After the Fall

I lower myself down onto the tile floor, leaning gingerly against the aisle shelf and making bags of rice crinkle behind me. I grit my teeth and roll my right legging up. The fabric sticks to my leg with a combination of sweat and dried blood, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.

“Ah,” I wince, looking at the wide gash on my calf. “That’s not ideal.” I sigh and glance at the handful of medical supplies I have gathered next me. Bandages, a bottle of water, and the all-to-precious Neosporin. I roll out my neck and grab the water bottle first, dribbling the liquid onto the cut and rinsing all of the dirt and grime away. Then I squirt a drop of the Neosporin on my finger and smear it onto the wound. The clear paste turns red from the blood, and I have to swallow down my queasiness. I snatch the bandages and quickly wrap the cut with them, stopping any leftover bleeding.

I groan once I’m finished, and tip my head back against the grocery store shelf. I allow myself one moment of quiet, then gather my supplies and shove them in my backpack. Pushing myself up with one hand, I stand and begin to limp down the aisle. There’s an abandoned shopping cart at the end of the candy section, so I grab it and push against it as a makeshift-crutch, using it to support my weight.

I study each aisle and shelf, careful not to miss anything that could be useful. The majority of the shelves are picked over—once the toxin spread, panic engulfed the world just as fast as the sickness. Stores and homes were ransacked as all sense of morality was seemingly abandoned. People were left with two options: either fend for themselves, or join the cultish, violent, brutal groups that formed after the Fall. I refused to forsake all of my humanity, so I chose the first option.

I drop a pack of pads into my cart, along with a roll of toilet paper. I also manage to find a slightly-crushed box of Oreos and a handful of batteries. I smile down at my haul, then plop down in the middle of the long-empty produce area. I rummage in my bag for my water bottle, then take a short swig.

With another sigh, I pull out my battered copy of The Grapes of Wrath and find my dog-eared page. By now, I could almost recite this book because of how many times I’ve read it. But I’m grateful for any sort of entertainment or distraction. Because otherwise, all I have is my wandering thoughts… And my mind tends to wander down dark paths.

“Maybe there ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue,” the book says. “they's just what people does.” I frown down at the words, considering them. When the cults formed after the Fall, it certainly seemed like there was a difference between sin and virtue. Most people just tried to take care of their own, and didn’t bother others—but the cults. The cults would steal from and beat any stranger they came across. Eventually though, even most of the cults faded out until only the stragglers remained. Groups don’t really travel together anymore—I haven’t seen or spoken to another person in almost two years. I grimace down at the faded pages, and force myself to start reading again so that I don’t get caught up in my loneliness. I’ve just turned the page, when a twinkling sound makes me startle.

I leap to my feet, yanking both my knife and my flashlight from my belt. I wince at the flash of pain that flares up my leg at the sudden movement, but force myself to focus on the store’s door. Someone—something, really—staggers through the opening, clinging onto the doorframe and leaning heavily against it. The door slams behind them, making the chime sound again.

I swallow hard, trying to shove away my fear. Instead of panicking, I creep slowly into the shadows, knowing that the Fallen’s eyesight is terrible. If I stay quiet and hidden, most likely the thing won’t notice me. I take another wary step towards the corner of the store and a loud crackling noise fills the space. I jerk my gaze down and see that I’ve stepped on a leftover wrapper.

“Shit,” I whisper, gripping my knife harder. I brace myself, preparing for the Fallen creature to charge at me.

“Who’s there?” someone shouts.

Someone?

As in—a person?

“Wait—” My heart thuds against my chest, and my knife hand lowers slightly. My voice is rusty with its lack of use, so I clear my throat. “You’re a person? You’re not sick?”

“Of course I’m a person,” a male voice grits out. “Wait—” The man walks towards me warily, and I realize he’s barely a man. More of a boy—around my age, maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s taller and lean, hunger showing clearly in the lack of fat on his body. He has tan skin and messy, copper colored hair. His face, clothes, and arms are smudged with dirt, but I assume I look just as grimy as he does. Emotions rush through me, and I have to make an effort not to break down right then and there. “Are you alone?” He asks incredulously. I notice the gun hanging from his right hand, and I have the sudden instinct to lie.

