OutBreak

Chapter Two

The time for grim work now: the night had grown dark and deserted, and the few remaining humans in the once teeming arena found themselves bathed in a sickening purple light. Through the low, occasional grunts of stray zombies, the ghostly stillness outside was best broken. My house was an ex-friend's then, made over into a shed of sorts and my only shelter amongst the storm. The fact that they had existed as walkers showed the danger left outside these walls.

At home, I had turned the inner space into a system of fortifications: one could notice cans filled with stones and scraps of metal disposed around the perimeter, placed in such a way that upon disturbance, they would make noise. Almost carelessly placed, those cans seemingly had been posed so that when anything moved, the rattling would be heard. An intruder would be caught. Next to the cans was an old-time radio, which, at one time, brought news and music. It was now wired to a speaker with the system altered so that if jostled, there was an instant and piercing crackling of noise. And layer upon layer, everything else that made up my do-it-yourself protection device.

From there, I had placed two other types of tripwires, consisting of used string and some antique rope, towards drain bottles in which I placed unsecured gravel inside them; the bottles were hung around the room with the help of wires, and with any pull at those wires, the bottles would drop, causing a noisy and interrupting sound. The community of tripwires was nearly invisible within the darkness of the light from one candle, but I had an imprint of the presence of each in my mind along with their exact locations. The installation was simple and crude, meant to give me those precious few minutes that I needed to react if the zombies ever made it past my first line of defense.

The room was small and bare, holding only the bare essentials of life. I touched two knuckles to the base of the nearest candle flame and found the wax cold under my touch. Only one flame remained lit, casting a long shadow and shaking on the walls—an impression both tense and beautiful. My room was heavy with an olfactory memory unique to the medium: the smoky stench of sputtered wax and the less-specific reek of rot. My makeshift barricades might have been shoddy, but at least they proved I wanted to live. I had propped up the main door with a large couch so that its heavy mass could provide some measure of protection from the battering going on outside.

Still, I could not shake the tension from my skin—any minute, any second, I felt danger surrounding me. This might be a quiet night, far too silent, its silence speaking even of greater menace. Now and then came a low growl of a zombie from the distance riding a slow build.

And when I had placed the last can back, I looked to the room in the other directions to find that the walls were packed with what seemed to have been memories of a life: torn pictures, wilted calendars, and a few personal effects lying about in different parts of the room. What value do these trinkets, utterly and completely pointless in the light of the apocalypse, hold in the minds of a society in which every waking moment is spent scrabbling for the barest necessities of life? I wondered if I would ever get back to a society that gave a damn for such trinkets.

It was not a nice moment; then the silence was broken: the sound of a smile—a short, sharp, almost aggressive click of the teeth. I felt horrible that all these preparations couldn't have been done well. I tensed, listening intently. There was quiet for a moment before I realized that an alarm had been triggered because a stray cat had crossed into the improvised perimeter at the warehouse. Slowly, I exhaled, "Hey, cool it," I instructed myself as the feeling of foreboding dug its claws deep past the fossa of my heart. Ignorant of its perilous position, the cat finally emerged from the storeroom, leaving me to myself in the dimly lit room.

It is much better than carrying the name Akhil in a world that has become a dump. It was another fashion of fighting out there in those days—a war not over life but in search of a different rank in a society that was then probably predominant with classes and pauperized. A social gulf yawned as wide as the gulf between life and death—only it was measured now in terms of money and opportunity.

I was the guy who, once, had been cultured and coded to be a doctor in the future had I not relapsed. Intelligence and motivation showed from my school and college results as hard work and dedication, but they were all that could not get me admitted to the MBBS course. Therefore, the rejection was a great blow—to my dream, at least, to my parents'. All their lives, they fought to ensure I caught my dream of going to college. Their existence was always a question of their ability to come up with the cash, with barely the means to make payments on credit. I felt the consequence of their sacrifice—the soreness that was their disappointment.

I had given up hopes of ever becoming a doctor and moved on to get a physiotherapy degree. That was a practical choice, keeping me in the medical field while guaranteeing financial stability. Switching from medicine to physiotherapy felt like a necessary compromise between ambition and reality. Despite my initial disappointment, I threw myself into my studies, determined to make the most of this new path.

In university, I met Sara, who turned out to be a star that brightly shone in the midst of my stormy life, full of stressful economic dispositions and academic failures. Her bright eyes and laughter contrasted sharply with the grim circumstances I was facing. We first spoke in the students' meeting room, where casual conversations grew very fast into deeper discussions. Those small meetings with her were the highlight of my day. The lunches could be shared whenever our schedules allowed us, and after each such meeting, we became closer as our hopes and fears were shared.

Even while getting close to each other, we seemed to keep a distance. Sara was born into a rich and influential family, and her future was apparently secure. I had to cope with shortages in the family budget and unrealized potential of mine. That imbalance was always there to remind me of being somewhat less than others. Sara was a symptom—both a balm and a pain. Our ease in conversation many times depressed me back into reality regarding things I couldn't provide: stability and security. The knowledge that our time together was limited by real-life constraints weighed heavily on me.

