Blink of an Eye
By Paleface
I was playing an online game when it happened. The other players just stopped, and a lot of incoherent screaming came through the voice chat. At first I thought it was some kind of prank, but when I removed my noise cancellation headphones it was clear that it was much worse than that: the same screaming was coming from outside.
Someone started scratching at my front door. I tiptoed toward it and checked through the peephole: it was a woman with a face so wildly contorted that it took me a few seconds to recognize her as the neighbor from down the hall. The door was safely closed and it didn’t look like she would have the strength to do anything but scratch it, so I checked the window.
The view out from the 11th floor was of total chaos. People ran around in random patterns, twitching, screaming. Almost out of my sight beyond the nearest street corner, two men were fighting as if drunk. An old car had broken through a wall on one of the buildings across the street, and I could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel. They all had the same contorted expression, though, the same mix of surprise and rage stuck on their faces like masks. Everyone had gone mad.
I went over my contact list and didn’t get a single answer. Live broadcasts on the television were either devoid of people or showed similar scenes to what I could see from my window. The scratching at my door had stopped, but I wasn’t about to open it just to be overrun by a horde of crazies; I had watched too many zombie movies for that, so I decided that discretion can really be the best part of valor and waited.
At night the pandemonium died down a little and the crazies moved a little less randomly. Only blood remained where the fight had happened earlier, but the driver was still just as dead across the street. A little after midnight I saw the first sign that their brains hadn’t just suddenly rotted: two adults herded, with some difficulty, a group of children who also seemed to have been afflicted. They continued down the street until they were out of sight.
With my interest finally piqued beyond what prudence could contain, I decided it was time to go have a look. Just in case the movies had been right all along I wore a few extra layers of clothing underneath my jeans and leather jacket to provide some padding, gloves, my old barbecue knife and, lacking a bat or golf club, the handle of the only broom I had in my apartment before going for the door. Wishing I had not gotten rid of my motorcycle helmet when I had sold the bike a few years earlier I decided to go with an old baseball cap.
Not the best attire for a hot summer night, let me tell you.
Making sure no one lurked just outside my door using the peephole I opened it as silently as I could. The hall was empty, but a few doors were ajar and muffled banging came from behind one of the still closed ones. The elevator still looked operational, and, thinking that the crazies would more easily use the stairs than the lift, I called it.
I expected it to arrive full of enraged zombies, but it was empty. When it reached the ground floor I pressed myself against the walls as the doors opened and checked the corridor; it was also empty. It looked like they all had somewhere to be. I left the building with no less caution, seeing a few of them shambling downhill half a block away, moving away from me. I followed.
They moved precariously but with certain destination, making the same corners and keeping fairly close to each other. None noticed me, but I wasn’t at my calmest. A few blocks later they were joined by another group, and then another. I kept my distance, constantly checking behind me for more of them, but none followed.
They converged on a small park with a football court, where a crowd of crazies had already gathered. I quickly realized that something was happening in the middle of a mass of people—there was a lot of movement and screaming going on—but I couldn’t see anything past the first few layers. The only building where I could get a line of sight into that human anthill was across the park, so I started to make my way around, keeping behind cars or any other obstacles as much as I could. I was just a few meters away from the door when another one of the crazies walked out of the alleyway I had just crossed and started braying.
I bolted for the door, praying that it would be unlocked. It was. He ran after me, still shouting like a damned donkey, but I managed to slam the door on his face. A few seconds later several of his friends had joined him in scratching and slamming their fists and heads at the door; finding no way to lock it I used the broom handle to jam it in place, hoping it would hold at least for a little while as I sped up the stairs.
It held for more than long enough—not more than a minute after I ran off they just lost interest, milled about a little, then turned to join the rest of the crowd. I saw this from the balcony of a third-floor apartment which by luck, or by their desire to all join the others, had been empty. Now I could see the middle of the football court, where a clearing had formed within the mob.
A few were eating, but what, I could not tell. They would shove each other and cajole over a piece of food, then tear into it ravenously. Others were building a sort of sculpture, or maybe an altar, and it looked like it was made of body parts. A group to the side formed a small pen, where a few children were held.
“Damn.”
There was nothing I could do, though. Even if I could save them, the children—mad as the rest—would probably just attack me, so I watched. The whole night they worked on their grotesque altar, bringing in construction debris, dead animals, even electronics to add to the blood-soaked pile. At one point it seemed as if they didn’t know what to do next when suddenly a group turned in unison and fell upon a woman who had earlier been helping them. She didn’t react. When the insane scrum ended she had been torn limb from limb and become the latest addition to their art project.
I had to hold back a sudden urge to retch, which reminded me that I had an empty stomach. I had watched enough of that anyway. Going over the contents of the fridge in the apartment I had invaded it came to me that power wouldn’t likely last much longer, and I’d better prepare. Trying not to think too much about everything I had seen that night I made my way back to my apartment. The streets were even emptier now—only once I saw a gaggle of them moving along a parallel street one block away from me.
Back in my building, I decided to check the neighbor’s apartments. Most had their doors ajar and were empty of people. A few apartments on the other floors were still locked, but silent—they had probably been empty when it happened. The last unit to the left of my own door still had muffled banging noises emanating from it, but I thought better not to try to investigate it for now. The neighbor who had scratched at my door earlier had a large pickup truck, so I pocketed the keys. I doubted she would mind. Double checking that every entrance to the building—and the door to my apartment—was locked and barred, I went to sleep.
* * *
I started the next day trying to find any sign that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t gone insane, with no luck. Taking the pick-up truck I first drove to the nearest gas station and topped up, then went to the nearest police station. Though it was close enough to the park from the previous day to have a few groups of them wandering around, the station itself seemed empty, so I started searching for weapons and ammo. I had found several handguns and more ammo than I could carry for them, and was in the process of breaking into their rifle locker, when the door I had just walked in through burst open and one of them came running right at me.
I was caught off-guard messing with a crowbar firmly lodged into the side of the locker door, so my automatic reaction was to put my hands up to protect myself, and the damned thing bit me. That was becoming too much. I kicked it back and finished the poor guy off with the crowbar, checking the precinct for more of them. It was empty.
“Just my luck.”
Abandoning the plan to go after food that day, I gathered all the guns, a pair of rifles, the ammo, and went back home. I slathered plenty of iodine on the wound, wrapped a bandage around it, and took a sleeping pill. If I was going to turn into one of them as well, I’d rather not be awake to realize it.
* * *
When I woke up—not a zombie—it was already dark again. My wrist ached, but it didn’t feel infected. I decided to check the noises down the hall. I forced the door open with the crowbar I had brought back from the police station, ready to go to the gun in my pocket if anyone came rushing out. No one did. Inside everything was quiet, apart from the sound of heavy breathing coming from the bathroom. The door was locked, but I could see that there was no key in the lock—my neighbor had probably been inside with the door locked when it happened, knocked the key off, and didn’t have the intelligence to pick it up and open the door nor the strength to kick it down.
I forced the door open as cautiously as before, but again it wasn’t needed. She was slumped on the floor, barely moving, exhaustion showing through the rictus that dominated her face. I picked her up from the floor and carried her to her bed, tying one of her hands to the bedpost and bringing some water and a few slices of bread from her own table. She tore into the bread with abandon, but had no idea how to use the water bottle. I brought a bowl full of water from the tap and she drank it all in a few gulps.
A few seconds later she lunged violently toward me, but the rope held. So they didn’t gain any superhuman strength or anything; they had all just gone completely cuckoo all at once.
“What a relief.”
[continues]
