2. Good Gone Girl
Under stark sunlight, Astrid scowled at her handiwork and sniffed gracelessly at the smoke. Her brown hair was braided in two slipshod tails, tightly tied with red and yellow rubber bands, and stretched like loose horns that bobbed on the sides of her head; that the ends were freed like a cow’s switch and fluffed like pompoms made it appear as though she had an alien cheerleader strapped around her scalp. She tightened her backpack and her molotovs gave a slight clink. She had outfitted the bag with a conveyor system that responded to a sensor in one of her rings. A ragdoll hung on the zipper of her backpack’s outer pocket, by its neck, a big X crudely stitched across its featureless face.
Astrid climbed down the outhouse, careful not to start a rock number on galvanized iron. She weighed like air but she learned the hard way how loud these things cracked under a misstep. There could be more of the undead nearby. In this new world, a stumble or a sudden loud noise invited death. She bit her lip as her feet hit gravel, grateful it wasn’t the strain she expected for her knees.
The zombies on the ground had scorched like parched, brittle wood, two adults and a child, probably the residents of the small summer home. They swarmed her before she could raid their kitchen. Astrid gave chase, and baited them to gather around the outhouse after she had climbed to safety.
She stopped herself from contemplating about their story, especially the child’s. Watching these things burn always served as her distraction. She distracted herself until their cluster was crisp and motionless.
Astrid hated how they stank, but liked the music of the fire while they blazed. It was always like that. Once she saw flames, she forgot about the ocean. Fitful reds and oranges blurred placid greens and blues. Smoke was always headier than salt.
She surveyed the small dock before reentering the main house.
“Ay caramba,” she muttered after rummaging through a cupboard of supplies. She had found more canned food in the kitchen than she could carry, but this yielded a waterproof case of unused storm matches, the real prize, made niftier because she wasn’t looking for them. She’s never used one as a molotov wick.
After packing, she discovered a swing in the back deck that faced the sea. Astrid grinned. She decided she had time to dally, sat there and enjoyed a can of tuna and a jar of preserved peaches, swaying her feet like the most carefree 16-year-old in the world.
Despite the attack earlier, the afternoon had been quiet enough–still a splash of luck in her book. The day wasn’t over yet, of course. Survival needed to be qualified by the hour. Her fortune could easily tip in a blink.
As much as she’d like to, Astrid didn’t want to spend the evening in this place. It was too large to fortify on her own. There were multiple entries and not enough time besides. Also, the roof wasn’t high or wide enough for her tent to escape notice. And very few, if anything, escaped the zombies’ notice, especially traces of survivors.
A devious bunch, the whole lot of them. These dreadful things weren’t the brainless horde of common literature or film. For one, they fed off food and animals, not people. Astrid has seen it enough to draw the conclusion. She has also seen them abandon humans once they’ve infected their victims, more bent it seemed on making the living one of them than gorging on a feast.
The zombies didn’t roam; they hunted.
Like any normal fire bohème who wanted to know first-hand how humans burned without committing an actual crime, Astrid has imagined a zombie apocalypse a few times before it actually went down. She didn’t think the zombies would last this long. She thought the safest thing to do was to wait it out in a secure home with enough supplies, a few months at most, before all the infected starved to the bone. In that scenario, it would be a miracle if they could still walk at this point of the catastrophe. They’d be worming their days away, harmless at a distance, and a breeze to set on fire.
What Astrid wanted most was her own corral, a kind of labyrinth that led to a punji pit, and an elevated platform where she could view her catch. Lure the zombies in, exit through a flap, wait for them to pile up aaaand flame-a-palooza. Her grin widened a little at the thought of it.
After eating, she did another sweep, a quick one, and headed to where she parked the Honda Monkey. She never had a single driving lesson before this whole shit-storm, but she had to learn fast. Death had been a good motivator (whether to delay or hasten it depended on whoever was watching her drive). Her first ride was a pitiful electric bike, unsweetened, that she found in her old neighborhood. The Monkey turned up a few days later, thank heavens, heavily equipped with kinks she was still trying to work out. Her favorites were the control panel, chockfull of flashing lights, buttons and a curious-looking knob, and the switch-controlled steam boiler attached to the rear fender that shot flames either at the front or the back of the motorcycle. Indeed a vehicle built for a fire girl who wouldn’t go near a car. She had the awkward driving stance down to a low at least, proud that she didn’t maneuver in zigzags anymore. Her face was still frozen in goggle-eyed panic everytime she was on it, but who’s to see?
“…live broadcast… all survivors… established shelter at the northern… I repeat… Bungan Port…this is… a tactical team… emergency eva… if you hear this… your way to us… I repeat, this is a live…”
The radio was the only thing that’s shot about the Monkey, not that she needed it. It picked up the broadcast yesterday, and for a minute the message had seemed like a dream. But what strike of gargantuan luck would it take to find someone who knew how to navigate a boat? Much less someone who might agree to take her along. She wasn’t holding her breath to find out the odds. She turned off the radio.
Astrid has made a nest for herself not an hour away, a deserted kamalig on the higher end of River Taloma. The stilt house she found had been almost obscured by an overrun patch of acacia and eucalyptus trees. She planned to milk that cow for as long as she could.
Isolation remained her best bet as the number of undead dwindled in remote areas. She encountered other survivors along the way but they were flaky if they weren’t neurotic. She’s heard talk of rebuilt communities that took survivors in, but she hasn’t found one yet. It wouldn’t hurt to find a tribe, if only to complement her glaring limitations. She was mostly fine on her own. It’s the supply runs that left a hell smirk in her mouth. Scavenging was inevitable despite its infinite dangers.
She took the shorter way back through Kanto Trenta, once a sprawling shopping district but now as ghostly and abandoned as the rest of them. She fancied scoring an outfit or two.
Halfway back to her crib, a green Wrangler in the middle of the street made her halt. Broken down from the looks of it, with a man cowering behind, loading a gun. Astrid’s eyes widened when the other side of the street came to view. A group of undead lurched violently towards the car. A couple dozen of them, give or take two more. She’s never seen a pack this large or this enthused. Their hissing, growling noises suddenly became deafening.
No one’s going to get out of that with a gun.
Astrid’s fight instinct got the better of her. Instead of turning around and driving away she parked the Monkey and started to sprint towards the Jeep. Fire jarred zombies for a little while, she thought. A few molotovs could delay them. Best case scenario the man could drive the motorcycle with her on it. A head start and an elevated structure was all they needed. She had enough cocktails to torch a flock pinned against a barrier.
In haste, she reached behind to activate her backpack’s belt mechanism. A molotov snapped into her hand in a second flat. “Quick! To the bike!” she heard herself scream at the man, snatching a butane lighter from a touch fastener on her belt.
The man cursed when he realized what was going on, noting the motorcycle several feet away. “Why did you stop? Go back!”
Before Astrid could reach him, the man muttered “Ah fuck it!” and stood between her and the swell of undead, facing the pack as though getting mauled first would spare her.
Then she watched him cast his hand and witnessed bursting from it a flame more alive than anything she’s ever seen. Vibrant, thirsty and biddable fire. Astrid gasped. The molotov clenched in her hand remained unlit.
The man glanced back at her with disbelief and a stupid halfway grin. “It works,” he said, more to himself. “It actually works.”
Agape, Astrid stared as the zombies burned.
