1 | I Am a Survivor of the Zombie Apocalypse | ✅

Chapter 8 - Onward

I had massive writer's block on this chapter, so I apologize if it's boring. And really short. /:

I scream. He simply withdraws his arm and walks outside. I sink to the floor, tears pricking my eyes. He did it. It had to be done. It's not the fact that she has hole in her head now. It's just the fact that he had to do it. And that I had to see it. And yeah, maybe a little the fact that she has a hole in her head now.

          +++++

We are silent as Seth throws shovelfuls of dirt into the hole. We wrapped her in a blanket, and he gently set her inside. He'd insisted upon burying her himself. He stabs the shovel into the pile of dirt, flings the dirt off and it comes to rest on the bottom of the hole, on her.

Tears are silently streaking down his face. Doyle looks like he's trying desperately not to cry. I shed only a few tears after he had to do it, but now I'm back to just feeling numb.

I don't stare into the hole, or the sky, or my feet, but at the rough cross that Doyle put together, the word Kacey jaggedly carved into it.

      +++++

The next day, we decide we should start moving again. We're still trying to get to Finley, even if the main reason we were trying to get there in the first place is gone now.

It's so cold today. The icy wind is blowing really hard from the north. The clouds look like they could pour snow or sleet down on us at any time.

At least Seth and I have coats. Doyle only has the plaid shirt, which doesn't do much good against the wind. Back at the store, we found gloves, scarves, and hats, but they didn't have coats.

We don't talk, just walk. We stop to eat. We start walking again. That night we don't find any kind of shelter but trees. It's freezing and the wind is blowing fiercely, but Doyle manages to get a fire started. Sure, we probably shouldn't have a fire, because the light might attract dead things, but we're too cold to care.

We huddle around it in silence, holding our gloved hands over it, wishing to get some protection from the wind. I know Doyle is freezing.

I get ready to sleep, finding a nice spot close to the fire where I can lean against a tree. I set my backpack beside me and as I'm closing my eyes, Doyle nudges me.

"Here," He's holding a blanket out to me. We only have two now. Yeah, we probably shouldn't have used one to wrap her after she really has no use for it, but......well, we're sentimental. Or stupid. Or both.

"No, you use it," I tell him, "I have a coat."

His teeth chatter. "But it's n-not en-nough."

"I'm fine," I tell. And yes, I'm cold, but I really am fine. "But you're clearly not. Take the blanket."

He must really be freezing, because he doesn't protest any further. Seth has the other blanket. He's been in a kind of daze all day, sometimes just bursting into tears, sometimes just staring out into space. I think he needs that blanket more than I do.

        +++++

Morning brings us icy rain. I guess it's not exactly below freezing yet. We're supposed to be heading north, toward some highway or something that will take us to Finley. Doyle's the navigator. I gave him my compass. Right now we're on an empty back road that twists and turns through the woods.

We haven't run into any dead things for a while. But this isn't – or wasn't – a highly populated area, so, I guess that's normal.

We trudge through the rain and wind and cold for hours before coming to a church, just sitting out here in the middle of nowhere. I suggest we stop for lunch, and Doyle agrees. Seth just kind of nods absently.

The front door is unlocked. We go inside and there's finally no wind beating on us.

It's just a plain country church. There's a tiny "lobby" with doors on either side marked with MEN and WOMEN. I walk from this "lobby" to the sanctuary. It's quite small, only ten pews on each side of the aisle. At the end of the room, there's the pulpit, and on the left side of that there's a door.

Doyle passes me, his knife in hand. Oh, right. I pull the Glock from the waistband of my jeans. Just because this is a church doesn't mean it's safe.

"I checked the bathrooms already," Doyle tells me quietly as we near the door at the back of the room. I glance back and see Seth sitting in the last pew, Doyle's pack beside him.

A moment later, Doyle eases the door open, and a nauseating stench hits us.

I press the back of my hand to my nose, "Ugh."

"Exactly," Doyle says, covering his mouth with his sleeve.

We inch into the room. It's too dark to see. Doyle must have pulled a flashlight from his pocket, because he turns one on. The room has about six tables in it, and a smaller room adjoining it is a kitchen.

And on the floor, in a puddle of blood and a bunch of guts, lies what's left of a body. The urge to puke overtakes me, but I do my best to keep my precious little food down.

Doyle carefully steps around the body and heads for the kitchen area. I follow him, and we scour the shelves, stuffing anything good into my backpack.

We continue for a few minutes before a creaking noise, like the sound of a floorboard, breaks the silence.

We both snap to readiness, I with the Glock and Doyle with his knife.

He eases out of the kitchen area, his knuckles white from clutching the knife so tightly.

It happens so fast. A figure practically leaps through the doorway to the sanctuary. A gunshot rips through the air, and Doyle crumples.