The Woods

Loud noises. Throbbing head. Something furry on my chest. And something…sticky? I opened my eyes to find the pug staring right back at me and licking my face. “Ugh, get off me you shit!” I said while taking one hand and throwing him off me. The pug skid down the floor with his paws and let out a whimper. It slowly crawled back to me, eyes wide and wary. I didn’t even give it the time of day, I just got up and walked past it.

I looked around me and found that I had no idea where I was. Only trees surrounded me. This was not good, I hated being lost for two reasons: 1. I had a terrible sense of direction and 2. I felt like a small child who needed his mother’s hand to guide him along. Why the hell was I out here in the first place?

I started looking around me and noticed that I was outside a small house, but there were no other houses nearby. Actually, calling this a house was a mistake, it was more of a cabin. Like one of those places where little kids got touched inappropriately. I wonder if that just happened to me.

I looked at my clothes and instead of finding white stains, I found deep red ones. Suddenly, I remembered what happened to me. The crazy thing who attacked me. The guy who looked like me. And how he bludgeoned me with my own flashlight.

“Howdy,” a voice behind me said. “I take it your wide awake now?” I turned around and saw the guy, but I didn’t reply back to his remark. I just kept my distance in case he decided to pull another whack job on me. “You should probably sit back down, you took quite a blow to the head,” he snickered.

“Yea, that you did! What the hell was that about?” I replied. “Oh, I don’t know, I just figured you’d be less cooperative to follow me if you were still conscious,” he said. Humans are quite a rarity, I wanted to make sure I could, ahem, save you.”

“Who…who are you?” I said warily. “Mother and father call me Pierre, but you can call me Perry. And not that I care, but I take it you have a name?” The so-called Perry said “…It’s Artem,” I said. “Hehe…cute name,” Perry replied. I ignored the comment and asked “Where are we? Why did you bring me here? And what was that thing that attacked me?”

“My, aren’t you antsy. Well, I can’t answer all your questions, but I can tell you that there are more of that thing that attacked you. They’re everywhere. In fact, you and I are probably the only human beings in a 100-mile radius. So that means you should probably stick to me. You know, survival in numbers,” he said while holding a smirk in his face.

Stick with him? I’d rather go shoot my own foot off. Which is coincidently the same thing I would do if I ever got drafted to the army. There was just something that grates about him. Snobbish prick. “Go fuck off, I’m not sticking with you. You just beat me down with a flashlight and you want me to follow you?” I said

“Well, to be fair, I did save your life. You owe me a life debt. And to repay it, you have to follow me wherever I go Arty,” Perry said, in his condescending tone. “What!? I don’t owe you anything,” I exclaimed.

“Oh really? If my memory serves me right, I got you out of a one way ticket to someone’s gullet. And plus, I knocked you out cause you’d have raised such a commotion, you’d have attracted others. So that’s two life debts. Also, you could say you owe me two-and-a-half life debts since I tried to treat your wound. But I’m not a doctor, so the wound stays. I only dampened it with some ripped clothes,” said Perry

Wound? I looked all around my body and then noticed a large red patch on my left arm. It spanned from my forearm to my wrist, glistening in deep crimson even though a make shift patch of clothing was covering it. The wound screamed “Needs to be treated asap”.

“Oh shit…,” I muttered. I wasn’t a genius, but I knew a cut drew in multiple diseases. Rabies could be contracted from a bite. Infections came from open wounds, which contracted into so many diseases. I once saw a documentary on gangrene on tv. I couldn’t eat for the next week.

“Hmm, I’d look into that if I were you,” Perry said. “That creature got a good slashing on you. But I think we’re drawing away from the real point. I saved your life. Twice and a half times. But I’m a generous guy, so I’ll only take one life debt.

