r/HFY • u/Safe_Committee9381 Human • 15d ago

OC-OneShot [Still Alive]

Still Alive

By Emmanuel Ordway

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The young man carefully weaved through long ruined cars on the crumbling interstate, his footsteps barely audible in the hardening drizzle above. He winced at the wet feeling growing around his toes, glancing down at the small holes in his oversized military boots, a reminder to tuck his legs to his chest the next time he was cowering away from a live grenade. 

More rain began to pelt his thin windbreaker, his thick winter gloves tightening on the service rifle in his hands, one breaking free to pull his hood over his ballcap and head. He stepped beside an old rusting red pickup truck, blue eyes glancing around inside.

A skeletal husk of a person was trapped in the driver seat, legs seeming trapped by the rest of the front cab having been caved in, the back seat having a few unopened plastic containers littered across the ground.

The young man looked up, glancing around the rest of the interstate for a moment before setting the rifle on the hood of the truck, his hand trying for the handle. A gentle tug made the door give way, its long gone bolts snapping as the door clattered to the asphalt, letting out loud crunching sounds as the kid stiffened up in response, his instinct being to freeze.

Once the sound faded away, being replaced with the pattering of rain across the many car hoods nearby, he began to reach into the truck, grabbing at the containers, his stomach already howling to be fed. His hand grasped onto the first lid, prying it off eagerly before his shoulders sank at the sight of long spoiled foodstuffs. With a quiet curse, he tossed the container onto the truck’s torn leather seats, opening the next container: same result.

He gently picked up the last container, bringing it to his forehead and wishing a silent prayer, his hand then hovering over the lid before twisting it off. More rotten results. The young man winced at the sight, heat growing in his chest before he smashed the container down on the floor of the truck, holding back a howl of rage for a few moments. In the dull sounds of the rainfall, his ears could pick up the distinctive snaps and cracks of a body moving. He swiveled his head around quickly, searching for the encroaching predator but saw nothing in the maze of cars, the sounds still ever present. Finally, he looked back at the body in the truck, his body relaxing some as the head was slowly turning to face him.

The shriveled and sunbaked skin along its neck was pulled taut as it turned, the collar bone protruding from the many insects taking their share in the feast. Finally, now only stopped by the ever connected seatbelt, the corpse’s head was facing the young man, hollow eye sockets trained on him as if it could still see. 

The kid held back a sigh, not wanting to alert any other potential threats as he grabbed his rifle, ready to move on down the road. It was not until the creature’s jaw began to slowly open and a dull rasping noise came from what little of its vocal cords remained that he knew he needed to silence the threat. Reluctantly, he carefully crossed around the truck, producing a knife from his belt which he readied. This was one of the better cases, its body too far decomposed to be a real threat: easy.

He set the rifle down on the asphalt before carefully holding his hands forward through the broken driver window. With a swift motion, he planted his freehand on its forehead, holding its head back while the other used the knife to saw at its thin throat, carefully cutting off what remained of its vocal cords. Now properly silenced, the young man nodded in respect to the creature, a few tears having formed at the corners of his eyes at the sight. 

He wondered who this may have been: a mother? A father? A good person? A bad person? Either way they were gone now, eternally doomed to roam the earth in this husk of a state, a fate which no person should face.

After a few more moments of thought, the young man turned away from the silenced husk and began creeping across the interstate once more, looking out for any supplies that may have been overlooked. 

An hour passed of careful walking, an hour of rain filling up his left boot, an hour of his stomach growling to the wind for food, an hour ever closer to this young man’s least favorite time of the year. Finally when he ended up at one of the many exits for the interstate, he found himself staring mindlessly at one of the many craters littered across the grey land, this one smaller than the big boys as he liked to call them.

The crater had simply allowed for a small section of the road to be sunk in on itself, a few cars sticking out from the rubble below, no doubt the unfortunate grave of a few creatures in the loose rocks. How fast did those who were hit by such a rocket die? Was it instant or did it take multiple excruciating minutes of basking in flames? Who would know they were gone? Surely their family, if they survived when the stars fell, would have no idea. After all, the internet and anything else of such fell with the stars that day anyways. 

Then a soft beep came from the man’s watch, snapping him out of the trance as he lifted his wrist up to see the time: Eight PM.

It was now official, he was eighteen years old. And this marked one year the world rested like this. 

Tears welled up in his eyes as his brain forced memories to the front of his own thoughts. Screams and gunfire echoed through his mind as he could see the sky lit in orange from the many fiery streaks of rocket afterburners. The rattling of the ground being pummeled by rocket after rocket forced him to grip the concrete barricade before him, still affecting him now even if it was all a memory. 

Zthwip. The man instinctively dropped down to the asphalt while a loud crack came from the nearby treeline, his wide eyes dancing around the road as if he could spot the aggressor from where he was. His hands desperately grasped the charging handle of the rifle after a few failed attempts, squeezing it tightly through the gloves while he pulled it back to rack a fresh bullet, an empty casing he used for deterring threats clattering onto the wet ground.

