A Breath Of Fresh Air

Ungh

…

Ungh. Hurts.

…

Throat hurts. Tired. Feel strange.

…

I’m lying on my back. Head hurts. Chest feels odd. Teeth feel like they belong in someone else’s mouth.

Consciousness comes in waves. One moment, I think I know what’s going on…the next confusion and darkness.

My thoughts are quicksand. They keep dragging me down again.

…

Ungh.

…

Back again. Take stock before I lose it. My vision is blurred, just colours and lights. My tongue feels numb, I can’t taste anything except a vague yeasty sourness. I can’t smell at all.

I can hear. Voices, I think. Coming from nearby.

The first is deep and gruff. “Careful, try not t’ step in anyone.”

“Keep your voice down.” Younger. More scared. Even through my fug I can hear the terror in his voice.

“What? D’ya think one of them arseholes is lying in wait out here? Ready to jump out on you? You’ve seen ’em move. They’re slow and they’re dumb.” He gave a low chuckle. “Just keep your rifle ready, your powder dry, and shoot ’em in the head, first one you see.”

I can hear them coming closer. I try to hold my breath but it’s difficult somehow. It sets up an itch in the back of my head like fingernails on a blackboard.

“I’ve never shot anyone before, Jesse.”

“You’ll learn. T’ain’t hard. Not after the first one. ‘sides, they ain’t human. Not anymore.”

“What are they then? Zo…”

The older man snaps, harsh in his anger. “Don’t use the Z word. We ain’t in a comic book. It’s thinking like that’ll get ya killed. Thinking you’re the hero when all you are is a scared kid with a gun.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to call them. They look like…the Z thing. All that rotting flesh, and staring eyes.”

“Call ’em Plaguers. That’s what they called ’em on the radio. Back when we had a radio.”

“See. You know what to call them. And you handled that nest of them back there like you were cleaning out termites.” The kid paused. I could hear the worry in the air. “Jesse? You know they call them Plaguers? Does that mean it’s a disease?”

“Course it’s a disease. And we’re the cure.”

“Does that mean they can get better?”

This time it’s the older man’s turn to pause. “Better?”

“Yeah. I got sick once, with the flu. Felt like hell, but it went away.”

The boy sounds young. Not too young. Old enough to sound bitter when he says, “This. All this. It feels like hell too.”

Young enough to sound hopeful when he says, “Do you think, maybe, it’ll all just go away?”

There is a long silence, during which I attempt to focus my eyes, resolve the strange colours into something resembling an image.

Finally, the man spits. I can hear the phlegm hit the ground.

“Don’t know about better, but I know them Plaguers ain’t just diseased – they are the disease. They try to kill us and we try to kill them. Don’t get simpler that. And it ain’t just going to clear up, all the Plaguers suddenly sit up and say ‘sorry I tried to eat your brain, I’ve been a bit poorly’. It just don’t work like that. If you think it does, then you really are living in a comic book.”

For a moment, it seems like the kid won’t respond. When he does, he sounds petulant. Not too much though. He’s cross but he’s scared the older man will take offence, leave him if he expresses his anger too clearly. “Alright, fine. So I was dumb to hold out any hope. But you’re right, I’m just a scared kid. Hope’s all I’ve got. I’m not some zombie killing, shotgun toting hero like you. I just want to wake up and have it all be over.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.” The older man coughs, and I seem to detect a slight note of apology in the expectoration.

Me, I’m scared. I’m lying here, unable to move, and they’re talking about zombies.

I try calling out.

“Ungh”

“What was that?” Both men pause in their movements through the long grass. I freeze too. Was I…moaning?

“Ungh,” I cry again, and this time it’s a genuine moan. Long and guttural and I am not a zombie, no way am I a zombie, I can’t be if I’m still…

…my chest isn’t moving.

With a shock I realised my chest isn’t moving. I haven’t breathed since I woke up.

Oh god.

“Let’s just head over real slow,” hisses the older man and I realise that my eyes are shot, my lungs are shot, but my hearing is amazing – I can hear every whisper, every heartbeat.

“How about we just turn around and head the other way. Get the hell out.” I can hear the terror in his voice. I concentrate on trying to breathe. I used to be able to do this without thinking. Didn’t I? I’m sure I can remember being human. If I could just breathe…

“You don’t get it do ya. If ya turn your back on them, you’re dead; if ya walk away, you’re dead; if ya let even one of them live, you’re dead and so are all your friends. They’re vermin. They gotta be exterminated.”

They’re close now. The rustling grass whispers of nearness. I feel the faint stirrings of adrenaline…fear. Have I felt fear before? Have I felt anything.

My heart thumps. Just once. It feels like an explosion in my chest.

“Urngh. Nurgh. Urngh.”

My moaning is urgent and involuntary. I need words. If I could just breathe, just take a great big lungful air, I could speak, communicate. Tell these people what was going on. Ask them not to kill me.

“Over here. Quick.” Right on top of me now. I hear the cock of the rifle, while behind the young one runs heedless through the field, not caring now what noise he makes.

“Hurngh. Help. Me.”

The words come out. Like a seal breaking deep inside my chest. Fresh air rushes in, forcing ribs out which pop and crack like sticks on a fire. Up, down, up down. Moving. My chest, moving.

“Got him.”

A gun barrel appears in my face. I try to raise my arms, try to make a signal.

“Wait,” says the younger man. “Did he just say…”

Then heat, and fire, and pain, and everything goes black.