Apocalypse Anxiety

They had never considered themself to be terribly brave, constant cases of the jitters often plagued any emotional feat they faced. Ashen faces, fragile bones and worn smiles truly wearing even the strongest resolves thin.

How are they fairing so well then- is something you may ask? Well, they’re not.

While not the heroic protagonist many envision, they had something worth more important- uncanny luck. Every duck, every dive, never methodical in nature despite how calculated they may appear. With twisting ankles and buckling knees, every pothole of the misshapen ground with its brown-dead grass acts as yet another great escape manoeuvre.

The incessant growling behind them only adding to the grave nature of the predicament they find themselves in.

The sanctuary (a small encampment with a few other survivors) they had found only a week prior now a breeding ground for the flesh dripping creatures, lucky for them, the undead are somehow more uncoordinated than our unfortunate hero- comically stumbling over each other mere metres from a potential meal.

They thank their lucky stars once again.

Finding a safe haven in the form of a run-down looking petrol station and with a shaky sigh, they barricade the doors before slumping behind the counter, taking a moment to gulp some heaving breaths.

How did it all come to this? They think back to even just three weeks ago, when the first few cases of the “virus” were being reported, no one really panicked and the only real threat pertained to the empty shelves of toilet paper in most supermarkets- say what you will about the human race, but those people prioritise wiping their asses above all else.

Not really having many friends or family ties was a plus, when the outbreak worsened, they didn’t need to worry about anyone but numero uno, and as sad and pathetic as that may be, they chose not to dwell on it, only packing the essentials into their shitty backpack that they’d had since the start of high school.

They did take the time to say goodbye to their lovely landlord; who was rich beyond compare and actively boarding a helicopter on the top floor of the apartment complex as they said farewell. “Stay safe kid, you sure you don’t want to board with me?” he asked, a slight confusion budded between his brows, they simply shrugged, “I’ll be okay, I would say I might struggle money-wise, but there won’t be much monetary exchange now I ‘spose.”

Their landlord had only nodded, after an airy chuckle, “Okay well, I don’t even have any cash on me right now kid- but, uh, here, take this.” He handed them a worn looking jewellery box and they had given him a quizzical grimace, “Okay, I have to go, stay safe.”

It was empty, the box, and they’re not certain if their landlord knew, and well, there was no way to confirm now anyways. Now they use it to carry their hearing aid when they take it out every now and then, a safe carry box of sorts- so it had its use in the end.

There’s a rattling at the door that snaps them out of the state of reflection and they feel panic leeching through their stomach lining, sending a wave of nausea bubbling up their throat. Although after 20 seconds (the usual attention span of a zombie) the rattling hasn’t stopped, turning into more of a half knock half frantic handle turning.

With trembling knees, they crawl out slightly, poking their head around the counter to see a very human-looking zombie who notices them, and waves frantically, gesturing very humanly (for a zombie) to open the door.

It has been at least a full week since they’ve seen an actual human, so forgive them for being quite the ditz and it not clicking for several moments.

“Shit, that’s a person.”

With a fumbling grasp, they rid the door of its block and the person stumbles in with panting breaths and wide eyes, spluttering out a single word.

“Hi.”

The first words they will speak to another human after so long, stick lodged in their throat; social anxiety is not really a good excuse anymore to being socially inept, because well, no one gives a shit about anxiety during the apocalypse (The zombies never really accounted for panic attacks when they lunged for a throat.). Maybe that’s for the best though.

They feel very awkward, taking a moment to survey the person in front of them, quite messy black hair and flushed red cheeks, a complete state of dishevelment (not that they’re in any state to judge), but there is one thing that catches their eye, a somewhat rusted locket in the shape of a heart, resting above their heaving chest.

“Nice necklace.”