"Anthony, will I escape this fate?" Nevaeh, pressing firmly against her slashed leg, asked with fright.
Looking into her captivating eyes, Anthony couldn't bear to tell her his true thoughts on the situation that wrapped tightly around them as if they were the prey of an unrelenting serpent; he knew that she desperately needed encouragement to even attempt to persist on. So, for a moment, as if he were that same deceitful serpent, he responded with the only thing he could.
"You will remain that pure creature that God designed you as..." Anthony replied with such clarity, in spite of the apparent sadness in his voice.
Sometimes, a lie can be hidden well. Sometimes, we wish for this ability to do such a thing. This was Anthony's sole desire as he cherished his last moments holding the one he had come to love so defensively. Since the moment he discovered her unparalleled beauty, it had come to be the only thing that he found was worth holding onto since the infestation began. He knew she was about to die; with that, the soul crushing feeling of helplessness was sinking into his very being, a feeling that grew to linger by his side since his earliest memory.
"Stupid girl shouldn't have betrayed her own kind. If she dies, she dies! And boy, don't think that your special ability will save you this time, nor will Priam and his weak sentimental bullshit!" Razor proclaimed with a sudden roar.
In spite of his tone of choice, there was a cold, insensitive effect to his remarks. Standing at nearly seven feet tall, Razor was never one to be underestimated. With iceberg like eyes, combined with a rugged, lean composure, completed by a master-like ability for hand to hand combat and one large newly implanted blade on his left forearm, he commanded fear among many of his peers, as well as what he considered his prey. Only one sign of any previous weakness was visible. A small slash-like scar below his left eye, its origins only known to very few.
Slowly gaining the strength to take his gaze from Neveah, Anthony turned his attention, which had a tint of anger, toward Razor. The dark night that surrounded Razor was fitting, for it was a concrete visualization of how absent of compassion that Razor's soul had become over the years ... dark as night, where it once was said to have been bright as day.
Anthony had only one emotion to associate with the lack of light that engulfed him ... fear. He had always been petrified by the darkness that had always accompanied him. However, on this night, the night of what was to be an assured death of the only friend he had ever known, Anthony decided to face that fear head on. Too much, as he thought, had been taken from him.
"Razor, I know that to kill you is impossible. You are faster, stronger, much more skillful in combat," Anthony said as he pointed at what would normally reflect the light, had there been any, "not to mention your new friend that you love to slice off heads with. But I will not cower from you any longer. This ends tonight!" Anthony, standing firm with such convictions, he pulls out what was now the ancient sword from what now felt like Razor's distant past to prepare for what might be his last combat.
In spite of a heavy rain surrounding them, Anthony fought against more than the water that crashed against him repeatedly. Similiar to how the water blurred his vision, his emotions were in a blurred state. Desperation, a depleting sense of hope, and a growing frustration was intensifying both his anger for Razor and his devotion to his beloved Neveah. Razor, with his finger running across his trusty blade, portrayed a smile. Perhaps it was because he knew that he finally had Anthony where he wanted him. Perhaps it was that he felt that Anthony, who many of the remaining humans placed their remaining hopes in, would soon be a promising kill that would invoke what Razor wished to instill in all that opposed him: unremarkable terror.
Razor, with the same condescending grin on his face, spoke with arrogance, "Are you ready to die, boy? Are you ready to meet the abyss? I'll be sure to make your death slow and excruciating with pain that you dare not dream of! My blade shall hold the trophy that is your blood!" He finished as he extended his arm, making sure that all, no matter if it were zombies or humans who might be around in the nearby shadows would undoubtedly see his blade and tremble.
The blade was only symbolism, however. The true gift of Razor's apparent transformation was not this pain inflicting blade, but rather the fact that Razor had found a source in which he had found the secret to becoming impervious to pain. This was a secret that he desperately wished to keep to himself, for if anyone else were to be so lucky to discover this fascinating truth, his fear of a true defiant rival would surely surface.
This brought the newly resurrected Razor and his focus back to Anthony. Razor had accurate vision. So accurate, he could see past the rain falling all around them to acknowledge the tearful expression on his adversary's face. Anthony, in a burst of passion, leaped toward Razor, only to begin running. In spite of Anthony's surroundings now speeding up around him, his mind became as a dull void as all he could do was recede to the motionless realm of his memories. Within his memories, he felt complete; he had experienced so much throughout his short life. Anthony knew that he was about to face utter inhalation, so with this knowledge, he felt compelled to lavish in the memories that was to commemorate and honor his life, one last time.
Anthony slowly let himself fade away to a dark memory that for so long he had been willing to suppress. Perhaps he felt suppressing certain memories, including this initial one, was key to his survival. In a small abandoned diner, huddled up next to Anthony, was only his mother. While hiding under a table, Anthony's father, armed with a shotgun and limited ammunition, attempted to find help and anything that could be used for various supplies. Believing they would be safe from all the freshly mutated zombies, Gary took a dangerous chance in leaving them without any form of protection.
