Acceptable Risk

Like a heavy mist, the air was thick with death. The smell of rotting flesh seeped into every pore. “I will never get used to this,” thought Matt covering his nose with his sleeve, partly to keep the flies from flying up his nose, partly for the stench. Sometimes he wondered what was worse, the storm of flies or the nightmare of dead people who could still kill you. He took that thought experiment seriously. But today, it was death that bothered him more.

Death was not quiet, It was the buzz of flies in the vacuum of silence. It is the absence of the background music of our lives. Traffic, aircraft, laughter, talking, your playlist, the tv, the radio.

It was the sound of your retching. it was the sound of birds squawking and picking at flesh.It was the sound of your breath when you were hiding, it was the footsteps of the dead hunting you.

For Matt, death was the only certainty; his next breath was not. Every breath that came after that was an opportunity for one more, and one more.

It was that hope that Matt clung to every morning. Because every breath meant he was closer to his goal.

This particular morning Matt had more than hope, he had an idea. In this new world, ideas lead to death, and hope died every hour. But Matt had a different idea this time. He walked casually across the car park. He had spent the entire morning watching for signs of death. He felt secure enough that he saw none. His Adidas running shoes with the continental rubber soles were chosen for a reason. The bodies that scattered the lot had not moved for days. He knew that the slightest sound would wake them up. He also knew that he was taking a chance. But hope does remarkable things in a man. And one of those things was to takes risks, especially if the risk had an outcome that was protected by confidence, a mitigation for every possibility, and had the promise of alcohol. Matt was a risk manager before everyone’s brains started to rot. Every morning was a risk assessment, and it this new world, that was a necessity.

It was a typically humid day, but the sea breeze had brought freshness to the air, with a hint of salt that almost made him believe this was just a normal day in Durban.

He had heard rumours that the stores in Gateway shopping centre were almost untouched. But the problem was, it was impossible to get in. The dead seemed to know that this mall was a honey trap, and evidence of the fresh dead were laying all around him. He had watched it for long enough with no signs of life, or death, to believe that the rumours may be to keep everyone away. But he was confident, he had thought of everything, so by the time he had made it to Tops bottle store, he felt confident enough to be a little careless.

The rumours of untouched stores were true, at lest for this one. The craft beer section was empty, which pretty much summed up the demographic and their priorities, but everything else was normal. Shelves filled with alcohol, the walk-in fridge a storeroom that would keep Matt satisfied for years, or at the very least, bring some sort of joy into his daly hope. He helped himself do a gin and tonic premix, and looked at it with wonder. Memories flooded his mind, they hit him with such force that he staggered back and sat down on the checkout counter.

He held onto the can of gin as if it contained his every memory, terrified that letting go would mean losing them all.

Memories of his wife and in-laws sitting around around a fire, a serious discussion of politics and crime rolled by his mind like an old camera film. He saw days at the swimming pool with this very gin in his hands, laughter and splashing, pool noodle sword battles and games of Marco Polo.He saw evenings at his best friends house, conversations mixed with good food, gin and connection. He saw a life of meaning, fulfilment and connection, where hope was more than lasting just one more day.

He opened the can and drank from it, allowing the memories to wash through him, every sip a taste of the past. He laughed, he wept and he allowed himself to feel again. He sat amazed, at the memories triggered by a mere can of gin and tonic, and he held the can to his chest, grateful. When the moment passed, he looked up. ’What next?’ He thought to himself. A bottle of bisquit cognac stood out. ’That will do’ he thought as he popped the cork. This to came with different memories. A birthday gift from a colleague at work. He remembered being overwhelmed as not many got birthday gifts in the office. All those smiling faces, their genuine happiness for him made him feel awkward. He had no idea he was so well liked. He stood at his desk, the view of the warm waters of the Indian Ocean stretching out like an oil painting framed by the grey of buildings on either side. Turquoise blue with flecks of white spray as the south easterly skimmed its share off the top. The stark contrast of the traffic circle just below him, the same one he used to use every morning to get to the office reminding him that chaos preceded peace. Looking out from the 5th floor, he remembered the feeling like prisoner, from behind his window blinds, looking out at the freedom that spread before him on those curling waves.