“So with that life debt, I want you to follow me. I need a helper to survive through this. And if I’m not mistaken, I’d guess survival is pretty high up on your list too, so this’ll only help you.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. I just got saved by the world’s number one jackass. And to boot, I could start contracting some crazy shit on my arm. God knows what that thing has. What made it worst was that he was right. Being with somebody increased your odds of living. And I liked the idea of being alive and what not.

“Oh,” he interjected, “I presume that pug that you‘ve been oh so nice to is with you? “Well, I call that he gets to be with us. Three’s a party you know.” I had forgotten about the pug till he mentioned it. The pug was just sitting there, panting and staring off into space. Dumb animal. How did it even follow us?

“If we don’t leave soon, I’m gonna have to start calling you stumpy, “Perry laughed. “Let’s go find some help. Preferably someone with experience with medicine. We’re going be total bffs by the time this is over,” Perry chirped. “He just said bffs. Fuck me.

If the moment came, I was going to use Perry as bait for the creatures to bail myself out. He just became my get-out-of-jail free card. I didn‘t have to outrun the things if they came. I just had to run faster than Perry. “Where did you have in mind?” I said.

“Toward Louisiana. I’m not fond of being in Texas,” He replied. “I didn’t question him further on his decision, I just wanted to get out of the woods and find something or someone to treat my arm. It was starting to turn an even brighter red through the jury-rigged patch .

Perry started walking off and I started following. He seemed to know where he was going at least. The pug followed on my heels. Following captain dickhead, we got out of the woods.

Don't Make a Sound

     Another zombie loses a foot and falls to the ground, tripping up two more on its way down.  Such well placed traps slow down the horde that needs to be given the slip before heading home to Bleak Street.  Fortunately for Jason, traps are his specialty, and he made a lot of them. 
     Trap making is a handy skill for outdoorsmen like Jason when it comes to getting natural food.  One can hunt for game, but guns are very loud and zombies have unbelievably keen hearing.  Jason’s traps are silent, good for catching game, good for catching the walking dead.  It’s too bad the game hunts back now.  Jason is a 26-year-old master of the outdoors.  He may be a little young to be a “master”, but his boy scout experience, rock climbing expertise, hunting every season of the year, and the five years he spent predominantly alone in the wilderness provided him enough experience to entitle himself so.  Jason knows how to survive and there is no better time to have that knowledge. 
     Jason sprints down a wide alley, his special alley, nearing Bleak Street.  Not much farther now.  Just a few fences to jump and he’ll be in time for dinner with his sweetheart, Jennifer.

    The zombies turn into the alley as soon as Jason reaches the opposite end.  Jason stops and turns.  It’s time for the fireworks. 
     Jason’s first trap is sprung, a simple trip wire.  Zombies tumble on top of each other.  It’s nothing special, but it forces the zombies closer together as they lumber through the alley.
     The horde advances halfway through the alley.  Trap number two is sprung.  Trash cans full of gasoline fall over, causing a flash flood of the flammable liquid to fill the alley.  They don’t notice.  They just keep walking.
     The horde is three quarters of the way through.  Jason’s turn.  He pulls a raw steak from his bag and shoves a fuse into it.  After lighting the fuse, Jason tosses the steak on the ground and runs to the nearby fence.
     The zombies are on the meat like wild dogs.  Jason is pleased to see how easily they take bait.  As nimbly as a cat, Jason climbs the fence and sits on top, watching and waiting.
     Gasoline trickles through the zombies’ feet.  It finally makes its way to the raw meat on the ground.  The meat with the fuse in it.  The fuse that continues to burn.
     The gasoline ignites.  Zombies light up like dry wood.  The flames rise to trigger the next trap.  Right above the flaming heads of zombies awaits a net lined with homemade bombs.  The fires snap ropes and the net falls.
     Eyes pinned on the alley, Jason waits on the fence.  Suddenly, a surge of heat knocks him off and into a backyard.  From his back Jason hears a chain of explosions and sees the flames of his labor burn the buildings on either side of the alley.  Groans from the horde of zombies fill his ears.
     Grinning, Jason gets back to his feet and pulls his head up to look over the fence.  Time for the finale.  This one will take care of any undead who managed to avoid the gasoline or are on their way to investigate the shiny lights and loud noises.
     Jason pulls a homemade detonator out of his pocket and presses the button.  Everything that could support the buildings on each side of the alley explodes.  The buildings crumble and fall, crushing everything around them.
     The show is over.  Jason makes his way home to Bleak Street jumping fences and running through backyards. 
     Finally, the last fence is jumped.  Jason looks both ways down the deserted Bleak Street, just in case, then runs home.
    
