Page 62 of Uprising

By the time I make it further into town, buildings cast shadows, and I’m no longer seeing much of the sun. I don’t have time to hesitate about which building I should pick to settle in for the night.

I spot a small hardware store from the corner of my eye. Making my way over, I push the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the silence. I freeze, holding my breath, waiting for something to jump out at me. Nothing stirs, but it doesn’t make me feel any safer.

My grip tightens around the mallet as I step inside, moving cautiously, my ears straining for any sound. The air is thick with dust, and the distant stench of rot lingers. Moving around, I check between the aisles, behind the counter, and in the back office. I push the door open, the mallet firmly in my hand. Blowing out a breath when nothing pops out, I lean against the door, my muscles slowly relaxing.

I’ll rest here tonight and get a move on it in the morning. Peering around, I shut the door and move an old shelf against it. I’m not sure it’ll stop a horde of zombies, but it’ll be enough for one or two.

Sagging against the desk, my body collapsed into the chair beside it. I try to relax, but the fear still lingers. I didn’t think about the fact I would have to stop while on my travels. Clearly, I didn’t think things all the way through.

Slipping my bag off, I reach inside and pull out a can of spaghetti. Prying it open with trembling fingers, I take a large bite. It’s cold, metallic, and tasteless, but I force it down. My stomach twists with fear and exhaustion while I take bite after bite.

Every tiny noise—the wind outside, the distant creak of the old building settling—makes my breath hitch, my fingers clenching tighter around the mallet. I back the chair up against the far wall to have as much distance between me and the door. Doubt creeps in like a sickness, poisoning my thoughts.

What if I had missed one? What if they heard me come in here? What if they’ve somehow developed, and now they’re laying low and waiting for me to fall asleep?

I know it sounds ridiculous, but we know nothing about the zombies. No one knows how they got turned. There are rumors that some kind of drug started the process. Then it just rolled into those that were infected, died, and came back. But we don’t know the truth.

Fear coils in my chest, twisting around my ribs like a vice. I should stay awake. But my body has other plans; my head feels too heavy on my shoulder. Exhaustion that’s been weighing me down for the last few hours and is winning. My body slumps to the side, my head resting against the dusty filing cabinet. And before I know what’s hit me, darkness pulls me under.

* * *

A sudden sharpsound rips me out from the depths of sleep. My eyes snap open, panic slamming against my chest before I can gather my bearings. For a split second I have no idea where I am, the room unfamiliar, before it comes back. The abandoned town, the hardware office.

Sitting up, my body protests with stiff and aching limbs. Stretching my fingers out, I realized I was no longer holding my mallet. Fumbling forward, my gaze snags on the weapon lying at my feet. Snatching it up, I hold the thing against my chest like it’s my lifeline. In a fucked-up way, it might as well be.

It’s then I hear the sound again. Slowly and cautiously I shift in the chair, every movement feeling too loud. I need to get out of here, but that would mean leaving the cramped office. I need to slip out and just make a run for it.

Forcing myself to take a breath and then another, I climb to my feet. I place the mallet on the shelf of the bookcase before grabbing the corners and moving it slightly out of the way. Once there’s enough room for me to squeeze through, I grab my mallet again and slip through the door.

Gripping my weapon tight, my pulse hammers in my ears. The sun shines through the windows, leaving the store in shadows. I force one foot in front of the other, moving to the front of the store. I feel the freedom, the exit being right there. I’m itching to make a run for it?—

Movement catches my eye. I jerk to the side, weapon raised, expecting the worst—rotting flesh, hungry eyes, something dead.

But it’s not.

A girl stands just a few feet away. Her stance was tense, her breathing coming in short. She grips a crowbar, holding it out in front of her like she’s ready to swing if I even dare to speak. But it’s the silent, dark, and spooked expression plastered to her face that tells me she might not.

“Uh…” Words fail me as I think of something to say. Trust is a luxury—one that I refuse to have anymore. My eyes flick over the girl, her hands steady on the crowbar, her posture guarded. She can’t be any older than thirteen, maybe fourteen.

“Are you alone?” I finally ask.

Her gaze hardens, her knuckles turning white as she tightens her grip on the weapon.

“I–wow, that sounded creepy,” I rushed out. “I’m sorry—I, uh, please tell me you have a parent around here.”

The living are just as dangerous as the dead—maybe even worse. But that doesn’t mean I want to just leave this child out here alone.

“I do,” she whispers.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I open my mouth to ask where or to tell her to have a good day, when the crash of breaking glass shatters the tense moment. A group of zombies barrels through the windows, their movements jerky and chaotic.

Instinct screams at me to run; my body is already tense and ready to make a run for it. But something smaller inside me causes me to grip the mallet tighter. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as the first zombie lunges towards the girl. Its rotten fingers reach forward, clawing at her. I swing the mallet before it can grab at her; the impact sends a sickening crack through the air as the zombie's head caves in.

The girl screams, swinging the crowbar at a second zombie reaching towards us. My muscles burn, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I swing the mallet again, hitting the second zombie in the face. The thing falls to the ground. I sidestep when the third zombie lunges towards us. The girl trips as she tries to do the same. The third zombie jaw hangs loose, blood dripping as it tries to bite towards me. Chest heaving, I swing the mallet back, using all my force to hit the thing in the head. Its body slumps to the ground, twitching. Pulling the mallet out, I stomp my foot into its head.

“Molly!” A man's voice screams into the store.

Panting, I watch a man—an older teenager—run into the store. He barely glances at me before his eyes land on the girl. She rushes forward, her arms wrapping around the man's waist. His hands landed on her back, squeezing her like he didn’t think he was going to see her again.

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