Rule number 1 of the Apocalypse: Always be prepared.
A small excerpt from the book I’m writing. (Gotta have a side hustle, even in the Apocalypse.) The result of the many experiences I have managed to live through as I stumbled my way through this wasteland. All combined to create the Book Of Morbid Bullshit, or the B.O.M.B. if you will. The B.O.M.B. is your lifeline, your guide, your friend, and sometimes, during the really lonely nights, your lover. It’s unfinished at the moment but the words within it so far are golden: ‘Your survival rate is determined by how prepared you are and how well you can adapt to whatever comes at you. For this reason alone, a great number of people didn’t survive the first waves. We were soft and slow to react. In their eyes, we were easy, we were weak, we were prey. Soon we learned and adapted. Every mistake honed our bodies, every oversight shaped our intuitions. Eventually we learned to survive.’ I get chills just reading that line.
In these frightful times, being prepared means knowing your area and its denizens, where to get your supplies and the safest routes to avoid all manner of dangerous situations. You lack knowledge, you die. You become complacent, you die. You get distracted by the pretty girl that just rode by you on a sleek, green Kawasaki, you die. Yep, that last one was me. I caught a glimpse of ruby hair under a black helmet before she zoomed off spraying rocks in my face. Shielding my face with my arm, she had my attention just long enough for Bobby to knock me off my favourite bike. The height of rudeness, if you ask me. He’s surprisingly agile for only having two legs. Luckily, my trusty plank of wood was lying within arm’s reach and just begging to save me from impending doom. And that’s how I died.
Well maybe not straight away, but based on my current situation, it won’t be long now. My arms are starting to give out and Bobby’s drooling capabilities have increased exponentially. This is the second closest I’ve ever been to one of them. From such a unique position, I have the opportunity to take it all in. Their eyes aren’t just yellowed, dark arteries form a macabre spiderweb across the sclera and the pupils have also expanded to take up the iris as well. The jet-black pupils seem to guzzle light and draw my consciousness even deeper the more I stare into them. The eyes are even more prominent set against the dark gray fur that’s peeling off in large, uneven patches. The curious thing is that they don’t make any sound. Bobby and the rest of them I mean. Brights. That’s what we call them. No growl emanates from deep within their vocal chords. Not even a grunt. It’s the most disconcerting thing about them. You never hear them coming. Objectively, he’s fascinating. Subjectively, he’s trying to kill me.
I picked the worst place to be assaulted. Another neighbourhood ravaged in the chaos that came after the first waves. That will be my final resting place. “The best way to see the sky is flat on your back.” I wonder who said that. Either way, lying on a rough, tarred road I can see the true extent of the damage done. The sun glints off the shattered glass strewn across the lawns and driveways of multiple houses in a curious sort of light mosaic. Not a single window was left untouched. Some were broken in the initial panic, the rest in the raids that followed soon after. Bodies lie scattered across the landscape; less here than in other places. A few houses down from where I lay, a family of three lies in a red car, decomposing in the sun. Their young daughter is clutching a hazel coloured bear with its right ear missing. Rigor mortis will keep it in her tight grip until there’s no muscle left. Lying less than five meters from me is a young man who I’d guess was in his twenties. He’s dressed in a gray suit and slacks. His silver tie is all done up. I’d say he was on his way to work but not anymore. His thin, decaying hands are clasped around his throat. This wasn’t a good way to go. Looking at his pale, ghastly face, which is more bone than skin at this point, I can feel the last of my strength leave me. His eyes are just dark pits to fall into. But I can’t fall into them, not yet. I have to use all the willpower I can muster just to tear my gaze away from him. I’m going to die here. That thought is accompanied by a sinking feeling in my gut. “Oh woe is me! Is there no gallant hero who can save me from this despairing end?” Dramatic till the end, my English teacher would be proud. Now, that moment of silence I mentioned earlier.
A shadow crosses my face. “Are ye done, Shakespeare?” the voice asks in a slight Dublin accent. My eyes are inadvertently pulled into a squint.
“Nice of you to join us, Eoin. Where have you been?”, I ask pointedly.
“I was at the gym,” he replies, as if that was the only place in the world he could possibly have been.
“Why on earth would you be there? There aren’t any gyms open.”