     Jason had finally finished completely boarding up the house, or at least the first floor, the day before.  To get inside of his own home, he has to pull out the hidden ladder and climb up to the second floor.  Dry and dirty, all he wanted was a bath and some quiet time, but there is just never time for that anymore.  Too many zombies hang out outside these days.  Not to mention it's incredibly difficult to board up a house without attracting any attention to it.
     Jason walks into the kitchen. 
     "Jennifer, I have food," Jason says.
     Jennifer, Jason's 27-year-old beauty, walks into the kitchen.  Why this young fashionista is attracted to fashion's opposite is beyond him.
     "All right!  What have we scavenged up today?"
     "It's actually not bad stuff."  Jason smiles with pride.
     Jennifer smiles at Jason.  She often wonders how many men are as handy as him.  He can use guns, make bombs, hunt, scavenge... what else could there be?
     "The crowd got smaller today, too."
    
     Nightfall.  The scratching is loud tonight.  Jason and Jennifer are upstairs in the bedroom, still awake.  It's not late enough to go to sleep.  Reading has become a hobby for the two.
     Jennifer gets out of bed and looks out the window.  Something catches her eye.  An elk is grazing in the back yard.
     "Jason, look.  It's a deer."
     Jason rolls out of bed and falls to the floor.  He then crawls over to Jennifer's feet.
     "Huh?"
     Jennifer points.
     "Over there.  It's a deer."
     Now on his feet, Jason looks out the window.
     "No, that's an elk.  What the hell is an elk doing here?"
     Jennifer runs out of the room and down the stairs.  Only mildly entertained, Jason slowly follows.  Jennifer is downstairs now.  She rushes to the window to look at the elk.  She peers between boards to see it has moved to the corner of the back yard and continues to graze.  Jason arrives next to Jennifer and looks outside.
     Suddenly, three zombies run out of the shadows and grab the elk.  Jennifer screams.  Jason knows the elk's fate and quickly turns Jennifer away from the window.  Unfortunately, Jennifer's scream was a little louder than he wanted.  Jason expects more zombies to show.  The house is boarded up, but can only take so much pressure from invaders.
     Jason whispers to Jennifer,
     "Don't make a sound."
     Nothing happens.  The scratching continues as steadily as before.
     Finally, something happens.  Jason and Jennifer listen as heavy footsteps move along the side of the house.  They follow the footsteps as they continue.
     Jennifer sneezes!
     Jason quickly turns and stares at Jennifer, angry and shocked.  Jennifer is wide-eyed.
     A voice from outside,
     "The hell?"
     More footsteps.  The zombies out front must have heard.  The heavy footsteps run away.  The sound of a large person jumping a fence can be heard.
     Jason and Jennifer slowly move back upstairs, excited that there is definitely another survivor nearby.
     "I hope he gets away," says the ever-caring Jennifer.

Life Cycles.

She looked down at her watch. It read 9:42. Given the amount of light outside, she knew this meant PM, however, her watch read 9:42 for the past ten times she had checked it. She only knew this because a single beam of light that came from the nearby streetlamp had streamed in through the basement window. It was wide enough for a small animal or child to crawl in, but probably not herself. She was okay with that, though, because she had no intention to go outside in the near future. If there was any future at all.



