Post-apocalypticverse

A Story by better_reality

Girl lives in a futuristicish world where a virus has appeared that makes people more animalistic. It is not contagious, just appears seemingly random in people. Infected are often out on the streets.

The world becomes a different place when you get Infected. It doesn’t change in the physical sense, obviously. But the way people look at you, the way they treat you, the way they cross the road to avoid you, if they aren’t ballsy enough to just hurl abuse at you.

You learn to act differently. To walk different, talk different, if you talk at all. It’s a common thing to lose something after the Infection. As a bonus, a personal ‘f**k you’ from the universe, it’s usually something important as well. Talking, maybe. Thinking is a common one, so there’s a lot of brain-dead, animalistic types out there. If it’s not important in the sense of survival, then it was important in the sense of you, as a person. I met a girl once, back when I’d just been diagnosed and was naively believing in the whole ‘safety in numbers’ crap, who had been amazing at gymnastics. Sounds pretty useless, right? Who cares if you can do three backflips in a row. I can still remember the crushed look she had, as she described to me what it had felt like to soar through the air, the feeling of the floor under her hands, whatever else it was that made her love it so much. I hadn’t realised until then, pain doesn’t just come from physical injuries. The mental ones scar just as much. Two days later she was dead after trying to do a backflip and landing on her head.

So, yeah, you change. You learn what to do, and what not to do, especially if you want to keep the Patrols from sweeping you up and taking you… wherever. Nobody really knows what happens once you’re taken, only that you don’t come back. That’s enough reason for most of us to avoid them like the plague, ironically.

I’ve pretty much got it down to a T now. Don’t walk about during the day. You want to stick to the back alley ways even in the dark, but at least when it’s pitch black and you have the better night-vision it’s less of a risk to dart across the street to get to that restaurant that leaves offerings after closing. That’s another thing. You want to eat? Learn to rely on handouts. God knows there are enough rats and small mammals in this city to feed an army, but it’s not worth spending the energy to catch something that’s gonna fill you up for half a day, tops. I learned that one the hard way, because it’s a double edged sword. Want those handouts? Better get there fast, especially if you can’t hold your own in a fight. In a city with this many Infected, it’s a given that everyone is gonna know the nearest food sources pretty damn fast. That’s the rule: First come first served. We stick by it, if only because too many fights means too much noise and too much noise brings the Patrols.

That’s the big thing. The one we all have an equal respect for. I’m not sure if they’re called Patrols, I don’t even know if that’s the universal term for them. I could be the only one who uses that word, I wouldn’t know, I don’t exactly talk to the others a lot. Or ever. All I know is that they semi-regularly (It’s hard to define time in weeks when you live day-to-day) come and invade the alleys that are our territory, that we sleep, eat, fight in. They spend hours searching, and if you get caught, don’t expect any help from the rest of us. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here. The only advantage we have against all their heat-seeking technology and sniffer dogs are our senses. And I’m not talking about the typical five that regular humans have. I’ve heard countless men and women cursing when they follow all the signs of an inhabited area back to the source only to find a recently vacated sleeping spot. All I know is that, be it late evening or early morning, the moment they get closer than three streets, my entire body screams at me to run. Run, run, as fast as you can. That was a nursery rhyme, if I’m not mistaken. I could be. I don’t remember a lot from the Before anymore. I used to think up theories, anything from adrenaline to some sort of telepathic bond between Infected humans. I gave it up eventually. The why doesn’t matter when you can see flashlights turning the corner, can hear dogs frantically pulling against leashes to get to you and pin you so their owners can cart you off for the government to do who knows what. Experiments probably.

There I go again. I can’t help it. I’ve always been curious, that much I know. You’d think that was how I’d got to be infected, following a cat maybe, that turned and scratched me. But that’s assuming that the Infection is passed on like that, through scratches, bites. It’s not. From what I can remember, nobody really knew why some people are susceptible and others aren’t. I heard genetics mentioned, as well as environment. I remember thinking that was bullshit, because my parents definitely weren’t infected, and neither was my brother. Maybe they’ve figured it out now. Maybe they’ve pinned down a cause and all these Infected the government whisks off the streets are actually being put into rehabilitation, being cured. As if. You spend enough time out here, even the most optimistic person gives up their hope. Not that I was the most optimistic. Just naïve.

