LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series by Jeremy Laszlo Page A
Authors: Jeremy Laszlo
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Pots, pans, junk. There’s nothing here that gives me much hope. I tear open the linen closet and see a bunch of musty, moth-eaten sheets and blankets from back when people had more than they could ever dream of needing. At the bottom, I find a thick, old wool blanket. It smells terrible, like stale cigarettes and musty basements all rolled into one.
I find a dead dog in the dining room where it must have been abandoned and starved before dying next to its food bowl. I hope that it suffocated in the smoke of the fire, rather than starved to death. If its owners picked up and fled the house without it, maybe asphyxiation is more merciful a death than starvation. I know I would have taken it. I’m too afraid to open the refrigerator. The last one I opened poured out a sea of molten rot the color of gray that no person ever wants to see. I dry heaved for an hour after that little incident. I decide to leave it be.
The cupboards are all open and empty. Someone had ransacked the place not long ago. There’s a bag of sugar spilled across the floor. It’s melted into a glassy pool that reflects the sunlight into my eyes. I pull open the utensil drawer and find a bottle opener that also has a can opener on the other side. It’s the kind of old metal opener that you find in thrift stores. People tossed these out ages ago in favor of electric can openers. I smile at the sight of it and hold onto it just in case. It was even better than the one I had in the Jeep. I pocket it and walk through the rest of the house.
Someone has pissed on the rug in the den and then taken a knife to the furniture, ripping out all the stuffing, as if they had been hiding their precious treasure in their cushions. The whole place stinks of urine and shit, so I abandon it as quickly as I discovered it. I poke around the house until I find the cupboard in their foyer where they kept their tools. Someone smart looted most of it. The only thing I find are a few feet of chain and then a reasonable bundle of rope. It’s cheap stuff, which is probably why they hid it away here. I sling it across my chest and decide that I’ve haunted this old crypt long enough and head for the back door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door and step back out into the unwelcoming sunlight that’s waiting for me.
I make my way toward the second house not far away, maybe a quarter of a mile. Immediately, I know that I will find no better luck there. I notice the stickers on the windows. They are—or were—brand new. The exterior isn’t painted and like the other house, it’s missing most of its roof. It has collapsed inward and as I look up at the shingle-less roof, I notice that it looks as if rain damage caused this roof’s collapse. When I try the door it opens for me immediately, and I step over the threshold and smell the stale, familiar scent of a remodel. There’s drywall exposed, and even insulation in some parts. The uncarpeted floor has great discolored and wavy pools where water has collected since the Panic. I find the one complete room in the house, the dining room, and look at the stacks of furniture that had been crammed into the room, waiting for the long departed owners to decorate their new home. I look with sadness at the dusty sheets that have been stained by dripping water and dust. I remember when Tiffany and I moved into our first home. Memories surge over me and I break down to cry again, dropping under the pressure of it all and letting my knees hit the floor.
No, I have to keep it together. I wipe the tears from my eyes, refusing to go down that path. Picking myself up, I use the back of my hand to exorcise the demons from my mind and look at a small, faded doll sitting on one of the exposed, rotting dining room chairs. It’s been so long since I saw Detroit. I can’t remember how many days I’ve watched come and go with my nocturnal habits. Where are the girls now? Are they still in Florida? God, I wish I had my radio still. There is
I find a dead dog in the dining room where it must have been abandoned and starved before dying next to its food bowl. I hope that it suffocated in the smoke of the fire, rather than starved to death. If its owners picked up and fled the house without it, maybe asphyxiation is more merciful a death than starvation. I know I would have taken it. I’m too afraid to open the refrigerator. The last one I opened poured out a sea of molten rot the color of gray that no person ever wants to see. I dry heaved for an hour after that little incident. I decide to leave it be.
The cupboards are all open and empty. Someone had ransacked the place not long ago. There’s a bag of sugar spilled across the floor. It’s melted into a glassy pool that reflects the sunlight into my eyes. I pull open the utensil drawer and find a bottle opener that also has a can opener on the other side. It’s the kind of old metal opener that you find in thrift stores. People tossed these out ages ago in favor of electric can openers. I smile at the sight of it and hold onto it just in case. It was even better than the one I had in the Jeep. I pocket it and walk through the rest of the house.
Someone has pissed on the rug in the den and then taken a knife to the furniture, ripping out all the stuffing, as if they had been hiding their precious treasure in their cushions. The whole place stinks of urine and shit, so I abandon it as quickly as I discovered it. I poke around the house until I find the cupboard in their foyer where they kept their tools. Someone smart looted most of it. The only thing I find are a few feet of chain and then a reasonable bundle of rope. It’s cheap stuff, which is probably why they hid it away here. I sling it across my chest and decide that I’ve haunted this old crypt long enough and head for the back door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door and step back out into the unwelcoming sunlight that’s waiting for me.
I make my way toward the second house not far away, maybe a quarter of a mile. Immediately, I know that I will find no better luck there. I notice the stickers on the windows. They are—or were—brand new. The exterior isn’t painted and like the other house, it’s missing most of its roof. It has collapsed inward and as I look up at the shingle-less roof, I notice that it looks as if rain damage caused this roof’s collapse. When I try the door it opens for me immediately, and I step over the threshold and smell the stale, familiar scent of a remodel. There’s drywall exposed, and even insulation in some parts. The uncarpeted floor has great discolored and wavy pools where water has collected since the Panic. I find the one complete room in the house, the dining room, and look at the stacks of furniture that had been crammed into the room, waiting for the long departed owners to decorate their new home. I look with sadness at the dusty sheets that have been stained by dripping water and dust. I remember when Tiffany and I moved into our first home. Memories surge over me and I break down to cry again, dropping under the pressure of it all and letting my knees hit the floor.
No, I have to keep it together. I wipe the tears from my eyes, refusing to go down that path. Picking myself up, I use the back of my hand to exorcise the demons from my mind and look at a small, faded doll sitting on one of the exposed, rotting dining room chairs. It’s been so long since I saw Detroit. I can’t remember how many days I’ve watched come and go with my nocturnal habits. Where are the girls now? Are they still in Florida? God, I wish I had my radio still. There is
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