Her name was Sprout. Her nick name, anyways. Just barely hitting five foot was enough reason to call her this. And she doesn't answer to anything else, either. It started at school, when a particularly mean boy would call her this, and all the kids that didn't know her thought it was her real name. For the most part she ignored him, until other kids called her Sprout without any rude intentions, and then it stuck. It was also at school when things started to end.

During lunch in high school, there were several places to eat, to relax, to talk with friends. Sprout was by herself today, for no particular reason. Usually she enjoyed the company of a select few, but it seemed like a good idea to eat alone. About ten minutes into lunch, something happen. The people around her caught wind of something, and they ran to the courtyard. She looked at her sandwich, and sighed. She followed the others to the courtyard, and at first it didn't seem like much. Everyone stood still as they watched someone from across the road run towards the school, and a little further than that, someone running behind them. At first the yelling was faint, but then it grew louder. It was frantic, and also a little hard to discern because it sounded like the person was crying at the same time.

"Help me, please!" he pleaded with the teenagers, who stood still in amazement. Some talked amongst themselves, a couple of them left, some mocked the man, and others were genuinely scared. Sprout wasn't sure of what to make of it. It wasn't until he got closer did they notice that the man was bleeding. A girl ran towards the office, notifying the faculty. The principal, secretaries, and the girl ran back outside. The principal had to squint to see, then immediately recognized the potential danger of the two strangers heading towards campus. The bleeding man hesitated as he made it to the intersection, and weaved his way through traffic, while the other didn't even stop. A car ran right into him, and he fell on the ground hard.

"Go back to class!" The principal demanded, as he made his way to the street, but no one listened. Everyone followed him to the street. The driver got out of his car, and looked at the man he hit. The body was twitching, but the look on his face was nothing like he'd seen before. There was no fear, no sense of pain. The man that was already hurt slowly made his way back towards his attacker. He was gone, that was for sure. The other students kept clear of the injured man. He was staring at the ground, then slowly looked up at the principal.

"Come with me, we'll get you cleaned up." the principal urged. He started to turn around and walk back, but the man grabbed his arm and pulled him back forcefully. The principal looked in the man's eyes and only saw anger. He was not the scared man running for his life anymore. In an instant, he swung at the principal, who fell on the car, and rolled off the hood. Some of the students screamed, but they all ran back towards the school. Unconscious or dead, the man left the principal and started running after the students. He grabbed one blonde girl, and bit a chunk out of her shoulder. She screamed, the pain shooting through her nerves. She fell to the ground, holding her shoulder with her other, tears and mascara streaming down her cheeks. Sprout looked back only once to see the man attacking another student and noticed as the blonde girl's attitude was changing. She got up and began running after other students as well, a hungry look in her eyes.

Sprout lived in a neighborhood right across the school, so instead of going back to class she simply ran home. She had a house key in her pocket because her parents worked during the day. A spare was kept hidden in the rocks that surrounded the flower bed. She took the spare as well, not wanting anyone to get in that might happen upon the key. She locked the doors and all the windows, and closed the curtains and blinds. She turned on the television while she ran around the house, leaving it on the news station. As she grabbed anything she deemed important, she heard the woman on the screen say, "A new virus strain has come up, and it is extremely deadly. As far as symptoms go, any person with the virus exhibits cannabalistic tendencies, extreme anger, no sense of pain or fear, and no fatigue. The virus is passed along when infected bodily fluid, such as blood or spit, comes in contact with the blood from a noninfected human, such as when being bitten. It is unknown whether the various is transmutable to animals. The virus is not airborne. For now there is no known cure, and scientists are working in a frenzy to come up with a vaccine. It is recommended that you evacuate the area immediately. There are military bases set up on the outskirts of the city. You will be required to pass a medical exam. All infected humans will be quarantined."

