The Falling

I saw my grandparents’ ghosts. My eyes were deceiving me at the lowest. I’d already lost so much to the Falling. I couldn’t. Clearly, my mental health was shot, but like an idiot, I went closer to their apparitions. I needed to say goodbye—and blow their brains out. Luckily, they died old, their zombies probably frail. I checked the barrel of my large gun and reloaded with one arm, something I had to learn early on.

The apparitions closed in, and I gripped my gun tighter, caught between reality and daydream, life and death.

“Allison.”

My heart dropped. Eyes widened. But I held the gun firmer, falling to my knees. I was so dehydrated and tired—maybe this was how I die. But I should let myself feel this is real, real so I can go peacefully. I felt my grandmother’s warm fingers on my face. Them standing strong and together.

“You. You guys are alive? For six years I’ve mourned and grieved and survived. I couldn’t come back. I would have.” My sobs were quiet and broken. The undead weren’t present here anymore. The town was picked clean, but my grandparents looked too good to be true. I was used to crying quietly.

My grandfather left, grabbing a pail of water and a stainless steel cup. I studied the room, something I do normally—but everything stayed the same and it felt unreal.

“How are you guys alive?”

“The military. There was a rescue, and we were lucky. They didn’t hit our home, although they tried. We were all boarded up.”

“Your medicines... Are you okay? I can get you things. You won’t need anything.”

I panicked, standing up.

“You’re okay, Allison. We’re okay. The military gives us what we need.”

I finally put down my gun, which made my grandfather unclench.

“I’m sorry. It’s become a necessity.” I placed the gun on the table but kept one at my back and knives in my boots and hip. I was always prepared so zombies wouldn’t swarm me and I’d never get kidnapped again.

I dropped my mask and lost the hood. Their jaws dropped.

“You look like your great grandmother, like un ángel.”

“I’ve killed before. I’m no angel. I’ve stolen, lied. I’ve sinned.”

My grandmother pulled me in. I felt her warmth. It had been so long since I’d hugged anyone.

“Mijita. It’s an apocalypse. You’ve survived so long on your own. You have secrets and regrets. Dios entiende.” She placed a rosary around my neck.

I didn’t believe in her god, but she forgave me for everything I was and did. And that was enough.

My grandfather hugged me too, but I knew I couldn’t stay. Not if the military was involved. They had a perfect life and were well taken care of. I’m sure my grandfather gives them seeds, fruits, and flowers. My grandmother probably works on getting society running again. Part of loving someone is letting them be healthy, letting them live without worry. They weren’t getting any younger and deserved peace without me.

I thought about the bad blood between me and my mom and sister—the way I had to leave Polaris to protect them. More tears formed in my eyes, but I let my grandparents ease my bag off, studying my muscled but frail body. It had been a while since I’d eaten. I hadn’t let anyone touch me since him.

“Tenemos comida. ¿Quieres?” my grandfather asked softly—the way he always showed love before the Falling. He’d lost so much weight from stress and anxiety. I could see it in his face. Memories of him loading my plate high hit me like a knife.

“That’s okay. I’m okay, Grandpa.” He pulled me into another embrace, though we never had the best relationship. Nothing comes before family—especially during the apocalypse. Six years alone. Killing friends. Watching families die. Leaving my own to keep them safe.

“These should fit?” my grandmother offered clean clothes, luckily black. I didn’t wear other colors if I could help it. Other colors drew attention from survivors.

Most feared the dead. I feared the living. People were as merciless as zombies. I learned that from being kidnapped, abused, assaulted.

“But what about you?”

“Allison, the base gives us what we need. I have plenty of clothes from before. Your clothes are ripped and patched.”

She wasn’t wrong. My jeans had duct tape and messy stitching from the dark.

I bowed my head, thankful. I couldn’t take off my clothes in front of her—not yet. I couldn’t let her see the scars my abuser left or the ugly bite from last year. She handed me a rag with water and homemade soap.

“We have leftover rainwater you can use to freshen up.”

I nodded and went to the bathroom. Undoing my long braid, I stared at my reflection. Washing hadn’t come often. It was nice, but I dreaded washing the bite—jagged teeth marks like a dry mushroom.