But then I let out a shaky breath, and take the risk. “Yes,” I whisper.

His eyes narrow, and he points the gun at me. I flinch, but don’t move. “How do I know you’re not lying? That you’re not a part of those messed-up cults?”

I drop my knife onto the ground, knowing that it would be useless against a gun anyway. “I can’t give you any proof,” I murmur. “But I’m alone. I have been for almost two years.” My voice cracks on the last word, and his expression softens slightly. His gun droops a bit, and then he sighs, and drops his arms altogether.

“I hope I don’t regret this,” he mutters. Then he looks up at me. “I’m alone too,” he says roughly. “My name’s Ethan.”

“I’m Leah.” My name feels foreign on my tongue. It’s been so long since I’ve used it.

“Leah,” he repeats, trying it out. I almost start to cry, but blink away the tears. “Nice to meet you.” He sees that I don’t move from my place, and he sighs and shoves his gun in his belt. “I’m sorry if I scared you—I won’t hurt you. Here,” he waves a hand towards his backpack. “Are you hungry? We can have some dinner.”

I nod slowly, and unsling my own pack. “I’ve got some supplies too. We can share, if you want.” Ethan nods, and I start to limp over to him.

His gaze darts to my leg, and his brows furrow. “You’re hurt?”

I nod. “I’m not contaminated. It’s just a cut.” I reach him and lower myself gingerly onto the ground. Ethan follows me down, sitting cross-legged.

He meets my eyes, slight worry reflected in them. “Did you treat it?”

“Yeah,” I smile a bit. “I’m okay.”

Ethan frowns, then sighs. “Sorry, it's just—you’re the first normal person I’ve met in four months. It would suck if an infection killed you.” My smile grows, and I laugh lightly. Then I realize that I haven’t laughed in… I don’t know how long. His thoughtful expression matches mine, and then his face splits into a grin. We smile stupidly at each other for a moment, and then he blushes and looks down at his hands. “Anyway, good. You’re not dying. Here, I have some jerky, if you want some.”

My stomach pangs with hunger, but I ignore it as I reach into my bag to grab the smushed package of Oreos. “I’ve got better than dried beef.”

“Oreos?” Ethan’s eyes widen. I smile, and tip the container towards him. He smirks and takes a few of the cookies. “You have to be careful with these—something this valuable could get you into trouble.”

I laugh, then nod. “It’ll be our secret.”

He pauses, then says, “The whole world is falling apart, Leah.”

I shake my head, my humor gone. “I would use past tense. It’s already shattered. We’re just living in the mess that’s left behind.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, tearing the sides of his Oreo into two pieces. He bites into the side without the cream, frowning. “Do you remember how it was before? Did you have a family?”

“Yeah,” I bite into my own Oreo, and the sweetness of the filling zings across my mouth. I brush stray crumbs off my lips, then lean my chin on my hand as I think back to my family. “They died almost as soon as things started going to shit.” Grief starts to swirl at the pit of my stomach, and the cookie tastes a little less sweet. “My dad got infected pretty fast, my mom right after him.” I glance at Ethan just in time to see him wince. “My sister, she—” I cover my mouth with a hand. “Sorry,” I whisper. “My sister… she got taken by one of the cults up in Oregon. I never saw her again.” Ethan reaches out and grabs my hand and I shiver, not used to human touch anymore.

“I’m sorry.”

I squeeze his hand. “It’s… ok. We all have stories, right? What happened to your family?”

Ethan pulls back and glances away from me. “I was never close with my family. The only person I had was my dad, and he… He joined one of the cults pretty early on.” My brows raise, and Ethan grimaces. “I refused to go with him, and he pretty much disowned me. I’ve been wandering since then. Sometimes I meet people, sometimes I’m alone. Four months is the longest stretch I’ve gone without seeing anyone.” He looks at me then, his eyes wide, traveling all over me. Taking me in. “It’s so good to talk to someone again.”

