fourteen. a city coated in dust

fourteen˚༺⋆♱⋆༻˚↳ a city coated in dust ↲

IN MY ELEMENTARY YEARS, I was taught that humanity, once, did not exist. Everything was already here. . . only we were not. And in those textbook renditions of the world without a touch of humanity—I remember thinking that we had ruined everything.

That the world was better off without us. It had offered us sanctuary, and in return, we had ripped it apart and spat poison in its face.

In the recent years that the streets of Atlanta had seen nothing but sunlight and clean air, it had flourished. The city was taking on small colonies of moss. Ivy was beginning to infect the stone against the sides of buildings, bursting into a sprouted bloom in areas of direct sunlight. Speckles of soot and dust danced in the beams, floating like thousands of fireflies in summertime.

Although the time of early life sounded peaceful and serene, it contained threats. Scorpions ten times the size. Dinosaurs. And now, all this time later, we still were posed with a threat. Not prehistoric animals, but in this era, a virus.

The same virus I ran from, the corroded dead right behind a limping boy and I.

I turned for a short moment, pointing the barrel to the group of walkers behind us. My finger naturally slid into the curves of the trigger, pulling back, nothing but a click coming from the weapon.

"Shit. I'm out." I told Noah, pushing the useless object into my back pocket.

He tried his best to keep my pace, scrunching his face through the pain with short, deep breaths.

"You have a knife? Anything else?"

I grabbed his arm, helping him along to prevent his legs collapsing in. He would need physical therapy to ever have a chance at walking normal. Running was out of the picture. All we could accomplish was a quick saunter.

"Don't you think I'd be using it?" I asked in a panicked manner.

His head turned in multiple directions, forcefully planting his legs down for a moment, and pointing. "Over there. We can make it in, if we hurry."

I looked to the group of institutional buildings, pushing forward to the closest door. We cut through the unkempt lawn, weeds whispering against our ankles. Once we made our way up the ramp, Noah stumbled forward and attempted to open it. It didn't budge.

I could hear the murmur of the dead now. Their lifeless cries echoed throughout the block. Noah slammed himself against the door now. A sliver of the inside could be seen momentarily with the force he applied. I steadied his shoulders as he faltered from the impact.

An agile cat might have been able to slide through that opening, but we sure couldn't.

"We got a minute, tops, before those rotters turn onto our street." He twisted the knob with force. "It's just jammed. I think I can get us in."

Whipping my head around, I set sight on the main entrance. The distance was about a basketball court away, but it was one that I knew I could make.

"I'll try the others. Keep trying." I told him, descending the ramp, and jogging up to the sidewalk.

I turned my head again. There was a store composed of walls of glass, behind me. I could just barely make out the reflection of the dead coming up on the street corner.

I took off into a sprint. Facing the stairs, I hurriedly climbed past many decayed bodies stuck against the flights of concrete to reach the front. This building was made of glass, too, which made it easy to instantly tell there was no chance of making it inside. Desks and chairs were stacked high, barricading the entrance.

I squinted my eyes from the reflecting sun. I thought I could see movement inside. Coming in closer, I brought myself against the glass, hands coming up over my eyebrows like binoculars to press my face into the see-through door.

"Cyn!" I heard Noah call out.

"One moment!" I responded.

The sun beating against the glass was playing tricks on me. I swore I could've seen movement—but it was dead still on the inside.

A shuffle sounded from behind.

That was when I realized I hadn't been seeing anything in front of me. I'd been seeing the reflection behind me. I took a step back out of instinct, immediately crashing my body into the dead one coming up on me.

The walkers hands wrapped around my torso, taking me down with it as the thing lost its footing and fell back. There was an initial impact of the hard ground below—one that disoriented me so badly I swore there were stars in the afternoon sky.

Dusk in daylight.

We had somehow twisted in our fall, making me the one to feel the brunt force of it. The dead was now on top of me, its jaw snapping down at me. It clenched its teeth as I shouted out, drool bubbling in the corners of its caved mouth. When it opened its jaw next, the spit dribbled down onto my cheek.

This walker was heavy. My hands were pressed into my sides, limbs compromised completely. The only reason it wasn't tearing into my face right now was because my head was hanging off the ledge of a step, allowing me to extend it back further.

I heard Noah cry out. Maybe for me. . .or because he too was in a similar situation. The dead that was on me must have been one of the corpses I'd stepped over, assuming to be long gone. It had caught me by complete surprise.

