H1Z1 - Chapter 4

Perhaps it was that sweet remainder of the little boy in Bill that snapped me out of my terror-induced funk; he grabbed my hand, and the feel of his fingers inside of mine brought me back from the black brink of terror, the edge of which my mind had been teetering once I realized that Marie had died. I had to be calm right now, and I had to be rational right now, if not for my own sake, then for the sake of my son, who wasn't even old enough to understand the horrific memories which had begun to play across the view screen of my inner mind.

"It-it's going to be okay, Son," I managed. I could still feel terror clawing, raging, trying to escape from deep inside me, trying to make its way out of my mouth and take over my actions, like some bizarre alien whose gestation lead to an oral-ejection and which, once born, would jump onto my head and sink ganglion through my skull, becoming an alien "driver" controlling my every action.

"Let's pick up these shotgun shells, OK?" In spite of my fear, some part of me tried to maintain an illusion of normalcy, even though this situation was anything but normal.

"Dad," he hesitated, but seeing the look I shot him, Bill bent and began to scoop up hands full of errant shotgun shells.

As he scurried about the tile and shoved different gauges into their appropriate boxes, I surveyed the aisles surrounding us. I could hear the strange moaning, and I saw a person who appeared to be suffering from the same illness Marie had been suffering - he was lurching around in the hardware aisle two over from the beginning of the sporting goods. That way his body moved was unnatural. He wasn't walking, wasn't limping; I couldn't even label what he was doing as a shuffle. He was lurching. Unnaturally. He was lurching this way.

"How you doing with those shells, Son?" I prodded.

"Just a few left," Bill grunted, down on his hands and knees, stretching to reach under a rack of rain jackets.

"Hurry up then," I said, just barely keeping the raw edge of fear from seeping out the sides of my mouth.

The man lurched closer. Slow, but shortening the distance between his aisle and me and my son, who grunted with satisfaction as he slid the last 20 gauge shell into its box. "Got 'em. Let's go now, Dad. Now!"

"Alright. All we have to do is pay and we're out of here," I assured him, taking the proffered hand and turning toward the check-out stands.

Marie stood right in front of us, spittle and blood flecked lips curling back and her, no, not her any more, it's, I think might be more appropriate, teeth, made to look all the sharper because of the bloody-spittle in the creases between them, bared in a death's head grimace. An unearthly growl from deep inside her chest managed to writhe itself free of it's lips, but when it had finished, it's chest didn't rise again to refill it's lungs. it shuffled toward us with that same blank stare, barely seeming to register that we were there, yet coming after us as though we were it's goal.

"Dad!" Bill shouted as I leaped backward, nearly yanking his arm from its socket.

"We need to run, Son," I said as I continued my backward scramble, pulling him back and up in order to keep him on his uncooperative feet.

Finally, he managed to get his feet under him and together, hand-in-hand, Bill and I ran, me a step-and-a-half ahead as we made for the exit doors and the safety of anywhere but here.