Crying

The interloper ran along the ground next to the wall until he came to a tree. Without stopping, he jumped onto the tree, and then pushed off towards the wall. His hands caught the spikes atop and he scrambled to keep his hold on them without slipping, or getting his wrists impaled on the other spikes. He pulled himself up so he could see over.

There was a lawn leading up to the house, which was starting to look like a swamp from the weeds and bushes that were growing in it. The house itself looked to be in good condition; he supposed it had been in good condition leading up to the zombies, and was probably occupied for some time afterward, if not still occupied. The only thing that made him think it was deserted was the overgrown condition of the lawn. But he smirked and thought how much of a waste of a time it would be to mow your lawn when zombies wandered on the other side of your wall, their ears open for any sounds.

The interloper pulled himself up the rest of the way, and rolled lightly over the spikes (which weren’t really that sharp anyway, dull concrete things more for decoration than anything else) until he slid foot first onto the other side of the wall and kept a hold on a spike until he was ready to drop the rest of the way. He landed in a roll and found himself amidst the vegetation. It grew all around him, and now that he was in the middle of it, he saw how tall it really was. Tall enough to make him think that perhaps the owners had been absent for longer than the zombie outbreak. Or else they were bad at keeping a yard.

He moved towards the house, which also appeared larger than he had thought. It had seemed further away than it was but was also a wider house than assumed, with a Spartan arrangement of windows, and no doors that he could see (still only two stories though).

The interloper came to the side of the house and grabbed onto the bottom of the windowsill, which was just above his head, and pulled himself up to look inside. It was a kind of office, with a computer sitting on the table with the monitor facing him and a door on the opposite side of the room. There were stuffed bookshelves and two chairs, one behind the desk and one in front of it.

He let himself fall and then pushed up against the window with his hand, and found it locked. He pulled out his gloves, and tucked his long sleeve shirt into them, and punched out the glass. He climbed in and managed to not cut himself on the jagged glass. Kneeling by the computer he found the on button. He pressed it, and the computer hummed to life. He hadn’t been expecting it, but, given that the house was walled, in its owners might have wanted to make their own power supply. It might have been a rich survivalist family. Assuming that it was a family.

While the computer started up, the interloper looked at the books on the shelves. Many of the books were medical in nature and several had the word “Biotech” in the title. There were even a few books on the Egyptians. To the interloper, it supported his idea that the room he was in was a dad’s office. But something still bothered him, so he walked back around to the computer and sat in the swivel chair.

The front screen asked either for a password, or to enter as a guest. He entered guest and tried a workaround that he’d learned from a friend in High School. It didn’t work. So this computer had a better security system than a school or the average home’s? He tried another method, but found no success. He was afraid if he might get locked out so he opened the desk to see if the password had been written anywhere. The first paper he found looked clinical. He opened it to find a chart of some patient named R. F.

R.F.
• Jan 15: Arrived with necrosis around left elbow, further inspection revealed it was also on the inside of his thigh. Doctor V.T. supposed it was a fungus.
• Jan 18: Anti-fungals removed the spreading of the necrosis, skin not too seriously damaged to warrant a graft. Sending patient R.F. home.
• Feb 2: R.F. returns again. He has multiple wounds on wrists and legs, self-inflicted. Crying blood. Was sent to mental hospital and put under solitary confinement…

The interloper stopped reading, and turned the page to the next, titled “McCarnegie Research institute.”

R.F. admitted a few hours ago; he is considered brain dead although he exhibits violent intentions and thrashes in his constraints. There is a possibility that this is what we’ve been looking for all this time. Please report any return to normal behavior at once.

