Journal of the Survivors

Chapter Eleven--Kyra

“But, just remember guys....” Archie starts and then everyone finished, “...just squeeze, and pull!” Then they all laughed at the inside joke.

When they all calm down and rub the tears away from their eyes, I ask, “So does anyone know where my bag is?”

“Oh, right, sorry Boss. Trace sent me into your room this morning to get it. We needed to wash our clothes. They’re hanging up to dry outside,” Tammy tells me.

“Great,” I mutter as I push past them and leave via the sliding door. I pad across the damp grass that sparkles with dew in the sun. Each blade tickles my feet. I look around until I spot a clothes line at the side of the house. As I make my way over to it, I am joined by an unlikely companion.

“Shoo! You may have won over my friends, but I will not fall for your cute routine. This girl, will not be swayed, you hear me?!”

Fang cocks his head to the side and studies me, just as his master does. I stare back at him and notice that his eyes are two different colours. One is a pale blue like Trace’s, the other is a bright emerald green that reminds me of Bas. The fiend wags his bushy tail at me.

“What part of ‘go away’ don’t you understand? Stupid dog,” I turn away from him and grab a pair of my black jeans off the line. I drape them over my left arm as I use the other to take down my dad’s Coldplay shirt. Both of them are still damp. I shake them around trying to dry them off. Fang yips and dances around me, leaping up in the air. I laugh, unable to hold it in at the shear craziness of the canine. I twirl in a circle, an article of clothing in each hand. Everything blurs together until I can no longer distinguish one tree from another. I trip on my own foot from my dizziness and land hard on my butt. Fang drops down beside me.

“I guess you’re not so bad,” I admit to him.

He rubs the side of his face against mine, almost like a cat would.

“Don’t get too carried away now,” I tell him as I stroke his soft hair.

Out of nowhere, he jumps in front of me and starts to growl, his fur bristles and his lips curl back, showing off sharp teeth. He faces towards the fence, about 50 yards ahead. I lean around him and see three zombies stumbling towards us. Even though there is a barrier between us, I still feel a hint of fear as they approach. I have nothing to defend myself with unless the jeans are secretly equipped with mini rocket launchers or something. To be honest, I won’t put it past Trace to do just that.

Fang’s snarls become louder. He nudges me with his arse. I push him out of the way and stand. He continues to bump into me, trying to herd me back to the house. Instead, I stand there and watch as the zombies near the fence. They reach out, trying to grasp the source of the sweet smell of meat. Like Fang, they have their lips folded back, exposing their own vicious incisors. One of them growls back at Fang. He looks newly turned, his brown hair still on his head, his eyes in between red and black. He’s eaten, but he’s not full. He’s wearing an army uniform, so maybe not all of them gave up.

He reaches a greying hand out towards the fence, when they connect, sparks fly—literally. The undead boy shrieks and collapses, the others soon following, falling to the same defeat. They scream, this broken, pained sound. I look into the army zombie’s eyes. They look hazel now, and like they’re begging me for help. I unwillingly take a step forward before I even realize I’m doing it. I close my eyes and move my head to the side. I can still hear them, their cries seem to go on and on. I can smell their skin burning. I stagger backwards, trying to get away without having to open my eyes. I don’t want to see them, I can’t see them. I just can’t. I walk into something soft and shriek, thinking maybe one of the undead somehow got in.