From an unknown traveler

You crouch in the rubble of ash as you attempt to make your way to the little blue house across the street. For the past two days, you’ve waited and watched the broken dining room window from the abandoned shed that used to be your neighbor’s. You wanted to see if anyone or anything was waiting for you to come inside. After the great horde passed through the neighborhood, you can only hope whoever was here left with them. To your luck, nothing has come into view. The little blue house was the last place you wanted to come to, but in dire times like this, there is nowhere else to go but the place you know best. You look at your surroundings and then make a run for the street. You think the coast is clear.

You pick up your feet instead of dragging them across the barren yard. It’s the middle of October and the leaves are the crunchiest they've been all season. After three months on the road, trying to get out of the city, and four months exploring the suburbs, you know better than to make a ruckus because you’re never really alone. Your neighbor’s houses were the most interesting to explore. As a child, you wondered what they looked like inside. Most of your neighbors left long ago with everything they deemed important.

As you approach the crosswalk, you see the bloated, engorged bodies lying decayed along the cement. A small group of crows pecking away at the open wounds. In the summer, the smell of rotting flesh was all you could smell in the city. Now that it is fall, the cool air suppresses the burning sensation in your nose. You notice a piece of paper stapled to one of the trees in the yard of the little blue house. It’s an advertisement for a safe space. An official government poster to the public, stating that there is a bunker twenty miles away from the city. Only those who have tested negative have entry. You remember the chaos in the streets as people rushed to get out of the city. From your motel window, you had the choice to pack your bags and join them or to stay locked in your room in case the bunker was a bad idea.

The first two weeks after the government mandated quarantine for those that were sick, or as you like to call it, the time the bomb went off. In those two weeks, people were frantic about what to do, no one wanted to listen to the mask rules or the curfews. As the disease spread, people that were exposed began to transform into these bulbus, flesh-eating creatures.

You once saw another survivor shoot one of the infected in the stomach. Instead of the infected dying, they exploded. Their insides were steaming and the blood began to erode the surrounding vicinity, turning anything plastic or weak metal into black goop. Every night you can see their wandering yellow eyes leering in the bushes, waiting for their next meal. You’ve killed a few, each time a step closer to death. You learned to just run. Running is the best thing you could do when there is nowhere else to go.

You sigh, contemplating what it would’ve been like if you had left for the bunker. The sun sets quickly to your right, so you decide it was time to explore the house before the light drains. You approach the front porch, the white paint peeling from the lack of maintenance. You jiggle the wobbly door knob. As you expect, it is locked. Instead, you decide to remove the broken window panel from the dining room window and hoist yourself in.

The carpet is filthy with rat droppings and other forms of debris. You pinch your nose to prevent sneezing from the musty air. There are still plates on the dining table from the last meal eaten. The food is covered in green fluff and other molds. Carefully, you listen as you unsheathe your hunting knife from your hip in case you run into an unpleasant guest. To the left of the window, you entered is a doorway to the foyer, and to the right is the doorway to the basement. You decide it would be best to check out the first floor before deciding if you should go explore the basement.

You step around the oak table to the little archway to the front door. There are empty nails in the wall as the picture frames that were hung next to the door are now smashed along the floorboards. You pick up the photograph nearest to you, noticing the two people standing side by side. These are your parents as high school sweethearts. Yes, this is your parent’s house. Yes, this used to be your house. No matter how many times you said you’d never come back, here you are again.

You set the picture in your pocket and carry on into the kitchen. You step slowly over the first floorboard as you know it creaks. On the other side of the kitchen is the backdoor to the backyard. You check to make sure the door is locked. This door is always locked. You remember how your father used to make you pancakes for breakfast every morning throughout middle school. He would always put chocolate chips in a small bowl on the side since he knew you didn’t like them on top. There are still traces of flour collected in the crevasse between the wall and the counter. The cabinets are wide open, but everything is still in them. There isn’t much in the cabinets. Just a few canned goods and stale bread. Canned beans and toast for dinner. You reach up to inspect the contents to find that it is still sealed shut. This would be good to eat later. Tomorrow you might pack it with you.

Next, you move back to the staircase to see the condition of the second floor. As you round the staircase, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the round dust-caked mirror. You can still see your muddied clothes and filthy face rag over your face. Your grown-out hair is severely matted and tangled under your hat. The light in your eyes has gone long before you stepped into this little blue house. Your shirt used to be white. Now it is the same color brown as your boots, pants, denim jacket, everything.