The hoard had to have been on the street now. If Noah hadn't gotten the door open by now, he was probably joining the dead.

We should have just stayed. We should have stayed at the hospital and lived out our days there. Even if things stayed the same—Dawn, the struggle for power. . .and even Gorman—we would have at least been safe from the city. We could have made something of a life for ourselves, with Beth.

We would have at least been breathing; something that I was sure Noah was no longer doing. It was too quiet across the lawn. The dead were gurgling and groaning, but there was no longer any sign of life.

A shout escaped me as I attempted to wiggle out from under the walkers body. When this failed, I tilted my head around, desperately looking for anything to grab hold of. There was a large chunk of rubble a step below. When the walker shifted its weight ever so slightly, I pulled my arm free, the muscles in my bicep burning as I reached for the rock.

It was in my hand now.

The thing was still bearing its teeth, breathing at me like I was the only source of oxygen it might ever find. Like I was its lifeline. I brought the stone against its softened head. The rubble crackled in my palm as I pressed it into his skull, pieces of dust flaking into my eyes. I hit into its head again. A trail of blood ran from its gash, the liquid dripping down onto my face like the first rain of spring.

I then pushed the body off me. It rolled down a few steps, and I quickly lifted myself to take advantage of this newfound freedom. Looking up, the sun burned white hot light into my retinas. After a couple rapid blinks, I took note of my surroundings. The door Noah had been trying was closed. The dead were pounding on it, meaning he must have made it.

There were many walkers who'd noticed the events taking place over here, who were now branching off from the others to gain on a new target. Me.

When my legs completely straightened, the buzzing in my head worsened. I took all of two strides before my hands were catching me against the concrete. The dead one I'd just bashed a rock into was now reaching for me again, and this time, it had a tight hold on my red boot. Its mouth came against the achilles of the weakened leather, the shoe squeaking against the biting.

I could feel the pressure of its teeth, despite the barrier of my boot. I cried out in pain, kicking violently to get free. My lungs burned as I took a quick breath in, my heartbeat thumping in my throat, crawling into my head.

One of my dull attempts at a kick finally worked, and the dead's head was brought back, away from my boot. With no other place to go, I took the last of my stamina and used it towards running at the opposing building across the street.

Each step felt like my brain was being shaken like a snow globe, every memory and urge of mine in a flurry. All that was left of me was my core. My deepest desire of survival. One that had never been tapped into, this extreme before.

For the longest time, I'd thought death to be better than the continuous struggle of living. But now—now the wires programming my brain were lit, and there was something beckoning me forward.

Survive,

Survive,

Survive.

I was in front of a building now. I struggled with the entrance momentarily, before the doors swung open. Slamming them closed, I ran to the front desk. There was a shell of a man sitting in the chair, a bullet clean through its forehead. His tightened skin was greyed, an intense contrast between his guard-like uniform. I put Gormans empty gun down, quickly searching his pockets, coming across a ring of silver keys. I ran back to the door, spending no more than thirty seconds trying each one, until the lock finally clicked.

The flight-or-fight finally faded, and I was left breathing hard as ever, slowly slumping down onto the floor, my back pressing into the locked doors. An ache traveled up my calf, a reminder to look at my right boot.

A bite mark was prominent on the material near the ankle. My heart dipped into my chest as I pulled at the leather and looked at the depth of the aggression. The shoe was completely imprinted with the dead's teeth pattern.

I choked a sob and pulled the boot off, looking at the shoe. I reached my hand inside the opening, noting how I could see my finger looking back at me on the exterior. One of the walkers canines had completely punctured through the boot.

There was an open keyhole.

Its abstract tooth mark seemed to write a message to me, and though it wasn't in my language, I could still understand the meaning.

You're going to die today.

I shuddered, rolling up my blue pant leg. I spent a good few moments preparing to set sight on the bite, not able to get it over with. When I finally gained the courage, I twisted my leg for access, then pulled down the sock I had been given at the hospital.

I breathed out a laugh. I laughed, and I couldn't stop. The sound echoed throughout the empty building, taunting the previous silence. It filled the corners and brought life back to this place. I could almost picture the guard smiling, talking to people at his desk. The rotten fruits in the bowl by the waiting area that once were surrounded by flies and maggots, were now plump and brightly colored again. The coffee machine was working, and I could smell the rich beans brewing.

