The New Ones

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Mae huddled in the furthest corner of the closet, surrounded by debris, old mouse droppings, and dead insects. There was a hole in the ceiling, and something was dripping on her. It was hitting the back of her head, a little to the left, then running down her neck. Icy, cold drops, like ancient Chinese water torture.

But she couldn’t move.

If she moved, even a little, even just to touch her fingertips to the back of her neck to check if what was dripping on her was dirty water, or something much more disgusting, they would hear her.

The outer room was quiet, but she knew they were there. She could smell them. The newer ones were harder to smell, but the old ones had a definite odor. Blood and feces and other unpleasant things. The new ones had forgotten how.

This was what made the new ones so dangerous. They were still mostly human. The virus eating away at their brains had not yet caused them to become noticeable monsters. They could remember, speak, smile. They were cunning. They could pretend. Only at the last second would you know.

Sometimes the new ones even killed the old ones. Not for their flesh, they preferred it fresh, but because there was less competition that way.

Her foot was going numb. If they didn’t leave soon she wouldn’t be able to feel her legs, and would have a difficult time getting up. She fingered the locket she held in her hand. The small, silver heart was engraved with vines and flowers, and had the initials B.B. on the back. It hung from a long, thin chain. She wondered who was in the picture inside. If there was a picture inside.

Mae had spent the morning working the street, moving from house to house, gathering anything that might be useful. She did this every few weeks, every time she moved to a new neighborhood. It was dangerous to stay in one place for too long. They could track her. Staying in one place made it easier for them to find her.

Stocks were starting to run low. She thought there must still be other people out there, actual people, people like her, people who hadn’t been infected, because there was no way so many had left their houses so empty when all this started. Other people must be doing the same as her; sneaking from house to house, room to room, trying to survive. She hadn’t met any other, but she still had hope.

In one of the houses, Mae had found a room that seemed surprisingly untouched. It appeared to be the room of a teenaged girl, much like the one she had slept in before this all started. Pale purple walls, white drapes, band posters, and soccer awards. A loaded book shelf stood in the corner. Mae surveyed the spines. A lot of the classics – Jane Austen, Charles Dickenson, Emily Bronte. Some Atwood, some Steinbeck. The girl had good taste. Has or had? she’d thought. She’d closed her eyes and chosen one at random, had opened her eyes to see a dog-eared copy of “Lord of the Flies” in her hand. Something to pass the time.

The locket had been hanging on a necklace tree on the dresser, glinting in the morning sunlight coming through the window. It had caught her eye. Her mother had given her one just like it for her ninth birthday, with a picture of the two of them and their dog, Muffin. She had lost it in the early stages, before she lost Muffin, before her mother.

She had carefully untangled the locket from its branch and slipped it into her shirt pocket.

Mae had been starring into the cupboards of the next house, wondering if the dried beans in the back were still edible, when she smelled them. Death and decay. She’d ducked into the hall and silently climbed into the closet, closing the door carefully behind her.

Thumbing the clasp, Mae wondered if she could open it without making any noise. Surely even they would not hear the tiny click the clasp would make. Especially because there were old ones. She decided she could risk it, and flicked her thumb to push it open.

In the picture stood a girl, about 15 years old, with pale skin and long, wavy dark hair. Beside her was a boy, approximately the same age, whose skin and hair matched the girl’s exactly. They both had dark eyes. Definitely a brother, possibly a twin. Behind them, a blonde woman and a dark haired man. Mom and Dad. They all wore matching blue shirts, all smiled at the camera. A family – happy, together, unaware of the incredible chaos they were about to be plunged into. Mae remembered her own locket, her own family picture, and felt like she might vomit.

Mae’s body tensed. Something was out there. There was no noise, but she could feel it. The stink of the old ones had faded, but that didn’t mean they were gone. The wind may have shifted direction. She sat listening. Nothing. Her muscles relaxed.

Her eyes shifted back to the girl in the locket. She wondered if this girl still had her family, if they were still out there. Together - though likely not in matching shirts. Mae tried to imagine it, them wandering from neighborhood to neighborhood, town to town, in a tight group to protect each other. Hiding in basements and attics. Sleeping during the day, like she often did, because she found the new ones were less active at night. She found it difficult to imagine this. Much more likely they had all been separated. Much more likely they had not survived.

She imagined this girl and her mother had lasted longer, because the men had died protecting them. She imagined them dirty, lonely, scared. She imagined this girl’s mother becoming mysteriously infected – likely a scratch during a struggle to escape from old ones. The glint in her eyes as she sized up her daughter, the inhuman quality to her smile, more a threat than a welcome. She imagined this girl wrapping her shaking fingers around the handle of a shovel, smashing her mother across the head, because she knew what was coming. Imagined her covered in blood, her mother’s blood, and sobbing. She imagined how it hurt.

Tears trailed down Mae’s face, landing softly on the girl in the locket.

Suddenly, the doorknob rattled. Someone, something, was trying to get in. Mae’s mind raced. She hadn’t heard anything approaching, hadn’t smelled anything. Panic filled her chest.

The door slammed open.

Standing in the opening was a girl, about 15 years old, with pale skin and long, wavy dark hair. Her dark eyes glinted as she stared at Mae. Mae stared back.

It was the girl from the locket.

She smiled.