You carry on to the entrance of the first room to your left. There is a couple laying in the master bedroom, and you quickly realize who they are. Their hands are locked together, shriveled up, and sunken in. You don’t linger too much on their faces, not like there is much left to them anyways. Your nose is used to the sour smells of the dead. The once-white sheets are now stained brown and black. They look so peaceful covered in blowflies. At least they didn’t turn into those creatures. At least that’s what you hope. Their bodies are mostly bones now. You stand there for a moment longer, not entirely sure how to feel. Maybe you feel empty. Maybe you feel relieved.

You silently close the door and carry on to the next room. Your old bedroom. You turn the knob to find that your old room is practically untouched. The same gray sheets and comforter are still plush and unwrinkled. Your little trinkets along your shelves and window seal are still intact, only covered in a layer of dust. On the walls are your old band posters. You acknowledge the slight cringe, but reminisce over when life was more so normal. Are these band members still alive? In these conditions, you highly doubt it.

You run your hands over the fluffy pillows on your bed. Your favorite color is gray, or at least that’s what your mother used to say. As a teenager, you would only wear variations of white, black, and gray. The whole color scheme of your room was from this color palette. You didn’t mind the remark, but your favorite color is forest green. That was the color of your favorite shirt. You step towards the little closet next to the connected bathroom. Maybe your favorite shirt is still in the closet. Most of the hanging clothes are from the summer you got kicked out of the house. You don’t like thinking about that day. It doesn’t matter anyways as the weather is too cold to be wearing t-shirts and shorts. You sift through the hangers and cobwebs, yet there is no green shirt. You move to the bathroom and stop midway through the door frame. The bright seafoam blue walls are an eyesore. Your mother said she’d repaint your bathroom once and that was the color you had chosen. That was a mistake. Your hairbrush still lies on the counter next to the open toothpaste. Maybe a haircut would be a good decision. You open the drawer beneath the sink to find your old pair of shears. There’s no good place to start, so you take a chunk from the top and begin snipping away. The mangled bits of hair fall around your feet. Your head is cold, but it’s better than it was before. A weight is lifted off your shoulders in one way or another. You move towards your bathtub, curious as to if the faucet will turn on. When you used to get haircuts, you would always take a bath when you came home. You turn the faucet handle, half expecting the water to pour out of the spout. A single drop hits the yellow stain ring around the drain.

You gaze through the window and see the well your parents had installed in the backyard flower garden. You can’t remember why they would have a well in their backyard, especially when they live in the middle of the suburbs. Your mother liked the cottage aesthetic, so that might explain why she had it put in place. Whether it was functional or not was the real question.

You head down to the garage. It’s pitch black, so you search for your flashlight and scan the little space. Your father’s old silver Tundra is parked in the middle as the other side of the two-car garage is full of storage boxes. You peer under the truck and into the passenger side. You are alone. There is a red gas can by the garage door along with a rake and shovel. As you move your flashlight towards the other side, you catch a glimpse of a large cooking pot, big enough to make soup for thirty guests.

Your mother used to host guests often, so your father decided to get a big cooking pot and propane burner for her to prepare big meals. If there is water in the well, maybe you could use this to boil some water for a bath. You go back to the kitchen and open the door to the backyard.

What once was the flowerbed is now a patch of dead grass and twigs around a brick circle in the ground. There is a wooden lid. You lift the top off to find that the well is decently full. It used to rain here often, so you’re not entirely surprised by how much is still in it. You rush back into the garage to grab the propane burner and the giant pot. You place the propane burner in the center of the kitchen floor and take the pot outside.

You crank down the metal bucket and scoop out as much water as you can. By the look of the sun, you have about an hour and a half left before the sun is gone for the night. Throughout this time, you manage to pour a few big pots full of water into your bathtub. Yes, it was a pain to carry up the stairs. You did a good job not spilling it all over the staircase.

Now you’re opening the backdoor for the last time tonight with your big pot of water. As you set the pot on the propane burner, you notice a few figures moving along the shadows of the houses across the yard. You scramble as quietly as you can to close the window curtains on the back door, your foot barely missing the shattered glass under the counter. It was a red fox. You’re lucky this time. You don’t hear any other noises coming closer, so you return to the fire. For a second you’re reminded of Easter morning. Your little cousins would run around the backyard in search of the little colored eggs. Their pink bunny ears would flop around on the chilly spring morning. You would always hide a few eggs in the flower garden next to the well. The water is bubbling, so you bring the pot upstairs.

You filled up the pot four times, and as each was done warming up, you poured it into your bathtub. For the fourth pot of water, you decide it would be best to wash your clothes. It would be the first time in weeks that you had the chance to bathe and wash up.

Your clothes are stuck to your skin and you have to practically scrape it off. Now you sit naked in the bathtub, scrubbing at your grimy skin under the illuminating glow of your flashlight. This is your first washing in a long time. The water is murky with blood and dirt to the point you can’t even see your hands in the water. You only made enough water for one bath and one clothes washing.

