LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series by Jeremy Laszlo Page B
Authors: Jeremy Laszlo
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nothing left to keep me attached to the outside world, if there is one to even be attached to anymore. I am drifting. I feel as though the whole world has become a great, silent ocean and only a few islands remain. But I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Those islands are dangerous, hostile places, and I wonder what I’m going to do when I find the girls.
I don’t even bother climbing the stairs. I know I’ll find a collapsed roof and a bunch of nothing. This house has to be bitter and angry, a place of bad energy. It feels like a half aborted dream, left in the limbo of hell. Someone had desperately wanted this house, wanted to start a life here, and then the end came. The book wrapped up and the cover was closed. I step out the back door onto the half-finished porch. There’s nothing but bare beams that have warped in the open weather. I carefully navigate them until I move down the steps and stare with strange fascination at something I have not seen in a very long time.
Even when the world was still a sane, ‘civilized’ place, I hadn’t seen one of these. I approach it with a healthy amount of skepticism as my thumping head reminds me how desperate I am to see what lingers before me. I walk in a shuffle, my eyes squint against the glaring light of day. With each step, I think about when I saw this last. It was ages ago, when I would stay the night at my grandparents’ house as a child. I remember playing with my brother Jack outside, shooting bad guys with imaginary guns, laughing as their dogs would chase us, looking at us eagerly, hoping for some attention. I remember when we wore ourselves out, but didn’t want to go inside, we used to come to this relic of a bygone era. Now, as I look at it, I wonder if I’m hallucinating, or if it’s real.
My eyes dart to the third place to the east, maybe half a mile away, nothing more than a dot of color and a few dead trees to make it stand out. Am I wasting time? Should I continue onto the house? Questions swirl in my mind, plaguing me with doubt, until my fingers touch the rusty old pump’s handle. I hear myself gasp, truly not suspecting it to really be here. I don’t even hesitate. I grab the pump and my childhood memories take over. I pull up the slow, lethargic lever and push down, listening to the pump, hearing it slowly gurgle and begin to suck. I do it again, pulling up and pushing down. There’s a drip from the faucet and I smile through cracked lips. It’s working. I grab the lever and pull up one more time, my hand shaking with excitement. As I push down, the pump shoots a jet of white, unblemished water from the faucet and it splatters against the parched earth. At the end of it, I realize that the water isn’t brownish yellow. It’s not contaminated. My smile broadens as I drop to my knees and stick my head under the faucet. Pushing up with my right arm, I pull down once more.
It’s so cold that I instantly feel as if someone has thrown me into an arctic lake. I feel my body shaking and realize that it’s because I’m laughing hysterically. I can’t stop as I pull back and run my hands through my greasy, forgotten hair. I laugh and laugh and laugh as I bend over again and pull the lever up and down, dumping what feels like buckets of water on my face. I drink as much as I can stand, knowing that drinking so much is probably the dumbest thing I could do right now, but I don’t care. I’m saved for a little while longer. It’s moments like these that tease me, that make me want to thank God, even if the world has fallen to shit.
I take another drink before feeling my wound. I had abandoned my bandage long ago and as I probe it, I discover that it’s actually doing very well. It’s completely scabbed over and doesn’t hurt at all. I smile and pull the crank one more time. Yanking off my shirt, I rinse my arms and chest and even my back as best as I am able. Still smiling, I ring out my shirt and whip it in the air a
I don’t even bother climbing the stairs. I know I’ll find a collapsed roof and a bunch of nothing. This house has to be bitter and angry, a place of bad energy. It feels like a half aborted dream, left in the limbo of hell. Someone had desperately wanted this house, wanted to start a life here, and then the end came. The book wrapped up and the cover was closed. I step out the back door onto the half-finished porch. There’s nothing but bare beams that have warped in the open weather. I carefully navigate them until I move down the steps and stare with strange fascination at something I have not seen in a very long time.
Even when the world was still a sane, ‘civilized’ place, I hadn’t seen one of these. I approach it with a healthy amount of skepticism as my thumping head reminds me how desperate I am to see what lingers before me. I walk in a shuffle, my eyes squint against the glaring light of day. With each step, I think about when I saw this last. It was ages ago, when I would stay the night at my grandparents’ house as a child. I remember playing with my brother Jack outside, shooting bad guys with imaginary guns, laughing as their dogs would chase us, looking at us eagerly, hoping for some attention. I remember when we wore ourselves out, but didn’t want to go inside, we used to come to this relic of a bygone era. Now, as I look at it, I wonder if I’m hallucinating, or if it’s real.
My eyes dart to the third place to the east, maybe half a mile away, nothing more than a dot of color and a few dead trees to make it stand out. Am I wasting time? Should I continue onto the house? Questions swirl in my mind, plaguing me with doubt, until my fingers touch the rusty old pump’s handle. I hear myself gasp, truly not suspecting it to really be here. I don’t even hesitate. I grab the pump and my childhood memories take over. I pull up the slow, lethargic lever and push down, listening to the pump, hearing it slowly gurgle and begin to suck. I do it again, pulling up and pushing down. There’s a drip from the faucet and I smile through cracked lips. It’s working. I grab the lever and pull up one more time, my hand shaking with excitement. As I push down, the pump shoots a jet of white, unblemished water from the faucet and it splatters against the parched earth. At the end of it, I realize that the water isn’t brownish yellow. It’s not contaminated. My smile broadens as I drop to my knees and stick my head under the faucet. Pushing up with my right arm, I pull down once more.
It’s so cold that I instantly feel as if someone has thrown me into an arctic lake. I feel my body shaking and realize that it’s because I’m laughing hysterically. I can’t stop as I pull back and run my hands through my greasy, forgotten hair. I laugh and laugh and laugh as I bend over again and pull the lever up and down, dumping what feels like buckets of water on my face. I drink as much as I can stand, knowing that drinking so much is probably the dumbest thing I could do right now, but I don’t care. I’m saved for a little while longer. It’s moments like these that tease me, that make me want to thank God, even if the world has fallen to shit.
I take another drink before feeling my wound. I had abandoned my bandage long ago and as I probe it, I discover that it’s actually doing very well. It’s completely scabbed over and doesn’t hurt at all. I smile and pull the crank one more time. Yanking off my shirt, I rinse my arms and chest and even my back as best as I am able. Still smiling, I ring out my shirt and whip it in the air a
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