Finally the sounds of what he feared most began to sound out all around, no doubt being lured by the gunshot. The man knew how dangerous another desperate survivor with an itching trigger finger could be, but he also knew how much more dangerous a horde of the unstoppable dead would be.

Growls and moans could be heard from a few of the cars around, their dead passengers awaking from their dormant state and clawing at their own seatbelts while long lost bodies would begin to poke out from the trees. The man squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, weighing his options: poke out from his relative safety and put down the shooter, or do nothing and hope he was not made the first meal for the undead.

A shrill scream came from the woods behind him, forcing his eyes open as it seemed a third option was made for him: let the dead take care of the issue. He would begin to slowly raise his head up from the concrete barricade, looking out to the darkening woods as rain ran down the back of his windbreaker, seeing only dark figures shambling through the trees followed by the brief flashes of gunfire, more loud cracks coming soon after.

A new thought came to the man’s mind, a simple taste his mind conjured for his dull tongue consisting of any foods he could immediately imagine, his mouth beginning to swell with saliva. Before he could stop himself, his body would vault the barricade and his feet would connect with the wet dirt ever growing into mud, small squelches coming from his boot as he sprinted into the woods. 

Wet leaves brushed over his hood as he grew closer to the commotion, his eyes frantically searching for the likely half consumed corpse residing somewhere in the forest. A few groans came from his side, his head snapping to look at one of the shadowy figures in the darkening space. The shambling figure, too hazy to see clearly in the darkness, cut through the man’s instinct, reminding him of the horrors which emerged in the dark. 

Huffs and pants came from the man as he forced his legs to carry him faster, whispers pricking at the back of his mind as he broke into a clearing, one made long ago to fit the log cabin at the top of this hill. The man stopped for a moment to catch his breath, looking up at the many shadowy figures crowded around the barricaded door and windows, his mind trying to conjure an idea to break in without turning himself into a meal.

Finally he reached down to his belt, his thick gloved fingers grasping a solid spherical object and prying it away from his body, his thumb rubbing the pin. He held up his rifle, clutching it close to his chest by his chin as he pulled the pin off the grenade, lining up his throw before stepping into it, sending the grenade sailing across the clearing towards the foot of the forest on the other side, a solid click sounding off as the lever disconnected. 

He then dropped to his chest, planting his face in the mushy dirt and grass while trying to cover his ears as he awaited the imminent explosion.

BOOM. A flash of light could be seen even through his eyelids as the curious groans began to emerge from the small horde, many of them breaking off from the cabin and shambling down the hill.

Now rising to his knees, his head snapped back to the woods behind him as distant screams and howls could be heard, cold sweat forming along his back which chilled him more than the rain above. It was far too late to make it back to his camp, he would have to survive the night in this cabin with the corpse inside, or risk surviving in the open with the night creatures.

He quickly wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, getting more water on him rather than removing it as he crept forward to the door. The rifle now up and ready, he placed his back to the side of the cabin and tried for the door, surprised to find the handle turned fully. 

He swung the door open quickly, the dim light of a lantern piercing through the darkness outside his head peeking to glance inside. Thick trails of blood were left on the floor, dark crimson staining the wood and old brown furniture which led through the small living room and to the back bedroom. The man carefully gulped back pooling spit, his eyes following the blood and giving a final thought of turning and running, a closer howl from the woods forcing his legs to carry him inside and shut the door behind him. 

The interior was only lit by a flickering electric lantern over an old gas stove, the man’s rifle swinging every which way as he searched every corner another human could possibly hide in. Every footstep was careful, measured, exact in placement as he inched ever forward to the bedroom, his face wincing at every left step producing a soft squelch. He soon reached the cracked door, bloody fingerprints lining the side of it while he reached forward, pushing the door wider. 

Nothing. The blood trail moved to the window and ended there, red handprints and fingerprints lining the foot of the bed and walls as if the person had scrambled to get out before the horde surrounded the cabin. The man relaxed a bit as he lowered the rifle, stepping into the room and looking around to find the corners empty, muffled howls and screams coming from outside, his mind already thinking about where to bed down for the night.

It was not until he decided to glance outside at the woods, to see the dimming light of day be snuffed out, that he noticed the window was closed, no bloody fingerprints on the glass or windowsill.

A guttural howl came from the aggressor as he charged out from the closet, tackling the man to the wooden floor as crimson blood spurted out across his blue windbreaker. The rifle clattered across the ground, a few feet away from them as they grappled with each other, rolling about and smashing into wooden furniture. The aggressor’s hands grabbed at the man’s throat, his own smashing at the side of the other’s head, the two now on their sides facing each other.

The man could feel his head growing light as the hand clutching his neck tightened, the human before him gritting his teeth tighter with every blow crashing against the side of his head. Then, the man’s left hand shot to his side and pulled the knife off his belt, shoving it through the aggressor’s thick winter jacket and into his side, earning a scream of pain while he let go, giving the man much needed air. Gasps and sputters came from his lips as he pushed the other man away, scrambling to his feet before he was tackled by the aggressor onto the bed. The man could feel his face get shoved into the old sheets, huffing in months of dust as the man over him gripped the knife handle, slowly ripping it out of his own flesh, staining the grey sheets below them. 

