Beneath Dark Skies (Rolling Hills Ranch #1)

2. Farron

TWO

FARRON

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

Day 16

I let out a screech of terror before quickly twisting around and freeing myself from the zombie's grasp. Taking a few steps back, I reach for the knife in my pocket and pull off the plastic sheath before positioning the blade in the direction of the zombie, the handle clenched tightly in my grasp. As I look up into its face, my breath catches. Despite the decaying and ghastly flesh, I can’t help but notice the remnants of the person before the infection.

He’s still in jeans and a t-shirt, with black hair falling out of a haphazard bun loosely around his stiffened features, a haunting marker of rigor mortis in his ghastly gait. His eyes, simultaneously a murky green and bloodshot, are entirely glazed over. There’s no sign of recognition in his eyes—no hint of who he is or that he realizes what I am. I can imagine him in the time before all of this, a tall and handsome man with gorgeous eyes and a deep and contagious laugh.

I hesitate, the blade wavering in my grip as conflicting emotions wage within me. How can I bring myself to strike down someone who, not that long ago, was a living, breathing person? A person who had family and friends who loved him, a person with dreams and aspirations? But as the zombie shuffles closer, its lifeless eyes fixed on me and its flesh-rotting hands reaching for my outstretched arm, I know what I have to do.

Heart heavy and hand still trembling, I tighten my grip, steel myself for what’s about to happen, and lunge without any real finesse. I cut across its torso, creating a large gash with rotten blood spurting out, but it doesn’t seem to slow the zombie down in any way.

How do you kill things that are already sort of dead but not entirely? My mind drifts back to the Resident Evil games–apparently my basis for zombie knowledge and lore–and I recall how headshots do the trick.

With a deep breath and a swift, determined lunge forward, I manage to stab the zombie in the head right between the eyes. The blade sinks in with surprising ease as if its flesh and bones are brittle, far weaker than those of a regular human. As it strikes home, I close my eyes, unable to bear the sight of what I’ve just done. The blow to the head must be the answer to my earlier question because the zombie goes still and silent. Opening my eyes, I attempt to pull my knife out but can’t. As the zombie tumbles to the ground, it takes me with it.

Okay, note to self: knife to the brain is apparently the way to go. Dead man is now officially dead. Thanks, Resident Evil.

Dusting my hands off on my jeans, I take a moment to gather my thoughts and calm myself. Even though I did what I had to do, I can’t shake the feeling of guilt. I can’t help the mourning of who I was before I took a life, even if it was already dead.

Standing up, I plant my boot on its chest and give a hard yank, but the knife won’t budge. It went in too easily, sinking a little too deep, making it challenging to pull out. Before I can yank again, I hear the low grumble of the infected. Shit, there’s more of them? I go to turn and start running, but two are in front of me. I quickly brace myself and begin to attack them, mentally prepared this time for what I must do if I want to survive. I swing my right arm straight down and hit the top of the first one. I step to move towards the next one, but the first zombie is somehow back on its feet, coming at me again. I kick one of them in the knee, feeling and hearing the squelch of its nasty flesh as I do, causing it to buckle and go down hard. With one temporarily down, I focus on the one to my left next, giving it a big shove that forces it a few steps back. Before I can do anything more, they’re back on their feet, coming at me. Fighting one with a knife was difficult enough, but fighting two without a weapon seems impossible.

A strangled noise breaks free, and I try to push my way out from the two zombies coming at me, swinging my arms as hard as I can, unable to land any sort of killing blow to the head. I trip and fall to my knees, and I know this is the end. All I can think is that I’m going to die out here right now. I’m going to die before I can make things right with my parents, before I get to hug my brother again and tell him that I love him. I’m going to die before I get the chance to say to him that he’s my best friend and that I’ll never forgive myself for letting him make the sacrifices he did for me. I’ll never hear one last story from my Ma or Pa.

