Day by Day

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Someone once told me that waking up is the most amazing thing. Every time we wake up, he said, we are surprised, but only for a short moment. We are shocked for that short time that we are alive, that we have slipped so close to death and returned to see another day. We are amazed that we are alive.

I feel the hard, cold wood I’ve been sleeping on and for a moment, I am not shocked, I am not amazed. I am grateful.

I shiver. It has become much colder over the night. My thin blanket and autumn clothes are no longer sufficient. I recall some clothes in the closet downstairs, perhaps there will be something there. I pick myself off the floor and it creaks under my weight. I freeze. The sound rings in my ears. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. Minutes pass by as the snow falls outside.

No one has heard. A sigh of relief passes between my lips. Though I was alone last night, one can never be too sure. Still hazy from sleep, I reach down and wrap my fingers around a pistol before heading out. The metal is heavy and cold in my hand and I flex my hand to loosen the joints. I hope they left gloves.

I move into the main hall quietly, easing my weight onto the hard wood with each slow step. I peer over the railing and listen. Nothing. The next part is the hardest. My feet slip onto the first step and the frozen wood creaks and moans. I wince. Going slow will only make things worse. I take a deep breath in and let the air fill my lungs. I breathe out. I breathe in deeply.

I rush down the stairs, my gun aimed straight ahead. My heart races. I reach the bottom. Look left. Look right. Nothing. I sigh once again, safe for a few more moments. This process continues until I have checked the entire house. I am alone inside. I peek out the windows and I am greeted by a blanket of white. The snow must have been coming down all night. I squint and see no tracks. I am alone.

I scratch my chin and feel the goatee that has built up. It’s been a long time since I’ve shaved. The jaw isn’t so bad. The hair on my jaw line never did get as thick as on my chin and lip. It will keep me warm, I suppose. I head to the closet and open the door. Most of it is empty, save the old hangers and some socks. The family must have cleared out in a hurry. At the end though is one jacket. It looks warm. I grab it and it is wool. Must be my lucky day. I throw the jacket around myself and stuff my gun into it’s inside pocket. I will be able to reach it if I need it. I search the rest of the closet, but I find no gloves. It’s disheartening.

Now awake, I head back upstairs and begin to gather my things. A backpack, filled with food, water, and a few essentials I’ve gathered. Before I head back downstairs, something catches my eye. The reflection from an old picture frame I hadn’t seen when I snuck in last night. It’s a picturesque scene taken from a time that is now so far away.

A young man holds a woman by the waist in a tender embrace. He’s dressed in khakis and a t-shirt, she’s wearing a bright pink sunglasses and jeans.  A child smiles widely at the camera, obviously missing a few teeth. He seems happy. It must be spring. The man has decided it has become warm enough for shorts, but his wife is not quite there yet. The child must just be happy to be outside again. They all seem so happy and carefree. As I stare at the picture, I remind myself that they are all probably dead.

It’s been three months now since the outbreak. The government kept together for a good six weeks, but it soon fell all apart. I’ve heard there are still small pockets of martial law, but I try to keep away. I don’t work so well with chain-link fences and hazmat suits. Everyone else is on their own, I suppose. They’re eking out a living one day at a time, just like me. If the road signs were correct, I’m now somewhere in Iowa. I took off soon after the first case.

I set down the frame and blow into my hands for warmth. I head downstairs and go out the backdoor of the house. I shove my skullcap onto my head and stand there for a moment, appreciating the snowflakes as they fall to the ground. I try and live for small moments like these, the islands in between the storms. I can never tell which one is going to be my last.

Right now, I’m in Iowa, my hands are cold, and I’m still grateful to be alive. It’s just the beginning of another day. I march off into the snow, my fingers nestled in the pockets of my new jacket, and I recall a line from something I read long ago:


The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I glare at the fuel gauge, as though doing so would somehow magically make the needle move clockwise. Alas, it refuses to budge, and fuel refuses to materialize within the engine. I bite my lower lip in a futile attempt to calm myself, then punch the wheel. "Fuck!" I yell, my voice almost as loud as the car's horn that goes off simultaneously.

"You need to calm down, Mike," I glanced at the man next to me and force myself to breathe more slowly. "That's better. Remember, we've got a limited amount of bullets, and losing your temper is the perfect way to waste them. If we'd been using a real rifle instead of the chickenshit airsoft you're using right now, you'd've be executed on the spot."

I step out of the car, holding my rifle in both hands carrying my worryingly light backpack behind me. I sigh; I'm not used to traveling, especially. For almost three months, I'd been a guard at the outpost, making sure that zombies didn't get in while keeping order from the safety of a guard tower. I'd never had to leave the safety of the outpost since the beginning of the outbreak, and I hadn't even needed to face a zombie up close!

"Don't be a retard, Mike, this place is crashing down! We can't save it; all we can do is get as far away from it as we can!" I stared at the boy - no older than sixteen - and finally relented, bringing the pistol to my hip.
"Alright, kid. What's your plan?" My eyes widened in incredulity as Samuel grins and shows me a key, one that I knew to be the key to my old Toyota.
"This is how. Come on, follow me!"

Of course, it couldn't last. Only two days ago, a giant horde of zombies came across our outpost and, in the classic zombie fashion, massacred the place. I still remember the corpses of my friends getting ripped apart by my other friends, and the image of a young girl being thrown into the horde by her parents will forever be burned into my mind.

"Get to your car and start the engine! I'll hold the fuckers off!" I nodded and ran, leaving Samuel to keep the horde at bay. I scanned the area for my car, and once I found it I sprinted to it. I rammed the key into the door and twisted, and the door opened with ease. Immediately, I went inside and started the engine, then -
"Oh dear god!" I looked back to see a horrific sight. The boy was running towards me, a horde of zombies following closely behind. "Wait, don't leave without me! I'm not bit!"
I turned the wheel and push the pedal, driving away from the scene as fast as possible, knowing that the boy's curses would haunt me forever.

I evaluate my surroundings; I appear to be in a housing district, with nary a soul in sight. The dead are many, but none are walking or are otherwise threatening. Most houses appear to have shattered windows or the like - signs that they've already been looted. "Fuck," I mutter before sighing and making my way towards the nearest house.