Dad always used to joke about the end of the world.
"With the amount of canned beans Mom hoards in the pantry, we'd never starve in the apocalypse," he would say.
What little humor I had left in me trickled away as I stood between our tent and the limp corpse of my father. His head was marred by a dark red hole the size of a pea. My own head felt light, yet my body became unbearably heavy as I dragged my feet towards his lifeless form. My knees met the ground with a thud that was both painful and sharp. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore because my father was dead. A voiceless scream waited in my chest. Daddy's dead.
In the days following his suicide, the hardest part of accepting my circumstances was trying to understand that there was nothing I could do to change them. I could only pretend we were sitting around our piano back home, learning old songs together or watching the stars from our patio. When those memories became unbearable, I'd reminisce about nights where we'd catch Mom prancing around the kitchen to songs from her college days.
There was such a thing as the second hardest part of accepting Dad's death. I was no stranger to losing a loved one. Grandma had lost her life at 73, and grandpa followed shortly after. Next was Mom. But it was different this time. Something told me Dad's death would never quite sit right in my heart. It was knowing that he had chosen to leave me here with nothing more than his backpack and an empty gun. The knick-knacks he left behind meant close to nothing. Because now, as the sun set for the fifth time since he'd died, dried food did little to console me the way his words did.
I sat against a log and forced down some food. All the times I swore to my friends that I'd never eat meat again, swallowed away. The sun had already disappeared over the horizon, but in the low light I could still make out the string trap of empty cans set up around the tent. It would rattle if anything tried to pass the threshold but even so, I knew that without him to look over me, it would be another restless night.
A chill swept through the trees and I reached into the backpack for a blanket. It was a thin one we had managed to salvage from an abandoned camp a few weeks ago. I wrapped it around my shoulders, hoping the last of Dad's scent would settle my aching chest. It didn't take long for a warm wetness to crawl down my cheeks. When my body was finally worn from all the crying, I drifted off - falling in and out of hazy dreams that featured images of my old life, mixed with the terrifying ones I now lived.
This particular night I dreamt of the chilly winter's evening I sat with Dad in our dining room, back when dining rooms existed. Dad stared at his phone and I stared at the cold dinner on my plate. Mom was usually home by six. I peered at the clock on the kitchen wall. Seven forty-five.
"Put on the news bub," he whipped me with a tea towel. "And stop moping. She'll be home soon. You know her. Probably working overtime."
That would explain her absence, but not the unanswered calls and texts. I wordlessly took the remote and watched the yellow Simpson's characters fade to black as the channel switched. We weren't supposed to watch TV during family meals, but whenever Mom wasn't there to nag us about it, Dad and I didn't see a need for the rule.
The news reporter had the usual serious expression etched on her face as she read from her prompt. "In breaking news, the fourth incidence of what can only be described as cannibalistic aggression has emerged. With 19 injured and three dead after four separate attacks across the country today, police and health professionals are desperately working together to uncover the root of this strange..."
After a while, her words blended together like the pile of vegetables I had been scraping back and forth on my plate. As Dad left a third voicemail to Mom's phone, my attention stayed glued to the screen to distract myself from the ever-growing sense of doom that bubbled just below my calm surface. Eventually the reporter moved onto a humorous piece about the local dog show, but her lips were still caught in a straight line - her eyebrows wedged together in a permanent frown - the way they do when you're wondering how to make it out of California by sunrise.
***
The disturbing sound of whispering roused me from my sleep. At first I thought it was my dream mingling with reality, but as the noises became lucid, my senses rattled to life. Every muscle in my body contracted as a terrible anticipation filled the air.
Without second thought, I felt for the knife underneath my pillow of folded clothes. Silhouettes. Just behind my tent. My limbs were noodles, my heart in a fist while pins pierced the back of my eyes from days worth of lost sleep. But none of these sensations were worse than death, and despite them a fight swelled in the pit of my stomach. I tucked the knife under my belt and tugged Dad's gun from its place in my backpack. It wasn't loaded, but they wouldn't know that.
I crept onto my knees. Two of them. How long had they been there, just standing? I contemplated whether or not I could overpower two people at once. I had done it before, sunk a bullet into a skull. But those people hadn't been alive. They weren't real men and women with a will to live and maybe a family to return to. But these were, and it was clear they were waiting for me to wake up and face the stark reality. They wanted something. Something I probably couldn't give. I couldn't stay here. I had to come up with a plan. The back opening of the tent flapped. It was already slightly unzipped.
The screeching of birds in the treetops drowned out the sound of my free hand slowly unzipping the rest of the tent opening. I slid one foot out onto the dirt outside, waiting for the sound of gunshots, of shouting, but it never came. Fear prickled under my skin, revealing itself in the form of goose bumps. I forced myself out. With one swift movement, the morning sun began beating down on my cheek, confirming my worst fears: I was out in the open, with an empty gun trained on my new enemy.
Whatever I'd planned to do next escaped me as my eyes finally settled on the strangers. The sight of them was almost enough to knock the wind out of me. My tough-girl façade faltered for a millisecond as I regained my bearings. Two unarmed, hesitant teenagers whose clean clothes clung to their well-nourished frames stared back, waiting for my next move. The angry and hollow, dirt-ridden faces I had been expecting to see was nothing close to what actually stood in front of me. They couldn't have been much older than me, both youthful in appearance. The brown braid that ran past the girl's shoulders and the dimples that marked the boy's cheeks reminded me of every friend I had lost along the way.
"Hey," the girl said, with her arms up in surrender. Both of them staggered back as they caught sight of my weapon. "We'll back up."