Hands pounded on the front doors, and I stopped my laughter. I could feel the bodies pressing against the tempered glass where I sat. Hear the growls. They had finally caught up to me, and reality came down upon me. However, a smile still tugged at my lips.

The bite had gone through my boot. Just not my sock. I was untouched. Only slightly sore from the amount of pressure his jaw had been putting against my foot

I bursted out into another fit of laughter, before becoming utterly annoyed by the riled dead smacking the glass, forcing me to put back on my boot, and come to a stand. I twisted around, turning to look at the dozen attempting to enter. The material was too strong for them to even have a chance at entering.

They were like lions in a zoo enclosure.

I came close to the dirtied glass. Running my finger through the dust, I wrote two words in it. And, although I knew the dead couldn't read—yet alone backwards—it made me feel much better.

F U C K Y O U

▬ ▬ ▬

This building had been a women and children's shelter. I realized this after searching the first floor, then walking up the stairwell to the second.

The layout was a little bit like a hotel, but the rooms were a dead giveaway. Some were left open, like this place had been evacuated in a rush. Children's toys were placed on beds—some scattered over the floors. Most beds were left unmade, sheets untucked and comforters torn from mattresses. Woven baskets of donation items seemed to be given to each room, along with a list of resources and hotlines.

What I would have done to have our mother take Allie and I here, instead of staying in that house. This place was proof she could have turned our lives around for the better, if she'd gained the courage.

Maybe this place would have given us a chance.

I winced at the sudden pang in my head, traveling in shock waves down my body. I'd taken quite the fall earlier. I knew I'd be sore and, once again, concussed, but I hadn't expected it to be so painful.

Pressing my fingers into my temple for relief, I shuffled on, finally deciding on entering a room that wasn't as disheveled as the others. The door beside it was locked, and I could hear groaning and gurgling inside. However, I was much too worn to care, and I guessed that it would help with camouflaging myself from other dead ones.

When I closed and locked the door, I sat at the small desk and ripped open one of the granola bars in the care basket. When I finished, I hunched over the surface, folding my arms into a makeshift pillow for my head. I meant to take off my boots so that I could get some real rest on an actual bed, but I never got around to it.

The clatters and continuous footsteps next door did the opposite of keep me awake. Something about the background noise was oddly comforting, enticing me into the black-hole that was sleep. My eyes flicked open each time they began feeling too heavy, but eventually, even they stopped resisting the magnetic pull.

▬ ▬ ▬

I woke in the late hours of an evening. I wasn't sure if it had been a day, or even many. There were signs I'd been in slumber for a long while. My stomach was aching with hunger, each swallow like sandpaper grating against my throat. As soon as the confusion lessened, I reached for a sealed water-bottle from the same basket I'd previously taken a granola bar from. Breaking the cap off, I gulped and gulped until only plastic was left of the thing.

From the window the desk was placed against, I could see the sky becoming toasted with the usual dusk-time Georgia heat, dulling of color at the edges. It was a background, washed away by the dead mindlessly wandering the streets.

My limbs protested in an ache when I attempted to wiggle my feet, so instead of moving, my attention fixed on the desk. Many items were placed upon it, consisting of a book on happy homes. A pencil was placed to the side, as if whoever was reading this, had been taking consistent notes.

They were trying to turn their life around.

Although curious of their thoughts, I didn't bother to open the book. Not too long ago, my school counselor had read from a book just like it, after pulling me in to ask me questions about the dark discolored patch of skin I was sporting on my cheekbone.

She had told me that it was okay to tell her the truth and that everything would be okay, but I had already been instructed on what to say by my mother beforehand. She had told me to smile when I said it, so that we could all stay together and make things better.

She promised they would get better.

"My sister got a softball set for her birthday. I was helping her learn. Just an accident."

And they believed every word, even as the excuses piled up. I got better at it. My mother was good at it, but my father was the real expert. And nobody questioned him. Not the town pastor.

He who preaches the gospel, more often than not, gets away with sin.

At the end of the day, I was silent. I had always remained that way - a silent child. I knew that the misery I had experienced at home was only a bother to others, and indurable to stay beside the only few that ever had loved me.

I leaned back, my gaze wandering to the drawer hanging slightly agape. I reached a hand in the mess of utensils, rustling around until I found myself grabbing hold of something larger.

It was a darkened brown leather journal, wrapped around with thickened twine of the same color. I pulled the strings apart, peeling back the cover from the pages. My fingers traced against the ink stained onto the lines, before I sat back in the chair and began reading.

