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eksvaized · 3 months

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[ Next ] [ All In One ] part 1, MDNI

The vibrant colours of the setting sun blend effortlessly with the cool, dusky sky, bringing a sense of tranquillity. With every step you take down the deserted street, your eyes dart around. Your gaze keeps scanning your surroundings. The faint smell of old rain on the ground fills your nostrils. It's a sharp contrast to the day's disappearing warmth. You tread carefully, being cautious not to let the hard soles of your boots echo against the cold concrete. Despite the ache in your legs and the dull throb in your sore feet, you maintain a brisk pace. Your heart pounds in rhythm with your hurried footsteps.

In your right hand, which is glued to your side, you hold a hefty knife. The handle feels cold and digs into your skin. Your sweaty palm makes maintaining a steady grip a constant struggle. This forces you to adjust your hold occasionally to prevent the sharp blade from slipping through your fingers. As your gaze scans a row of abandoned houses, your eyes glide along the overgrown front lawns. The sight triggers an unsettling realisation — you have never been in this neighbourhood before.

A cold shudder trails down your spine. You swallow hard, trying to loosen the knot of fear tightening in your stomach. The thrill of discovering unknown places is usually a welcome feeling. It means you may find something useful. Whether it's a warm jacket, a gun with a few bullets in its chamber, or an abandoned stash of food. But when the sun sets and darkness takes over, unfamiliar territory is the last place you wish to be. Right now, you have no choice. You are miles away from your home. No matter how hard you are determined to push yourself, you won't be able to reach it tonight. You need to find another place to spend the night in. Roaming the dark streets at night is not an option — it's a risk you are reluctant to take.

The houses in this neighbourhood are all abandoned. But the dead could still be lurking within these dilapidated homes. As you continue walking down the street, you find yourself peering through the dusty broken windows. Eventually, your gaze falls on a particular house. Its windows are boarded up, though the front door stands ajar. You hesitate for a moment, your senses on high alert, listening for any signs of movement. Though you'd prefer to wait a few more minutes, the night is growing darker, and you can't keep standing on the porch. A biter could sneak up on you, and you don't wish to be its dinner tonight.

Deciding this place will have to do, you hold the knife in front of you and push the door. As it creaks, the sound reverberates through the air, causing you to grimace. You step inside the dark hallway, feeling the tension mounting. When no one jumps out at you from the shadows, you retrieve a flashlight from your backpack and turn it on. You explore the first floor, checking the living room and kitchen. A quick peek into the bathroom downstairs and an empty broom closet reassures you of your solitude. Apart from the sea of dust, broken furniture and an expired can of tomato soup, you find no signs of life. The shadows, once threatening, now offer solace in their silence.

Before climbing upstairs, you secure the front door and all the windows. You double and triple-check each one, making sure that no one else will get in or see you creeping around the house.

When you come to a halt at the top of the stairs, a sense of unease washes over you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. For a moment, you are convinced you hear something, akin to a whisper or a hushed footfall. Your heart races and your muscles tense, preparing for a biter that might be looming behind one of the closed doors. But it's a false alarm. A tiny rat scurries along the floor. You jump when the tiny creature brushes past your boots with its coarse fur.

As you step into the bedroom, the first thing you notice is the bed. It's been stripped of its mattress. The headboard is in a pitiful state, splintered and broken, a mere shadow of its former self. The rest of the room is sparse, furnished only with a chair and a dusty dresser, which you shove in front of the door. It serves as an extra layer of protection in case someone or something sneaks up on you in the dead of night.

Before settling down in the relative safety of a dim corner, you can't help but glance out of the window. Your eyes scan the backyard. You assure yourself that no biters are creeping around. Only then do you allow yourself a moment of relief. With a shaky hand, you pull the curtains closed, sealing yourself from the outside.

The world you are living in now has drastically changed, and you despise it. At first, you believed you might survive. The dead, or 'biters' as you've come to refer to them, were a constant source of terror. Their incessant low growling, the lifeless, pale gaze of their eyes, and their insatiable hunger terrified you. Yet, you weren't alone. You had a family: a mother, a father, and a brother. They made each day in this apocalypse easier to bear.