Even with his mother, Cynthia, shielding Anthony the best she could from everything around him, Anthony managed to get a small glimpse of all that was around him. At four years old, he saw what no young boy should ever see: scattered body parts drenched in decaying blood accompanied by more of the same corroded blood splattered all across every wall that surrounded them. As horrific as this imagery was to both Anthony and his mother, it was the stench that provoked them the most.
Death in itself has a disgusting odor and for far too long had they both known this. Since the breakout of this deadly infection, they had been reminded of this in too many occasions. But this smell was unlike anything they had ever known before; if despair could have a smell, this would be it, they were convinced. Anthony knew that no matter if he had not captured the vision of this particular memory, it would be that horrific scent that would forever connect him to this early recollection of what was his astounding, yet difficult life.
After hearing her only son begin to cry, Cynthia took a deep breath and decided to speak to her small, frightened child.
"Please don't cry sweetheart, your father will return soon for us," she attempted to assure him, knowing that she couldn't keep that promise.
Holding her young son, with tears in her eyes, there had been so much devastation that the last two years had brought Cynthia and her family since the plague had been unleashed. What was once hailed as a scientific marvel that was said to heal people of all universal illnesses, this cure quickly mutated into a poison that altered all of mankind into beast-like, flesh eating zombies; while the infected all kept their mental capacity fully intact, many had lost something much more valuable: their soul.
With a baby crying frantically in her arms, Cynthia grew more desperate with the passing of each uncertain second to calm her child. Of all the things that she had learned over the last two years, one thing was taking all of her focus in this moment; these zombies had not only kept their intellectual capacity, but in addition to this, they also gained heightened sensitivity in all their senses.
This was especially true with their sense of hearing and sight. For the diminishing human population, there couldn't have been a worse combination. Some even had the capability to locate humans based upon their sense of smell, although this was quite rare. There was more reason to fear the zombies with the evolved sense of smell than any other type. With other zombies, a mistake by the humans must be made in order to be found; with this breed, no mistake was necessary, which made it all that much more dangerous.
At the moment, this didn't seem to matter. A mistake was being made. Cynthia knew that echoes of her child's cries could be heard not only by her, but by any zombie within a half a mile radius or possibly more. There had been rumors that the mutated sense of hearing varied among the damned. This was her motivation to try harder to keep little Anthony calm and stop the overflowing tears. With each passing moment, his cries were almost as symbolic gestures of certain death.
After approximately seven minutes, she finally helped her son to temporarily stop concentrating on the surreal image that surrounded them. Although Anthony continued to slightly whimper, his terrified mother was just thankful that she had calmed him down. If there was one of these abominations near, perhaps they hadn't enough time to pinpoint their position. She could only hope. She began to gradually summon the courage to bring herself up to take a short glance outside from the window above them, holding what was left of her world in her arms.
Beginning with everything on her left, she slowly observed her surroundings as carefully as humanly possible. Wait, she thought, as she noticed the high blades of grass suddenly move wildly. Could it be one of them, she continued to wonder with slight hysteria. Perhaps it had only been her tainted imagination playing tricks on her. Trying to keep a cool composure, she resumed with the ongoing task of keeping her son from another outpouring of exclamations. She couldn't risk another outburst because the situation was already far too dangerous enough. While many were intellectual, all were dangerous zombies that seemed to greatly enjoy systematically terrorizing what was once a beautiful planet.
The area of grass that moved wildly before was now calm. Perhaps it was the wind, she tried to assure herself. She knew that logically, it couldn't have been the wind to only move one slight area of high grass and not the surrounding grass as well. However, these were difficult times. Cynthia had been forced to sometimes think illogically in hopes to comfort herself. As she continued to stare at the spot of grass, she tuned in momentarily to notice the thunder that crackled around her. A light mist of rain soon followed.
Peering at the outside world through the small diner window, she enjoyed watching the dirt around the diner slowly transform into clumps of mud. The small bit of grass that remained in the impoverished soil severely needed the rain. In many ways, she had the agonizing scars to relate to the lifeless dirt that had surrounded her. Being on the run with her family for what felt like an eternity, life began long ago in its effort to deplete her well-nourished spirit.
Effectively averting her attention from her moment of reflection was the same area of high blades of grass. This time was definitely not the product of her imagination. Tightly clenching her grip in an effort to protect her defenseless son, her eyes never took sight away from the potential danger, as the grass never took pause in its movements. Was this her day to die? She couldn't help but wonder. She couldn't help but to notice how the window precipitated fog in reaction to the increasing rain and her breath, as she was now only inches away from the glass.
Cynthia, in addition to every last nomadic human left on this now barren wasteland of a planet, had been emotionally numbed by an unavoidable presence. This manifestation of insecurity had been her driving force for far too long. In this moment, she sincerely questioned if she should wipe the window so that she could see once more. One couldn't help but to feel a sense of self-pity if in this scenario; to debate something as simple as wiping fog from a window due to the fear of it causing you to potentially lose your life must be a very sad way to live.
This was Cynthia's reality, however. A way of life that no one should ever experience, this was her truth. With the motivation of her son and his safety, she ultimately gathered the courage necessary to make the move required to complete the simple, yet deadly task at hand. However, with Anthony 's ear close enough to hear, she said something first that would simultaneously become connected to all that haunted him and all that gave him his greatest strength.