Survival of The Fittest

One

I dashed through the street with quick, silent steps. The moon was my only source of light as I ran the path to my tree house; my fortress of protection from the zombies that roam every street. Gripping the handle of my Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum, I kept my eyes peeled for any signs of a zombie. I heard no emotionless groans that often gurgle from them, but that doesn't mean that they aren't present.

"God damn it," I muttered as I saw a cluster of zombies trying to break in the door of a house nearby. With a click of my tongue, I ducked behind a severely damaged car and shot each of them down, keeping mental track of each bullet I shoot—all five of the bullets hit the targets. I have grown used to the loud bang of the gun.

I sucked in my breath as I continued running towards my tree house. My rucksack, full of supplies I had gathered earlier this week, bounced against my back with each long stride I took. A slight ache hit my legs, telling me that I need to rest. But rest is for the weak. The weak don't survive. I slowed down my strides, but only slightly.

I reached my tree house and quickly jumped onto the lowest branch, pulling myself up and climbing up the thick rope that hung half a foot above my head when I stood on said branch. I wasn't always able to do this so effortlessly, but after the first two weeks of the Apocalypse, it became vital to my survival and thus was also habitual. After the two months that have passed with this Apocalypse, it's something that I could do in my sleep.

Pulling myself to my feet, I took a moment to stretch before collapsing onto the fluffy beanbag I had managed to drag up here. I've been awake for more forty-eight hours now, and I'm extremely tired. But that is no excuse for me to fall asleep yet. I stood up again and closed every trapdoor, window, and door I had, then lit the lantern that I kept on the short bedside table next to the beanbag chair.

My tree house is modest and cozy, kept fairly compact with the furniture that I gather from my scavenging trips. I have a window on the wall across from the main doorway, and another on the wall across from the beanbag chair. I keep them closed and locked most of the time, but with summer starting up, it's becoming difficult to stay cool without the windows letting in a breeze.

I kicked my combat boots off and onto the grey rectangular rug that covers a large portion of the rough wooden floor. Next to my beanbag chair, on the side that wasn't being occupied by the bedside table, was a small cot that I slept on. It was covered with a thick comforter for winters and a thinner blanket for summers, and two pillows that I never bothered to find pillowcases for.

With a small sigh, I plopped myself back down onto the beanbag and ran a hand through my dark brown hair. I haven't bathed in a while, I should probably do that soon. Maybe tomorrow. But today all I want to do is catch up on my long overdue Z's.

"Goodnight, Uriah," I said to myself as I leaned back and closed my eyes. After a long five minutes of counting sheep, I opened my eyes again. I guess sleep is out of the option list. Sitting up, I rubbed my temples. My eyes were heavy with fatigue, but my body didn't want to rest yet. Not while I knew that there was still a slim possibility for me to get infected in my sleep. It was small and very unlikely, but still a possibility.

My stomach growled ferociously. Reluctantly, I took off my rucksack and emptied it of its contents. Canned peaches, a box of Twinkies, and a loaf of bread toppled out. Following it was my pocket knife, my ammunition, a lighter, a flashlight, and a pair of gloves. I opened a can of peaches and walked over to the container that I kept my silverware in. I picked up a fork and began eating the peaches to stop the cravings in my stomach.

I started to pack up my rucksack again, listening to the gentle late spring wind whistling cheerfully as it rustled the leaves of my tree house and the trees around it. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the last survivor. But I know that if I was, I wouldn't see the shadows of others sneaking around like ninjas. I haven't seen another actual human being for a month and a half, other than the ones who were only freshly infected.

The infection works like this, you see: As soon as you are bitten by a zombie, it's game over. The poison that they were infected with was changed into venom, and laces their teeth as part of the adaptation of being a zombie. If you are bitten and can't receive the antidote (which I'm not sure anyone else has, seeing as I had created it myself) quick enough, the venom seeps into your bloodstream and effects your brain. From there on, you're nothing but a mindless "zombie" that only exists to destroy. While all that happens on your interior, your skin slowly turns a pale grey, your eyes become bloodshot, and your hair withers away. It's nightmare material.

It's odd to think that this whole apocalypse started because of a single scientist who wanted to find the cure for blood cancer. He was the first to be infected, I believe.

I myself have been bitten twice before, but saved myself both times with the antidote. I need to start making another batch of that soon, I thought. No, I wasn't being stupid and risking using the antidote with blind hope: I had tested it beforehand on a pigeon, then a cat, and yet again on a cow. Each time it was successful. Man, I could have been a pretty good biomedical scientist.

I cut my thumb on the rim of the sharp can of peaches and closed my eyes. "Ow," I hissed, sucking in a breath. Opening my eyes, I pressed the cut onto my arm and held it there. The small pain that was here at first disappeared and I continued eating the peaches.

I stared at the crack between the two shudders of my window. The sun was rising. Although I knew that I must have terrible circles under my eyes, it's time for me to get to work. My eyelids aren't heavy anymore as I stand up and start rummaging around my cabinets for the ingredients needed to make the antidote.