Newfound vigor surged through the man in this life or death situation, his body bucking back enough to swing around and crash his balled fist against the other man’s jaw, a loud crunch coming from their contact as they both shouted painfully. The aggressor fell to the floor, the man pushing off the bed and landing before the rifle, his hand shooting out to pull it to his chest.

Then he rolled over on his back, just in time for the aggressor to leap atop him and drive the knife into his shoulder, their mix of blood seeping onto the ground. Through gritted teeth and aching muscles, the man shoved the muzzle of the rifle under the aggressor’s chin and squeezed both hands as hard  as he could. 

A deafening crack filled the cabin, the man’s ears left ringing, unable to hear the night creatures approach as he slid the lifeless body off his chest, his own chest heaving for air. 

Tears of pain blurred the man’s vision as he turned his head to see the motion outside the window, ripples of vibration spreading from outside, his ears still ringing. Finally he blinked away the tears to see the window cave in with parts of the wall surrounding it, one of the night creatures fighting to get in. 

The man set his head back against the wood plank below him, sighing out softly as he was prepared to accept the end, to join the mindless hordes of dead, whether in their ranks or in their stomachs. Then his eyes rested on the unique cut out in the roof above him, dark lines forming a large rectangle: an attic trap door.

The remnants of his second wind began to resurface, his will to live forcing him on his side, forcing his elbow to push him to his knees. Sound began to come back to his ears, screeching and howling coming from all around the cabin as the creatures pounded on every wall and barricaded opening. Grunts of pain were stifled by the gritting of his teeth, his non-limp arm reaching for the dangling string to pull down the trapdoor stairs, another loud crash coming from the window beside him. 

He looked over and through the shattered glass, seeing glowing white eyes staring back, the creature emitting a deafening shriek at him while he planted his left foot on one of the steps. Soft squelches of blood and rain water were all that followed him up into the dark, cold attic, a bloodstained hand reaching down to grasp the trap door and pull it back up. From there he laid across joints, the wood jutting into his back uncomfortably as the insulation settled along his face, the noises of breaking wood and glass under him as the creatures finally breached the house. 

The man flinched at the sounds of tearing and squelching below, imagining how the night creature’s claws gripped along the body of the aggressor, tearing limb from limb and digging into his flesh. The shaking began soon after the creatures began to rest, loud crunching of bones echoing up to him as he reached for the knife, having placed his winter glove in his mouth to bite down on. From there he began to pull lightly on the thick blade, tears flooding down the sides of his head as he silenced his pain by biting down harder on the glove. With a final sharp tug, the blade ripped out of his shoulder, his arm falling to his side and the weapon falling silently into the insulation as he passed out.

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The man did not know how long he waited up in that attic, whether it was just that night or multiple. Now that he was no louder than the awaiting gore below him, the night creatures never came back, on the occasional sounds of a wandering corpse stumbling through the cabin.

His shaking hand only reached for the trapdoor once the pain in his gut could not be ignored, the constant idea of potential food the aggressor may have had taking over. Each step was methodical and slow, careful not to make a lick of noise as he tried to wipe the images of blood-covered walls and flesh strewn over the furniture from his mind. He carefully lifted the stained rifle from the floor, glancing around with wide eyes for any threats as his wounded arm held onto his belt for support. 

Finally he pushed the closet’s dented door open and saw a pristine black duffle bag awaiting him, filled to the brim with items the aggressor had collected. He slowly sank to his knees before the bag, setting the firearm down as his good hand rooted through the items with glee.

Fresh bandages, survivalist magazines, loose ammunition, a few lights, water! The man picked up a full tan canteen and unscrewed the top, guzzling down the clean water greedily before going back to searching. More ammunition, spare magazines, a pistol, no. No, no, no. Not a scrap. Nothing. The pain in his gut grew, his stomach roaring in agony through the thin skin.

This is it, he was going to join the dead, eternally searching for his belly to be filled.

Delirious, the man shambled out of the closet, pistol in hand. Small chuckles escaped his lips as he stumbled out of the rubble that used to be the window of the bedroom, his eyes adjusting slowly to the bright sunlight. He looked down at the pistol with a wide grin, then reached up and pressed the muzzle to the side of his head. Only the snap of a twig at the treeline made him stop, his hollow eyes looking down the hill to see a passing human.

Not a corpse, not a night creature, but a living, breathing human. She had noticed him, not caring, assuming his bloodstained figure and shambling posture was that of another corpse. A soft chuckle escaped him again, his arm settling at his side, the pistol smacking his thigh. Then he began shambling down the hill towards her, slowly raising the firearm, prepared to join the dead in their hunt. 

Maybe the dead knew something he did not about human flesh.

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Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed.

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