One of the clearest memories I have from when I found out I was an Infected was the disbelief. Sure, the Infected existed. You heard them during the night, knocking over bins, fighting, even saw them on the news from time to time, with their reflective eyes, shining back at you like a cat. But it was something that Did Not Happen. Not to you. I happened to Jimmy from number 4’s cousin, to Friday from school’s cousin twice removed �" she’s not related to me, not really �" but never to you. And yet. There I was, in the living room of my parents middle�"class house, a parent either side of me �" are they moving away slightly? No, of course not, she’s gone to get tea, not to get out of the same room as you �" being told sorry, but you’re Infected. Infected? That’s right, miss.

I think I laughed. It gets fuzzy after that. I must have been brought to the rehab centre, because every goes there, when they’re first diagnosed. You get processed, given a number, #222, #456, #1343, and put in a room with two, three, five, other people. As the city grows, so do the number of Infected. It was cramped, I think, unbearably so, with sweat permeating the air, sobs echoing in the halls on a night. I left. Lots of people do. It’s how you end up here, on the streets, on the run, technically. Even though there are the Patrols, as long as we keep to the shadows, keep to ourselves, don’t cause any disturbances, they leave us alone. The Patrols are more for the public. Look! We’re protecting you, doing our duty. The dangerous Infected are being brought under control. The reality is that there are a lot more of us than them. The Patrols, that is. Not the regular humans. But we aren’t contagious, the virus doesn’t spread like that, if it’s even a virus, so we get a free pass. Yeah, it makes us less human, more animalistic, with considerable aggression when provoked, and hyper-activity that makes it impossible to stay still, leading to fights that leave you with scars and serious distrust of anything Unknown, but so long as the general population is happy, that doesn’t matter to them. And it’s fine. I’ve accepted it, even if some of the others haven’t (seriously, how delusional do you have to be to try and take on an entire government?).

Besides, I hear there’s some sort of war going on, or something. I’ve become that detached from that life, content to just live day to day, night to night, that I wouldn’t even know about that if it wasn’t for one of the few Infected that I didn’t chase away as soon as they came near me. Probably because they bear a striking resemblance to my brother, but I try not to think about that. I’m half convinced I’m some sort of masochist, living for the jolt of pain I feel in my chest every time I see him, but maybe I just crave the company. It can be lonely, living as solitary as I do. I’ve seen others interacting, nothing as committed as friendship, but enough recognition to pass a few sentences when they see each other. Anyway, the war thing. Apparently some faction of the government disagrees enough about something to actually come out and say it. With force. Now on a night you hear the odd spray of gunfire and shouting, in amongst our howls and snarls. After he told me about it, I started noticing it more. The other night I passed two others, perched on a balcony above, watching a skirmish in the street, hunger evident in their faces, in the red veins visible in their eyes. I’ve never eaten a person, but I would be willing to bet that there are a few in this city that can no longer deny it.

So now you’ve got to be careful, checking streets before you cross them, sticking to the shadows even more. We might have the improved night vision, but both sides are trigger happy enough to do serious damage if they see you. Like we need more trouble.

Tonight, you didn’t need to look out for the trigger-happy war loving-factions, no. You didn’t need to look for them because it was a holiday. How could I tell? It was near midnight, the moon was high in the sky, and the streets were still packed. This meant my route to china town, to the restaurant on Bradley street that on good nights put out two or three bags of food, was completely cut off from me. That food was probably right now being scarfed down by the other greedy b******s that had the good luck to live near there. B******s.

Growling under my breath, I stalked through the less used alleyways, the ones no stray party goer would accidently wander down in the quest for a wall to piss on. My entire night was ruined. I didn’t even know what holiday it was. It wasn’t cold, I didn’t think (our bodies were warmer than a regular humans, due to the fever that came with Infection), so it couldn’t be a big one like Christmas. It hadn’t snowed yet, so I don’t think we were that far into the end of the year anyway.