Alone, and not having a car, Sprout couldn't evacuate even if she wanted to leave the house. She made several trips from the kitchen, her bedroom, the medicine cabinet, to downstairs in the basement. She had deemed it the safest place in the house, but wasn't really sure of it capabilities to protect her from zombies. Zombies. It was strange to think about. That kind of thing was only in books or movies. It wasn't supposed to be happening to her. She went back upstairs once more to try to call her parents. Neither one had answered, so she called the work number. No one answered that either. A sinking feeling filled her stomach. Her eyes began to water as she locked the basement door and walked down the steps.

She'd brought all the canned food she could find, as well as things from the fridge that wouldn't spoil too quickly. She brought a can opener, and a spoon, and all the bottled water. Blankets covered the floor, as well as several pillows, and a stuffed bear her father gave her years ago. A first aid kit was laid against the bear. The basement itself contained an assortment of things collected over the years of its existence, dust being one of them. There was a cabinet where Sprout's dad kept his guns he used for duck hunting. This would be the most valuable asset of all.

Time crawled by as she paced the floor of the basement, occasionally laying down, hugging her bear and crying. She glanced at her watch, it read 9:42. She never heard the car engine pull up nor did she hear the phone ring. Her parents weren't coming home, and she tried to ignore this fact. Were they hurt? Did they leave her? Or maybe they were unable to leave the office, hiding as well. The crickets weren't chirping like they normally had outside her bedroom window. Even they knew something wasn't right in the world. She walked to the small window in the basement. There was a crate she used to be tall enough to look out of it. In the middle of the road she saw someone walking. Stumbling, really, in a slow manner, almost uncomfortable with the act of walking. It seemed to sniff the air, and in that moment Sprout realized the person had to be infected. She stepped down from the crate, and stared hard at the gun cabinet. She looked at her watch. It read 9:42. She walked towards the gun case and pulled out one she knew her father kept in good working condition. She only knew how to do two things: take off the safety and pull the trigger.

The Black Tuxedo

A note to the reader:
I encourage you to click on the hyperlinked text in this entry. It will help to link this story to the other characters on Bleak street. Of course, don't forget to rate and comment.

***

With only a few more miles between himself and the state line, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Ernest Palmer turned back. He had been travelling for close to a week -- by bicycle or motorbike for half the trip, by foot the other half. It was imperative that he get the hell out of Louisiana while he could, but what was waiting for him in Texas he couldn’t remember.

One of the catches of the Z-Day, Palmer noted, aside from the walking, starving, feral dead, was his sudden forgetfulness. Days went first.  Then went names, faces -- not that he had very many acquaintances. It was as if his old life was slowly being erased and he was stepping into a new one. Most would view the zombie apocalypse as an end of times; end of life. Depression. Solitude. Suicide. But Palmer sensed a second chance -- stepping across the Louisiana/Texas border would equate to stepping into his new self.

SFC Ernest Palmer turned back because there were still some things that weren’t ready to be erased. Things he knew he wanted to have with him for his next life, and some things, maybe hidden somewhere deep in his subconscious, that he knew he couldn’t yet release. Battling the hot Louisiana sun and the unforgiving pain in his feet, Palmer began his journey back to Bleak Street.

*

Bleak Street had changed. What used to be a shabby neighborhood with a couple dozen deadheads was now a string of abandoned houses, boarded up. Palmer assessed no signs of life, except for the large crowds of zombies, if they can be counted. Anyone still hiding out here would have to be a damned fool.

In his first attempt to escape Louisiana, Palmer learned to fear packs -- too many to take down, and too many to run from. Never get too close, and always have an exit. He remembered the first few days, and how much he enjoyed them. There were no groups, they had no awareness -- something they must’ve picked up just recently -- it was so simple to kill them. On an easy day, a fella could kick back with a six-pack and unload from his front porch. Today was not an easy day at all.

Palmer worked out a path in his head -- he would have to come around the back of his house to avoid any zombies. This meant he’d have to jump Donny’s fence, and he wasn’t so sure he’d be up for that. As to not tire himself, Palmer moved no faster than a brisk march. He passed almost too close to a trio snacking on an elk, stripping apart vital organs, fluids bursting out, and thought it strange to find such an animal out in the neighborhood, when, as if by coincidence

a SNEEZE from inside the house at his side, immediately followed by a hush.