“So? I got a good work out in. And if you’d gone too, you wouldn’t be lying on your arse right now.” He takes a sip of water as he watches the battle for life being waged in front of him. Only one of us is fighting for his life, though you’d be forgiven for not being quite sure which of us it is. Bobby, as if sensing that he’s being talked about, presses his paws down on my chest even further and brings his maw even closer to my face. I think I just felt something pop. My face tightens into a grimace.
“A little…help here…Eoin?” I manage to squeeze out in between scarce breaths. “And are you…shirtless…right now? There’s literally…no one else…here…to see you.”
“Yeah, but I look gooooood.” Somehow I know that he’s flexing right now.
“HELP…ME!”
“Okay, fine.”, he sighs as he kneels behind my head and places his hands under both of my triceps. “Pay attention now, this is how you spot someone properly.” I would very much like to smack him right now but I know this is neither the time nor the place. Later, I tell myself. All things in due time. “So I’m going to push up with you from under your TRICEPS not your elbows. You know this is actually really good for your lats as well as your pecs and deltoids…” Good heavens no, he’s in personal training mode again. Either way Bobby is being pushed away and I can start to breathe again.
I have a bad habit of speaking too soon. It rears its ugly head at truly the most inopportune moments. Like right about now. It’s like the universe finds joy in punishing me for my optimism. Because now I can hear it: a low rumble that ebbs and flows. It rises quickly, echoing against the long, tight rows of houses. Eoin is gone, the bitch. Rule number 1 flashes across my mind. I’m not prepared for this, I’m not prepared for them. No one ever is. The Strays like it that way. “Oh fuck me, the cavalry’s here.”
If you can hear them then you can also forget about escaping. Why? Because they’ve already seen you. You can always hear them before you can see them. On account of their very particular mode of transport; two re-purposed army trucks, a modified land rover defender and a dozen or so motorbikes of dubious yet colourful origins. All tricked out for the apocalypse of course (complete with iconic black spikes and occasionally the heads of their enemies) and sporting their very distinct logo; a red, piked skull enclosed by a black star. Clearly the law is non-existent here. It’s like everyone collectively decided to watch ‘Mad Max:Fury Road’ before this happened. Personally, I never got around to it. I was a busy guy before this. There are two main reasons why no one wants to mess with them. One of them is their quite commendable fear-mongering. The legend goes that they massacred the previous head gang to take control of the area and their heads are the ones mounted on top of their vehicles. No one wants to volunteer to find out if the legends are true. If you ask me, any head mounted anywhere is a cause for concern and a reason to be cautious. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.
Their menacing motorcade halts not ten meters away from me. The passenger side of their land rover opens and instantly the world is ringing. And there’s the second reason they’re uncontested in this area; they bring guns to a knife fight. Bobby keels over without so much as a whimper and my arms fall to my side. He wasn’t exactly alive before but he’s certainly less alive now. I look away as whatever life was left in him fades into the murky, black blood seeping onto the road. I can’t help but close his eyes with a trembling right hand as the sharp ringing in my ears subsides. His mangy, gray fur is already cold to the touch.
I turn to the direction of the kill shot as I pick myself up off the ground. It’s not a pretty sight. Though I don’t presume I’m looking my best either, what with all the viscera and drool over me. At least I have an excuse. The source of the gunshot is a small, black handgun. Its owner puts the still hot weapon into the hands of another Stray before he strolls towards me. He moves at a leisured pace with a confident swagger, as if everything in the world awaits him. Clad in faded and ripped blue jeans that have seen better days, and frankly better owners, a red t-shirt and a black bomber jacket, he’s the boss. An afro towers above the blue bandana he has wrapped around it which he is now combing meticulously. He stops an arm’s length in front of me. He’s taller than I am, stockier too. The end of society as we know it has been good to him. I think I could take him. His infamous red scar that runs from under his left eye across caramel-coloured skin to end just under his lower lip seems to twitch in anger. I slowly reach into my pocket under his watchful gaze and produce a small cylindrical object.
“Victor, buddy! Chap-stick?” I offer. My face explodes into pain and the world is knocked into darkness. Okay, so maybe I couldn’t take him. Totally wasn’t prepared for that one.
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