A/N: I apologize for there not being a picture. Photobucket changed and won't let me upload :l

Eight

          I drop the gun and shield my face, ducking behind the brick flower bed so I’m practically lying on the ground. Bullet copies me, sticking his moist nose in my cheek as he whimpers, doing his best not to howl from the heat and flying car parts.

            I don’t know how long we have to stay here before the zombies come. They won’t care about the fire when they see me lying on the ground like an open buffet. A few more smaller explosions rock the car, but eventually the only sound is the hot fire licking everything around it as it tries to spread.

            “Let’s head for the road,” I tell Bullet, pushing myself to my feet. A wave of heat hits me and I resist the urge to move away, knowing I’d be moving right for the zombies. Once Bullet’s up he starts looking around before deciding to take the right side of the fast food restaurant. I adjust my backpack and pick up my gun. Jogging after him, I try to breathe through the smoky air and end up coughing my lungs out.

            I don’t know how I’m supposed to know where to meet the others. I’m not familiar with town and I can only hope that Bullet knows the way, seeing as without him, I probably would have been dead ten times over by now.

            As I round the brick corner of the restaurant, I skid to a stop and Bullet starts growling. Behind me the zombies are already coming through the fence and the explosion took the attention of all the others, two of which are staggering down the short, alley towards me. The old man’s face looks rotted and where his grey comb over used to sit is replaced half by thin hair and half by an open head wound. It looks like someone took a cheese grater to his skull.

            “Back up,” I order Bullet, cocking my shotgun. I raise it and look down the sight, slowly backing up as the man struggles to move faster, wanting to claw his way to me. My eyes blink as I shoot the gun and the man gurgles, a gaping hole in his chest. He still reaches for me, very much alive despite having no lungs or heart.

            When he’s on the ground he starts crawling, still not dead. I gasp, jumping back as his fingers scrape my shoe. I want to shoot him but the other zombie behind him is running towards me now, his only arm reaching for me without a hand.

            I don’t have time to aim and shoot him too, this time getting his head. Once he’s on the ground I hear footsteps behind me and know I don’t have time to kill the crawling man. Clenching my teeth, I follow Bullet and jump over his torso when I feel something cold touch my ankle.

            My face feels like I hit a transport truck and all I can taste is asphalt and dirt. Spitting, I start struggling away, the zombie’s grip on my ankle. The shotgun is out of my reach and Bullet’s too busy trying to figure out how to help me to do anything.

            Desperate, scared whimpers rise in my throat as I try to get away. His cold, dead hands have a death grip on me, not daring letting me go. I let out a cry of pain as his nails dig into my bare skin as he drags me closer to his mouth.

            When he bites me, I scream.

            I use my other leg to kick him in the face, trying to pry him off me as adrenaline fills my veins. Survival instinct is all I have to go by so I keep kicking as hard as I can, trying to get him to let go; to let me live.

            It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. It’s not like a dog bite, where there may only be a small bit of blood and it stings. It’s a human actually tearing my flesh apart, trying to get through the layers of skin to the insides underneath.

            Pulling my leg back, I give the hardest kick I can muster and get him right in the nose. There’s a cracking sound, telling me it’s broken and it doesn’t faze the zombie. He can’t feel pain but it still gets him off me, pushing him away.

            I cry as I tear him from my skin and push myself to my feet, grabbing the shotgun in the process. Bullet whimpers for me as I start to run, not able to put much weight on my right ankle as I escape. In the street there are only a few zombies who notice me while all the others are staggering away towards the noise, not yet aware that I’m here. Word probably has spread of my blood in the alley and they’re heading towards that to lick it off the pavement.

            I don’t chance a look at my ankle, knowing that if I do, there’s a chance I might pass out. Instead, I push myself farther and pretend the throbbing pain isn’t there. Underneath all the thoughts of finding safety, there’s a line of fear, telling me that I’m already dead. I got bitten; I’m going to die.

            Bullet sprints beside me, leading me down the sides of streets and around places that are infested. I don’t know where’s he’s taking me or if we’re heading towards the group but I know him well enough to trust him no matter what.

            I could cut off my leg. As soon as the thought surfaces, I shake it away. That’s the only way the infection wouldn’t spread but I can’t bear to do it. Not only am I alone, without tools, and a wimp, I don’t think it would heal anyways. Besides, what good is having one leg in a zombie apocalypse when you need to run all the time?

            Bullet barks and I turn my head to the right, moving my direction towards the sidewalk he’s standing on. He looks at the door of an optometrist’s office, wanting me to open the door. Confused, I look around to see that we’re alone and grip the cold, metal handle with my fingers.

            “You want me to go in here?” He barks quietly and I shrug. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. You should stay out here though; go find the others. You shouldn’t be with me when I…” I shake my head, not wanting to say it. “When I die.”

            He growls as I open the door and darts in before I can stop him. Grumbling, I follow him inside and look around. The place is creepy; filled with mirrors and glasses that distort my vision wherever I look.

            Slumping on a beige sofa with no arm rests, I let my head fall into my hands. With my eyes closed, everything seems normal. Or, at least what my brain registers at normal since I still can’t remember anything.

            I feel Bullet rest his chin on my knee but I don’t look up. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see the mess outside, around me, on my ankle, and then I’ll freak out and I can’t afford that to happen. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I’m tempted to look at the damage. But before I can, I feel lightheaded, like I’m starting to drift off.

            “Come on now, don’t cry.” Daddy wipes my tears with his plaid sleeve before picking me up by my waist. He sits me on the open trunk of his trunk and examines my calve that’s dripping with blood. “Sloane, it’s not that bad.”