Palmer swung around and opened his mouth, perhaps a inch too wide: “..the hell!?”

It was the first thing he spoke in days, maybe weeks (how should he remember?), and it cost him. At first he heard some shuffling and whispers, until everything was drowned out by the sounds of the approaching undead chorus -- a brutish cacophony of moans, screeches, panting. The elk trio spat what rotten gobs of blood they sucked and moved in with the crowd. Palmer kicked off the ground and strained a sprint towards his house on Bleak Street. With a wall of zombies behind him, the only exit was forward.

The zombies couldn’t run more than a forced shoving motion, but the real danger was Palmer’s racing heart, and the increasing number of zombies he alerted as he trudged by.

He had to slow down. There was no air. Grumbling to a halt, Palmer leaned his hands on his knees, bent over and huffed for breath. Against the backdrop of thirty-odd zombies, he raised his head and met Donny’s fence.

F*ck fences.

He struggled a few hops to catch the top of the fence until he caught, hands raw. As he lifted his weight off the ground and over the fence, he felt a tug. They had him. His left leg. Palmer then decided that he would make it over the fence with or without the leg. With all his effort, Palmer flung himself over the fence.

The impact crushed his left ankle -- a searing pain darted up his leg and out of his mouth in a howl. He tried to stand, limping, hopping on one foot. His chest and head both shook from the fall; nonetheless, he kept hopping towards his back door.

*

It’s broken. Palmer sifted through the little box he found on his front porch and did what he could for his ankle. He wrapped himself up with nothing more than a flimsy splint and the security of antibiotics to fight infection.

The note:

“Maybe we’ll see each other when all of this is over.”

Palmer folded the note and tossed it into the box.

The zombies had made it over the fence, or around the fence, or somehow they found a way to slam on Palmer’s front door. It was all too familiar. Palmer chuckled to himself when he saw the bullet-sized hole in his front door. Had he forgotten?

He was almost ready to leave Bleak Street forever. There was only one thing he needed to do. Palmer entered his simple bedroom and opened the sliding door of his closet. A change of clothes would do him good. He sifted through his hanging clothes until he reached his old military uniform. It was weathered, but he knew it would still fit him.

He contemplated packing an extra set of clothes, and almost did, until he found it -- an artifact from his past. A BLACK TUXEDO. Lifeless, covered in dust, covered in neglect.

SFC Ernest Palmer had never really been fully married, but he had that black tuxedo. Still there, all the way at the back of his closet.

He closed the closet; not forcefully, but stolid. Then he went to his kitchen and found a bottle of whiskey.

*

There was only the light of the moon. No more streetlights; they went with the electricity. SFC Palmer was dressed in his old uniform at the house where he heard the sneeze.

He had made a pact with himself not to speak again on Bleak Street.

Unless he was spoken to.

No. Perhaps, not even then.

Palmer moved in closer to the house, still getting used to his busted ankle. How long could he last with one good leg? He was quieter than before, although there were no zombies around this house anymore -- must’ve all run out after him.

Now Palmer got in close to the house and listened:

“I think it was a wake-up call.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are people on Bleak Street.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well. There are others out there. There’s a chance for that.”

A beat.

“You’re right about leaving. Maybe you’re right. We’ve got nothing left here. We need to look for others. We need help. We need to just get away from Bleak Street.”

There were two of them. Man and woman. They were young, just out of college?; Palmer saw that. They continued talking, something about working with others, how much better off they could be. Despite the lesson on strength in numbers, Palmer wasn’t paying much attention. He had already left before they mentioned Texas. It didn't matter much. They would never find the help needed to cross the state line.

*

On his way out, Palmer crossed a playground where he found two dead humans. Both shot in the head. They were a couple, girl and boy.

For an instant, Palmer saw them as bride and groom. She was in a pure white wedding dress, but the boy wore an old, dusty, black tuxedo.

