family had been on the run for several years. Like everyone else, they initially joined another group to pool resources and support each other, but it didn’t work out. The others left them standing exposed in a field while they grabbed their vehicles and fled without a backward glance. After that, Lisa Marie’s father, Ed Robinson, swore he’d never trust another human again. “They’re little better than the undead. I wouldn’t be surprised to see them gnawing on someone’s leg. If so, I wouldn’t hesitate to put ‘em down like the soulless creatures they are! At least, with the zombies, you know what to expect. They’re consistent. Humans are treacherous!”

They’d discovered this homestead recently. It possessed solid walls, a working fireplace with plenty of aged firewood and food in the pantry. It was isolated, which pleased Ed. Yet the isolation which attracted them also drew the undead. They were inundated with zombies meandering past. It was almost a common thoroughfare for the recently departed. There was little chance of encounters with humans with guns and no one stopped them. Lisa often wondered where they were all going and what they were searching for.

Weeks ago, Lisa and her father were outside when her mother, Rose Marie Robinson, was attacked. Her father rushed to her defense, caving in a zombie’s skull with an axe. He escorted his wife inside. Instead of following, Lisa Marie stood watching as two other zombies ran after them, drawn by the violence and blood. However, they bypassed Lisa, never giving her a second glance.

She edged towards their truck and grabbed the crate of ammo and medical supplies they’d just located. The zombies pounded on the door her parents had slammed shut, so she slid out of the truck, quietly latched the door, and walked towards the house. They never noticed a thing. She realized she was stymied since they blocked her access. Putting her supplies down, she surveyed her immediate surroundings and found a large rock. Turning, she hurled it at the truck’s windshield, only it bounced off. The zombies turned, but returned to pounding on the door. She searched for another, moved closer and heaved it at the vehicle’s back window.

This time, the window shattered. Distracted, the undead turned and shambled towards the truck, walking right by her as she stood stock still, terrified of giving herself away. Once past, Lisa picked up the supplies and calmly returned to the house, surprising her family when she entered undisturbed.

Since then, Lisa Marie was the one to venture out. She never confronted the zombies, but they never seemed to notice her. She’d visit the well, pump water, pour it into water bottles and carry them inside. She did the same with firewood, never once drawing the ire of the zombies surrounding the house.

Until today, that is.

They got up and, seeing no undead, took the opportunity to venture out. They were reinforcing some damaged sections of the house, her father pounding nails. They discussed driving into town to continue searching for supplies, when a couple zombies appeared. Noting her parents, they rushed forwards. Her father, experienced with battling the undead, killed them with his hunting rifle. Only ... the sound attracted others in the woods surrounding the house. He grabbed his wife’s hand, motioned for Lisa to follow, and ran for the house, waving his rifle. As the other zombies closed, he stopped to provide cover fire as his family raced to safety. When he reentered the house, slamming the door shut, they were surrounded by angry zombies howling for blood. And now...

The walls rattled as a new assault unfolded, a window shattered upstairs. Lisa’s father readied two pistols, shoving one in his trousers. Her mother took the rifle. Ed whittled down those approaching the house, but that was no longer an option. There were too many, too close at hand. A glass broke and they discovered a bloody hand reaching in through the opening of a ripped-off board. Her father fired through the 4x6 covering the window, when a door breaking called him away.

They realized it was coming down to the wire. They needed to fight off each attacking zombie, with limited supplies, before more arrived to take their place.

“Lisa,” her father said, “You need to hide. Whatever you do or hear, remain hidden. Don’t venture out.”

“I can help,” she insisted. “I can shoot too!”

“No, Lisa Marie,” her mother lectured. “We don’t have enough ammunition. If we know you’re protected, we can concentrate on fighting. Stay safe, and if they make it in, don’t make a sound.”

Nine-year-old Lisa Marie watched her parents, understanding this was the last time she’d ever see them. As a tear streamed down her cheek, she tried to memorize their faces. Her mother had her long brown curly hair. She had pale skin, with freckles over her cheeks, something else Lisa inherited from her. For the first time, Lisa realized how thin and emaciated her mother was, like she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in years. Still, she remembered her mother barring her teeth and playfully growling, to prove how fierce the family was, promising her she’d always protect them. She understood that’s what they were doing now.

Her father, always the planner and active participant in everything, was even thinner. Never a big man, he almost looked like a stick figure. There was little meat on his bones. He preferred several days beard growth, arguing it helped him blend into his surroundings, although Lisa always complained it scratched when he’d kiss her. “That’s to keep the zombies from smooching me,” he teased. Now she longed for one last kiss.

Instead, she wiped her eyes, turned and ran to the kitchen, lest she start to cry—something her family always insisted big girls never do since it attracts hungry demons. She went to the counter and grabbed a sharp paring knife and meat cleaver, and crawled under the sink, pulling the door shut behind her. Knocking the various cleaning supplies over, she slithered to the back and wedged herself in the corner, behind the ancient copper pipes, and waited.