I hit an intersection and paused. There was a big chain restaurant if I went right, but with all these people it would be a risk to hang around nearby until it closed. That smaller café was a couple blocks over on the left, but there was only a 50/50 chance there would even be any food there. If there wasn’t, I was doomed to chasing rats for the rest of the night. Weighing up my options, I eventually went with caution and turned left. I had to squeeze through a pretty tight gap and nearly twisted my ankle hopping over an awkwardly placed bin but if it meant that I would be the sole contender for food, I’d grit my teeth through nearly anything. Most fights you’ll get into out here are over food. Food is your #1 priority from the get go. I’m a pretty good fighter, enough to get myself a nice out-of-the-wind sleeping spot with a heating vent that blows slightly warm air out occasionally. I’ll come out of most fights with a couple of scratches, maybe a deeper gash if the other one is bull-headed and thinks that just because I’m a girl I’ll be an easy win. I’ve still got a couple big scars. One from a crazy old lady who spotted me one night when I was cutting across a road and decided to try and run me over, one from a fall when the fire exit I was sitting on gave way, and then a collection from a run in with the top fighter of my old city, before I learned that negotiating is pointless. They’re the main ones, but I’ve got countless ones from skirmishes over the years.

Slowing as I heard voices, I sniffed the air before peering around the next corner. Nothing bad, but no food smells either. I squinted and instinctively drew back when the back door of the café opened, and two people exited, carrying black bin bags. I wrinkled my nose slightly even as my mouth watered. Gross, rotting food was still food. Besides, the stuff on top was probably still fresh. Heaving them into the bins with a grunt, the two stood for a moment as one lit up a cigarette. I scowled as I examined them. It was a guy and a girl, the girl was the one smoking. I mentally urged her to hurry up, so they would go inside and I could see if there was anything in the bags to eat. I’d already given up hopes of any handouts tonight, it just felt like that kinda night. After a couple of years (so I exaggerate, fight me), she finished up, and they went inside. Just before the guy shut the door he paused and grabbed something off the counter, placing it on the doorstep and looking around for a second. I would have shrank back, but my eyes were currently occupied with the nondescript paper bag he had put down. Food.

Hearing the door shut was like the starting signal. I scurried forwards, not even bothering to give it a few minutes for safety, intent only on getting that bag filled with �" was that meat? The aroma wafted into my nose and my pace picked up, until a car drove past and illuminated a set of eyes not five feet away.

We both stopped, she just as shocked as I. There was a second of absolute silence, where we simply stared, sizing each other up. She was of a similar build as me, with dark scraggly hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Better to pull I thought to myself, my own tied in a messy plait with an elastic band I found ages ago. The thought made my lips curl over my teeth, and she responded in kind, a growl bubbling up with it. Bring it, b***h I smiled, teeth and all, and then we were at each others throats.

Both snarling, I went for her hair, getting a fistful and yanking, about to use my handhold to deliver a head butt when she brought her hand up and clawed at my face. I hadn’t noticed her long nails before, but now they raked across my skin, digging in deep enough to make my whole face sting and drip with blood. I shrieked and head butted her anyway, my blood smearing across both our faces, as we staggered back. She blinked, dazed, and I wiped away the blood as best I could. It wouldn’t be good to have damaged vision in this fight. She clearly had experience, but then again, so did I.

I watched her tense, and took a step forward to meet her attack when a loud banging started next to us. Jumping, I whirled, ready to run, convinced it was a Patrol, they’d snuck up while we were fighting, they were going to be there with their dogs and �" saucepans?

The source of the noise turned out to be a guy banging two saucepans together. He was shouting too, but stopped when he saw me turn. Risking a quick glance, I saw the other girl watching with apprehension as well. Who the hell was this? What was he doing? In any other situation I would be long gone, but with that bag of food there, and this girl ready to fight for it, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Stupid, stupid I thought to myself, but still my feet refused to move.

“O-oh.” His voice made me tense, and I prepared to either attack or run. I angled myself so I could see the girl better, and relaxed slightly when I saw she was watching the boy, not me. “Look, there’s no need to fight. Here,” he bent down, not taking his eyes off us �" apparently he had some sense in him, just not enough to resist stepping into the middle of a fight over food between two Infected �" placed down the saucepans and picked up the bag.

