When The Light Goes Out (7 page)

The closets were my first choice. Fruitless.

Then the desk.

But it provided no more then the last.

"Soap." He repeated, but it stopped sounding like a question.

"I'm looking." I assured him, as best I could without throwing the alcohol burner at him. "Look harder."

I stomped my foot, and shot another terrible look at him. At his audacity. He made me so damned angry, and he didn't even appear to be trying. I wanted to hit him. But I didn't. I

took a deep breath, and stepped towards the door. Trying to figure out where soap would be. "I'll go get some from the bathroom."

A gun was promptly thrown at me. I almost didn't catch it.

His expression told me I was lucky that I did. "Take it with you."

"Thanks."

I didn't say anything else as I left the room, immediately lashing out at the wall when the door closed behind me. I almost cried out when a searing pain rushed up from my toes, but I bit my lip. I was afraid of how the damned boy would react to me doing that. The way he'd acted with me so far, I figured that he'd get mad at me. Everything seemed to get him mad. I didn't like him.

I didn't like him at all.

The bathroom? To the right. Near the staircase. Past the re-dead carcasses from before. Just around the corner there. I knew it. I knew the location of every bathroom in the building. It was something taught to me freshmen year, when my brother showed me around my first day.

I missed him. Again.

Dammit, I needed to stop thinking.

I needed to get to the bathroom, so I concentrated on that.

My knowing the location of the nearest rest room meant nothing about knowing the dangers, or how to get the soap from the bathroom, to the classroom. Part of me wanted to take hours figuring it out, but I didn't want to be alone, anymore then I wanted the new guy to be mad at me. So I slowly placed my hand on the bathroom doorknob, wondering how many zombies were going to pop out at me when I got it open.

Who ever knew zombies were predictable?

To explain, I opened the door with a fling, and stood to the side, completely expecting some undead creature to hobble toward the newly opened exit. Who would have thought one of the creatures would actually do what I expected though? So far, they'd just shown me that Hollywood was a big fat liar, and I was about to die. They were unpredictable. But on cue a girl, missing an eye and an ear, actually hobbled out of the door, groaning it's horrible noise as I leveled the gun.

I only felt bad that she turned to look at me before I, quite literally, blew her brains against the wall. I never knew their skulls were so weak.

It didn't look like a high powered gun. Whatever.

Since that threat was taken care of, and I did hope the gun was fully loaded, save for the one bullet, I walked in. Very proud. Oddly proud. I shouldn't have been happy to kill one of my classmates former classmates. Technically I wasn't. That wasn't what I was happy about. It was the fact that shooting the pistol hadn't been as hard as I was afraid it would have been. I'd never shot a gun. Never had the need to. Never had the want to.

The gun slid across the room. Jesus, how did that one happen?

How did it slide across the large, tan tiles, to the wall under the sink? How did it get out of my hand?

I stood there completely still for a moment, staring at the glinting metal in horror. There seemed to be a lot of horror going around. I couldn't recall being quite so scared, quite so often. There was nothing to be afraid of. There wasn't. I just had to walk right over, and pick up the gun. Then everything would be okay. Then I would be safe. Then everything would go back to normal.

It always worked that way.

But with a sickly pale hand, bright blue veins visible beneath the skin, around my wrist I could no longer entertain the thought that everything was okay. Because it wasn't okay. A man, who quite obviously wanted me for dinner, had a death grip on my right wrist. I pulled roughly, but he didn't let go not immediately. It took several more tugs, the final with the every bit of force I could muster, before he even stumbled. When had he grabbed me?

That was how the gun got knocked away. Did the ghouls know what a gun was?

I hoped not.

"Get off!" The command came out as some animalistic noise as I pulled again, pulling one last time the moment he was off balance. I didn't know if zombies understood us, if they still understood whatever language they had before their death, if they could speak. For all I knew zombies responding to the moans, and groans of their brethren was strictly coincidental. But the final pull did get the creature off of me.

It was rather unfortunate that he landed on the floor, in front of the gun that I so desperately wanted in my grip. I was bereft of all hope as he turned red stained brown up at me. A

second moan came from the doorway, and I turned to see a woman hobbling in.

I didn't know if I should call them by their genders. Being dead, undead whichever took away their being, didn't it? It took away their names, their identities. People pushed away their ghoulish loved ones just as hopelessly as they held on. I didn't know what I should call them, as referring to them constantly as zombies seemed rude considering I used to know a good lot of them. But..

Dammit.

Dammit.

The man on the floor was getting up, stumbling true but rising to his feet all the same. Twice I watched him fail, falling onto his hands until one folded back onto his wrist, and forearm. It was disgusting. But what was worse was the fact that he didn't acknowledge what would have made me cry. I knew it would have made me cry. Did becoming a zombie raise ones tolerance to pain? Did one retain ones old tolerance? Did zombies feel pain? The undead creature didn't even groan in reaction, just fell down, and tried to get up a third time.

I only saw the woman lunge at me, red and a seemingly gray color blazing, through the reflection on the mirror.

With only seconds warning, I barely got out of the way. Getting my shirt caught in her hands instead of some body part. Instead of her teeth sinking in. This, I thought I could deal with. Figured that if I pulled hard enough, her wrists would break too. So, I spread my feet apart, bracing myself to pull. Simply not expecting the man on the floor to wrap himself around my leg.

