They Want My Body

A... Crappy... introduction.

Have you ever had a near-death experience? Felt that rush of adrenalin corse throughout your system, leaving a delicious and thrilling tingling sensation in its wake? Have you ever truly thought that you were fixing to die?

You could say I was feeling that at this exact moment, trying desperatly to hold the door shut of the port-a-potty I was currently trapped in. Three decomposing men and one newly-turned lady, pounded their putrid and slightly swollen fists against the plastic barrier that seperated us. Their guttural moaning sending shivers down my spine. Every few seconds the sound of teeth snapping together with enough force to cleanly bite off a finger would sound, making their intent clear.

I cursed at myself for being so reckless.

But not because I was in this situation. Nearly getting killed was now a fact of life, an every day issue.

My life had flashed before my eyes so many times that I was begining to get bored of watching it.

No, I wasn't mad that I was fixing to die.

However, I was pissed about having to suffer the embarrassment of dying in a portable toilet. I'm sure many a construction worker had graced this very seat.

'Why couldn't I have died outside with my dignity intact?' I wondered while glaring at the stained walls.

Well, as much dignity that one could muster while being eaten alive by their own species, anyways.

I grit my teeth and kept my legs strained against the far wall of the small cubicle, the awkward angle keeping me from locking my knees. I could feel each pounding of the dead's fist reverberate through my back that was pressed against the door.

'Just keep quiet, Scar. They'll eventually forget what they're doing and wonder off.' I mentally comforted myself.

That's the thing about the dead, their intelligence just isn't what it used to be. That was probably the only reason I had survived this long.

I smirked but then sobered up at the realisation of where exactly I was and how exactly I had gotten here.

Subconsciously, I pulled my worn backpack closer, cradling the precious supplies in my lap. I carefully unzipped the top of the bag just enough to reach inside and touch the smooth, cool boxes of asthma medication that I had risked my life for. My mind wandered to my thirteen year-old brother, Carter.

Before the world had went to crap I used to make fun of him for his illness. I'd even go as far as hiding his inhaler, find a way to bring it up in conversation, and watch as he would freak out over losing it. And now I was clutching it to my chest as if it were my life-line.

Carter had almost outgrown his asthma attacks, only having one every now and then, their severity becoming less and less, that is, until yesterday.

My little brother had been playing soccer with a few of the camps other children when they were attacked by a corpse. Somehow the flat-lined child had wiggled its way under the fence surrounding our camp, attrackted by the sounds of the kids playing.

Carter and his pre-teen buddies had thought they could handle the skinny little dead boy on their own. Unfortunately, they had overestimated their abilities and one of the boys, Eric, hadn't been fast enough to dodge the child zombie's grasp.

Carter and his other friends made it back to the inhabited part of camp to warn us about Eric and the corpse boy.

By the time some of us adults had made it to the scene, the zombie child had a round, full belly; and Eric was already turning, his dead fingers starting to twitch.