However, one time, your father was attacked. A biter cornered your mother, causing her to stumble, fall and freeze in terror. Without hesitation, your father shielded her from the dead man. Unarmed, without a gun or knife, he did his best to make the biter retreat. That day, he saved your mother but was bitten. Over the course of two nights, your father grew weaker and weaker. One fateful morning, you found him dead in the backyard. A knife embedded in his heart — the same one you now always carry with you — he killed himself since he knew what awaited him. He refused to become a dead walking man.

And yet, he turned into a biter. You were kneeling beside him when his eyes peeled open. Your father lunged towards you. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly as he tried to sink his teeth into your arm. Your mother was crying, begging you to leave your father alone. To keep her from intervening as you pulled the knife from your father's chest, your brother had to coddle her in his arms. You weren't conscious of your actions. But you knew you didn't want to die, nor did you want to see your brother or mother getting killed. So, with a shaky hand, you plunged the knife into your father's skull, causing his body to collapse on the ground.

That day, your father died twice. The last time he died, he taught you an important lesson — always aim for a biter's head.

You and your brother buried him together. Your mother, overwhelmed by grief and despair, stayed inside the house and locked herself in the bedroom. From then on, your world was forever altered. The constant sorrow that washed over you was like a tidal wave. A relentless pain that welled up in your heart and threatened to make you break down in tears at any given moment. But you swallowed all your emotions, including the terror that gripped you daily. You had to be strong, not just for yourself, but for your mother and your brother.

In a cruel twist of fate, you were separated from them during a terrifying encounter with a horde of biters. The days passed one by one. Slowly. No matter how long and hard you looked, you couldn't find them as if they had vanished into thin air. There was a possibility that they were dead and that the next time you will see them, they would be among the biters. Yet you refuse to even let such thoughts settle in your mind. You cling to the hope that when you find them, they will be alive and well.

In the early hours of the morning, noises emanating from downstairs wake you up. At first, you're disoriented, struggling to comprehend that you were indeed sleeping. But as the loud clamour persists and even increases in volume, any chance of falling back to sleep is eliminated.

Blinking, you try to adjust your eyes to the harsh brightness of the morning light. It filters through the dirty curtains. Your skin is freezing, and the cold is seeping into your bones. The fear that grips you. You don't dare to move and remain glued to the floor, sitting in the corner of the room. You listen to the commotion downstairs, your heart pounding in your chest. To combat the creeping chill, you move your fingers. This repetitive motion makes your blood flow through your veins again, providing a much-needed source of warmth to your otherwise icy body.

You know you must get out of this house before whoever is downstairs decides to explore the second floor and discovers you. Fear runs through your body like ice-cold water. You aren't a fighter; you have never been. Even outside, when you encounter a biter, it's a struggle for you. The prospect of having to fight the dead within the confined space of this home is terrifying. There is less room to manoeuvre. Escape could be more difficult, and a fight could end before it begins if a biter sneaks up on you. Your only other option is to risk jumping out of the window. But you've never been fond of heights. Not to mention the very real possibility you might injure yourself.

You pack your backpack. Casting a sweeping glance around the bedroom, you ensure nothing of value is left behind. Gathering your courage, you push aside the dresser that's been barricading the door. Your senses heighten as you leave the room and approach the staircase. You tiptoe down, gripping the railing. The sound of footsteps in the living room intensifies your alertness. You draw your knife, ready to stab any biter that comes into your peripheral view. Right now, there's no room for caution. Your survival instinct is in high gear because you're determined not to get bitten.

After rounding the corner, you press your body against the wall and peek inside the living room. Your eyes immediately land on a towering figure. His back is turned towards you, so he's unaware of your presence. You have never seen such a big-biter before, let alone fought one. However, he is blocking your only way out. If you want to exit the house, you need to reach the front door. You can't climb out through the windows because they are all bolted shut. And if you want to step a foot in the hallway, first you need to cross the living room. But it's impossible while the biter is still in there, and your only choice is to deal with him.

In your mind, you toy with the idea of tossing something across the floor. The noise might divert his attention long enough for you to sneak past. But this might not work. Your gut tells you that your only viable option, although terrifying, is to approach the biter from behind and plunge your knife into his skull before he can turn around and grab you.

At first, everything goes according to your plan. You are quiet and avoid drawing unwanted attention towards yourself. Yet, as you are about to strike, the biter spins around and lunges at you with an unexpected ferocity. Your knife slips out of your hand. It clatters onto the floor. You are knocked off balance, your feet betraying you on the deceptive carpet. The fall is harsh. Your back collides with the unforgiving ground. A loud groan of pain escapes your lips as you feel the shock of the impact.

