The Encounter
By T. A. Staver
Copyright 2012 T. A. Staver
Smashwords Edition
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Other stories by T. A. Staver:
A Night Meeting (free)
A Night for Questions and Answers ($.99)
The Encounter
Squeesh. Squeesh. Squeesh. Squeesh.
I froze. I had thought I was alone in the deserted grocery store. The sound of wet rubber boots on tile told me someone was in the next aisle, but not who or what.
I had been checking the shelves for any food that may have been overlooked by looters. After the Whitehead Plague had swept through this section of the country, riots had broken out in a number of cities. The shattered windows and overturned carts at the front of the store revealed this to be one of those cities. Since humanity and civilization had been pushed to the brink of extinction in the last five weeks, my days had been filled with the struggle to survive: finding food, fresh water, and a safe place to hide.
The zombies that resulted from the plague had taken over much of the country. Zombies outnumbered humans by…I don’t know the exact figures. But I’ve seen many more walking dead than I’ve seen human beings. I’ve been on the run, trying to stay alive.
I don’t have any idea what caused the Sickness, why it affected some and not others, or why I wasn’t infected. The communication systems of the world went down surprisingly fast and stayed down, which meant there was no news. There may be smart people in labs somewhere, working on a cure even as I stand here, frozen in place by the unexpected noise. But I doubt it.
Zombies aren’t smart. They can’t figure out complex problems. But they are ravenous. They only stop if their heads are removed, smashed, or shot. I’ve done all three.
Their sense of smell, hearing, and vision is on par with a human being’s. These zombies don’t just shuffle like in the movies we all saw before the Sickness. They can move quickly when they sense food, which would be me if I’m not careful.
My current problem is that I have left my machete at the end of the aisle. I set it down to carry a box to the middle to stand on so I could look at the top shelf. If I move, whoever is on the other side will hear me. If I don’t move, and a zombie comes around the corner near the machete, I could be cut off from my weapon.
I ease down off of the box, one careful step at a time, holding my breath. So far, I don’t hear any noise from the other side. I consider taking my shoes off to eliminate noise, but discard the idea: if I have to run, I want to be able to move fast.
I decide to move towards my machete. If whoever is on the other side moves that way also, hopefully I can beat them to the spot and rearm myself. I start with one careful step, and of course the damp sole of my shoe ever so lightly squeaks. I hear another squeesh on the other side; as if a rubber boot turned on its heel. Neither of us moves. I wait for a count of ten. Just as I think of moving, a step on the other side, squeesh, moving towards the end where my blade is sitting on the floor. I take a step in the same direction. The person on other side takes a step and the race is on. I scramble and stumble, then gain my footing and hurtle towards the front of the store. My eyes are riveted on the machete, which doesn’t look as if it’s getting any closer. The rubber boots on the other side are squeaking along at the same pace as I’m making. It will be close.
I reach the end of the aisle and dropping to one knee and then onto my butt, I slide-stop just as I reach my machete. Thankfully, the grip is facing towards me. I snatch it up and rise into a crouch as I turn towards my enemy. Swinging my arm up, I start to defend myself for the attack that is sure to come.
I see startled blue eyes and blonde hair falling out of a sloppy pony-tail. She pulls back on a sharpened pole that was aimed at my face.
My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. I don’t know if it’s from the short sprint or adrenaline from our encounter. I slowly stand up out of my crouch and lower my arm, but keep my eyes on her. She keeps the pole pointed in my direction, but backs up a step.
“Did you find any food?” she asks.
“No,” I answer.
She starts to move around me, edging towards the door. She looks at me the whole time, stepping carefully through the wreckage at the front of the store. When she reaches the door, she pauses. A glance out the door, a look at me, and she quickly slips out.
“Wait!” I yell after her. But she is gone. I look around after my shout; I don’t want to alert any zombies in the area.
I don’t blame the nameless woman for avoiding me. The plague has wiped out a large portion of the human race; not everyone who has survived is a law-abiding citizen. Trust is a commodity to be earned and is not easily given.
As I trudge back to my current hiding place, I pray that the human race can survive. On days like this, I have my doubts.
About the author:
T. A. Staver still lives in Illinois, still has a family, and still hasn’t met a vampire; or a zombie for that matter. But the cat is still evil.