Short Story: Drainpipe

An old drainpipe, clothed in patches of green lichen, drips continually beside me. The house it’s connected to is old, worn down. It rained last night, and it was cold. Now I sit in the morning sun hoping to warm my body before my journey. Beside me, the drainpipe, drip, drip, drip.

I’m taking the time to clean my gun. The smell of the oil is the only breakfast I can afford. The house had long ago been ransacked. There was nothing in there to eat. I prayed I’d spy some rabbit, or something, along the way.

The sun is warm on my face, but inside I’m still shivering.

On habit, I lift the sight of my rifle to my eye, scanning the underbrush with the unloaded gun. I see movement. Eagerly, eyes on the bushes, my blind hand reaches beside me, scrambling for a clip.

My heart is pounding as I load my gun, battering my ribcage in its excitement. I try to calm myself, and begin listening to the drips. Plunk, one falls into the little, muddy well. Plunk, another drop falls. My eyes stay on the bushes, but my heart slows, growing in empathy with the droplets, slows to match the drip, drip, drip. Ba-bum, it beats, ba-bum.

Then I hear that dreadful noise I’ve been running from. It’s no fat rabbit in the bushes. As if highlighting the sound, the wind shifts, carrying with it that well-known odor. Time has not inured me to the smell, or the sound, but I am glad for them, these warnings.

I lose track of time as those bushes become my entire world, my eternity. One thing remains, the memory of the storm, its parting gift. Drip, drip, drip, fills the silence left by that horrible moaning. I wonder if the thing in the bushes knows me, or the drips, or remembers the cold and the rain. I wonder, my gun trained on its position.

One rotting, clawish hand, stretches out from the bushes, reaching its boney fingers into the soft soil. The thing drags itself along the ground into the light. The head comes into view, and for a moment I see its face. The eyes are pale and empty, only hints remaining of the soul once housed behind them. The mouth is open, and the lips are gone. Many of the teeth are gone. Again, it moans. Waterlogged, its bloated skin is colorless.

My shot rings out conclusively, and the back of the zombie’s head rains on the bushes behind it. The thing slumps to the ground, finally dead. Beside me, the drip, drip, drip continues, and over me the sun is warm, its heat promising a new day. Still I shudder; still I am cold from the night.