As he strolled through the park the sound of song birds drifted through the air. He was forced to squint to see anything around him as the sun was shining so brightly. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans, which rustled as he walked towards the park. His outfit had been shamelessly thrown on in a hurry, as the invite he had received had arrived at the last possible moment. As he drew nearer to the park, he spotted his friend, calling out to him, "Long time, Michael!"573Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9VDyvLnxVC
Hearing the call of his name, Michael stood up, feeling excitement upon seeing his friend walking over to him. Michael chuckled, outstretching his arms as he reached him, and said, "A park, really?"
Reaching out to meet the gesture, Robert answered, "What? It's a beautiful day? What are you getting into?"
"Don't laugh..."
Robert smirked at this, "I promise," he agreed, but he was obviously joking.
"I'm thinking of becoming a park ranger," he said, causing Robert to burst out laughing.
"I mean really," Robert asked, sitting next to him, "What happened to being a small town sheriff?"
Michael’s face turned serious, “I've been getting these feelings …”
“Still getting them?” Robert asked him, already aware of his frequent anxiety attacks and could see it was still affecting him. Even being out in the sun it was clear he was pale. It started after he got back from Afghanistan. They claimed it was related to PTSD, but he wasn't in combat, not directly at least. So it remained a mystery.
“Yes,” he said lowering his head, “the doctors still have no idea, and I don’t want to take drugs because they make me infective.”
“Even your fear of drugs is caused by it. No one is going to hurt you Michael.”
Michael suddenly stood up, “I know but what can I do about it. I'm haunted by it!”
“Why didn't you bring it to my attention if it was that bad?”
“I know you have your own life with your own problems. I'm not going to drag you into mine,” at these words, Robert stood up, reaching out to hug him, “We may have not served together, but you are forever my brother.”
“Thank you,” his words were hushed, but the meaning was not any less.
“What are you going to do now?”
Looking at him, Michael said, “I have stuff to do.”
“Really? Why don’t you come over and hang out? You know my wife loves you,” Robert pleaded, but Michael shook his head, dismissing the offer.
“No, sorry. Thanks though. I promise we will hang out later.”
“No, I insist,” he said, slapping him on the back, coaxing him into walking to his home, “What do we have planned for tonight?”
“Can I propose a beer?” he asked causing Robert to chuckle.
To say Michael's house was modest was being modest. His house was so plain that you would think someone was trying to go unnoticed; the inside was cluttered beyond imagination. Strung along the walls of his living room were pictures; new paper articles about times and places that Robert could find no relevance for. He made a mental note to push it from his mind, pretending that his surroundings didn't affect him. There was an old brown lazy boy which was torn and weathered from use. Across from it was a couch overrun with garbage which Michael pushed to the floor.
“So tell me,” Robert said taking the lazy boy, “what have you been getting into?”
Michael took a moment to collect his thoughts. It was all too clear he was trying to avoid what he was really doing, “I have a long list of things I want to finish. For example the BBC show Sherlock Holmes. I have finished M.A.S.H; it has been the light in the darkness. It has been hard of late to stay positive and to rise above my current situation.”
“You have been in a perilous position far worse than most. There are worst things that could happen I'm sure, but certainly not many. You’re still a man standing under crushing burden. No one thinks any less of you, Michael.”
“What about a wife? A family? I'm a mess Robert,” his words were strained, his voice becoming a snarl, “I can’t have any of these things with my life in such a mess.”
Robert was already uncomfortable just being in his house, but the chair made things worse. So any chance to move he took. He stood up, getting closer to him, “So focus on getting better. Can you put it out of your mind for now? Focus on better days.”
“Your right, obviously,” Michael said, nodding firmly.
There was still a question which was bugging Robert, “How are you paying the bills?”
“My medical insurance and some of my bills are paid for by the military. I had some money saved up before this but most of it comes from charity.”
Despite this seeming as some good news, at least, Robert's face still portrayed a turbulent storm welling up inside of him; mostly sadness and despair for his friend. He wasn't beyond remorse or sympathy, every pain of his friend he felt. It was like his friend’s plight was a crushing wave drowning out his own emotions. He was even losing his sense of optimism in this dark world. It had created a division between them five years ago, pushing him out of his life. Now Robert was faced with the same issue. Michael's words, ‘I'm not going to drag you into my problems’, was a grim reminder of why it was going to happen. No one should bear this burden, and no one should have to bear it alone either. Yet his friend saw no reason why misery should have company. Michael would banish himself from his life, be stricken from his memory; forever remaining a ghost of the past.
“Turn on the TV then?” Robert asked, changing the depressing subject. The TV only offered minimal distraction and conversation couldn't be found amongst them. “Is this what we've become, so overwhelmed with sadness and self-pity that conversation has become luxury instead of a necessity,” Robert said in earnest.
“It’s not quiet in here,” Michael said, tapping his head, “I find no solace, only regret for another day wasted.”
“We have to try and hold on to your normal life. I came here to distract you from these problems but it seems I can’t even do that.”
Michael raised his hand up, stopping him, “Don’t worry, I've been trying for a lot longer. I just thank you for being here for me.”
Waking back home, Robert found himself in the east historic district. It primarily consisted of brick structures with modern world encroaching on the past. It was a rather uninteresting drive until he got to the interstate. At first he saw a single cop car drive by. Nothing interesting there, but then he saw three more drive past him. Suddenly there were dozen or more cop cars all travelling the opposite way of him. Watching them in confusion in the rear-view mirror, he muttered, “What in the world?”
“Honey, I'm home,” he said, walking in the door. His house was small, but he thought it was quaint. It was modestly furnished with the living room having a wooden trim with white flower wallpaper. The flowers were bright shades of several colours; red, blue, and yellow.