5/07/2009Will promised me he'd take care of us financially. I left college to prepare for the arrival of our child. I wish I hadn't done so. Now I have no income of my own. No place to go. But I fear William will hurt us if we stay much longer.

I blinked, then attempted to turn to page. I could tell it hadn't been opened in a long while, as the pages were pressed together tightly. I had to lick my finger to pull them apart.

7/23/2009He found the money stash. I've never seen him this angry.

I rubbed my tired eyes, moving the journal slightly closer to my face. She'd been saving up money to leave. Only, he'd caught onto her plan.

7/24/2009We've been arguing all night. Lucas is crying in his crib, but Will won't let me leave the room to hold him. He says I'm too unpredictable to be handling our baby—that I need help. I know that much isn't true. I̶'̶m̶ ̶a̶ ̶g̶o̶o̶d̶ ̶m̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶.

She'd crossed that sentence out, and replaced it with another.

I'm trying to be a good mother.

I turned the page, but nothing else was written. Apart from those few pages, the entire journal was left empty. My gaze flicked away from the diary, and I grabbed hold of the pen to my left. Pressing the spine down firmly, I wrote a message to this woman, who, despite all odds, had managed to make it out of that house. And considering the small crib in the corner of the room—she'd made it out with her son, too.

You were.

I left the journal opened to this page as I gathered my few belongings. The sun was dipping below the uneven horizon line. Now was the best time to try and find Noah, then head out of the city. The beckoning darkness would provide much needed cover from the roaming dead.

Opening the same drawer I'd found the journal in, I grabbed onto a roll of duct tape, using my teeth to rip a piece off. I slipped my right boot off, then stuck the tape on the inside, over the small hole the walker had created. I added a few more layers to ensure it was restored before putting it back onto my foot.

If Noah was already gone, I knew he'd be heading for Virginia. The church we'd been holed up at after Terminus wasn't close, but I remembered seeing a glimpse of highway when I'd gone to pick figs. That highway would, in time, lead me to  North Carolina, then Virginia.

I could try to find all my people. If the others were still at the church, I'd ask them to help me get Beth. We could go to Virginia, then D.C, just like Abraham requested.

If everything went the way I wanted it to. Which was highly unlikely, though I l pushed that thought away.

I packed some items into an empty backpack, then slung it around me. After gathering enough snacks to last me a few days, I left behind the room I'd slept God knows how many days in. The stairwell door screeched as I opened it, and my vision was immersed in pitch-black as it closed behind me. Each step my boots took echoed throughout the exit, making it sound like there was another pair of feet walking alongside me.

I kept one hand on the cold metal railing, the other out in front of me feeling for the wall. Once making it down a flight, I walked forward to feel for the door. Once gripping the knob, I cracked open the exit and light overtook my senses once again. I was back in the lobby. The dead weren't pounding at the entrance anymore. The only corpse left was the guard, still posted at his desk.  

Instead of ignoring his presence—or more so, the presence of his decaying body, I approached his side. I swiveled his chair so that he was facing me, and locked eyes on the holster on his belt. My head tilted up in thanks, and I unbuttoned it to grab onto the gun.

It felt heavy in my hands. Cold. It was a black automatic, and it's magazine was full.

I secured his holster onto my own belt, then placed the gun inside, leaving the cover open so that I could grab it at any given time. I stopped momentarily at the action, thinking how peculiar it was that I was looting a dead body. I stepped back, and cleared my throat. My voice hadn't been used in days—that much was evident as I opened my mouth and coughed.

"Thanks for this." I tapped the gun on my hip. "Sorry you got shot in the head. That must have hurt."

I awkwardly stepped back, twisting around to face the glass doors. I couldn't help but notice my reflection. I was still wearing a pair of blue scrubs. They were spattered in dark brown blood that didn't belong to me. My face was puffy and my long strands of hair looked like burnt straw.

I'd seen better days. Way better days.

I bent down to pick up the keyring. Remembering exactly which key had locked the doors, I used it again to unlock the mechanism. A small click sounded throughout the lobby, and I tossed the keys to the ground as I opened the doors.

The humid breeze hit me instantly. My nose scrunched at the smell of rot, my fingers brushing against the gun on my side. I was about to take a step towards the building I'd last seen Noah in front of, when I saw its door coming open. I pulled out the gun. A body came rushing out of the building. It was too fast to be a walker. Rushed footsteps accompanied the person. My breathing seized. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was a woman, running across the boulevard. 