You roll to the side, keeping your eyes, wide and filled with fear, fixated on the biter. You notice his face is concealed — he is wearing a skull mask. This means he can't bite you. The realisation strikes you like a bolt of lightning. It reignites the dwindling flame of hope inside of you and causes a surge of strength to flood your body.

The biter is relentless, showing an uncanny level of determination for a dead man. He charges at you, his hand extending as he tries to grab your hair. Despite still being on the floor, you push your body backwards, just barely evading his grasp. The carpet burns your exposed skin as you slide towards its edge. Your legs kick and slip on the dirty, coarse material.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you start swearing. Your eyes race across the floor, desperately searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Your heart pounds in your chest as you realise you don't know where your knife has landed.

As the string of curse words tumbles from your lips, the dead man, who had seemed unstoppable until now, suddenly comes to a complete halt. You, too, freeze. Your mind races as you try to figure out what made him take a step back from you. There is a brief moment of silence, but then you come back to your senses. This is your chance to flee. With a burst of adrenaline, you push past your fear and leap to your feet.

"Duck!" The man roars, his voice booming in the quiet. The sudden command almost throws you off balance and you stumble again. Nonetheless, without you realising it, your body reacts to the order, and you do as told.

He moves closer, his heavy footsteps making your heart pound even louder in your ears. You stop breathing, convinced that you've walked straight into his trap. But, to your surprise, he doesn't attack you. Instead, he lunges forward and stabs a biter that had crept up behind you.

Ever since you were left alone, you haven't seen a single other person. But now, you find yourself standing in front of another human being. It's a strange sensation. It's as if you've forgotten how to interact, how to react, and even how to contribute to a simple conversation. You're wary and apprehensive. You don't know who this man is, where he comes from, or what his intentions might be. Yet you can't bring yourself to leave. You want to at least say thank you before fleeing.

After all, he saved you. Even if he initially tried to cut you with your knife.

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eksvaized · 3 months

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[ Previous ┃ Next ] [ All In One ] part 6, MDNI

You stare at Simon. He refuses to move away from the window. Dim moonlight trickles through the curtains and illuminates his silhouette. His figure casts a dark, elongated shadow that seems to stretch across the living room floor. Your eyes glide up and down his body, and once in a while settle on his hand. He grips the pistol. His hold is so tight that his knuckles have bleached to a stark white from the strain.

The stifling silence that hangs heavy in the room is almost unbearable. It's like a thick, oppressive fog that refuses to lift. You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from breaking the tense stillness. He had forbidden you from uttering even a single word. You feel suffocated by the countless questions that swirl in your mind like dust in a tornado. Every time you shift on the couch, the soft rustling of the pillows earns you an icy glare from him.

Simon also orders you to remain in the living room. When you try to stand and walk to your bedroom, he barks a hushed command for you to sit your ass back down. His voice is laden with a muted menace. You know he is afraid that you might try to sneak away, to slip out of the house and into the night, if he lets you out of his sight, even if only for a moment. His paranoia is palpable.

After what feels like an eternity of staring into the cold fireplace, growing restlessness compels you to peel yourself from the couch. The room's chill seeps into your bones. You tiptoe towards Simon. As you press against him, your hand wraps around his arm, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You lift your chin and peek over his shoulder. His index finger is still hooked into the heavy, moth-eaten curtains, holding them. Through the small, narrow gap, your view is limited. But it's more than enough to see the two shadowy figures still are out there, wandering down the street. They move with a grave, unspoken purpose. Their flashlights cut through the all-encompassing darkness like lighthouses in a tempestuous sea. The light beams punctuate the shadows, illuminating the sombre house fronts in sporadic bursts, seeking any signs of movement within the abandoned homes.

"Why are they looking for you?" The question slips from you in a whispered murmur, directed towards his ear. He returns your query with an angry stare, his nostrils flaring in a display of growing irritation. His eyes darken with an unspoken warning.

With a heavy sigh, you close your mouth and press your lips together in a tight line. You're gripped by the fear that if you dare to utter another word, he'll find something - anything - to shove into your mouth to silence you. Your attention shifts when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the dog bounding towards your home. A sudden, intense dread descends upon you. Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach as if it's a stone cast in deep, murky waters. The icy tendrils of paralysing terror slither across your skin.

