Chapter Text
I've spent my whole life, hurtling myself at walls and hoping I'll make it through the other side alive. Every obstacle, every task, is a full on leg race between my knowledge of life after death and my inevitable feeling that this one thing could be the end of the line for me. When you live every day, feeling as if you're going to die, actually dying feels like a miniscule event in the grand scheme of things. Actually running for my life, actually weilding a knife, actually fighting for the beat of my heart in my chest, is nothing. Absolutely nothing. My heart remains calm, my hands do not shake and my breath does not waver. It will at every other moment than these ones. But again, this? This is nothing.
The loud clicks echo off the walls. It may help them find me, but it also helps me find them. Hiding? Is it really that necessary when the enemy can't see you anyway? I always wondered that, turns out, a little less complicated in real life...well, sorta. So instead I carefully take steps over broken glass and long dead fungi plastered to the floor. My breaths leave me in silent, calm exhales and my knuckles tighten around the hilt of a switchblade. A loud 'snap' lets me know the infected is lumbering just around the corner out of direct line of sight. With a few more measured steps my back comes in contact with the wall, beside the doorway at which it stands behind. With the speed mastered by sixteen years of dance and acrobatics, my body moves in a perfect pivot, my right arm wraps around a rough sharp forehead, locking it in place and my left hand brings the blade up and through its thick skull. Impaling into the long gone infected brain.
Surviving, that’s what we’re all doing now. If we’re not surviving, we’re dying a long driven out death. Pulling the blade free with a sigh, I release my hold and watch as the once human body falls to the floor. It is morbidly beautiful. Nature's life embedded into living skin. Mushroom, moss like fungi, blooming from flesh. Most likely not every
ones first thoughts, but they are ones that have crossed my mind countless times over. It feels as if there was a point Mother Nature became exhausted of the destruction brought onto her world by the human race and unleashed a beauty no one would have the ability to stop. An impenetrable force that would cleanse the world of the affliction that was the human race's carelessness. While I myself am a part of said human race, and do not see myself above said human race, I would like to think myself at least more cognizant of the shortcomings of the past of this reality. The present of my own.
Forty-two days, sixteen hours, forty-eight minutes, I’ve been here and yet haven't I figured out how. Forty-two days, sixteen hours, forty-nine minutes, I’ve been in my own personal safe haven. Another point at which I probably am the minority. Most would call this hell. For me it feels as if it's the first real breath of fresh air I’ve experienced in my twenty-three years, that isn’t contaminated by cortisol and adrenaline. There's more irony than I can count in that statement.
Retracting the switchblade and slipping it into one of the numerous pockets of my pants, I once again begin my way toward the far window. Choosing this small museum to work upwards from, felt like the safest bet at the time. The sad truth is, that when the pandemic went down, chances were that not many people would have been inside a museum. Same goes for libraries. On the other hand, if I were to have been here during those times, it's probably where you would have found bloater corpse still haunting. These types of places used to be my safe places, my havens, before my existence here. Now they are simply another set of walls inside a much larger self-indulgent refuge.
Now I’ll admit, cutting through what once was Salt Lake City, probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas if I wanted to avoid the infected, it is however the most convenient. That is if I can keep my trek on high ground, hopefully out of the way of most infected. Hopefully, out of the way of possible survivors as well. Unfortunately, in a shit place to possibly run into scars.
It took me a while to decide what my course of action would be inside this world. Being here, made my life easier. Made surviveing harder, but living easier. But knowing what I know, leaves a pang of regret and guilt within my gut. Truthfully, there is - nor was - any way for me to know the time frame in which I found myself in.
'Did it already happen?'
'Is it years before-hand?'
There was - is - no way of knowing. Not with as far a way as Jackson, Wyoming was when I first was dropped on my ass here. So yes, I contemplated whether trying to change what was almost literally set in stone, was worth it. IF and thats a big IF, the time frames added up and I am in fact here when this particular story takes place. Selfishly, I wondered if changing things, would suddenly bring my time here to a very quick end.
Knowing and not trying at least though, slowly made a strong sour taste appear on my tongue as days pasted. With feet of lead and a head of fucking rocks, I started toward Jackson. One fuckity-fucking foot at a time.
Finally out of the tiny museum, up the fire escape and onto the roof, I can see across the expanse of the city. Now, just a seven to ten day walk, skip and jump.....no biggy. Right?