Into the Dark

Knocking wakes them from their sleep. The sound is faint, but steady.

“Maybe it’s the wind...or a tree branch?” the boy says nervously.

As they lay still to listen, they hear chatter in the distance. “Do you hear that?” the man whispers.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock...
They can’t see anything through the darkness. Whatever was making the noise must have been on the other side of the old, abandoned house. Maybe past it, near the black charred trees or up the winding dirt road to the east.

“Do you think it’s them?” the boy asks. The man doesn’t answer, still trying to understand the sound.

“I think that’s near the back door,” the boy says.

“Do they know we’re here...but how?” the man replies in a low voice. A mix of rain and ash and snow fall through large broken holes in the roof of the house. The air smells of damp earth and burnt metal. “Let’s go, Dad, I want to go,” the boy says urgently.

The knocking suddenly stops. He and the boy sit huddled together. Outside through the shattered windows, dust and darkness everywhere. The knocking begins again, but quicker and harder than before.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK...

He looks at the boy, “We need to go.”

They get up, move to the empty doorway, and look around, still nothing to see in any direction. He grips the boy’s hand tightly as they crouch low, stumbling out of the house and through a barren field of dead trees, then into the dense, dark woods. The boy shivering as the man carries him.

“Don’t see us,” the man says under his breath.
As they stumble farther into the woods, voices seem to follow. They hear footsteps faintly behind, but getting closer.

“They’re following us,” the man says.
They navigate around a shallow, hollow ditch. Beside it lay a freshly slain creature, its innards still raw and twisted, with blood slowly hardening into dark, sticky pools. Its throat ripped open, and thin white muscles hung loose.

“A deer?” the boy asks.
The man says nothing, he just stares at it, struck by how human it looks. They walk longer into the night looking for anywhere safe to stay.

“Do you think we lost them?” the boy asks.
It’s so dark they have to almost guess where to go with each step. The pale light of the moon gazing down on them with quiet pity. Nothing now, but the sound of falling leaves and gray snow.

They press onward until the man finds a place underneath a truck-size stone that looks like it doesn’t belong up on a steep hill. Both exhausted and hungry, the man lays the boy down.

It’s a risk to stop, but the boy needs rest and no footsteps behind them for hours. He looks for anything to help buffer the ground’s cold floor. A few small branches and some scattered leaves will have to do for tonight. The boy so weak he comes in and out of consciousness.
He lies down beside the boy and tries to rest. His thoughts drift to her—to their home, the music they played together at night. Slowly, sleep pulls him under, and his mind slips into a dream.

He dreams of life before the world changed—of the hidden stream near the house, where he would take the boy. The water was clear. Their bare feet sinking into the soft earth as reeds brushed against their skin and they watched minnows dart through the shallow, sunlit water. There they would be, together.

A sharp crack of a branch jolts the man awake. That's when he sees them—footprints in the ash and snow near the stone. He stares at them silently for a few seconds. The prints fresh, whoever left them, must still be close by.

“We need to go now,” the man says into the boy’s ear.
He lifts the boy gently from the ground, cradling him tightly across his chest with both arms. He moves as silently and quickly as his exhausted body will allow. His heartbeat pounds in his ears; he can feel his blood beneath his skin. The boy’s eyes open. Their fates linked as they again disappear into the woods.

“I don’t see anything,” the man says. “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” the boy says.
The man gently places the boy on his feet. Night slowly turns to morning, but the sun’s dull glow barely pierces a sky smothered by ash and snow, keeping the world trapped in a haze.
They hear voices nearby.

They find a place to hide in nearby brush and they lay on their sides, the man clutching the boy tight in front of him. The smell of decaying leaves and rotting wood clings to them.

“I wonder if they’re all here,” the man’s words barely a whisper. The boy pauses, staring into the thick undergrowth.

“I see something,” the boy pointing over by a patch of large dead oaks, keeping his hand as close to his chest as possible.
Both now crouching low. The man can hear a faint sound. And then—movement. The noise comes closer.

“Stay behind me,” the man says, his voice steady. A sudden rustle of leaves, and then silence again.

“They’re playing with us,” the man says outlaid, but to himself.

“I’m scared,” the boy responds.
The man motions for the boy to move back, further into the depths of the brush. His eyes scan the undergrowth again, searching for any sign of movement in the darkness. Nothing.

