The Dead Stare

Blood decorated the corridors of buildings. Corpses littered the pavements and streets. Survivors were nowhere to be found. With his M1911 pistol in his pocket and his Winchester 1912 pumped and loaded, an old man with a green beret on his head, a green combat jacket with beige combat trousers and army issue boots stepped out of his drab apartment into the real world.

The real world was a nightmare; however it was one that the old man seemed to have experienced before. The usual hustle and bustle of cars driving through the street, people walking around and a constant murmur of activity was replaced with hollow shells of vehicles in the road, the dead lying in their own blood on the pavement and an almost deafening silence.

'Bill!' a voice in his head screeched. For a brief moment, the world around him blurred. The shapes of cars and buildings flattened out, in a field of grass. Strong wind blew blades across his face while a loud engine noise bore into his head. As he looked to his left he saw three soldiers, one being carried by the other two. Another noise, a loud rhythm of bangs, could be heard to his right. He turned right and saw more soldiers, shooting into the distance. He found himself doing the same, firing toward an unseen enemy.

'Bill!' the voice called again. His Major was screeching orders in an attempt to keep his platoon alive. 'Bill,' the Major cried again, staring straight into his eyes. 'Get to the chopper and radio…' A loud crack came from the man's chest as he collapsed from a gunshot wound. Bill was staring into the man's eyes as his life was suddenly blasted away. Now; in the streets, Bill saw the same look in the eyes of the dead. What he found disturbing was that the few people, who were alive, wandering aimlessly and covered in blood, also had that same, dead stare.

Bill, the Vietnam veteran had seen his fare share of action but never anything like this. As he walked down the street, keeping close to the buildings, he thought back to everything that had happened a few weeks before. He had been at home when the news struck; being sent home early after getting fired from yet another dead-end job. He had thrown his jacket to the dirty carpet floor and locked the door. The apartment was one messy room, with takeaway bags and boxes lying around, accompanied by empty beer cans, a bed with a thin sheet over a mattress and a bare duvet and a single door, leading to the bathroom. It was the last Friday of the month, so he moved his armchair to block the front door, so his landlord wouldn't be able to get in demanding he pay his overdue rent. As he watched the old television for a few hours, having beer after beer, his mind wandered and drifted from what was in front of him. He didn't really pay attention to the soap operas, or the comedy shows and he was barley awake as the news started.

'This is an emergency broadcast for residents of…' Bill was stirred. He gathered his wits and looked at the television as the newsreader said; 'riots citywide. People are urged to stay indoors and do not leave their homes under any circumstances.' Bill stood up from his armchair and approached the television. Violence, overwhelmed police, disruption of city services… the image on the screen had even started to breakup. 'The National Guard… control… please…' were the last few words to be broadcast before the entire station fell into static. Bill flicked the television off without looking at other channels. If a station turned into static during reports of citywide riots, it had to be serious.

He walked to his window and pulled back the blinds. The streets below were eerily empty. In the distance, the dark silhouettes of buildings and skyscrapers were accompanied by a dim, flickering glow from the far streets below. Smoke drifted up into the sky, obscuring the moon from view. A loud scream and gunshot came from directly below Bill's room. He immediately jumped back from the window and heard another scream, followed by a series of gunshots. The last two, bullets shot through the floor. Bill jumped to the side, avoiding the bullets and waited in the corner. The shots and screams had died.

A gentle sob replaced the sounds of violence from below. Bill went to one of the bullet holes and then the other, attempting to see into the room below. He saw nothing. Standing up, he went to his bed and pulled out a small metal box. Inside was a handgun; a Springfield Armory M1911 along with a few magazines. He loaded the pistol and unlocked the door and pushed the chair slightly to the side. Bill squeezed out into the corridor and ran to the stairs. He descended one floor and looked down the corridor. Sounds of lament echoed from the room that was underneath his own. The door was open. He approached it slowly, and pulled the slide back and let it snap back. He heard a bemoaned cry from the room, before it returned to the constant weeping. He got closer to the room and stopped just short of the door as he heard a noise.

The door on Bill's opposite side suddenly opened and a young woman with black hair stepped out in a robe. He managed to hide the gun before she saw it. The two looked at each other and Bill immediately put his finger to his lips. Bill mouthed instructions to be quiet. She nodded and the then looked back to the door. He took another step closer before the woman tapped him on the shoulder. She mouthed to him about the noise coming from next door. He shrugged and instructed her to get the landlord. She nodded again and silently went away. Bill waited until she went into the stairwell before he looked back at the door.

Through the crack, he saw a pale window and a flickering light. Retrieving his pistol, he gently opened the door. The room before him was in a dire state; all the furniture was broken, the wallpaper was ripped and there was blood everywhere. There was a dividing wall, which separated the main room from the kitchen. The wall had cabinets obscuring the view of the kitchen, which was in darkness. Bill stepped into the room and went for the light switch, as the only source of light was from a flickering television from around a corner. Bill's finger stopped when the screen flickered on for a few seconds, illuminating the space in front of the wall. An arm was in view, blood had trailed down it and pooled in the palm of the person's hand. There was a gun next to it.

