Day 73

Here's a new short short I just wrote up, open for comments:

Day 73

They had run out of fresh food long ago. By their count is was Day 73 of the crisis; they could not remember the last day they had eaten anything crisp. At least they could warm their canned food with the LPG gas tanks they dragged from nearby homes when they made runs out during the daytime. As the days passed they started to feel some confidence in these excursions. For a time they had such confidence that they were generally safe within their quarantine area that they became lax with their security. That was the day Justin died.

They hadn't seen a zombie for almost a week and on that day Justin decided that he wanted to have a smoke out in the sunshine. He sat on a swing in the subdivision's clubhouse and lit up a cigarette. Some of the younger boys started a pick-up basketball game. For the first time in a long time their adrenaline was driven by the joy of exertion and the thrill of a game and not the fear that had hounded them like an unending nightmare. Caught up in the game, the sad circumstances of their situation were lost amidst the, “Ooohs!” after a blocked shot, the swish of the net, the tumble and dribble and the slaps of wrist on ball, the rustle of sneakers on asphalt.

Then there was a scream. Somehow a zombie had managed to get through their defenses. A moat and then a 10-foot tall fence guarded most of the subdivision's perimeter, and they had electrified the gates. They found later that the zombie corpses had piled up on one of the gates so that they served as a flesh ladder for a number of intruders. Among these intruders was the zombie, dressed in tattered polo-barong, who someone recognized as someone's driver, who had just bitten into Justin's neck, his jugular spurting blood all over the swing.

A single shot ran out from one of the rooftop perches, the bullet only curving slightly in trajectory so that instead of going right between the eyes where the shooter had aimed, it went through the intruder's right eye entering just below the socket and exiting at the base of the skull before coming to a halt in the asphalt. The boys playing basketball quickly remembered the outbreak, the deaths of their parents, their isolation in the subdivision, the garbled message that said to maintain a quarantine and that help would come soon, and the need to stop the disease's spread no matter what the cost.

Two of the boys held Justin down. He was writhing and gasping, one hand covering the bite as blood poured out, the other waving frantically imploring help. They stepped on his shoulders and stuck him to the asphalt. Another boy came with a shovel and held it above Justin's head, the blade poised at his neck. Justin waved his free hand, tried to slap the shovel away but one of the boys holding him down grabbed the hand and pulled it out of the way so that the shovel came down on his neck, severing the head clean from the body as well as cutting off the tips of his fingers that were pressed against his jugular.

Since that day there had been no sitting on the swing, no smokes in the sunshine, no pick-up basketball games. There had only been efficient runs to get supplies like food, batteries, and medicine from nearby houses, systematic shifts that ensured someone was keeping guard and patrolling at all times, and a constant hope that someday, soon, the radio would flicker on again and tell them how many more days they would have to wait.