“Where’d they go?” the boy asks.
The man shakes his head slowly. “They’re close. Stay low.”

Suddenly, a sharp thump echoes through the forest, like a massive rock striking a tree—but a deliberate sound. The man jumps forward, placing himself between the boy and the direction of the sound.

From the forest comes a coarse, guttural laugh.
“They’re watching us somehow,” the man says, tense.
“Let’s run, we need to run,” the boy says through quiet tears.

The man doesn’t answer, weighing his options. He scans the area once more—there had to be another way out, somewhere they could hide.

Another laugh, this time from the opposite side. The three Lurkers are moving, circling. “We don’t run,” he whispered. “Not yet, they want us to run.”

The man’s eyes dart around, his mind panicking. He crouches lower, leaning into the boy. “We’ll move slow, keep to the thickest parts,” he said. “No sudden movements.”

The boy nods.

They shift carefully, moving sideways through the trees, making as little noise as possible. The ground is uneven, littered with twigs and leaves, every move a risk. The man keeps his eyes ahead, looking for anything—an opening, a low ridge, somewhere to disappear.

Another branch snaps, closer now; the Lurkers tighten their circle. The boy grips the man’s sleeve as tight as he can.

And then—the man sees it. A group of large rocks, not too far ahead, covered with thick brush. He tugs the boy forward, slow, but deliberate.

“There,” the man whispers. “We go now. Keep down.”

They move together, the noise from the Lurkers fading slightly behind them. The brush closes in around them as they reach the rocks. The man helps the boy move down beside him, both of them flat on the frozen dirt.

The sound of footsteps pass their hiding spot. The man can see one of the Lurkers now, tall, dirty, gaunt, a stick in hand, tapping the ground as if testing it for something. A few minutes pass and all three Lurkers seem confused, wandering around in various directions, going out a small distance, then back in—over and over. For now, the boy and the man seem hidden.

The man sets his head against a rock.

Lurkers are in the final stage of the infected before they become complete Zombies. They are no longer human, but not yet the mindless, decaying corpses that are the undead. No one knows why some people turn and others do not, only uncertain rumors about how some blood types may be more immune than others.

The man wakes to a loud noise coming in his direction. He gets up and sees one of the Lurkers through the trees. Their eyes meet.

“Go. Run.” he says to the boy.

The boy hesitates, his eyes wide with fear, but the man shakes his head.

“Now! Go!” he says again. The boys still doesn’t move.

“No, I’m staying with you!” the boy responds.

The man stands as the Lurkers draw closer, then suddenly one of them is right in front of him. Its body a patchwork of exposed muscle and decaying skin. Misshapen bones, sunken eyes, and pupils that dart and twitch rapidly. Its mouth full of jagged, sharp, yellowed teeth. A strong, foul stench clings to it. The man throws himself at it, trying to tackle it to the ground.

“Run!” he yells again over his shoulder.

The boy doesn’t hesitate this time, adrenaline on full, and runs off in the opposite direction as fast as he can go. He stops not far off and looks back.

The man knocks another lurker down, but a third one comes from behind and strikes, its blades flashing and thrusting down on him. He feels a sharp deep pain in his side, but keeps fighting. The man exhausted, but determined to protect himself and the boy. He gives everything he has, but there are too many to handle at once. Another blow lands and another and another and his strength finally gives out. Blood spills with each blow, turning the snow red. The man falls to the ground.

He muddles under his breath, “God, please protect my boy.” His eyes close and everything goes dark.

The boy sees it all happen and turns and runs again, this time not looking back. His feet pound the rough terrain as he staggers through the brush and trees, his lungs burn in the freezing air. The sounds behind him—shouts, laughs, breaking branches—fade as he pushes forward.

After what feels like hours, he slows, and looks over his shoulder. There’s nothing. He stops and sits down. He sobs deep sobs.

“I’ll carry you with me, Dad. Just like I carry mom.”

The boy wants to cry out, to call out for his dad, but there is no time to mourn for long. He’s just a boy, but old enough to feel the weight of it all, and things like this age you long before your time. He feels it deep in his body; like he’s grown an extra heart just to hold grief.

The boy looks back again, wipes the tears from his face, takes a breath, and pauses for a moment before turning and running deeper into the forest. He needs to find a place to hide and sleep. Now, there is no one. For the first time, he’s on his own.