Then in hand writing:

I agree, this matches what we’ve been looking at. I’m finding the necrosis a bit unsettling but otherwise I think we can swing this one. Maybe we’ll get our grant money after all! Day 2, nothing strange to report. Day three, nothing out of the ordinary, except that he has begun to cry blood again, which reaffirms the notion that he is a “zombie”, as examined in digs in Egypt. Day four, nothing. Day five, nothing. Day six, nothing. Will not make a further note until situation progresses. Day nine, reports are spreading that there are zombie outbreaks in New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and Seattle. We’re running out of time. Does anyone else find this unsettling? Day ten, no progress on a cure. Day eleven, I got a call from my wife, she’s moving the kids to her uncle’s house in Canada, she thinks it will be safe there and I agree. I just hope she gets there all right. Day twelve, I apologize for writing about my family, I know it is not conductive to research. Day thirteen, I’ve nothing to add, except that I don’t think my input is required anymore. The zombies will be running the world in a few days, I guess there’s nothing left to do but pray. Day fourteen, R.F. bit Doctor C.T., and I killed both of them. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, C.T. was a great friend of mine, and R.F, I’ve never killed a child before... Day fifteen, I’m getting out of here, I can’t take it anymore. I’m leaving my computer with its settings on default, all the files should be intact for anyone who thinks they are necessary. The password is "password" and the user is "user". Goodbye everyone.

I’ll be in Canada. I got off the phone with my wife and she says there is a quarantine in place that’s working great. If I hurry they might let me in.

The interloper closed the folder and sighed. He looked at the monitor which was displaying a screensaver; the words McCarnegie Research Institute floated across the screen and bounced off the side. He shook the mouse until the login screen appeared and entered in the username and password. It loaded up for a second and displayed an error message, “CAN’T CONNECT TO INTERNAL DATABASE, CONTINUING IN OFFLINE MODE”. The interloper pressed “OK” and the screen passed.

The desktop was occupied mostly by folders, and one media player, which he opened. He selected the first item off of the playlist and a classic rock song started pounding from the speakers.

He minimized it and opened the file on the desktop labeled “R.F.”. He prepared to read it, when he heard a noise from behind the door. He paused the song and listened closely, and heard footsteps pacing back and forth, that he hadn't been able to hear because of the music. He rose from the computer and reached into his backpack for his machete.

He heard the noise again, a soft sob. It sounded so genuine, he thought, so honest and real. It could have been anyone outside, sad enough that they were crying. Pacing as they desperately thought of a solution. The interloper stepped to the door and the pacing stopped. The sobbing increased and sped into crying. The interloper held the machete in front of him, and turned the door knob. He could definitely hear someone on the other side of the door and, if they were crying, he knew what they were now. He quickly pulled the door open, and chopped out into the air. It could have been any tired soul, lost and weary, crying for everything that had been lost.

His machete caught the zombie in the neck and dark blood leaked out.

The interloper felt a tear in his eye and he hacked again, the damn thing wasn’t this contagious was it, he wasn’t catching it by being there, was he? The zombie fell down, screaming at him. Screaming, like a dog lost without its most loved owner. “God damn you!” The interloper yelled at the crying body, “Why did it have to be so fucking sad?” He’d always imagined the end of the world would be China or Russia stepping on the nukes, or the oil would run out. Not some virus that makes you cry, that’s depressing, it’s the worst way to go. He knew America was nuts, that we all felt sorry for ourselves and we were all on anti-depressants, "but this is stupid." The interloper stared into the zombie’s face as it lay on the ground looking up at him.

There it was; the bloody tear. He could see it tricking past the zombie’s mouth. On the left side, a trail of red preceding it. The interloper finished it off, and stared at it for a second. It was still now, not crying at all.

The interloper became worried at how emotional he’d become; he could feel a warm droplet running down his cheek. He ran down the hallway checking door after door for a bathroom, finding office after office until he came to a kitchen. He pulled a mirror out of his pocket and checked his face.

There was no blood coming from his eye. He only had real tears; so he was alright. He washed his hands and he was alright. He went back to the office and stepped past the bloodied corpse. He gathered the folders on the patient, “R.F.” He left the building through the front doors and didn’t stay.

And he was alright.