Short Story

It should have been a dark and stormy night, but the weather in Washington rarely does anybody any favours. So it was that the gentle moonlight bathed a quiet street in glowing luminance, a clear night sky open and welcome to constellation gazers from all walks of life.

Taking full advantage of this opportunity was a young man, his eyes cast high and filled with stars. It didn’t matter to the weather that both of these activities had been facilitated by a sharp blow to the back of his head, flat on his back with a creeping concussion; all that mattered was that somebody was paying attention.

Though this attention was waning, as much as had been there to begin with, for the warm blood pooling beneath him was a rising distraction from mother natures night show. A furrowed brow cut across his forehead slowly, raising canyons of confusion as he tried to come to terms with his current predicament. Previously this young man’s concerns were simple and straightforward, consisting mostly of decisions about food. Now, with his bed of blood widening and an alarming amount of activity suddenly erupting in the street, his gaze fell from the sky and came crashing back down to earth.

Dark shapes were pouring into the moonlit street. They moved slowly, some hunched over with hands close to their bodies whilst others stood straight up, advancing with a steady and determined pace. The sounds of shuffling feet filled the night air, muffled mutterings breaking the crisp silence. The young man’s eyes began to dart back and forth, unable to focus on the shapes but never letting them out of his sight. Television could not have competed with how engrossed he was in his surrounding company, not even the reality tv that had captured his heart and soul long before his woes had seemed so far away.

Dancing With The Stars, Survivor, Flavour of Love; reality itself had finally proven more attention grabbing than the occular glue that had once prevented him from leaving his couch or even noticing what was going on around him. The News had escaped him for some time, replaced instead by shiny outfits and angry British people. His knowledge of current events was embarrassingly narrow, more so now than ever as his thoughts were muddled by displacement and blood.

The dark figures were upon him. They stood over his limp body, and he could only assume they were watching him considering the severe lack of anything else going on that night. Their feet had caused ripples in his crimson kiddie pool that had already started to subside, no more movement to continue their circles. Eye level with steel toes, the young man craned his neck upward to get a closer look at his audience, to see just what had disturbed his evening stroll.

Apparently this was a bad idea, exemplified by the metallic boot that came crashing down on the young man’s chest. Slamming against the street with a red splash, the boot still in place, he lazily rolled his eyes up to the source of the offending foot. Another poor life choice; something else came hurtling towards him at break neck speed, something blunt and wooden and literal minded. Head bouncing off the pavement and back again, he couldn’t see anything anymore. Nothing but blood.

The crowd dispersed cautiously. They never turned their backs on the young man on the ground, leaving his immediate vicinity the way they had entered it, though with marginally more gore on their bedraggled clothes than before. One by one they melted back into the shadows from where they had come, until only one figure remained. He kept his stance over the young mans lifeless body, baseball bat still in hand. Between the corpse in the street and his stoic grip on the instrument of sport/death, nothing moved in the moonlight save for the air between them.

Seemingly satisfied with the complete lack of anything interesting occurring, the bat wielder turned to leave. It was not an easy task as it turns out, because the lifeless hand on the ground had appeared around his ankle with surprising speed and strength. So the man with the bat in hand did what came naturally to those faced with a bloodied dead person tugging at their legs; he swung for the fences.

This was the third time that night the young man in the street had been hit in the head with a baseball bat. Apparently that was the lucky number, as his skull finally caved in to brute force and vehement passion. Though just to be safe, the bat made its way back to the young man’s head a few more times. Blood everywhere and the immediate threat finally dealt with, the sports enthusiast was satisfied with the evenings hunt. He knew it was a bad idea to go after the undead alone, but the others were too squeamish to stick around and make sure the deed was done, especially to a former neighbour.

He walked back to his home, leaving his now-completely-dead friend under the moons care. He kept the bat. It wasn’t as effective as a gun for taking care of the infected, but it was more personal.