Bikes

Bikes

   I rode down the street, right in the center lane. It felt kind of weird, but mostly it was just freeing. Before it was always the bike lanes or the sidewalks, sometimes if I was lucky there wouldn't be either, so I got to ride in the farthest right lane. I rode through the streetlight, glowing red.

   “The power must not have gone out here yet,” I thought, continuing through the town.

I had never seen anyone else on a bike once it happened, and I found it really weird. Most people would just walk when their car ran out of gas, trying to find another. And what happens when all the cars are out of gas? What would they do? That's why the bike was the best solution.

   I was lucky enough to grow up in a pretty conservative home, so I could just grab a gun and go. I wish Mom and Dad could have gone with me, but they were some of the first to turn. We only had two bikes anyway. I was never a big zombie apocalypse fanatic, but from what I understand in a lot of those stories the protagonist would have to kill their parents before any other zombies. I don't know about anybody else, mostly because I haven't really gotten to ask anybody else, but I couldn't do it. Scratch that; I didn't do it. I woke up before them that morning, saw that they had turned, grabbed the gun, grabbed the bike and left. I'm sure someone else has killed them by now. That thought makes me feel kind of nice.

   I switched into 1:1 gear as drove up the on ramp and back to 2:3 as the road sloped down. I saw a few as I crested the slope. They were over in the carpool lane, slowly picking at a carcass that looked like it had been left out in the sun for a few days. I sped up, but I didn't take my gun out. Live and let the undead live again. They looked at me as I passed by and I heard them get up. I looked behind me, it wasn't like I was going to run into anybody. Yep, they were after me. I sped up a little more, they were going pretty fast. I chuckled a bit. Anybody who would be walking in this situation would probably be dead by now. The thing about zombies is that, though they're kind of slow, they don't tire very easily. I wish I could know why. It spread too quickly for anybody to do any real research, everybody just tried to not die. I suppose it's not too much of a shame though. What does it really matter if somehow their metabolic process requires much less input or their muscles don't require as much energy or something? All that matters is that it was infectious enough to get the whole world.

   They kept moving behind me, not quite running but certainly not walking. “Nordahl Rd. ¾ miles” was displayed in white letters on a big green sign. I guess it was just a highway sign. You forget those kinds of things when you don't drive or talk to someone who drives for a really long time. “Nordahl,” I thought. “There's a Costco off of that exit.” I've really come to like Costcos ever since the apocalypse started. A gallon jar of raisins might seem stupid in everyday life, but nowadays it's pretty useful. I imagine some people would use them as strongholds against the zombies and I guess that would work pretty well. If I ever see someone in a Costco, I'll ask them. The problem is not Costco, though. It's the idea of a stronghold. It's like you have a home, a home you have to defend. When you just travel, when you're a nomad, you don't get attached. You don't have to defend, you just leave when the zombies outnumber you. With a stronghold there is a sense of pride, a feeling of justice to defend what's yours and take the world back. The problem is that there's no way to do that. Sure, there are small victories, each zombie killed is one to most people. But you can't take the world back. The only ones who are going to take anything are the zombies, and they've already taken the world. They're just waiting to claim what little is left, which is our lives. And they're going to get it. To think otherwise is foolish. We're not the heroes anymore. We never were. We were just here and soon we won't be.

   I got over into the farthest right lane. ¼ miles now. I couldn't hear them behind me anymore, so I looked over my shoulder. I couldn't see them either. I had just crested a hill though, so they were probably at the bottom. I never saw them again, though. That's another thing people never say about zombies; they each look different. It makes sense, really. They were people before, and every person looks different. I think it's a vilification of sorts. Actually, no. I think it's the only way that people can kill them. It's the same reason that people are able to kill deer but not humans. To us, all the deer look exactly the same. But I think to a deer each deer looks different, with differences only they can recognize. I think people see the difference in each zombie, but they try to ignore it. Can't say I blame them.