I screamed, and took a chance by straightening out before raising my other leg, kicking the man swiftly in the skull. But he wouldn't budge. He barely even moved as he opened his mouth. So I kicked him in the teeth, watching an expression of (what I felt was) dismay pass over his features, before he proceeded to try to bite me. Did he realize his teeth were shattered? Was there still enough to break the skin? I didn't know. I didn't want to take the chance. So I took the stomping on the mans head.

Once. Twice. Blood.

At that point I gained an unwavering belief that the temple was the weakest part of the skull. The man went still, long enough for me to straighten my arm against the woman

effectively keeping her away from me, but I stomped him one last time for good measure. I didn't want to risk him getting back up. Malachi would be wanting his soap soon.

I almost stopped struggling when the thought passed through my mind. There was a woman trying to eat my face, and I was worried about a boy and his soap. Realizing this, I

gathered my resolve, and pushed as hard as possible, disgusted with the grip the woman had on me. She was dead. Undead. Her grip shouldn't have been so strong.

But her grip was strong, unbelievably so, and she kept tugging on me. Trying to get closer. I couldn't seem to get my shirt free. No matter how hard I pulled. I heard something crack. Maybe a finger or two. Maybe a tendon. I didn't know what, but something did crack. She moaned at me when whatever it was broke, and pulled harder. So I resorted to my childhood, remembering the multiple times that my brother would grab onto an article of clothing and refuse to let go.

I dropped straight to the floor, and slid out of my shirt.

It wasn't that amazing a feat, seeing how large the shirt was on me, it was only a bit embarrassing. A bit. No. Not a bit. A lot. Yes. A lot. I just honestly prayed that no one chose that moment to respond to my earlier scream. That would have been a bit of mortification I wasn't sure I could survive. I would have willingly had my throat ripped out then.

Regardless of how embarrassed it made me feel, it got me away from the zombie. In fact, her hands seemed to be trapped. So, without a second thought, I dove over the mans body, for the gun. Ignoring the chunks of skull, and bits of gore laying there. I tried not to peer into his head which I could do with the size of the hole there. It wasn't the time to lose my lunch. Not with the girl moving towards me. Falling to the floor. Pulling frantically to get free of the fabric. Ripping it. Breaking bones. Probably wrenching body parts out of their sockets.

I had a morbid respect for her determination. Doing my best to overlook what it was that she was determined to do. I didn't want to think of it. I couldn't seem to get my shaking hands around the gun, and almost burst into frustrated tears when the blood slick metal evaded my fingers a fourth time. She was struggling closer, I wanted nothing more then a bullet in her head.

"Come on!" I couldn't help but shriek. It seemed to do the trick.

My fingers wrapped around the weapon. I spun, and shot.

Thus came the moment that frustrated tears finally did run tracks down my face. I wasn't so sure how I missed the point blank shot, but I did. I heard ceramic tile shatter somewhere in the background. The woman kept moving towards me, staring intently. Jaw snapping at me like some kind of starving animal. I barely acknowledged the fact that I was still kneeling a pile of whatever had come off of the mans body.

I pulled the trigger again. "Dammit.."

Again. "Dammit!" Again. "
Dammit!
"

Figuring the only guns I'd ever heard of, aside from machine guns, held six bullets maximum, I knew I needed to make the shot. It was either make the shot, or be screwed to the ninth circle of hell. I couldn't help but think that I'd be betraying my family by dying there, in such a stupid way. But it was so hard to make the shot with shaking hands. So hard with blurry eyes.

I tried to steady myself. My breathing. My arms. My eyes. Until finally
finally
I was sure I could make the shot. I knew I
knew
I could make the shot. So I squeezed my eyes shut, and pulled the trigger for the final time. Silently listening to the heart stopping bang. At the ringing left in my ears. Waiting. Wanting to know the exact sound of a bullet once it entered the decaying flesh of a zombie.

All I heard was shattering tile.

I couldn't stop the string of obscenities that flew from my mouth as I pushed myself backwards. Away from the rapidly approaching woman. Had she been moving so quickly the entire time? Was I moving too slow? Was my mind playing tricks on me? I didn't know. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She'd gotten her arms free. My shirt was in tatters.

I wanted to cry. I did.

I cried the moment that cold hands gripped both of my arms, and the scent of rotting meat filled my nostrils. The moment I made contact with lifeless eyes. The moment that cracked teeth were bared at me. Even more when those angry hands grew even colder, and lifeless, and fell from me.

I hadn't heard the shot.

Hadn't seen the boy walk into the bathroom.

In spite of his disturbingly comforting presence, I wrapped my arms around the front of my body, shivering uncontrollably. Not because I was cold which I was. Not because I'd nearly died, and was scared which I also was. But for the mere fact that I felt utter useless.

I was utterly useless. I knew I was.

I couldn't even protect myself when I had a gun in my hand.

I found my eyes glued to the completely soaked boy. He was dripping again, but no longer with blood. Actually, taking note in the very back of my mind, there was very little blood left on him. He pants looked wet and clean, and he was indeed shirtless, so I figured he'd washed his while I was otherwise occupied. And even while his face was completely expressionless, I couldn't beat down the fear that he was mad at me.

Again. "Get up." Cold words.

Yeah, he was mad. "Get up
now
."

Very mad.

But I got to my feet. My very shaky feet. "II'm sorry. I"

"I ask for soap, and you disrobe?"

"She grabbed my" I'd already started answering before I realized that he'd made a joke. A dry joke, true enough, but one all the same. I spent a moment staring at him, before he sighed, and grabbed my wrist. I couldn't tear my gaze from his.