Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 3, 2019 11:39:07 GMT -6
Fred
There are two-hundred sixteen stitches on a baseball. Its inner core is either rubber or cork. The baseball is wrapped in yarn that, if stretched, can reach up to a mile in length. The outside core that covers the tightly wrapped yarn is usually leather, sometimes plastic in the case of younger children.
Former US presidents John Quincy Adams and Herbert Hoover had pet alligators, Calvin Coolidge two lions, and Theodore Roosevelt a badger named Josiah who had the unfortunate habit of biting people.
Interesting, albeit useless, information.
When it’s just you and one other person, trapped within a cramped apartment for seven straight months, this is what happens. Boredom invades your mind and you cling to anything anything anything that cuts through the monotony.
Of course, this was before the electricity went out, taking away Google and Wikipedia.
Fred isn’t helping matters. We’ve been best friends for a long time (longer than I can remember), and we used to talk about anything and everything. But ever since the monsters came and the world moved on, he rarely opens his mouth. Right now he’s sitting across the tiny living room of our three-room apartment. One of his elbows leans against the chair arm, his head propped on top of his fist as if bored. Well, duh, of course he’s bored! I am, too!
So why won’t he talk to me anymore? Why does he ignore me?
“Fred,” I say. No response. “Fred!”
His head slips and now lies on top of his flabby arm. I can tell he wants to sleep. That’s all he does anymore, nothing but sleeping and ignoring someone he once called his best friend. I don’t care. I’m beyond caring. It’s hard to care when you don’t even have a life anymore.
“Forget you, dude,” I say, rising from the sofa.
I’d left the window open that day, the unbearable chill of winter still several weeks away. The smell of some kind of cookout latches onto my nostrils. Before I realize it, drool trickles down my bearded chin. Downtown Cincinnati is quite bare of life, but from my position on the twelfth floor of the apartment complex, I see a fire in the distance. A bonfire, at the intersection of I think 5th Street and Vine Street, across the street from Macy’s. Are there people down there? I can’t tell, but there has to be. Who else would have started the bonfire?
Though teasing to my taste buds, I know this smell. It’s not a slab of sweet, baby back ribs from Morton’s Steakhouse, or a big juicy Baconator from Wendy’s.
Charred, human flesh.
Cannibalism is a subject Fred and I haven’t discussed just yet. Honestly, though, I don’t plan on bringing it up. I’ll never let it get that far. Even the deadbrains out there who aren’t human anymore, I wouldn’t even eat them. I’m sure we could maybe kill the infection by burning the flesh… but… that’s just so sick. There’s no way I could do that. I’d sooner put a bullet between my eyes than eat another human being. It’s too bad I don’t have a gun, though.
Plus, I’m pretty sure Fred is a vegetarian. Strange, too, given his… well, given him.
I turn back around and find Fred slouched forward, almost to the point of falling out of his chair altogether. He’s fast asleep. At least he doesn’t snore, so I guess there’s that to be thankful for.
The day is slowly drawing to a close, taking away what little light we’d had on such a cloudy day. I scan the supplies strewn about our room. There’s a lot of stupid little things that are of no use, but very little food: only a can of baked beans, a half loaf of stale bread, and a single bottle of water. How in the world did we let our food supply dwindle without realizing it? I’d done well after the initial breakout, taking supplies from the apartment rooms of those who’d fled the area (or who’d killed themselves rather than brave the streets), but that was seven months ago. We’re almost out, and that means I’ll have to go outside and find something.
I don’t want to, though. I’m… I’m scared. Fred’s still asleep but all I want to do is shake him, shake him until he finally wakes up and apologizes. I want him to apologize for not helping me gather food and I want him to apologize for not helping me barricade our door from the monsters outside. Come on back for more ~
Very cool