Matt did not realise nor did he care that the alcohol was starting to take a hold of him. He threw an empty bottle of beer at a target as he used to on college campus, and whooped as it found its mark in a crash of glass. Time seemed to stand still, and he froze. The seconds turned to minutes and his efforts to remain motionless become more and more difficult as the room was starting to spin.

Through the gaps in decals and advertising, Matt saw no movement. “It is Beer O’clock obviously,” he chuckled.

He grabbed another beer, now confident that he was free have a little fun, but put the bottles down gently instead of throwing them.

His memories went deeper, to days on campus when alcohol, girls and music went hand in hand. He air drummed to the music in his head as he drank to those heady days of debauchery. Hiding behind sand dunes and looking up at bouncing breasts and twisted faces dripping with sweat as they wrestled with sand and lust in the summers heat. Covering up vomit with beach sand, hoping the girls didn’t notice so he could continue his quest to kiss every girl at the party. He thought with nostalgia at how far he was away from all of that now.

He walked down the aisle trying a different drink, and eventually have staggered and fell in a heap. He couldn’t get up. So he lay, and heaved and was overwhelmed by a swirl of sick and choking as he curled up and passed out.

As dusk settled, and the dead slowly sat up, the parking lot became a graveyard with headstones silhouetted against the sunset. It was mid-morning when his eyes finally cracked open. Lying in his own vomit the previous days memories made him shudder as the smell of alcohol and sick made him throw up again.

He struggled to his feet and found a soda which he downed as fast has his stomach would allow him. He heaved and thankfully the soda stayed down. He tried to spit but he didn’t have enough moisture in him and the drool hung from his lips and dropped across his chin. “Fucking idiot” he cursed himself, “fuck.”He drank another soda followed by water. He took stock, and found himself surrounded by bottles, cans and broken glass in a sea of vomit and piss. It had been so long that he could have any sort of fun without any inhibitions that his mind, loosened from any boundaries of caution and social etiquette took him to a place that both wanted to remember the days before death and to forget his life as it was now.

No amount of alcohol can take away ones reality, and reality hit Matt, and his stomach swirled once more with added anxiety to the mix.

Beyond the smell of vomit and alcohol that still lingered in his senses, the smell of and sounds of death seemed sharper and louder than the day before. He though he saw movement in his peripheral, and ducked. He held his breath, knowing that he was in trouble. He didn’t move, and the minutes passed and still, with head bowed, and one knee on the floor he prayed, “Our Father who art in heaven.” He did not know all the words, “please help me God, help me please.”

He lifted his head slowly, and peered between bottles, hoping that he would see the same thing as the day before. Nothing. And empty parking lot, dotted with motionless dead. His hopes dashed, the lot filled with the dead patrolling, without pattern or reason, walking, stalking. Some had noses in the air, sniffing, searching for the scent of life. Others scanning, eyes darting from side to side, even up when a bird took flight.

It was a typical humid day, and without air-conditioners building quickly became ovens that stripped you of all your moisture.

Matt wiped the sweat off his brow, his body wrapped in a layer of damp. The droning of a large fly broke the silence. He waved as it buzzed around his face.The droning seemed to get louder as it darted in and out. It felt personal He waved again slapping the side of his face, “fuck off.”

The dead outside stopped, Flies scrambling around its face as it tilted its head to the side. The flies cleared for a moment and Matt noticed it had one eye, the other a deep hole filled with maggots.

“Fuck fuck fuck. He held his breath.

Like a statue it stood, listening, waiting, sniffing the air. Just as death had an odour, so life had an aroma. Like bees to a flower, they honed in on that life, that aroma of existence, of aliveness, and and sound that hinted of life, breath, a heart beat. Its head turned towards the bottle store and seemed to look directly at Matt.

Matt hoped that he was hidden well enough between the faded Coca Cola decal shelves filled with alcohol. He needed time to think.

The one eyed fucker seemed to be making eye contact with him, one eye, to one eye.

Matt held his nerve, there was no way something with a rotten head could see him behind two aisle of alcohol and a window with more decals that a petrol heads car.

Like a robot, its body turned to match the alignment of its head.

“Fuck this guy,” thought Matt. “This one eyed bastard is going to ruin my day.”

He thought he caught a smile on the dead thing’s face, but dead men did not smile. Dead men were dead, dead men made other men dead. Dead men were going to ruin Matt’s party.