A woman I knew.

Tufts of shortened gray hair came from her scalp. She was wearing the same thing I'd seen her in back at the church. Carol. I saw her, but she was too busy running to notice me behind the large marble pillar I was shielding myself with. 

As my lips parted to say her name, an engine revved loud enough to cover my call for her. It's tires screeched as it took a sharp down the road. The vehicle came into view. It had that same white cross on its back windshield. And instead of stopping for her—it slammed right into her.

I heard the impact of her body against the hood. I let out a panicked breath, not knowing whether to sit here and watch, or to do something. The police that came out of the car were both armed. They put her in a stretcher, lifting her and sliding her into the backseat. They got back into the car as quickly as they had hit her.

"No. Fuck!" I said out loud, cocking the gun and pointing it at the car that was now busy turning around.

I came out from behind my cover, pointing the weapon at the tire. I fired. The rubber hissed at the sudden release of pressure, and it came to a stop. The same two officers came out, both of whom I recognized from Grady Memorial. I was now pointing my weapon at them, and they were returning the favor. Two barrels were facing me.

"Cyn?" An officer exclaimed, worry coming across her face. I could tell it was fake. "We've been looking for you. Where is Noah? Is he with you? Are you both okay?"

I breathed out a laugh, "Get that woman out of your car."

"She's badly hurt." The man officer now spoke up. "We didn't see her—she needs medical attention right now."

I cocked my head to the side, squinting,

"Come back with us." The woman begged. "You're hurt."

"Nobody is going back with you." I told her, taking a few steps closer. My weapon was still raised. "Not me, not Carol, and especially not Noah."

The main raised an eyebrow, his gun still pointed, too. "You know this woman? Then. . .you can help us take care of her. Once she's better we'll let you both go."

I gave him an in-genuine smile. Then I shot him in the knee. He fell instantly, and his partner was quick to fire back at me. I sidestepped just in time, causing the doors behind me to shatter at the impact of her bullet. Hiding behind the pillar, I kept myself concealed as she ducked down behind the car door and radioed for backup.

I angled myself out, ever so slightly. When she came back up in an attempt to gain sight on me, I fired straight at her head. She dropped, and I let the air in my chest exit my lungs.

I ran to the car, kicking the gun away from the officer screaming in pain over his blown kneecap. I swung the back door open, and set sight on an unconscious Carol. I thought about sliding her out, but I wasn't nearly strong enough to do so. I shut her door, then opened the drivers side.

Before I could get in, something dragged me back, and threw me onto the ground. I cried out in pain, blinking rapidly. The woman officer was standing over me. I hadn't shot her in the head, like I thought. I'd simply grazed her temple. There was an ample amount of blood, but she was fine.

Before I could get back onto my feet, she came down on me, putting her knee over my legs so that I couldn't move. Her hands wrapped around my neck, and squeezed.

"Bitch." I wheezed out, a burning beginning in my lungs.

She smiled in return, a vein in her forehead popping as she applied more pressure to my throat. The edges of my vision began closing in on me, leaving me disoriented and tired. My legs kicked out in a struggle for air, my body convulsing as I attempted to take a breath. All that came out was a weak hiss.

"What are you going to do now, Cyn?" She asked me, the softness briefly returning to her eyes. It wasn't remorse. It was pity.

I couldn't even cough. There was only an intense fire in my chest. One that couldn't burn out or release. My vision was too etched in black to see the woman over me anymore.

"That's right," She said, and in this state, it sounded almost comforting, "you're not going to do anything. We're going to take you with us, and help you."

I wanted to respond. To tell her that she was wrong, and that I didn't need anything from her. But. . .I found myself unable to.

I couldn't do anything but close my eyes,

and still.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·4,928 words • 12:20 pm

im rewriting this book three? four? idk years later (2025) and this is probably the chapter that's changed the most this far. the word count doubled and Cyn was actually insufferable and spoke like Edward Cullen.

ThIs iS the SkIN oF a KiLlA.

also everyone thought she got bit because I wasn't clear enough about the bite not going through her sock so people were crashing tf out. In the original one I didn't even specify how she got caught by the Grady Officers because I was ass at describing things so I added a little quarrel this time ;)

sincerely yours, 𝓜 ᥫ᭡.