The Trespassers

Author's note: Geez. I sure can be mopey sometimes. This story started out as me being a grump and turned into something different because I made the conscious decision to change it. While I may not always be able to pull it off, I think this just goes to show that writing is great therapy too, and we all have a choice about what we feel.

I think that it's important to allow yourself to feel whatever it is you need to feel. Just don't let it control/consume you like I occasionally do. I almost did with the first paragraph, then said "Okay. I'm feeling this thing, I'm allowing it to wash over me and I accept it. Now, enough is enough."

Oh, the story is still a downer, but at least it isn't another one of my whine fests. Enjoy.
*****

Writing in the lantern light, under the shadow of my own hand, my mind is filled with thoughts of other dark things. Things darker than mere shadow, dark as night. Thoughts that will haunt me until...

It was a beautiful, crisp fall evening. The moon cast its pale glow across the yard, aided by a million stars. I could see well enough and it may have saved my life, or at least prolonged it. Thank God for the moon.

I could just make them out, their slow, stumbling gait made me imagine a group of drunks. But something about the stiffness in their walk kept me from calling out to them. Drunks don't move like that.

I suppose I was fortunate to be sitting on my deck, enjoying a beer, when they first appeared. The vantage point gave me the ability to get a quick count. But the rustling I heard near my garden told me that the four I saw were definitely not alone. And as those four closed the distance I was just starting to see the others.

I couldn't count them fast enough. Ducking off of my chair I made my way to the door and slowly eased it open. It slid quietly on its rails, a small blessing. I closed it and made sure it was locked.

Standing up again I quickly made my way through the house, checked to see that all of the doors were locked, then went to my gun safe. I had a twenty-two rifle and pistol, which I used for target shooting, and I had plenty of rounds to go with them.

The twenty-two may not seem like the best weapon to have. It IS relatively weak and has almost no stopping power. However, my rifle and pistol fire straight and the hollow point rounds would do sufficient damage to the trespassers outside. Top that off with the fact that I could easily hold close to a hundred rounds in my pockets alone and even the average joe might start to see this particular caliber's merits.

Try carrying that many 30-06 or 50-cal rounds - they're totally pointless if a head shot will do, and you'd be lucky to get a dozen rounds in your pockets. (Sorry for the rant. You put yourself in my shoes and you'll understand why I might be a bit high strung right now.)

Anyhow, the rotten things started their moaning and banging. While I appreciated their politeness, they could knock all they wanted. I wasn't letting them in.

I heard the sound of shattering glass at my front door and I knew that my house was surrounded. I loaded up all of my rifle and pistol clips, threw some extra ammo in a small backpack, and grabbed my old camping hatchet as well. I needed to decide where my fall back room would be.

The garage attic seemed like the obvious choice. It had a pull-down staircase, was ventilated, and had a small store of food and water that I had placed there just in case. If your dad talks about societal collapse as much as mine did, you'd have some stores of food and water, too. I figured I'd have enough for a couple weeks; hopefully this mess would be cleaned up by then.

I quickly stalked through the house. I pulled open the garage door and was immediately greeted by a moaning, rotted visage. I picked tonight, of all nights, to forget to close the darn garage. The shambler reached out for me.

At the time my immediate reaction was to smash the walking corpse in the face with the butt of my rifle. It stumbled back and fell over. I immediately closed and locked the door.

Thinking on it now, the way the creature moved was almost beautiful, haunting. It made me think of a lover reaching out for a kiss. The yearning, longing look in its eyes was heart breaking. In part this was because I could imagine the creature as it once was. I wondered if there might be some flicker of humanity still locked away inside - like someone that is paralyzed, could the former host still see what was happening and do nothing to control it?

To be truthful, it was also haunting for the obvious fact that the darn thing was hoping to make a meal of me. Spark of humanity or not, I wasn't about to let anything snack on me. I don't imagine I would taste all that good anyway.

A pounding on the garage door told me that getting its face smashed hadn't slowed the walker down. That or one of its buddies had taken its place. Whatever the case, my plans were changed for me. I made my way to the bedroom instead.

As I walked past the front door the wooden frame finally gave out and the whole thing fell in. Four of them got wedged in what was left of the doorway. I immediately raised my rifle and sent their souls back to rest. They were replaced so fast that I probably shouldn't have even bothered. These next few were courteous enough to take turns invading my home. I was nice enough to put them down.

They kept coming though, so I kept shooting. On the plus side, their bodies were beginning to block up the door, which would buy me some time. Then I heard the shatter of glass from the doors and windows downstairs. I popped off a few more shots into the various faces, then made a dash for the bedroom.

Locking the door behind me, I then did a quick scan of the room. They hadn't smashed in the window yet, but it would only be a matter of time. The sound of the shamblers making their way through the hall was getting closer.

Grabbing my dresser seemed a good idea and I slid it in front of the door. For squirts and ha-has I decided to push the bed in front, too. It might not stop them, but would slow them down.

I pulled open my closet door and assessed the contents. There wasn't much: clothes, some favorite books, my old Magic the Gathering collection, some board games (maybe I should have tried to stump them with a game of chess). There was also my old camp lantern which would come in handy given my plans.

You see, there is a small access hole in the ceiling of my closet. I don't really have an actual attic there, so I don't know entirely why it's there. It came with the house, and at the moment I was thankful for that.

I gave a shove to the small hatch and slid it to the side. Given my recent luck I half expected to be eyeballing a rotter again. But once again today, fortune seemed to favor me.

Giving a quick check to my lantern, which was about half-full, I gently placed it up into the hole and slid it to the side. Then I reached out, took hold of the lip and pulled myself up, just as the door splintered. I gave one last glance and saw a rotted arm reaching through the doorway. Then I slid the hatch back in place.

I wish I knew how long ago that was. Maybe a day or so. All I know for sure is that I'm hungry and thirsty now. I feel claustrophobic and I might try to break a hole in the roof so I can get some air.

I hope they go away soon. I can still hear them shuffling around down there. They're bumping into things, breaking my stuff. Every now and then one of them scrapes its splintering nail along the hatch. They claw at it for awhile then go on about their business. And I'm just stuck here.

I have plenty of ammo, but what difference does it make? There are too many of them. No way I could fight my way out. No way I could shoot or reload that quickly.

I'm going to die up here.

They're clawing again, this time much harder. Maybe they can smell me or hear the scratch of my pen. My lantern is getting dim. Flickering now.

I'm going to die up here.