La Mort et ses Merveilles
Chapter 1: Memento Mori
All that is living will cease to live, that is just a fact of life that we must accept. But when someone is taken away from you so violently, so suddenly -acceptance is just something we don't want to think of.
I will never forget those sunken eyes staring intently at me. His hands were trembling, his finger on the trigger. The barrel of the gun pointed directly at me. The only sounds to be heard was the howling of the wind against the wooden shutters and my raspy breath. My heart thumped in my chest. The tears began to fill my eyes, clouding my vision. This was it, I was going to die.
The young man who stood before me gun in his hand, aimed at my head. One shot from that thing and I would be gone. If I was lucky, he'd shoot me in the head, ending me once and for all. Or it could as well land in my chest and leave me to bleed out. Either way I was pretty sure he was going to kill me.
Dad lay in front of me, motionless. The blood pooling on the floor around him. I watched him as he took his final breath, his dead eyes staring directly at me. What have we done wrong? What sins have we committed? I never understood. In a flash this monster took the man who had raised me away from me with just one pull of a trigger. I couldn't even rush over to comfort him in his final moments as he let out the last few breaths of life, as the dark crimson blood began to flow out of his mouth, running down his chin. His blood staining his shirt in a sea of red. The monster didn't shoot him once, no –three shots. Three shots to the chest. It's almost as if he wanted him to die.
I'll never forget that monster. His deep blue eyes glaring at me with evil and hate. His chiselled chin, and the scruffy excuse of facial hair that covered it. He wore a deep blue hoodie and grey cargo pants, and carried a backpack. A grey beanie hid away his dark brown hair. As our gazes met, at that moment I was pretty sure I was staring into the face of death itself.
And it was that moment Isabella began to cry.
The murderer frowned.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
He motioned me with his gun to move aside.
"It's my little sister," I blurted out, the tears streaming from my face. "She's just ten years old please don't hurt her!"
"Move," he ordered, shoving the gun in my face.
I complied, but I stood nearby. My heart thumping, and my breathing shaky, I was prepared. If he did anything to harm Isabella I was going to lunge at him. I don't care if I died, if it meant my little sister could live.
The man opened the closet and there stood my little sister, her face sticky with tears and her cheeks red. She looked at the man, before turning to look at me with her wide eyes. Paralysed with fear.
"Please don't!" I begged. "If you want to, kill me, just don't hurt her!"
Grunting, the young man motioned Isabella over to me. She ran over, clutching onto me with such force that I nearly fell. I pushed her behind me, shielding her with my own body. Even if I die tonight, I did so knowing that at least my little sister was alive because of me.
The man took his gun and pulled it up directly to my face. This was it. He was going to kill me for sure. I looked down and my sister, and gave her a small reassuring smile. At least the last thing I wanted her to remember by the way she made me smile. I loved her.
It was then when Isabella spoke up.
"Please," she said, her whimpering, shaky voice breaking the silence.
The young man lowered his pistol, his sunken eyes studying my little sister intently as she stepped out from behind my back. Grabbing my palm in hers, she stood beside me, facing our assailant. The man who killed our father.
"I don't have anyone else," she said. "If you kill my brother, I won't have anyone else."
For a brief moment I could see the young man's expression softening, or perhaps it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, in the midst of the adrenaline and hysteria. But before I could make sense of it his face grew tense once again.
"Give me your stuff," he ordered. "Now."
Raising my hands, I gestured to the cabinet to the side of the room. The gun still pointing at us, the man opened the cabinet, to find exactly what he was looking for. We had a small stockpile of food and a few bottles of water in there. Well it didn't matter anymore, it was all his now. He carried as much as he could, cartons of water bottles as well as a few cans of tomato soup.
"Don't you move," he ordered the both of us as he stood there in the doorway.
He then stepped out and walked out of the motel room which had been my family's home more or less for the past few weeks. Looking through the open door, I stood there, frozen in fear as I watched his movements. I was sure it wasn't his first time, given by how he just shot my father without even wincing. How could someone even do that? I could understand killing the dead but to kill a living, breathing person. . .only a monster could do something like that without even batting an eye. I saw the young man in his blue jacket loading our stuff into a blue pickup truck that he had parked in the parking lot below. There were already a considerable amount of supplies in the back of it. I spotted cartons of juice, cans of soup and fruit, as well as a few jerry cans of what I presumed was gas. He couldn't be just robbing people for his own survival. I guess he must be looting to supply a large amount of people. A community perhaps? I didn't know. I've heard of survivors congregating together forming small bands of their own through the ham radio network, small enclaves of civilisation in the sea of collapse and decay. But whatever people he was feeding I'm sure they must be a bunch of outlaws or the very least amoral to the point that they were fine with killing and taking supplies from innocent people.
Downstairs I noticed the man talking to a few others, burly men by the looks of it. Some wore black leather jackets while others just had T-shirts. But one thing was for sure though, they all had tattoos on their arms. So they were all part of a gang? That made sense.
One of them, a pale man in glasses seemed to approach the staircase leading to our floor of the motel, but the man who robbed us seemed to stop him. I couldn't really make out everything that he said, but I heard something about him 'already having it covered'.