SFC Ernest Palmer spat on the corpses and left Bleak Street for the second time.

***

Reminiscence.

I'm writing this to You, in the the event that you manage to find this note intact, and found everything to be extremely helpful. As a pharmacist, I find it my moral duty to share these things with You....even when it seems that the entire world has gone mad. I don't know more about this than You do, but maybe we'll see each other when all of this is over.

Pharmacist or not, I thought, you gotta be batshit insane to take the time to put together aide kits while you oughta be runnin' for dear life.

It was probably....fuck, I dunno. I've been on the road for so long now that I don't even know when the madness began. I can't even remember what I was doin' when it all started. Or, when it finally got to my end of the map. All of this coulda started days before it finally spread to the east. Hell, it mighta started here and now it's spreadin' to the west..

Anyways, I don't have time to be thinkin' about those things.

I spent the last few nights in a tree that was good for climbin', and as it turned out, sleepin' too. I'd parked my motorcycle right next to it. I was pretty sure no one was around here, and even if they were, they prob'ly weren't alive. When I came down one mornin', I found this little box on the seat. Had some bandage wraps, a little bottle of peroxide, a few pills, and that note in it. The handwritin' was a little sloppy...not sure if they were in a rush, or if that's their normal style. Guess they figured that since things are a little crazy, they can just take all they need, 'specially since they worked in a pharmacy. That's the kinda place I'd go pick through first. Well maybe I'd go and get me a handgun first...if I didn't already have one.

Anyways, that person can't be too far.

As for personal belongings, I got the motorcycle, that box and note, a couple o' pocket knives, some bread and chips, the gun, and a bit o' ammo. The clothes on my back. Some money too, but that's only good if you find someone who's still tryin' to make 'em some in all this mess. And that's not likely.

Right now, I prob'ly had to shoot three or four o' those things, not sure how many I just passed on by while ridin' this bike. Not sure if I actually killed 'em or just slowed em' down a bit. Not sure if I really wanna know that answer.

A little while later the tree decided I'd worn out my welcome, and I felt the same way. I pat the bark and wished the tree well before I set off. Not sure how long I was on the road, but it wasn't before long I found myself runnin' into trouble. I passed a couple o' houses, noticed some o' them little boxes set on the porches. Either those folks are long gone or too scared to even open the damn door. o' course, I felt obligated to make sure nothing goes to waste, and took the boxes. Each one had a note, a little different than the last, but pretty much said the same thing. It gave me a strange feelin' to know they'd made it all the way out here...the strange kinda feelin' when you are glad and worried at the same time. Glad 'cos there might be someone else to talk to besides that tree, but worried that I'd stop seein' them boxes and I'd never get to thank 'em for puttin' 'em there. That strange feelin' was quickly replaced with a tense one 'cos just a little ways up I noticed someone or somethin' slowly walkin' towards one o' them houses. I slowed down real quick so I wouldn't scare whatever it was, but I didn't get off in case I needed to get away real fast. As I got closer, I could tell for sure that it was human. They had their back towards me, but I noticed a long, dark ponytail, and a strap goin' across the shoulders. I could tell then that it was a girl. She started to dig through her bag, then pulled out one o' them boxes like mine, and set it on the porch. She started to walk away when somethin' from behind the house move and I caught sight o' it. She didn't hear til it was almost too late, but I'd already pulled out my gun and shot the damn thing before it got her. It fell to the ground and twitched but I didn't wanna wait for it to decided to get back up again. I sped up to the girl, and told her to get on. She did as she was told and we sped off. We didn't say much o' anything to each other durin' the ride. Eventually I stopped and found another o' them good climbin' trees and that's where we decided to stay for the night.




"That story does sound a lot better when you pretend it's not you," a young woman's voice said. She was leaning against the bark of a tree that was good for climbing, on a branch next to the branch of a young man that drove a motorcycle.

"Yep."