Fiction: A Good Day

This is the rough draft of the first half of a short story. It is about Zombies. I am not trying to capitalize on the Zombie phenomenon. I just spent a weekend watching The Walking Dead and I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. So I thought you might want to read it:

When I woke up that morning I knew I would have to leave the house. The familiar feeling of dread had already filled me the night before. I had a night of tortured sleep, if you can call it sleep, where I was somewhere in between awake and dreaming but never at rest. I kept picturing everything that could possibly go wrong and each time I would wake up in a cold sweat. I would have to fully wake myself each time so as not to fall back into the same dream. It didn’t matter though, each dream was worse than the last.

The building had long since run out of running water; electricity was something almost forgotten. The lights had gone out in the first month, the water somewhere in the first year. I had to fill my tub with bottled water that I had looted from corner stores. I must have been one of the few with this idea because over the period of a month – sometime during the seventh month – I had managed to round up hundreds of gallons of bottled water. As long as I continued rationing while continuing to pick up any water where I found it I wouldn’t run out of water for another few months. I would bathe myself in the gray water when I got back from today’s excursion.

I made it so I should only have to leave the apartment once or twice a month. The last time had been mid-June. It hadn’t been eventful – I hadn’t even seen any dead. Those were the good days.

The rest were days holed up in the apartment trying not to go crazy. I had read hundreds of books in the past year. I had also been keeping a record of everything that I witnessed to the best of my ability. It has proven rather hard when you can’t even see out of your own windows.

I boarded them up after the second raid. I put curtains in front of the boards so as to appear as though no one had opened them in a long time. The raiders watched for these things. It became a guarantee that if you had drawn your curtains then you could expect to be raided in the next 24 hours.

In each raid I had lost everything of meaning. In the first – which happened in the first week – they had taken all of my electronic devices probably with the hope of selling or trading them. I think at that point it was just simple looting, they hadn’t even taken my food. The second had happened in the sixth month in the dead of winter. That time I lost all of my food. It was a blessing that they didn’t take my bottled water or the water I filled my tub with before the water had stopped running.

Other than the fact that I still had water to drink and keep clean with I still counted myself lucky when it came to those raids. I still had my life. No one had too much interest in killing you as long as you didn’t resist. And I still had my dog. She was useless when it came to protection: she was just a Boston Terrier. But she was someone to talk to after all the people that you used to say hi to in the hallway had disappeared.

There was hardly anyone left in my building, two maybe three survivors, and the raiders had long since stop looting homes. There was nothing left. I never ran into the people in my building that I assumed were still alive. One just assumed that they were there because everyone’s habits had become primal. A good indicator of someone alive inside were pots and pans that were now used as chamber pots left outside front doors. I tried not to do this too often. I would take my excrement down to the backyard and pour it into a sewage grate.

I opened my front door slowly, not because I thought anyone or anything would be out there but as not to disturb the corpse I had laid on the front door – a diversion from both the dead and the raiders.


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