I cried silently, wrapping it with gauze. Thankfully, the long sleeves hid it.

My face wasn’t dirty or bloody anymore. My fingernails were clean. I walked out, head down. It had been too long since anyone saw me without fear.

“You’re so grown up, mijita. You look exactly like your mom but also your great grandmother Petra.”

I’d heard stories of Petra—beautiful, kind, and strong. I wished I’d met her.

Breaking the silence, I asked, “Can I see my old room? Look at my books? Is it okay if I take some?”

I remembered the stories I never got to finish and the ones I wrote. The key under the sink—I’d always been so secretive and crafty.

Being crafty reminded me of the bombs I made and distributed.

Running (Flashback)

It was raining. I remember my sister and mom taking me to Walmart. I had a hoodie over my shoulders like a blanket. They didn’t tell me yet, but I knew about money problems. My sister needed money for college and her senior trip, but I was too young to help and acted out. I wanted a soda, and my mom lashed out. Thousands of dollars to my sister, but no soda for me.

I refused to get in the car. I walked silently, one of my many acts of defiance. Mom drove off sometimes but always watched me, degrading me from the car. This time, she left longer, so I took a different route, but she always knew where to find me. I ran into the cornfield. It was a light jog in the rain.

Halfway through, a sick man warned me to run. It was odd, but something told me to listen. An older man with terrible teeth, crazed and deadly, started chasing me. That’s when I knew, from all my hours of video games and movies—it was a zombie.

I sprinted faster than ever, knowing the way home, but Mom and sister never came. I ran into a veteran who stabbed the creature through the head, killing it. It made me sick. Why hadn’t Mom or sister come for me?

Justine Flashback

Allison always gave Mom issues. It wasn’t unusual; they both needed time to cool off. I felt guilty. I only wanted to go on my senior trip. But Mom was short on money. It messed with all of us. She refused to let me work, saying she’d figure it out like always, but I don’t think she could this time. She was raising us alone after leaving our grandparents.

Mom surprisingly drove away from Allison this time. She usually watched her, degrading her from the car. Allison deserved it sometimes for being a brat, but not this time. It was more attitude than reason.

“Mom, that was a bit out there,” I said calmly.

She turned up the radio as we hit the road. People were leaving their cars and acting crazy. The radio announced the beginning of the end. The thing our grandparents warned us about was happening.

Mom tried to turn back but the military blocked the road. An armed soldier approached.

“She’s a kid. Alone. She’ll die. Please let us get her,” Mom sobbed.

I cried inside, too used to being strong for Allison.

“Ma’am. This is a one-way road to safety. You can’t turn back,” the soldier said.

“Please,” Mom begged.

“Mom, she’s going to be fine. Allison is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them,” I said.

I saw the undead in the distance—hunger driven. Mom saw too. Silence louder than words.

Allison was probably already dead. We mourned our grandparents, uncle, and cousins. This cruel world has probably taken them.

The end had come.

Allison POV

The flashback stabbed me in the heart, and I gasped quietly, thankful my grandparents didn’t notice. My bite throbbed, a sharp reminder pulling me back to reality. That old zombie wound from a year ago ached like a bad memory.

I cleared my throat and found my grandparents had made a decent feast while I changed. I wore a bra that fit—something between a sports bra and regular—a black turtleneck, and new black jeans, loose enough to run in but still hugging my body. I kept my boots, though soon I’d have to let them go. They probably had shoes here for me, but I was attached to these.

I made sure to cover the bite well before leaving the bathroom completely. Nothing compared to grandma’s cooking. I was lucky to taste it again. Though my grandparents hurt and scared me with memories of the Falling, none of that mattered now. I’d been running, surviving for six years. Verbal abuse was nothing compared to what I’d seen, done, been through. It haunted me still, shaped me—made me who I was with people. My silence saved me; maybe I should be grateful for everything.

Fresh fruit and veggies from the garden, nuts with almond or peanut butter for protein. There was also a large omelette.

“You spend a lot of time doing things in the apocalypse,” my grandfather said. “Refining skills, trying to survive. I found ways to get us food at the start. We survived before the team came.”