   I rode up the off-ramp and turned left. Nordahl Road. The Costco was right up the road after it curved a little bit. I road through the gas station there, still admiring the incredibly low prices. Even though it had no use to me or anyone, really, it was still a rad deal. I rode my bike through the door and made an immediate left to the jarred stuff. I braked and began looking for my gallon jar of raisins. Oddly enough, they were gone. As I looked around, I noticed that the entire store had been fairly picked over which was really uncommon for a Costco. I rode over to the detergents, leaned my bike up against a box and began climbing. General fooling around is really the only way I keep myself entertained anymore. It's what's probably going to kill me in the end, not the zombies. I got up to the top and scanned the store from my bird's eye view. I saw a really tall pile of detergent boxes over by the deli. “Hey, those shouldn't be there. Heh heh, kind of looks like a fort.” I kept looking at it and I noticed there was a large space in the front, sort of an opening. I noticed the way the boxes were stacked. Not haphazardly, but carefully, systematically. Looking through the opening, I saw what looked like rations packed away in the back. "My god, that is a fort!" I clumsily half-climbed, half-tumbled down the detergent boxes and jumped onto my bike. I took a right out of the detergent aisle and another right into the frozen. I rode towards the deli at a desperate pace, but I braked when I saw a boarded up door in the freezer aisle. There was blood splattered all around it and the wood was sagging. I grabbed the wood and pulled it back, the nails coming out easily. The door opened and five dead zombies fell out onto the floor. They were beaten and bloodied, each with a bullet wound in their brain. I kept staring at them, noticing how they were all different, each little curvature of the face and the way their hair settled. There was a boy zombie there, about 12 years old. His arm had been torn off in the fight. I put my hand to his eyes and closed them shut. No one deserves to be buried that way, not even in an apocalypse. I wiped the tears from my eyes and got back on my bike.

   Once I saw the fort, I got off my bike and set it aside the meats, which were foul and rotten at this point. “Not the best place to guard against zombies.” I looked inside the opening between all the detergent boxes, admiring how much time obviously went into making it. Whoever built it took care to build it right under a light fixture, so they would have light inside. It lit up everything in the room except the corners, which weren't quite bright enough to see into with any clarity, but I could make out a few shapes in the darkness. There was a pile of books in one corner and a bed in another. In the upper right corner, there was something moving, though I couldn't tell what it was. I got closer. They were humans, or at least something shaped like humans. “Hello?” I called out, getting closer to the corner. “Were you just attacked? I found some, uh...” I wasn't sure what to call them. The first thing that came to my mind was zombies, but I wasn't really sure if that was accurate. Maybe they're just people, people who've got a terrible disease. We don't call people with cancer “Cancers”. No, we call them people. Poor, suffering people.

   My silence was met with shuffling. The shapes got up; there were four of them. I stepped back as they stepped in turn into the light. Four zombies...No, people. Four people, very freshly turned. They had guns lazily strewn across their backs, though they didn't reach for them. “Oh god...Why did you make a fort? Why did you think you could defend it? You can't! Now look what's happened! You're all too prideful.” I beat my fists against the chest of the tallest one, who was in front. He didn't respond. “WHY DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN? WHY COULDN'T YOU JUST GIVE UP? THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS HOME ANYMORE, IT'S GONE! IT'S ALL GONE! ALL BECAUSE YOU HAD TO BE PRIDEFUL IDIOTS!” He bit my hand. I didn't care, I decked him across the face. The others shambled towards me. They looked confused, unable to understand what drove them toward me. I pulled out my gun.

“I'm so sorry.”

   I put their bodies in the corner, huddled together, making sure to close their eyes. If they fought together, I'm sure they would want to be buried together. I kept my bike leaning up against the meats and walked out of the fort. I found a box of water bottles on the back wall. I picked up one and headed over to the bath soaps. I put some water on where he bit me, then some soap, then more water. I rubbed the soap in it. It hurt more than anything else I've ever experienced, but it gave me some comfort. I went to where they kept the bikes. Not a single one was taken. I guess people will never let go of their pride. I took a sturdy 28 speed Diamondback. It was blue, the same shade as that 12-year-old's eyes. I liked that. I strapped a giant jar of pretzels to my back and rode off.

   I'm writing this because I'm not sure whether that soap worked or not. I'll probably put this in a Costco somewhere if I can get there before I turn, if I even do. So if you read this, I would like to A, thank you for taking the time to do so and B, tell you that the bikes are located towards the back left wall, they always are.

   And don't feel sorry for me. I'll still be a person, no matter what happens. And I like that.