All the noise going on in my head made the gentle way her words flowed out, feel foreign. Without thinking, I heard myself speak. It was like the words weren't even mine - as if a relentless force had pushed it from my tongue right into the world.
"Don't make me use this."
My finger curled around the trigger. I didn't exactly know what I was threatening to do or whether I could do it, but I knew I had to make them leave.
"My name's Alicia, and this is Sam," she announced. "We're not here to hurt you."
My mind flickered to the pack in my tent which was filled to the brim with supplies and old trinkets. Perhaps they'd try to get to it.
"What do you want?"
"To make an offer."
I said nothing and took another step towards them. My heart was hammering, but I kept my gait casual with no hint of hesitation. They couldn't know who I really was. To them, I had always been this way. Tough as nails and as lonely as they come. Alicia moved back as I inched closer, but Sam stood his ground.
"Okay lady," Sam spoke. His voice was rich in spirit, teasing as if we were all in high school flirting in the corridor before third period.
"We don't have a single firearm on us." He patted over his whole body for effect. "Not really much of a fair fight is it?"
"Sam," Alicia grabbed him by the base of his jacket and tugged.
"No. Stop stalling, and just tell her what we came here to tell her," he replied. "Before she blows our brains out."
Sam crossed one arm over the other, as if he was merely waiting for a bus on a spring day, apple in hand. He wasn't slumped at all, his body was clearly too muscular for that. He was almost smiling - smiling as if something good were about to happen. Good for him was likely bad for me and I wasn't going to take any chances.
"We've got a camp set up a couple miles away and need some help with our crops. You'd have food and a place to-"
"Thank you," I interrupted. "Leave me alone."
"Look," she said. "You can't trust us. I fucking get it. But please, we want peace just as much as you do."
"Does it look like I want peace?" I switched the gun safety off.
Sam scoffed, clearly amused at the situation unfolding in front of him. For a guy who looked like an angel, he certainly didn't act like one.
"Sweetheart-"
Alicia put an arm out in front of Sam, cutting him off from whatever charming speech he was about to make. "Mouth shut. Remember?"
"Got it."
"We can't promise you much. We can't even promise we'll get you there in one piece. But if you do make it to our base, I'll make sure you have food, a bed to sleep in and people who will do their best to protect you."
A familiar feeling came over me, like an old friend I hadn't met in years. Perhaps hope? Just a tiny flicker against the wind, but it was there nonetheless. The girl had promised it all. And I was struggling to ignore it. Whether or not it was a cruel lie, the thought that it could be true pressed in on me. In that second of indecision, part of me wanted to talk, to find out more. But a much stronger part knew the dangers that came with trusting others. The world had become a callous place, and the people within it more so.
I managed to push the words out before I could dwell on them any longer. "I'm fine."
"Okay," Alicia spoke cautiously, the way someone would if they were coaxing a scared dog out of a corner. "We get why you aren't exactly jumping into our arms. But I don't think you get how lucky you are that we found you."
All I could do was shake my head. "If you don't leave right now, I will."
"You'd be an idiot to think you could survive like this for much longer," said Sam. Their sales pitch was failing and he knew it.
"I've done fine so far," I retorted. I trained the gun onto Alicia, aiming right between her eyes. She swallowed. Good. She was nervous. "You. Into my tent and take my bag out."
Alicia nodded and followed the order without hesitation. She dumped the bag on the ground in front of me, about three metres away. It was close enough for them to jump me once I bent down to pick it up.
"Step back," I barked, my hands started to shake. They could surely see it.
"We're not going to hurt you," Sam said, but he sounded more exasperated than concerned.
"Step. The hell. Back."
Without another word, they backed away until they reached the outskirts of the campsite, behind where the string trap was set up. I hated that I was leaving the space Dad and I had spent his last days setting up. It took us hours to clear the area of debris and make the space liveable. We had to pitch the tent up mid-storm and find firewood in the dark together. Making this place home was one of the last memories I had with him before he passed. I slowly lowered my gun and hitched the pack over my shoulders. I could come back for the tent later, or maybe I could return for good after a few days - once the dust had settled and Alicia and Sam were long gone.
"Oi," Sam called. His voice was laced with frustration and it filled me with unease. "Where are you going?"
"Somewhere that doesn't concern you," I responded, and turned on my heels.
"Woman," he said slowly.
The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. The fear sat on me like a pillow over mouth and nose. I didn't know what it was about what he said that spooked me. Maybe it was the way his voice lowered an octave. A warning of sorts. But I started to run. To where that might be, I didn't know. But I knew I needed to get out of there.
He yelled. Something unintelligible. I looked back and saw that he had started running after me.
"Shit, shit, shit," I whispered to myself, as I slid down a steep mound of dirt. I regained my footing quickly and began weaving in and out of trees trying to stay hidden in the foliage but I could still hear thuds of his footfalls, coming closer with each bound.
He cried out, gasping for air between words. "We have pictures. I can show you."
I didn't have time to think about it because when I looked over my shoulder, he was right there - a strange look plastered over his forehead. I staggered back and alarm surged through me. My arm flew out to protect myself from whatever he was willing to do. But almost as suddenly I did, his eyes widened and his entire body recoiled as if I had turned into a nuclear bomb.
Everything shifted into slow-motion as confusion swept over me. All I could do was watch as Sam's mouth transformed into an 'O' shape. Something had gone terribly wrong. His hand disappeared into his back pocket and when it resurfaced, there was an unmistakable flicker of light against metal.
"Move," I heard Alicia cry in the distance, as her companion charged towards me with a blade.
He's going to kill me I thought, right before I turned on my heels, ready to break into a sprint. The last thing I heard him scream was "no" before I collided front-on with an Infected.