My stomach clenched and I growled without thinking. This was his solution?. To give that bag to one of us, leaving the other to go scavenging for the night? He paused when he heard my growl, and I watched the girl tense, but she didn’t attack. Yet. I crouched slightly, just in case.

“No, no I don’t mean that, I’m not going to give this to one of you” my eyes widened slightly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spent this long around a human, but I was pretty sure they didn’t normally act like it was an everyday thing to speak to Infected like they wouldn’t rip your throat out if they got the chance. I would know, after all. And this idiot was holding food. He didn’t even know if we understood him.

I heard the snarl before I saw the movement. Evidently my competitor had understood him or had finally had enough of this strange situation. She rushed him, hand out, nails aimed at his face. Take him out then grab the bag and run. Not a bad plan. Of course, it would have worked better had she remembered about me.

I leaped forward, colliding with her mid-air, centimetres from the idiot’s face. She’d have to do better than that to take my food away. I’d already had a bad enough night with the bloody partiers filling the streets past any decent time they should be filled, I was not about to let some scrawny chick steal my food. We hit the bins, which hit the floor with a loud bang, and we were up again before they had even settled. The snarls were louder now, more animalistic. I used to try to tamp down this part of me, but in the moment, it’s these instincts, the parts of you that make you snarl and scratch and bite, that save your life. So we hit each other again, adrenaline making it so I couldn’t even feel her when she kicked me in the ribs, and she probably couldn’t feel the punch she caught with her face. We ended up on the floor again, rolling in the dirt, yowling and scratching. I managed to get on top of her, and for lack of any other option, bashed her head against the floor a few times. While she was dazed, I wrapped my hands around her neck and squeezed. She clawed at my hands, furiously at first, leaving stinging scratches that soon filled with blood, then less so as her body was denied air. When I saw the fury in her eyes start being replaced with dread, and her body started straining, survival instinct taking over, I let go.

She gasped, chest heaving, and I stayed where I was for a moment, staring her down. She looked away in less than a minute, and I stood, turning my back in a false display of bravado. If you look confident, that’s half the work done for you. Refusing to give in to the prickle on the back of my neck and the tightness of my shoulders, I stalked towards my goal, part of me hoping that he would refuse to give over the food, that he’d put up a fight, so I could tear into him, use the raw strength I could feel in me. This is why people are scared of us. Once the adrenaline surges, we become a whole other person. The me right now would not hesitate to take down any obstacle, be that a human boy holding a paper bag filled with food or an eight foot fence that needed scaling. We need to be pretty desperate to kill a human to eat, but that doesn’t mean we don’t kill humans.

He must have seen it in my eyes, because he held out the item in question in a trembling hand, as far away from his body as possible. I hesitated, then quickly snatched it, holding it to my chest. I turned, about to leave, when his eyes widened. In a single moment, instinct overtook my body, and I turned and roared at the girl behind me, who had been about to attempt a second robbery attempt. She flinched and tripped over herself as she ran, her own instinct causing her to retreat, fight the battle another day.

After watching her go, I frowned. Now I was probably going to find her in my space in less than a week, challenging me. She seemed like the type. Turning to go again, I caught sight of the guy, who seemed to be frozen on the steps. His face changed quickly after he saw me looking, but I still saw it. Horror. Fear. Nothing new, but my stomach still clenched in shame. He opened his mouth, to speak, to hurl abuse, I didn’t want to know. I was gone before he’d uttered a word.

Later, when I’d finished the food and retreated to my sleeping area (Den? Nest? I never knew what to call it, but sleeping area seemed to fit) I thought back to the guy. What had he been doing? It was like he’d thought we were normal. He obviously knew we weren’t, but his actions had been weird. Grumbling to myself, I settled in for the night, not seeing the point in venturing far when there was nowhere to go anyway with the streets still full. I resolved not to go back there for a while. I had learned a severe distrust of anything new, or different, and he was both. Better to stay away. There were plenty of other places I could go anyway.