I try to make peace with the fact that this is it.

I’m going to be killed by a fucking zombie.

Just as all hope seems lost, I hear a rustle and growling. The zombies turn their heads toward the sound, their eyes completely glazed over, and I use the moment of distraction to my advantage. I notice a large branch on the ground near me, and I leap forward to grab it. It’s then I see a small creature with matted fur. Is that a giant rat? What the hell is that thing?

In a normal scenario, I would probably be scared of a rat this large making me its next meal, but right now, the zombies take precedence .

I watch as the rat sinks its teeth into the leg of one of them, causing the zombie to fall, head shaking from one side to another, ferocious little growls leaving its body. With my rat savior here to help, I refocus on the closest zombie, the stench of rotting flesh thick in the air. Its decayed body oozes putrid fluids, skin hanging off in ragged sheets, revealing the grotesque mess beneath. With a primal scream, I charge towards it and swing the branch with all the strength I can muster. The branch connects with the zombie’s head, a sickening sound echoing out, wet and hollow, like crushing a rotted pumpkin that’s sat in the hot sun too long.

The blow makes it stagger, its head lolling to one side as a chunk of decomposed flesh flies off, splattering the ground, splattering me. The sight of it only fuels the rage boiling inside me, and I lose myself in the frenzy. I move in closer, swinging the branch again and again, each strike landing with a disgusting squelch.

As I bash its head in, the brittle skull crumbles, giving way to a mushy mass of brain matter. The zombie's face disintegrates under my blows, turning into a gnarled pulp. The air is thick with the stench of decay, and I can feel the splatter of rotten tissue on my skin, a grim reminder of what I’ve become.

With each hit strike, I can feel my humanity slipping away. As I bash the thing’s head in, shattering the skull and turning its face into mush, my rage ebbs away. By the time I’m done, I feel empty.

Hollow.

The reality of my actions settles into my bones, and I fall to my knees a second time today, right next to the mangled mess in front of me. Tremors wrack my body as a sob breaks free, and my stomach churns at the sight of the damage I wrought. The bile rises in my throat, and I double over, retching violently as my tears and puke mingle with the blood of the dead zombie .

Just as I do, I hear a loud whimper. My head snaps up, and I see the last zombie, barely holding together, dragging itself across the ground just a few feet away. Its limbs are twisted at unnatural angles, and its rotting fingers claw at the dirt as it inches closer to the rat creature.

With a strangled “No!” escaping my lips, I run over and use all my force to smash the branch against the skull of the zombie one single time. The impact is brutal, the branch slamming into its skull with a horrible thud. The force of the blow reverberates up my arms as the skull caves in, fragile bones shattering like brittle glass under the weight of the strike.

The zombie's head explodes into a mess of gore—decayed brain matter, shards of bone, and dark, putrid blood splatter everywhere. The single hit is enough to obliterate what little remained of its decaying body, the sheer force of the blow more than its rotting form could handle.

Leaning over and resting my hands on my knees to try and catch my breath, I think about how I’ll have to carry the weight of what I’ve done today with me for the rest of my life, how these actions today will always be an awful and grim reminder of what reality will be moving forward. I move back to the first zombie, yanking as hard as I can until I can finally shake the knife a little loose. As I slide the blade out and hear the sickening sound of it scraping against brittle bone, a shiver rakes through me. Once I get it out, I wipe the blackened blood off on my jeans and sheath the knife back into my belt.

A whimper sounds again. Turning my head, I notice it’s not a giant rat but a dog—a very scrappy-looking dog. Rushing over, I get on my knees next to it and assess it for injuries. It’s clearly injured and in pain, but I don’t see any bites.

“It’s okay. You're going to be okay. ”

Without a second thought, I lift it into my arms, grab my backpack a few feet away, and start running.

I just have to hope that what I said is true. That it’s going to be okay, that I can save the little creature and get home.

Home to Rolling Hills Ranch.