Your skin is red, feeling raw and sensitive to the dry air. You are wet and naked. Still, you are clean and safe, for now, that is. You shuffle through your closet once more to find anything that might still fit you. The purple oversized hoodie you got from your trip to Florida hangs behind the closet door. You throw it over yourself and grab a pair of black sweats. It feels oddly like home.

You pick up a polaroid picture from your nightstand. It’s a picture of you and your lost lover holding hands at the state fair. Your heart thumps in your chest as heat rushes through your body. They were the only ones that truly cared for you. The only one that loved you for who you were when no one else could. Your parents didn’t like you for being different. The way you dress, the way you style your hair. They didn’t like how you chose to love in this world of black and white. One or the other. This is why you ran away once you turned eighteen. It doesn’t matter now that society is dead. It never mattered to begin with, and yet you still ran. This room may feel like home, but this house feels like a nightmare.

You go back downstairs and lay your dripping clothes over the side of the dining chair near the fire. By morning, your clothes should be fairly dry. You open one of the cans of beans in the cabinet and a slice of stale bread. The bread is not moldy, just severely dry. It smells slightly sour and vinegary. Never mind about eating the bread. You open the utensil drawer and pick up a spoon. In the back of the drawer is a matchbox. This might be useful. You take only the can of beans and a spoon back to your room.

You lock the door and crawl under your blanket, slowly eating your well earned beans. They’re cold, but you’re too tired to wait for them to warm up. Other nights, you sleep four hours at most, but as soon as your head hits the pillow, your eyes instantly grow tired. You missed this, but you know this can’t be forever. Occasionally you hear creaking from the room next door. It could be the wind, so you don’t pay it too much attention. You lay there, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling. Would it be so bad to clean up the place and stay here? This is the only place you know. Deep down you already know the answer. This will be the only time and it will die in your memory.

As the sun hits your face through the blinds, you realize you slept in past noon. The sun is high and the blanket is warm. For a second you forget that the world has burned down outside your window. You know it is time to move on from this little blue house. There is nothing in this room that you will take. You know there is no space for you to carry your little trinkets and memories. You won’t even take your polaroid pictures.

You walk past the master bedroom and hear a slight groan. There’s a pause in your stride. You lean in towards the door and hear a slight creak. It could be anything. The house is old. But maybe your parents did turn, but you would rather not find out. You reflect on their sunken features, how their clothes stuck to the bed and their features eaten out. There’s no way they could move. You hold back a tear. Before you came to the house, you didn’t expect them to be alive, but you didn’t expect them to be dead either.

In your pants pocket is the soaked picture of your parents from yesterday’s findings. You forgot to take it out before you washed your clothes. You take it out of your pocket and stick it against the door. The colors have bled and distorted the image. These are who you wish you could see as your parents, not the things on the other side of the door.

You continue your way back to the first floor and throw your clothes on. The fabric is crunchy from the way it dried and the dirt you didn’t properly wash out. You empty what you can get out of the cabinet because food is the only important thing at the moment. There isn’t anything else in this house you will take.

You go to the garage and pick up the red gas can. It’s full. You tilt the can to leave a trail behind you as you make your way through the house once more. First, you drench the kitchen and dining room before you head to your bedroom. You then go to your closet, drenching the clothes that you will never wear again. Now you debate whether or not to douse your bed too. You will never sleep in it again, but it was your place of salvation last night. This was always your place of salvation even before you left. Instead of spraying your bed, you leave to your parent’s room. You don’t open the door, but you let the gas trickle down the door frame like a waterfall. Half a can is enough to drown your conflicted feeling of what you want and what you can’t have. Your grievances, your want to feel loved.

Now you head back down to the way you had entered the house. You remove the broken window panel and hoist yourself back to the outside world. It only feels right for you to leave this way. It’s strange. You’re strange. This is how you left the house the day you ran away. No wonder the window was broken to begin with. You find the matchbox from last night and strike a match against the side. The flame flickers brightly in your intent and you toss it through the window. Instantly the dining table catches fire, then the carpet and staircase. A burst of heat rolls into the air, hitting your brow and exposed skin. The sensation tingles, but it lets you know that this is all real. Everything will be gone, just as it should’ve been long before. You can see the photos from the floor flutter into the air as they burn at the corners.

Soon this place will attract the creatures. The flames, the heat. You need to leave before you too become one of them. The next place you want to go is towards the countryside. It’s away from the city. You want to be far away from here. You turn your back from the little blue house and walk away down the street. Let this be the last time you see this neighborhood. Let this be the last time you think of this house.