Number 50

Forty-nine. Forty-nine tallies etched like splintered veins into the sturdy oak headboard he once shared. Forty-nine less monsters terrorizing the town he called home. Forty-nine more reasons to keep fighting, to keep searching. He would carve out every inch of that headboard if it meant finding his family—his wife, his son.

He remembered her screams, the fear in his son’s eyes. He remembered them fleeing, escaping, separating. A familiar sickening twinge surfaced in his stomach. At least they got out. Carefully blowing the wood shavings off from number forty-nine, he clutched the heart-shaped locket dangling beneath his weathered t-shirt. One more down for you, he thought to himself. He would wait for them here, in the home they once shared, rather than wager on the vast unknown lurking outside his windows. They would come back.

The pillow-top mattress beckoned him, but he knew it was useless. When was the last time he slept? He couldn’t remember. Another long night was ahead of him. The low rumble of moans and groans had just begun. Pacing compulsively throughout the house, he secured the doors and windows. As he rounded the staircase for the third time, a collage of memories hanging on the wall caught his eye. The Johnsons—the name sounded strange, unfamiliar. This was home, and yet, who were these Johnsons? His eyes continued to scan. Live, Laugh, Love—there would be no more of that here, he was certain of it.

Resuming his rounds, his mind wandered to his first tally. He found her alone in a looted convenience store. She was young; she hadn’t even seen her sixteenth birthday yet, he reckoned. Anger boiled inside him; age didn’t matter through all that red. A monster, that’s all she was. Rotting flesh draped off her body, brown wisps of hair still clung to her scalp, sickly pus oozed from what little skin she had left. Who knows how many she killed before their encounter? His family was out there; he couldn’t afford to let her go. He had to do this to protect his family, to quell the rage that built inside him. His hand traced the shelves in search of a weapon, settling on a glass bottle. He edged toward the monster, silently, swiftly, or so he thought. Her head reeled toward him; she had heard him. Red. That’s how it always ended. Seeing red was something he never experienced before, not until after the separation. He chalked it up to a coping mechanism his brain employed after the loss of his family to protect him from the unspeakable things he was forced to do to survive, to protect her, to protect him. Their faces were distorted when he tried to remember what it was like before. Time—how much of it passed since he saw their faces or held them in his arms? There it was again, the twinge in his stomach. A dreadful thought occurred to him; would he even recognize them in the midst of all this chaos? Had he already walked past them, completely oblivious to their presence?

His thoughts were interrupted by a crash. The sound of a window shattering invaded his refuge. A breach. Panic swelled in his chest. He had just lost the upper hand and knew he couldn’t outmaneuver it. No, they were much too fast; this was now a stealth operation. He moved toward his bedroom, behind the door, where he kept his emergency bat, listening carefully. Drawers sliding, doors opening, it was here to loot. Anxiety welled up inside him. Supplies were scarce enough as it was. If he left his post now, he’d almost certainly be forfeiting the element of surprise. It would hear him; he was sure of it. Not only were they faster, but their senses seemed heightened. On the other hand, waiting meant it had more time to loot, more time to decide to leave, his lifeline in hand. Wait. He had to wait.

The chances of surviving a face-off were slim. He’d seen it before; some poor soul snapped. Perhaps they lost a loved one; perhaps the constant fear, hunger, and anger were just too much. Regardless of the why, the outcome was always the same. They charged. They always charged. Why do they charge? As if now they could muster the speed, the strength, the dexterity to kill that thing, that monster. But alas, slower, weaker, clumsier, they charged. Their deaths were brutal. Even after all he’d seen, he still couldn’t get used to the screams, so unnatural, so inhuman. Just as unsettling was the harsh quietness that abruptly followed. So no, he would wait. He would not be that poor soul charging senselessly toward their own horrific demise. His family would never forgive him for a death so reckless.

The stairs creaked. A sigh of relief escaped him. He quickly sucked it back in. There it was. Through the opening where the door meets the wall, he saw it, climbing the stairs with vigilance. Somehow, it looked worse than the others, a walking corpse. For a moment, he wondered what she—it—had looked like in its past life, who she was. Was she a mom? Did she, too, have a family? Were they waiting for her as he was for his? It turned toward him. His repulsion resurfaced. Not yet, he pleaded with himself, hands clenched tightly into fists. He felt the red begin to wash over him. Not yet. Just a little longer. Reaching for the bat, he waited out its cautious steps into the room. Now. Emerging from behind the door, he swung the bat. With a welcome crack, its body crumpled in front of him.

Climbing on top of it, he wrapped his hands around its throat. Red—he felt a tug and snap around his neck. His locket! Coming back into himself, he awoke to see it gripped tightly within the monster’s boney, rotting hand. As its hand fell to the ground, the locket revealed itself. It was her, the woman in the locket. Her hair intertwined his fingers, her youthful, vibrant skin glared back at him, fear and pleading seized her gaze. He looked up, catching his reflection through a thin film of dust in the window. A monster. The draping flesh, the wisps of hair, the oozing pus, everything that made him see red, stared back at him. His hands still gripped tightly around the woman in the locket’s neck, her pulse slowly fading. Behind his reflection was the sturdy oak headboard. He broke eye contact with the monster.

Tallies.

Forty-nine? No, tonight would make fifty.