"While you slept, I… I saw that dog. It was prowling around our front yard," you say, despite the lump forming in your throat. As the words leave your mouth, you feel Simon's muscles tighten under your touch. "Do you think it could lead them to us?"

"I hope not."

You and Simon remain vigilant, eyes glued to the street that lies before your house. The two shadowy figures disappear. The only evidence of their presence is the dog that runs towards your home. It sniffs around the front yard again. After ten seconds, the dog sits down on the grass. Its tongue lolls out from its mouth as it pants, its tail wagging in an elated rhythm. You glance at Simon. His brows are knitted together in a confusion that mirrors your own. Yet, before either of you can voice your thoughts, a loud bark makes you jump. The startling sound reverberates through the stillness of the night. The noise caused Simon to recoil, and he springs away from the window.

"We need to hide. Now," he says and reloads his gun, the metallic clicks echoing off the room walls. A frigid shiver trickles down your back, akin to a stream of ice water threading its way down your spine. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down to his belt with his free hand, pulls out the knife, and pushes the blade into your trembling hands.

The cold metal handle feels foreign in your warm grip. Its heavy weight weighs down your arm. Fear seizes you, and you find yourself unable to move. Simon's frantic command bounces around your head, back and forth like a ping-pong ball. But your feet, as if they had been glued to the wooden floor, refuse to comply. Seeing your terror-induced paralysis, Simon wraps his hand around your forearm and drags you out of the room. His grip is unyielding, his urgency palpable, as he pulls you up the stairs and into your bedroom. His last instructions are clear. "Barricade your door and don't open it until you hear my voice. Until I tell you it's safe."

"Don't even dare to look outside the window. Just sit and… and keep quiet," he adds, his voice fading into a whisper as he rushes down the staircase, leaving you.

Before you can ask what he is planning to do and why he isn't staying with you, he is already gone. You toss the knife Simon gave you on the foot of the bed. As your eyes dart around the room, you realise you have no way to block the door. Panic rushes through your veins, and fear keeps you from leaving your room to find a safer hiding place. So, in desperation, you do the only thing you can think of. Your hands, shaking with a mixture of cold and fear, clutch at the back of a wobbly chair. Each heartbeat feels like a drum pounding against your ribcage. You manoeuvre the chair, positioning it under the door handle and jamming it.

Your heart continues to thunder in your chest. A sheen of sweat soaks your back. The fabric of your shirt clings to your skin. You pace around the room like a caged bird. But upon the realisation that the floors betray your presence with their incessant creaking with every step you take, you retreat to the bed. Sitting down, you press your body against the headboard. You curl into a protective ball and draw your knees up to your chest. The knife in your hand is pointed at the closed door. A part of you wants to creep to the window. You can hear the unsettling noises in the backyard. The ominous, low footsteps circle the house. But you resist the urge to look and force yourself to stay put; Simon's words ring in your ears.

As the minutes morph into hours, seconds seem to pass in slow motion. But suddenly, a faint noise, a whisper of movement, catches your attention. The handle on the door starts turning. Your heart plummets as an icy chill of fear washes over you, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. The intruder tries to push the door open. However, their first attempt to get into the room fails. You creep out of bed. Like a shadow, you glide along the wall, cautious of where you place your feet. You don't want the floor to creak. Inching closer to the door, you tighten your grip around the knife. Your hand is slick with sweat. The blade threatens to slip out of your fingers.

Every muscle in your body aches from tension. Fear grips you, yet you muster the strength to suppress it. Whoever is on the other side of the door, you know that once they enter the room, you must be the first to strike. Your only advantage is the element of surprise; they might not know you're in here. If you can attack before they see you, you might walk out of this room alive. You were the prey, yes, but you were not helpless.

The door creaks open. The figure, shadow-like, slithers inside. Their towering frame fills the room, their broad shoulders blocking your view. They are taller than you and look a lot stronger. The tension is palpable in the air. You can feel it weighing you down. But before you can overthink this, before you allow yourself even a moment of hesitation, you lunge at them like a cornered animal ready to fight for its life.

The stranger turns around. As your eyes fall upon his face, a rush of relief spills over your body. Simon. But your alleviation twists into tension as you realise it's too late to stop the movement of your arm. Your hand is high in the air. The tip of the blade pointed at his head. But his reflexes, sharpened by years of experience, are quicker. In a blink, he seizes your hand. His fingers curl around your wrist and halt the knife just inches from his skull. The shock of his action and the realisation of what you were about to do, causes the knife to fall out of your now limp hand. It clatters on the hard wooden floor.