            I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and meet his eyes. “It isn’t?”

            He smiles and shakes his head, his eyes lighting up as he does so. “Nope. But we’re going to go clean it up, okay?”

            I nod and he carries me into the house, making sure to steer clear of the neighbour’s dog who is watching with innocent eyes. I know better than to believe him, though. I took his toy to throw it and he bit me, growing with fury as I dropped it.

            “If you ever get a cut, here’s what you should do,” Daddy starts, sitting me on the edge of the bathroom tub. He grabs a cloth from under the sink and runs it under cold water. “First you need to get it as clean as you can with water.” He starts to wipe away the dirt and small stones that stick to my leg when I fell on the way to find him. “Do you know what comes next?”

            I hold a finger to my seven year old lips as I think, looking around the small bathroom for inspiration. “Band-Aid?”

            He smiles knowingly before shaking his head. “No, Sloane. And a Band-Aid is too small anyways. Next we go to the first aid kit.”

            When he’s done fixing my wound and walking me through the basics, he cups my cheek in his palm, looking at me lovingly.

            “You’re going to be okay.”

☣

            Ripping the first aid kit open that I retrieved from under the bathroom sink, I start rifling through it in the dark, hoping that everything is up to date and hasn’t expired. When I’m satisfied with what I hold in my palm, I move outside into the fading light of the windows and hold my breath.

            “You’re okay, Sloane,” I repeat to myself, scared out of my mind. I prop my leg up on one of the couch cushions and dare a look. My face completely pales. “It’s bad, but you’re okay.”

            It looks much worse than a dog bite. Much, much worse. It looks as if a small chunk of my ankle is entirely missing, even though it’s not deep enough to see the bone. I’m thankful for that, but I still can’t stand how painful and awful it looks. I could compare it to getting caught in a bear trap but even that couldn’t bring justice to the wound.

            I run through the procedure of cleaning it, running to the bathroom for the very short supply of water that drips from the sink whenever I need it. Bullet follows me back and forth, never making a sound like he’s my personal body guard. Every so often he scouts the area, stopping to smell or listen, but he never comes up with anything concerning.

            “You’re okay. See? Fine.” I stop talking to myself and look down, satisfied with my bandaged ankle. Sinking onto the couch again, I rest my chin in my hands. Bullet rests his head on my knee again and gives me the puppy dog eyes. “You shouldn’t be with me,” I whisper to him, lowering a hand to scratch him behind his ear. “You should find Jagger and the others so you can help them. I don’t want to turn you too.”

            Bullet growls and I drop my hand, turning away from him. If I turn into a zombie I can’t bear to eat him and make him one too. That’s not fair to him but also I wouldn’t be able to stand it if I did.

            The tears start falling before I can stop them. I’m going to turn. I’m going to become one of those monsters. I can’t stop the thoughts from repeating themselves in my head over and over again.

            Will I know what’s going on when I’m one of them? Will I actually hunger for living, human flesh or will it be like being asleep, or even dead? I hope my brain shuts down and I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t want to be like one of them; I won’t.

            Without thinking, my hand shakily reaches into my backpack that sits on the couch beside me. When my fingers wrap around the cool metal, my body freezes. Can I really do this? Will it even prevent me from becoming one of them?

            I shake my head, hoping it will shake the thoughts away. It doesn’t matter. The only way I will become a zombie is if I’m dead.

            I stare at the pistol sitting in my lap for a long time. A part of me wants to write some kind of note for someone to find. But who will? Unable to resist, I search the office until I find a piece of paper and pen. As I start writing, I realize my lettering looks familiar, even though I can’t remember what it looked like before.

                        To whoever finds this,

            I’m dead. Or at least, I hope I am. If I’m one of them, one of those horrible, mindless zombies, please end my life. I can’t stand to be that way. I don’t know how you’ll know it’s me but if I’m still in this office, off me before I hurt you.

            There’s a dog with me while I’m writing this. I hope he leaves before I turn but if he stays and somehow manages to stay alive, take him. His name is Bullet and he is smarter than any dog you will ever meet.

            I hope you stay alive.

            -Sloane

            I shove the note between the couch cushions, leaving half of it sticking up for someone to see. When I’m done I write another note and attack it to Bullet’s collar, praying he will let a human get close enough to him to take it and read it.

            My name is Bullet. I can lead you to where you want to go and help you retrieve things. I’m smarter than you think. Please take care of me.

            As soon as it’s tucked into the collar, Bullet takes off running down the hall of the office to the other entrance. Despite my want to go after him, I take it as a good sign and know it’s better that he isn’t here for this, or for what comes after.

            “Please don’t hurt,” I whisper, rising the gun until it’s in front of my face. Refusing to look at it, I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything seems normal again. I try to imagine myself sitting in my bedroom, reading a book or magazine but it feels like I’m forcing it and no memory comes to surface.

            This is it. Opening my mouth, I stick the silver barrel inside. It bumps against my lips and sends a chill down my throat. I can’t believe I’m doing this but I can’t imagine it being any other way. I need to die before I can turn.

            I imagine myself in a white, fluffy heaven, dancing on clouds. I wonder what death is like when it takes me, and if I will end up in the place I’ve always imagined hiding above. Somewhere a distance away, I hear a noise. It sounds like small scratching, and every few seconds there’s the sound of something hitting the linoleum.

            I ignore it.

            “Goodbye,” I whisper, even though the words don’t make it past the barrel of the gun. My finger moves towards the trigger and just when I’m about to shoot, I freeze.

            Jagger stands in shock a few meters away from me with Bullet at his feet. “Sloane!”