“What’s wrong?” his wife asked as she came to greet him. His wife had a really shallow and bony face, yet very luscious lips and hazel eyes that seem to shine. As well as a very nice figure, she had blond hair and dark tanned skin with a clear complexion.
He was trying to hide the pain for his best friend, but clearly he wasn't doing a good enough job, “It's just Michael is starting to relapse. He was never truly over it…” he paused, collecting himself, but instead lost his shit. His speech quickened, and not being able to keep himself still, he was using hand gestures as he spoke, “He’s seeing ghosts that don’t exist, a battle he was never part of. Between you and me, I don’t think it’s PTSD. It might be some mental disorder. I’m worried about him.”
“We all are,” she said comforting him, “You can’t fix it, but you need to be there for him.”
“I'm trying to, but it was him,” he emphasised the word 'him', “who pushed me away five years ago. I tried to stay a part of his life. He chose to push me away and descend alone into madness,” as he said this, he threw his car keys across the room towards the Ottoman, scraping the wood, before continuing, “I fear he may well be lost," he said this sadly, lowering his eyes to the ground. Not wanting to talk about this anymore, he changed the subject, "I'm going to get changed. What is for supper?”
“I was waiting for you to get home to make it. What would you like?”
He looked up at her, his face shifting from a sombre expression to a more neutral one, “You hate to cook late. You really don’t have to do that for me.”
“Trust me, hun, we all have sacrifices to make,” her words earned a chuckle from him.
“Don’t we all,” he stated, before heading into the bedroom.
Stepping out of the bedroom shirtless, but wearing pyjama bottoms, he jumped back startled as the window shattered, spraying glass across the floor and furniture. Suddenly, the living room disappeared, being replaced with a desert floor. He was huddled behind cement barricade, but not out of fear. It was like being stuck in a long tunnel, looking through a fish eyed lens. There was the voice of Sergeant Beckman calling out to him, the call sounding far off and distant. Beckman was a husk of a man. Anyone who wasn't paying attention may mistake him for a mummy if he stood still for any length of time. If you did you were probably right with his skin like worn leather sagging off of his face. He was telling him something that had nothing to do with the current surroundings, “The Beretta in the drawer.” How did he know about the Beretta?
Suddenly, he found himself back in the living room, holding the gun in his hand. His wife was screaming because of the man that had crashed through the window. The skin on his face was rotting off; thick and hot blood pouring out from rotting flesh. He seemed to be agitated, his eye shifting about looking for unseen attackers. Glass was digging into his entire body. Somehow, Robert pulled the trigger, and the man crashed to the ground from a clean head-shot.
He lunged for his cellphone, but was only getting a busy signal. “Hun,” he said gripping her arm gently, trying to calm her down, “I'm going next door to see if their phone is working.” Running out the door, he stopped realising there were five more people stumbling around on his lawn in the same confused state as the previous guy. Behind them was his neighbour who lived across the street from him. He was being chased by other people from their neighbourhood.
He heard that voice again, “Get her to the car!”
“Honey get to the car! Go!” He shouted, turning back to the house. The people began coming closer, and he pulled the trigger. He fired five shots, his hand throbbing from the kick of the gun, gunpowder residue staining his hand, and the air smelled of smoke. Yet he didn't remember firing and nothing was making sense.
Grabbing the car key on his way out, he leaped out the window by passing the door. They got in the car with his wife who was looking like she was about to hyperventilate, “What the hell is going on Robert?”
Suddenly snapping back into his body, he said, "I have no idea. I don’t know what’s happening to me…”
“What do you mean?”
“Police may help,” he struggled to get the words out. His voice was suddenly broken and distorted.
They had been driving for ten minutes seeing the same carnage in an ever repeating cycle. Homes broken into, mutilated corpses, crashed or abandoned cars. It was like the world had just stopped where it was and then died. Only one half of city was determined to kill the other half. He also made out that the slower ones were mindless, even going as far as eating their victims, whilst the other ones were completely crazed; chasing people with axes, knives, and anything else that hadn't been nailed down. The two groups were not only clashing in the streets unconcerned if they lived or died, but fought amongst themselves. They were also unconcerned that the city was on fire killing the lot of them.
The worst sight was down Ellen Hurst Street where dozens of cops had formed a barrier out of cop cars. They had managed to hold off against the first wave of crazies, who seemed more intent on murdering each other than the cops. Then the slower ones came, walkers. They were more interested in the cops than each other. Injuries sustained to any other part of the body other than the head had little effect on them. How did he know that?
It wasn't the walkers that killed them, though. He could see the shadows dancing amongst the cars, causing a fountain of blood that stained their car hoods. Whatever had attacked them disappeared, leaving the survivors to be torn apart by the mob that was heading their way. He saw the cops get back up afterwards, dead, but that didn't stop them from closing in.
Suddenly he was back in reality, his hands on the wheel with no recollection on what had happen since he had left, “So the police,” he asked his wife.
“Police are dead,” she screamed at him.
“My squad, the army base… Damn it Michael! He out there in this.”
“How the hell are we supposed to get to him. You've seen the road!”
“I can’t leave him in this madness,” he said firmly, turning down Roosevelt Street, heading for his house.
When they arrived there, all the lights were switched off. Several bodies were piled up on his front lawn. One was crushed inside his garage door where his car had ran into it. He saw a flash inside causing him to leap out of the car and rush inside.
Michael was alive, holding a Remington 700. Upon seeing Robert, he didn't flinch, “I knew you weren't going leave me.”
“Come on,” Robert said, pointing towards the car, “You know what’s going on?”
“All I know Robert is for the first time I feel normal. Almost like this was supposed to happen…”573Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQg3KJZ8uJ6