Bill pulled the firing hammer back and slowly made his way through the room. Inside the living area, he saw the television that had been knocked off its mount. He then turned to the kitchen, where the inhuman cry was coming from. The body that the arm belonged to came into full view as he turned the corner. Bill saw a young woman lying on the floor covered in her own blood. Her clothes, body and face had all been torn and ripped beyond recognition. Bill's eyes drifted upward to something that moved. He aimed his weapon at another woman who was curled up on the floor, crying uncontrollably. The sadness she was expressing was overwhelming. Bill lowered the gun slightly. She was also in torn, messy clothes but only her hands were covered in blood. She appeared to have abnormally long fingers and nails, which made her hands appear claw-like. Cautiously, Bill stepped forward. He was about to call out, to see if she was coherent.

The television suddenly broadcast a loud, muffled garble from some station. The sound startled Bill, but sent the other woman insane. For a brief moment he saw the woman's face and in particular, her eyes. They were red and almost appeared to be glowing. They were inhuman, seemingly devoid of any source of sense or civility. The woman's eyes were maniacal and she screamed an enraged shriek that was heard throughout the whole building. Bill jumped out of the way as the woman dived toward him. Going past him, the woman didn't seem to care that he was there; it was as if he wasn't there at all. She started attacking the television. With her claw hands the smashed the screen and ripped out components, obliterating it. When the television was nothing but dust, she resumed crying.

Bill was unable to comprehend what he had just seen, not that he had the time to do so. The black haired woman and the landlord had arrived in the doorway.

'What the hell?' the landlord exclaimed.

'Quiet!' Bill cried, but it was too late. The woman turned to the door and ran for the two there, screaming ghoulishly. The landlord panicked and ran away, the neighbour in tow. Bill ran after them coming out in the corridor quick enough to see the landlord throw his tenant in the path of the attacker. Within seconds, her blood was splattered everywhere. Bill fired but it was far too late; the victim fell to the floor. The attacker turned her sights to in his direction and began to dash toward him. Bill shot her repeatedly but it had no effect. There was a fire extinguisher to his left. He shot it as the woman was parallel and it exploded in a froth, blinding her. As she clawed at her own eyes, Bill pushed past her and went for the stairs.

Before he went through, Bill looked back and saw the red glow again, heading toward him. He tried to go downstairs but his landlord was blocking the way.

'Bill…' he gasped. The woman banged on the door, prompting him to move. Bill ran up the stairs, the landlord following. The woman smashed the door to splinters as he got to his own floor. Bill ran for his own room with the landlord falling behind. He was slightly larger than Bill and could not move as fast. His door was still ajar and he managed to slip through the crack between the door and the armchair he had left there before their chaser had emerged in the corridor. Bill pushed his armchair and closed the door, forming a firm barricade. 'Bill!' he heard the landlord scream before he heard the sounds of the woman tearing into human flesh, while the victim was still alive…

It was now a week later and Bill had raided his former landlord's apartment and salvaged his shotgun, which would offer him pale resistance against the horde of insane people that wandered the streets, all seemingly obsessed with murder. He did his best to avoid anyone he saw; fortunately most of them were pretty stupid and not as strong or quick as the witch woman he had encountered back in his apartment building. They all seemed to share two things in common; a dislike for gunshots to the head and an even greater dislike, almost loathing hatred for noise.

As he stalked the streets, Bill made sure he made as little noise as possible. Unfortunately for him, his stomach started moaning out of hunger. He had not eaten for over a day at least, so he decided to make a detour. While his intended destination was for the freeway, he wouldn't get very far without food. He found the nearest food store, stepped through the broken window and looked for something to eat. The broken glass crunched gently under his boots and the door that led to the back room blew in the wind.

Leaning against the shop's service counter and biting into a scavenged bar of chocolate, Bill considered his options. Heading for the freeway would make sense; fewer numbers of people would be there as there'd be nobody to attack. He might also be able to seize a vehicle and drive out of town.

There was a rumble in the distance. Bill looked up from his meal and out of the window, staring into the distance with fear. A motorbike shot from around a corner and headed in his direction. Bill immediately ran outside and waved his hands urgently at the person riding it. The biker stopped right next to Bill, the engine noise echoing through the street.

'Turn it off!' Bill screamed. The biker did as he was told and removed his helmet.

'Jesus, what's with you old man?' he asked. There was then a sound of hundreds of people screeching. Bill looked around and saw the horde; hundreds of people coming at them from every direction.

'This way!' Bill ordered as he ran for the food store. The two survivors jumped through the window and over the service counter, to the back door. The two made it through, just as people started making their way into the store. Bill and the biker slammed the back door shut and ran through the tiny hallway to a fire escape. They emerged in an alley way and Bill chucked his new companion his pistol.

'The name's Bill,' he said.

'Francis,' the heavily tattooed biker replied, cocking the weapon. There was a crash from the corridor behind; the horde had broken through. Stragglers were already in the alleyway, rushing toward them.

'Don't hit me, Francis,' Bill said as he began shooting.