You feel your knees buckle; the strength leaving your legs as the adrenaline rush fades. Instinct takes over, and you collapse into Simon's strong, comforting embrace. His presence, once a source of fear, is now a beacon of safety. You want to lash out, punch him, and scream at him for scaring you. But all you can do is wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face in his chest. You take quick, shallow breaths. It's a feeble attempt to prevent the tears that threaten to spill. Your emotions are in overdrive.

After you pull away, your hands continue holding onto his shirt. You look at him. His clothes are smeared with dirt. Blood from a fresh cut on his eyebrow is trickling down, staining his skin. His fingers run through your hair as if he's ensuring you're not just an illusion, a trick his mind is playing on him. He cups your cheeks. You feel the warmth radiating from his touch and spreading throughout your body. Tilting your head from side to side, his eyes scan your face. Concern fills his gaze. Once he makes sure that you aren't hurt, that nothing has happened to you, a sigh eludes him. His arms drop back to his sides. As his shoulders surrender to gravity and his back unbends, he wipes his face with the back of his hand, trying to clear away the blood that has begun to drip into his eyes.

"We are safe. They are gone."

"What happened to you?" The question tumbles from your lips before you can swallow it. You step closer to him. The distance between your bodies diminishes completely. our eyes, wide and worried, traverse his face once more. It's clear he has been in a fight of some sort. Without thinking, your thumb sweeps over his eyebrow. The cut doesn't look deep, yet it is enough to send a pang of worry coursing through you.

"Nothing really. Just nicked my face while wrestling with the biters in the shed," he replies with a nonchalant shrug, attempting to dismiss the incident as if it were trivial. But his words, far from providing any comfort, only deepen your confusion and concern.

You guide him to the bed, which he sinks onto with a quiet sigh. After retrieving a half-empty water bottle from a nearby drawer, you position yourself between his spread legs. The intimacy of the situation causing your heart to thump in your chest. His hands settle on your thighs, anchoring you down. His fingers fiddle with the fabric of your pants. It takes every ounce of your willpower to resist the temptation to push his body onto the mattress and climb on top of him.

You want to kiss him. But again, just like the last time, you find an excuse why you shouldn't. Your emotions are a whirlwind. They are amplified by the adrenaline that courses through your veins like a rushing river. You aren't thinking straight. And since your judgement is clouded, you worry that acting on this impulse, pressing your lips against his, would be a foolish decision.

Diverting your attention away from your tumultuous thoughts, you concentrate on the task at hand. The cool water on the cloth feels like a balm against your heated skin as you clean his skin. The simple act of taking care of him helps to ground you, pulling you away from the edge of your desires.

He explains to you how he had lured a group of biters into the house's front yard. They acted as a distraction. As Simon continues to talk, a realisation dawns upon you. You remember all those mornings when you had woken up to the sound of him rustling around in the backyard. You had always assumed he was taking care of the dead. But now it turns out he wasn't killing biters. Instead, he crammed them into the shed, ensuring they stayed there, locked up.

"Wait, you mean to tell me that… we have a shed full of the dead in… in-in our backyard?" The realisation strikes you like a punch, its force threatening to knock the wind out of you. The colour drains from your face until you are pale as a ghost. You feel lightheaded as another wave of memories floods back into your mind �� the countless times you had stayed awake until the early morning, wandering around the dark house. You recall hearing a low, guttural growl and a distinct banging sound outside. But you were never able to pinpoint the location of the eerie noises.

Simon, sensing the panic creeping into your eyes, quickly tries to rationalise it all. "Not anymore. But I thought they would come in handy," he says, maintaining a calm and steady voice. "And they did. After I lured the biters to the front yard, the two guys who were approaching our house got scared. As they ran away, I heard one of them say that the dog probably smelt the dead… which hopefully means they have no idea that someone… we live here.”

That night, despite the hurricane of questions rampaging through the back alleys of your mind, you are simply too drained to chase after them. The day has been a rollercoaster. You are exhausted. So, when Simon forces you to lay down and sits at the foot of the bed, you can't resist closing your eyes. His gaze darts between you and the closed bedroom door. The sound of the blade twirling into his hand lulls you to sleep.

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