I nodded as the plate was set on the table. They both sat, sipping tea or coffee. It was good they never broke the habit—keeping routine in this broken world.

“You can breathe, mijita. Please eat,” my grandmother urged, concern in her voice.

“Have you eaten?” I retorted.

“We eat every day. We’re okay, Ali. Please.” I nodded and ate, not caring about blandness—just escaping for a moment. Food was one of the few things driving all of us—living or dead. Hunger and desire ruled everything.

“You always had an appetite. Need more?”

I shook my head. I was used to very little, more would probably make me sick. I couldn’t remember my last proper meal.

“Do you need more water?”

I nodded, handing over my large water bottle, the one I’d used forever. It doubled as my shower sometimes—beat up, but reliable.

My grandmother left and returned with a brand-new Hydroflask. I tried to refuse.

“ It belongs to you, so please.”

She opened it and showed me the metal filter for purifying water.

“Thank you.” I said goodbye to my old bottle. The new one was sturdier, bigger.

My grandmother looked down at my boots.

“We can get you some new ones. I had too many shoes back then.”

Instinct told me to refuse, but I relaxed. This was family.

“Boots, if possible. Something high to cover my ankles from rain.” I hated rain. I fucking hated it—the wet socks, sores from soaked skin—but I always needed to be ready. The rain on my feet reminded me of those nights that I lost everything.

She nodded and left the room. It was just me and my grandfather.

“Mijita, ¿estás bien?”

I nodded, but with my family, my face told the truth. They could always read me, even when I was young. It was like being studied under a microscope. This time, I masked everything well.

“Tu cara me dices tanto dolor.” Your face tells me you carry so much pain.

“That’s not important. Not now, Grandpa. How is she? Does she need anything? You?”

I finished my water glass.

“No, mijita. Stop stressing.”

I shrugged, but he continued.

“You lost so much weight—I barely recognized you.”

I smiled, looking at my gun. Remembering what it meant for him. For them. They didn't see what I saw. Did what I had to.

“I’m sorry it was pointed at you. I didn’t believe my eyes. I was so lost.”

“It’s okay, mijita. You’ve probably had it worse than me.”

I knew it hurt him to remember a gun pointed at his head—my grandmother’s brother before the Falling. I’d had guns on me plenty since I was a kid, been shot. That pain never leaves, a scar you carry physically and mentally for life.

“I’ve been shot and stabbed. No excuse, but all I can say.”

I was a survivor. I always lived through what should have killed me.

“Mijita.” He looked like he was about to cry—something he never did, but when he did, it was serious.

“These should fit you, Ali.”

My grandmother had heard—tears filled her eyes. She was curious since I was alive.

These were my sister’s shoes. Everything I wore now was hers.

“She was alive the last time I saw her—her and mom.”

I eased her nerves, telling the truth. I’d seen my sister and mother recently, but I had to run. They didn’t know why. I thought about them living peaceful lives—keeping them safe meant leaving.

“I was just on a run,” I told them, “for a few days, searching for food and supplies. I was around and just came home. I wanted to see if anything was left. You guys were always ready for this kind of thing—I remembered.”

I studied the house, finding the false floor. Decades worth of food. I knew how to preserve and jar from them. Survival items too—electric lighters, matches, stuff to keep warm.

“You need a new bag too. It’s about to fall apart,” they said.

My duct-taped bag was one of the few things left from my first group.

I sighed. Maybe it was time to let go. I’d have memories of those who kept me alive, all those I watched die, the people I had to put out of their misery.

“Soon. I can’t yet.”

“Take your time, mijita. Do you want to sleep?”

Sleep?

“I can’t. I don’t want to be involved with the military.”

My heart rate rose, but I masked it.

“They were just here to deliver and trade. They won’t be here for another week.”

“But what if you need help with the undead?”

“We can handle ourselves. We’ve killed some before.”

But their bodies weren’t what they used to be. I knew, and they did too. They were alone—but still killed zombies. Even my grandmother.

My mind always raced when I needed rest, but your body needs less and less when you’re surviving.

“Can I sleep in my old room? Just one day?”

“Take as long as you need, okay? Abuelo y abuela got you.”

TO BE CONTINUED