It was then when Isabella quickly ran over to the cupboard and took a board of water bottles as well as a few tins of sardines and baked beans.
"What are you doing?" I asked her, raising my voice in a panic. "He's going to kill us if we move!"
My little sister quickly dumped whatever she had picked up and dumped them in the closet behind her. I could hear footsteps come up the staircase.
"Come here!" I called out to Isabella through gritted teeth.
The young girl immediately ran back to my side and held my hand, as if nothing had ever happened. Soon enough the young man had returned. He narrowed his eyes as he examined us, but he went on to the cupboard, stepping over where Dad's body lay. He squatted in front of the opened cabinet, whistling nonchalantly as he rummaged through our belongings –until suddenly the whistling stopped. There was a short pause. My heart skipped a beat. He caught us.
He walked over to us, taking the gun from his belt. He bit his lip as he looked at the ground, before looking up at us again.
"I remembered that there were more stuff here," he said, pointing the gun in my face. "I don't suppose you've taken it haven't you?"
"It was me," Isabella said, owning up. "I took them and placed it in the closet."
The young man went up to the closet and slid it open. Lo and behold, the food and water Isabella took were right there. He turned around and looked at my little sister. To my surprise, he had a smile on his lips. I couldn't tell whether it was sincere or sadistic.
"Well you're a clever little girl aren't you," he said with a little chuckle.
I watched nervously as he reached his hand out towards my sister. My fists clenched, I was ready to grab the little girl and push her behind me at any sign of danger. I was almost certain that he was going to take out his gun from his pocket and shoot her on the spot. My heart thumped against my ribcage just at that thought. That couldn't happen. That mustn't happen.
To my relief, he just patted my sister's head. For God know what reason. He just murdered our dad in cold blood. Now he's patting my sister's head and praising her for being clever. He doesn't seem like the most stable person, to put it out there.
"And um," he said, waving the gun at me. "How old are you?"
"I-I'm eighteen," I stammered.
"Well how does it feel like to be outsmarted by your little sister?" he taunted.
When I didn't reply, he just chuckled and walked off. He went back to the cupboard and rounded up the rest of the supplies.
The wait took forever, the both of us just watching him help himself to the rest of our supplies. I just wanted him to leave, so that I could mourn my father in peace. The man who had loved Isabella and I with all his heart. But he was gone now, taken from us by this deranged maniac stealing our stuff. And all for what? Cans of soup? Bottles of water? His life was meaningless in this man's eyes.
As he was leaving, that distinct sound of gurgling mixed with a moan penetrated the silence. Dad had turned. His dead fingers, which just moments ago lay frozen and still, began to move. His feet began to twitch.
I grabbed Isabella and threw her behind me, and began to fumble around for the nearest thing I could use to defend myself. It was at that moment when I heard a loud crash. The young man had dropped everything and drew his pistol. In a flash he fired a bullet at our father's zombified head. The reanimated corpse once again dropped dead.
This time, the young man seemed visibly shaken. He was trembling, and exhaled short, raspy breaths. His deep blue eyes widened, as if he had just realised the magnitude of what he had done. His dry, chapped lips were agape, but no words slipped from his mouth. He just stood there in silence, looking at my father's corpse, before turning to look at us. His eyes almost seemed apologetic.
"Is everything alright?" I heard a yell from below. It was one of the other gang members.
"Everything's fine!" the young man shouted back, before glancing at my sister and I. "It's just the dead! Nothing to see here."
With that, he picked up whatever he had dropped and turned to us one last time.
"I'm sorry about your father," he muttered, before taking a deep breath, letting his shoulders fall. "You should wait a while. Don't go out 'till they're all gone. They'll kill you if they see you, and I don't want the little girl to get hurt.
Were those tears in his sad, sad eyes?
He shut the door behind him. Isabella let go of my hand and rushed over to Dad. Her sobs began to fill the room. I remained silent and watched the parking lot from the window. I watched as the man met up with the rest of his crew. I saw him wipe his eyes with the edges of his sleeve. Yet the next moment he was laughing and joking with his mates. Could it be that he actually cared? Before entering the truck, he turned and looked in the direction of the room. Our gaze met for a brief moment, but I drew the curtains, slowly and carefully so as not to alert them of any sudden movement. I didn't want to see his face.
After what seemed like forever, the pickup truck finally took off. I kept my eye on it until it disappeared down the street, only then did I let out a deep sigh. The fear had departed me, now all that was left was the overwhelming sorrow and the gaping hole left by the loss of my dearest father who now lay dead in the middle of the room.
Walking over to the sobbing Isabella, I fell to my knees and let the tears flow freely down my cheeks. I held on to the older man's cold dead hands. My chest hurt, gripped with pain.
Isabella fell on my shoulder, her tears soaking my shirt. I held her tightly and stroked her hair. I'm the only one left for her. And she's all that I have.
"What's going to happen to us, Jason?" the young girl looked up at me with reddened tear-filled eyes.
Blinking away my tears, I hadn't a clue on what to say. Yet deep inside I found the strength to try to comfort her, even if they were just empty words.
"We'll be fine sweetheart," I muttered as I held her tight. "Everything is going to be alright."