3WW CXCII

Also, thanks to Bunnygirl's suggestion, I've chosen to submit this to WWR. I hope I did it right, I think I might've misunderstood the directions. My advance apologies if this is the case.


This is my first 3WW contribution. I know I end up using an element that is quickly becoming hackneyed, but I couldn't resist. Enjoy! :) Oh, and I lovelovelove comments and constructive criticism.

He lied on the hill, hands tucked behind his head. The soft blades of grass tickled the back of his neck. He looked skyward, dreamily watching the blue-grey clouds skulk across the light grey sky. The air smelled like rain. A soft breeze blew through the meadow, causing the leaves of the trees to dance lazily. A single bird cried out as it streaked across the sky. The boy, no older than thirteen, closed his eyes and inhaled, a reluctant smile curling on his lips.

Peaceful days like this were hard to come by. So much fighting…the smile faded to a frown and his brow furrowed. He shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind and return to the tranquility the field offered. The cool, damp earth blanketed by lush grass stretched out, and he’d been lying there for so long that there were small depressions now forming under him. For the first time in days, no weeks, he’d let go of the worry, the anxiety, the all-consuming preoccupation with survival.

It hadn’t always been like this, the boy had been told by his father a few years before…he left. When the boy was but a baby, the cities had been bustling. Cars filled the streets, drowning out the sounds of nature with their awful engine drones and blaring horns. People spent the vast majority of their time in this virtual world called the Internet. Oh, the wonderful stories he knew about the Internet and computers! How millions of pieces of data, whatever those were, could be sent through the air, or through cables, at lightning fast speed! It was incredible. Nothing like that existed these days, and hadn’t since his own infancy. Because then, something went terribly wrong.

People began to get sick. And not like back in the village where old Helene could cure just about anything with a mixture of herbs or maybe a poultice. No, his mother said they were very, very sick. And they were violent. Both his mother and father said that nobody was sure what it was that caused these ill and dying people to lash out on others. But the boy had his own theories. Once, in the cellar of a friend’s house, he had watched Dawn of the Dead. It had seemed quite likely to him, and spoke to his parents of this theory. But as soon as he had uttered that word, his mother’s hand had clamped over his mouth and she’d shushed him. His father had barked at him to never, never, under any circumstances, say that word. "Don’t even think it," he’d growled.

And the boy complied. From that day on, he avoided that word and everything connected to it. Until now, of course. But his father would never know. He’d left. Not that long ago, but long enough for the boy. He was beginning to forget how his father dressed and carried himself, the sound of his feet clunking up the stairs, the way his voice could be jovial and fluid at one time, livid and gravelly the next. His mother assured him that the boy was his father’s spitting image, but for one reason or another, the child was never fully convinced. Maybe it was his older brother, who acted just like their father. Taciturn, sort of clumsy. He obviously looked like their father, while the boy knew he possessed his mother’s sandy hair and plain, brown eyes, though hers had dulled with the absence of his father…oh, how the boy missed him….

A crack! in the distance. The boy’s eyes opened. He knew that sound well. It wasn’t an animal lumbering around, but it wasn’t a firearm. He sat up, attempting to trace the sound to its source. He could see nothing. He swallowed, the blood in his veins rushing. This could be very, very bad. He took a breath and closed his eyes again to remain calm. It was nothing to worry about, he tried to convince himself. It was probably someone just like him, tired of dealing with the constant danger of the world.

Another crack. This time, there was also a rustling of leaves and of underbrush. And he could have sworn he heard a feral snarl among the line of trees. He stood up, it was best not to take chances. Even if it was a harmless animal, or an angry human…he was unarmed. And that was just like begging to be killed, or worse. As he stood up, the weightless feeling of fright and determination made getting his bearings awkward, combined with the lack of the familiar weight of his crowbar. He looked around, assessing how much time he had to leave before whatever was causing the racket would get to him. Another crack came, but this time, much to his chagrin, he had a visual.

It was a person alright. One of them. The ill, the mad, the inhuman shells of former humans who plagued his town, state, and world. He’d never seen one in real life before. Only in black market books and movies his friends had stolen, or had traded a great deal of gasoline or food for.

His only thought, while rooted in place, The illustrations were wrong. They had no exposed brains, vocal cords, or bones. No, they looked merely like greatly beaten, grotesquely feverish, hovering-on-death humans. This one was a female, maybe a few years older than him at the most. She was bruised and had gashes everywhere. Scabs oozed a substance, but it wasn’t the sickly yellow he’d been accustomed to seeing. It was a strange brownish-greenish, with tinges of black. The color reminded him of mold. He frowned in disgust. Dried blood, among other fluids, stained her once white sundress. Her long black hair hung in matted clumps, twigs and leaves, and undoubtedly bugs tangled throughout. She had several bald spots, a few of which were bleeding. One of her eyes was missing, as was a pinky. Oddly, her teeth were intact while her lips were torn to shreds.

He could no longer stomach facing her, her stench was creeping toward him, to where he stood. He looked around again, knowing that if he ran the exact opposite way of her, he’d be able to make it. These things, though viciously relentless, were slow. Which was no disappointment to him. He began to walk, so as not to alert the being of his presence more than he already had.

Not even six paces later, he heard another low moan. But this wasn’t from the female. One, it was lower, and two, it was to his right. She was behind him. The boy’s eyes darted to the direction of the sound, gaze met by another creature. This one an older male. The boy swallowed. He had to get out. Now.

He bolted. His legs pounded against the earth, thankfully the thick grass muffled the sound of his boots. His arms pumped smoothly, and his breathing became even. He thanked whoever was left in charge of his godforsaken life for his running ability. His mind calmed as he focused on the path ahead. Soon, he’d reach a road. From there, it was a right turn, then a left on a dirt path. Three hundred yards along this path, the first watch towers of his village would emerge from the dense foliage.

Then, he’d be safe.

He continued to run, inhaling and exhaling, allowing his mind to blank. He focused on his body parts. Legs, arms, lungs, eyes. Ears. He stayed alert to his changing surroundings. The moans and cracking and shuffling were closing in on him. He felt like an idiot for daring to leave the village without any protection. Trees and bushes, rocks and weeds, flashed past him as he sprinted to the road.

He wouldn’t allow himself to panic. This kind of stuff happened all the time now, anyway. Just last week his friend was ambushed by a couple of them. But then again, he was armed and was able to take them down, then run. The boy wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly face them without being mercilessly torn apart, or some how infected. At least with his crowbar, he stood more of a chance of surviving, or at least taking some out with him. He continued to curse his stupidity and lack of foresight the rest of the way home.

He reached the village, and didn’t notice that the watchtowers were empty. He just ran, the muscles in his legs and arms, and sides now shrieking in pain, and his lungs crying out with each exhale.

He slowed down and jogged to the small, squat house he shared with his family, all thought processes erased. He just wanted water, a rest, and his mother. The fright he’d blocked until this point crashed into his consciousness. It hit him like a brick and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was pinned to the spot, the only thing he could think, I’m just a kid. And I’m going to die. I’mgoingtodiei’mgoingtodieI’mgoingtodie.

He scanned the village. It was silent. Everyone must be locked up in their houses, they must know of them. He proceeded to his door, finding it unlocked. He stepped inside, cautiously. Silently. Everything was as it should be, and he filled with relief. He walked further into the house. He heard something.

Shuffling. Scraping. A groan.

He ran up the stairs, throwing caution to the wind, bellowing and beginning to cry, “MOM!”