re-do

I. bitten

the air is too cold, the ground is too course, the world is too quiet. tommy takes each step with intense caution. with nothing but his spirit, and a bag full of random objects, he finds himself wandering the empty streets, hoping for something new. he listens for a broken stick, a cry for help, but there simply isn't many people left. his bat falls by his side. it drags across the ground. it's the only sound for miles.

after a few hundred yards, tommy comes across a horrific sight. the smell hits him before the shock. a man, around 30, rotting on the empty road. his stomach has been attacked and is now spilling on the ground. his clothes are stained and ruined. his limbs limp beside him. tommy leans over and wrenches in the road. after countless encounters with death, one might get used to it, but tommy is as prone to chucking as he was the day the illness broke out.

he takes a breath and wanders over. there's always something useful on a person. he holds his nose and bites his lip, the bat still firm in his grip. there is a messenger bag lying beside the man, tommy grabs it and wanders further away. inside is a few books, a laptop and a pencil case. tommy takes the pencils, the book on greek mythology and shoves it in his own bag. there is no use for laptops now. he unzips a pocket in the front of the bag and screams when a spider crawls out. a rotting corpse may seem mediocre, but a spider is still just as scary. tommy watches it crawl away and doesn't bother to check the pocket, for there could be more of them.

he stands, and realises his mistake. you can't go screaming in a global, life threatening pandemic! he wanders to the wall of a building and collects his thoughts. there are no sounds, no zombies. he holds the bat in front of him. glass shatters below him as the window to the building is broken. he takes caution. more shattering, but had tommy moved? he stares at his feet, watching his own moves. he doesn't change position and yet he hears the sound of glass below him. below him. behind him? tommy turns and is faced with the most terrifying of situations.

he waves his bat aimlessly but of course he is useless, the old thing snaps. he's pushed to the floor. the zombies thick, rich blood drips onto tommy's clothes, plagues his skin. he kicks the thing but it's hardly any use. he screams for help but he knows no one will save him. he grabs the things wrists but they're unsettling cold and he backs off. tommy gives one more shove before pain jolts through his shoulder. he's been bitten. he's doomed.

he lays on the floor and lets himself die. tommy realises there's no point in fighting. his whole life will be a lame attempt at surviving and for what reward? he feels death standing over him. watching him sink into the floor. death is nicer than he had anticipated. he's cold but understanding. he watches with pity, puts a hand on his wounded shoulder, and ends his suffering with a single bullet.

tommy is dead. or is he just free from suffering? he peels his eyes open and sees the sun. feels the ground below him. the air in his lungs. tommy is not dead. a hand on his shoulder, a zombie by his side.

"get up." a voice says above him.

"death." tommy says. he reckons it's death. the grim reaper taking his soul.

"death? what? get up." death wanders away, to the messenger bag tommy had previously searched.

"where are you going?" tommy asks meekly. "take my soul."

"what the fuck are you talking about, kid." death shouts from the body. "just get up. you don't need that damn shoulder to stand."

"oh, but-" tommy sits up and takes a long breath and watches death search the body. he stands and walks to him. "you're not going to take my soul? i never believed in the grim reaper, but you did just kill me."

death gives the blankest stare. "you must have have some crack farm or something, because drugs are hard to come by. can you sober up? or i'm leaving you."

"what?"

"i'm not the grim reaper."

"you look like him." tommy says, putting a hand out to touch the man's coat. blood soaks his arm. "oh my god!" he screams. "i'm dying! why did you kill me!? i'm dying!"

"sweet jesus." he says, watching tommy flail about. "c'mon. i'll resurrect you."

"resurrect me?"

"yes. you know, since i murdered you and all." he says sarcastically, wandering away. tommy follows shyly.

and they begin a journey together. tommy doesn't know the man. but he follows anyway.

+

"wow! you live here?" tommy runs up to the trailer. supposedly where, as tommy had now learnt his name, wilbur lived.

"yeah. it's cold but it keeps me safe." wilbur said, following after him. tommy looked through the windows and smiled at the things inside. "are you hungry?" he grins as he opens the door, using some strange technique — supposedly for safety.

"am i?!" tommy smiled. "you're amazing, wilbur!"

"oh, i know." the door opened with a creak and wilbur stepped inside, tommy following suite. wilbur locked the door again, using rope and other things to close it. he went over to his makeshift kitchen, which was really just a small table with food under it.

"i've got beans — cold. spring onion, a tomato that is ever so slightly mushy and a half eaten can of leek and potato soup." wilbur said rather proudly. tommy was amazed, being used to eating whatever shit he could find. "oh, i tell a lie! i have more." wilbur opened a small box beside the soup and smiled. "here. i was going to eat these, but you look worse than i do."

tommy took the box, and inside was about 12 blackberrys. "berry's?" he said, infatuated.

"there's a bush not to far. i'm waiting for them to re-grow."

"oh my god! this is crazy!" tommy grins so hard his cheeks go pink. "i haven't spoken to someone in months!"

wilbur nodded, and took out a jar of honey from his food collection, it was half finished. he moved over to tommy and opened the bottle. "take off your shirt. i need to fix your wound."

"...with honey?" tommy asked.

"it's good for healing, yes." wilbur grabbed a dirty bandage from his makeshift bed, too. it wasn't very nice, but bandages were long gone. tommy begrudgingly took of his dirty, ruined top and bit his cheeks, in fear of what honey on an open wound would do. it didn't hurt much, but it was still open.

"okay, close your eyes, it stings."

"wha— ow!" wilbur used the handle of a knife to smear the honey on the wound. tommy wailed, and wilbur threaten to put it in his hair. after he was done, he wrapped the bandage tight around the bite.

"stop crying." wilbur said, and tommy flinched.

"some warning you gave."

"you smell sweet now."

"if you ignore the filth and blood, sure."

the two bickered back and fourth, and were slowing becoming friends. tommy had missed interaction the most throughout the pandemic. he craved conversation. wilbur was, admittedly, better on his own. but the way the boy lay on the cold ground, hopelessly letting death take over, made him pitiful. and now tommy was in his house, sharing his food, sharing his fire.