I supported myself with writing work. The work was irregular, promising sometimes a decent income and at times nothing but frustration. The rise of AI and automated content generators had really upended the world of writing, making an already unstable job even more so. Still, I harbored hopes that things would get better. Writing became my respite from the cruel realities that surrounded me and was a way to vent my frustrations about an industry being laid waste by technology.

Memories of Sara were solace as the world outside kept collapsing. Akhil sounded like a second name from another life, replaced by Rex, a name that identified with my survivalist attitude. Each night, while I prepared for the dead, I would hold onto these memories. They reminded me of times when life was about problems, not survival.

Night drew in, and I prepared myself for what lay ahead. The burden of my past strengthened my resolve to face the new trials that would have me survive once more. In a world overwhelmed with darkness, the memories of my life at one time—or rather, at least—led me as I made my way through the ruins. Sara was out there still, counting on me to save her from the monsters that took her from me.

The night grew unbearably quiet, the house—a monument of loneliness within desolation—silent except for the moaning of zombies off in the distance and the faint squeaks of settling furniture. My makeshift defenses—cans, tripwires, and a rigged radio—remained watchful. I sat on an improvised bed made of blankets and pillows and was weighted down by thoughts. The wavering candlelight drew long, mocking shadows on the wall. I took a deep breath, allowing the momentary silence of the room to soothe my turmoil. This rare moment of peace was tenuous and fragile.

My memories of my past life echoed from afar. When I was an injured survivor named Rex, I was once Akhil—the student with hope in his eyes. The transition from hopeful student to survivalist was jarring, but it was the path I had to walk. First to appear was Sara's image—the girl who had been my first sign of hope in this chaotic world. We finally connected in the shadow of the apocalypse, her presence giving me strength. Her smile and laughter had been balm for my weary soul. Now, those memories were tinged with pain: Sara had been kidnapped.

The night was still, almost smothering in its silence. The house, a fort of solitude nailed in the middle of desolation, spoke volumes to my work of keeping myself safe. Improvised defenses of squares of cans, tripwires, and a rigged radio stood silent but ever-watchful. Lying upon my bed of blankets and pillows, the weight of my thoughts pressed heavily upon me. The candlelight from the light danced upon the wall, flickering, epitomizing for me how my situation would be—in the balance. I breathed deeply, enjoying the tranquility of the room to somewhat lessen the riot within. It was one of those times when a lot of peace was measured in moments-tender.

Memories of my life before were as if the faded echo still clings on. From Akhil, a student with dreams of a medical career, I was now Rex, the survivalist forged from an upside-down world. It was a really jolting change from hopeful student to battle-hardened survivor, but it was one I had no choice but to make. Sara's memory brought hope and sorrow. We met after the apocalypse, our bond growing as chaos and danger grew. Her presence was a comforting reminder of what I was fighting for. Her smile and laughter were a balm to my weary soul. Now, those were tainted by the painful reality of her kidnapping.

Night wore on, and I was still awake, my mind torn between past regrets and present dangers. Sara was out there, trusting me to free her from the clutches of those who have taken her away. In this suffocating quiet of the night, I prepared my senses for whatever dangers were lurking around, desperately clinging to remnants of my past life when it faced an uncertain future.

Knowing she was taken gnawed at my mind and soul, the danger and the fact of its unexpectedness are also a constant reminder of this new world. The whole situation was beyond my control; the images of her in the clutches of whoever took her weighed heavy on my conscience. This gave me purpose in a world running short on hope: urgency to find and bring her back home.

The erratic jumping of the candle flame made a mess in variously shaped shadows, which furthered jeered at my turmoil. I turned and looked back at the path leading to here: a battle of survival that had kidnapped my dreams yet poured strength into me that I never knew I had. It gave focus to the comparison of the past and present, demonstrating the contrasting adaptability and strength.

I stood and crossed to the window, peering out into the darkness. It was still quiet except for the occasional shuffle that some stray zombie would make to break the silence. The night had been at once chalice and challenge—soothing in its concealment, yet inherently dangerous. Every slice of peace granted another slice of time to prepare for the unknown.

When it finally went out, the room went completely dark. The quiet deepened to reverberate with isolation and a resolution to which I had become so accustomed. I lay down, burdened by thoughts. Sara's absence was the very engine that drove me.

I closed my eyes and steeled myself for what was to come. It was the past that had shaped me, but it would never dictate my future. Struggle and loss were indeed my lot in life, but they were never to be its culmination. Hardship and heartache were only the passing chapters; another lay ahead. This was a chapter of further struggle and endurance in pursuit of hope amidst darkness.

The whole night stretched ahead, but with the strength of memories as my weapon and the will to find Sara and to hold on to the imagined future with her, I stood strong for whatever this night had in store. In that silence, I embraced loneliness and the resolve that it carried. Outside my window was a world in ruins and uncertainties, but within me, an unfaltering flame of the will to live, fight, and never give up was burning.