Wendy is Tired

            It’s a plague. By definition, what’s chasing Wendy now is a plague. And Wendy is tired.

            Months ago, when the world had only gone sideways instead of entirely downhill, Wendy had made a friend in the chaos and the turmoil. Roy was his name.

 

            “You know, technically, it’s a virus,” Roy said, raring for a debate like he always did.

            “Okay?” Wendy said, unsure where this was going, and not eager to have an argument while lugging six days’ worth of rations for hours.

            “Viruses aren’t technically alive. And neither are they. So, I don’t see how it can be anything but a virus really,” Roy pushed, waiting for her to make a counterpoint. Wendy wasn’t going to take the bait this time.

            “Yeah, it is. A plague for sure,” she said, agreeing so as not to start an argument, and carefully stepping through a broken window.

            “Not a plague, no. A contagion maybe.”

            “A virus can be a plague, idiot.” She fell for it.

            “No, I don’t think so,” Roy said, now beginning to scan the aisles of the dark pharmacy they’d stepped into.             “A virus isn’t bacterial, and only bacteria can cause a plague.” Wendy was fairly certain he didn’t know what he was talking about­­—he was just trying to argue for argument’s sake, like he always did.

            Wendy shouted from the other end of the store, “Come over here, I think I found something!”

            Roy walked over, stepping over broken glass and streaks of dried blood, and arrived at the counter that Wendy was crouched behind.

            “Yeah?” he asked.

            “You’re wrong,” she said as she popped up, all too happy about the luck of finding a pocket dictionary.

After several minutes of flipping through the pages, trying to make his case, Roy finally gave up. “Okay, yeah. It’s a plague. You’re right.”

            “I’m what?” Wendy said, pretending to have not heard him. “I’m… light?”

            “You’re right,” he replied begrudgingly. “But I’m going to be right one of these days. Just you wait.” With that, he gave a smile and got himself up from the counter he was leaned against, then offered to carry her pack for a while. Like he always did.

            Eventually, Roy was right, the one time Wendy actually cared to be right.

            “You have to leave me now.”

 

            Now, Wendy carries her own pack every day. Well, most days. Today, she’s had to drop it, the same way a squirrel drops its mouthful of acorns as soon as it sees a dog. Every ounce matters when you’re running for your life.

            The plague chasing Wendy now isn’t fast by any means, but it’s plentiful and it’s dense and Wendy is tired.

            She’d stopped really running some time ago. Her legs couldn’t keep it up, and the adrenaline she’d come to rely on just wasn’t there anymore. She isn’t so much running as much as she’s simply hobbling. She’s found a comfortable pace, one where she just feels an occasional finger from the horde brush her shoulder or run through her hair. It’s not comfortable, but it’s sustainable. For now at least.

            Still, even with the dead fingertips grasping at her, Wendy can’t find the adrenaline she really needs. Maybe she’s desensitized to it all. She’s lived in this world for ten years now.

            A hand grabs her shoulder, almost finding its grip.

            Maybe she’s just that worn down. Does the body still produce adrenaline when it’s completely exhausted?

            She feels something harder than a dead hand at her other shoulder. It’s colder, sharper. Painful even.

            Maybe Wendy is just tired. Tired of trying, tired of fighting, tired of losing.

            She finally registers the pain in her shoulder. It burns, and more than that, it scares her. It causes her to look behind her.

            A thousand dead faces. More than Wendy can count. Each of them packed right against another, each of them blank, but each of them somehow carrying evil in their eyes.

            No. Not evil. Just hunger.

            Finally, that rush of energy kicks in. Wendy’s conflicted about surviving; She’s been doing enough of that. But getting torn apart piece by piece isn’t any kind of way to go.

            She starts running, sprinting faster than she ever has, faster than she thought she could. With a few hundred feet between her and the mob, she ducks into an alleyway, quickly looks for a window to sneak into, a ladder to climb, anything. She knows they can follow her around a corner, but they can’t reason a move past that. Then she spots it: a dumpster.

            She throws open its lid and hops in, shocked to find it mostly empty, and closes the lid above her.

           

            Hours pass. Or maybe it’s just a few minutes. Maybe it’s days. It’s hard to keep track when you’re sitting in a dark metal can. She hadn’t heard a moan in a while, but moving hurts. Her bones feel like twigs ready to snap, her skin like dried leaves ready to crumble.

Finally, she moves her hands towards her wounded shoulder, finds something viscous that clings to her fingertips. She sits up, reaches around her opposite hip to grab a lighter from her pocket, and holds the weak flame to her fingertips.

            She’s looking for a heap of red that doesn’t drip too much because it’s already begun drying. What she finds instead is a black ooze, still dripping because it forgot it needs to dry, that it needs to protect what’s still inside.

            For a moment, she tries to cry. She should be crying, right? But she can’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small book, smudging a little of her ooze onto it. With a pained smile and tears finally forming in her eyes, she lies down and rests her head atop the little dictionary. Wendy is tired.