I smile sadly. “You have no idea.”

He frowns. “How long did you say you were alone again?”

“Two years.”

Ethan shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know how you did it. I don’t think I could have stayed sane.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Honestly, I don’t even know how I managed.” Ethan studies me again, and just opens his mouth to speak when the bell to the store rings for a second time today.

We both jump to our feet at the same time, but I land too hard on my leg. I yelp, and grab onto the edge of a nearby shelf. Ethan’s eyes dart to me worriedly, but he looks away just as quickly, his focus on the intruder.

I raise my knife, and he lifts his gun. Both of us stay silent. We watch the thing stumble into the store, and I can tell clearly this time: this isn't a person. It's one of the Fallen. This one used to be a man. It's tall, with gray, decaying skin and black eyes. The smell wafting from it is sharp, rotten, and bitter, and I fight the urge to gag.

Ethan curses quietly under his breath, and I glance at him wonderingly. He has a gun, so he should be able to take down the monster easily enough. He meets my eyes, and slowly pulls open the chamber of the gun. Empty.

‘For show,’ he mouths.

“Shit,” I whisper. I quietly rummage in my bag for my second knife, and hand it handle-first to him. He nods silently, and faces the Fallen again. We move at the same time, creeping away from the humanoid-creature. We’re only a few feet away from the back entrance when the edge of Ethan’s shoe nudges a glass bottle, and it spins into a crate, making an ear splitting shattering sound.

No. No, no, no.

The Fallen jerks its head towards us and tenses. “Run,” I say, starting to back up. “Run,” I scream, spinning around as the thing charges our direction. Ethan dashes ahead, and I try to follow, but my leg flares in pain with each step, making me slow. Too slow.

I lose my balance and crash to the ground. I flip over and crawl to my knees, but it’s too late—the creature is already caught up to me. It rears forward, flinging itself on top of me. I scream, and press against its chest, trying to shove its drooling, snapping mouth away from my skin.

Suddenly, a second pair of hands grab the thing’s hair and yanks it off of me. Ethan shoves the creature away, and I stumble to my feet, grabbing my knife off of the floor. We both charge at the same time, but the Fallen leaps at Ethan first, judging him to be the bigger threat. Ethan grabs its wrists, trying to push it away from him, and I take advantage of its distraction to lunge forward and try and stab it. I’m aiming for its neck—its weak spot—but it moves at the last second, and I hit its shoulder instead.

The monster lets out a bellowing screech, and flings Ethan to the ground so that it can spin to me. I grit my teeth and slash at its neck, but it's too fast, and slams me against the nearest aisle shelf. I cry out at the metal slices into my side, creating a searing line of pain along my torso. Tears pool in my eyes, but I clench my jaw and let out a frustrated shout.

I yank one of my hands out of the creature's grasp, and stab my knife into its neck. It gargles and staggers away, falling against the shelf across from me. Its eyes fade from black to a muted gray, and relief floods through me. It's dead.

The adrenaline drains out of me, and my legs start to shake. I collapse onto the tile, pressing a hand to my bleeding side. The bandages on my leg have bled through too, and I wince. Ethan sits up blearily, rubbing the side of his head. Then he spots me, and scrambles my direction, kneeling by my side.

“Are you ok?” He asks. Then his gaze drops to my bloody shirt. “You’re bleeding.”

I nod wearily. “Yeah,” I wince at a sharp stab of pain. “I'll be fine. Are you ok?” I notice a cut near his chin, and brush my thumb near it. His gaze clashes with mine, and he’s silent for a second. Then he clears his throat.

“Yeah, just a bit banged up.” He shrugs, then winces. “The thing knocked me out for a couple seconds, that’s all.” I nod, then meet his eyes, my heart pounding. But… not because of the monster.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “For coming back for me.”

His smile is a mix of warmth and sadness. “Of course.” He moves to sit next to me, and he gently wraps an arm around my uninjured-side. My pulse quickens, but I lay my head on his shoulder, letting out a long, shaky breath.

“It’s going to be okay, Leah,” he whispers. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

*credit to quote from John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath