Mulberry Tree

“—500 dead and counting. This attack is unprecedented. Never before has this country seen such a large number of deaths in one year. US allies have been called. I've been told they have not given up on us. I repeat, they have not—” the news reporter's voice sounded frantic.

The biting chill of the rain beat relentlessly against the galvanised steel roof, water dripping through cracks in the ceiling onto the toes of her battered sneakers. Rose huddled under the frayed blanket, her head heavy, eyelids drooping to the steady drip-drip beside her.

A heavy hand pressed onto her shoulder.

She looked up. Her cousin stood above her, shadow blocking the flickering lamp. Behind him loomed Father Morgan, his brow furrowed over stern, unreadable eyes.

The battery-powered radio beside them crackled with static before dying completely.

“Rosemarie,” Father Morgan murmured. “In the back office. Now.”

A cold needle of dread pricked the nape of her neck. She didn't ask why. She let the blanket drag through the puddles on the floor and stood up.

As she walked out of that room, her fingers began to tremble. She knew what he wanted. She heard the whispers around the church.

When she decided to take shelter in this place, she knew she couldn't get something from nothing. Even if she took shelter in a church, in this world, shelter wasn't free.

Her cousin squeezed her shoulder, his hand clammy. “It’s going to be alright, Rose.”

What a liar.

Rose hummed. She followed them down a hall and into a small room with two old couches and one window. She immediately sat down on the couch, which sent pinpricks into the back of her thighs.

“Do you know what happened to Michael?” Father Morgan asked calmly.

“He fell down and broke his leg," Rose said. She didn't see it, but she heard people speaking about it around the church.

Apparently Michael thought it would be a good idea to get back Wi-Fi by standing on the roof, his phone held up in the air while it rained in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Fool.

Rose had a natural talent for being quiet; more often than not, her demeanour had allowed her to overhear conversations others had about her, themselves and their new world.

“I guess you've overhead the others talking about it?” Her cousin smirked.

She nodded.

“Then you must know what we want to ask of you?” Father Morgan scratched his bearded cheek.

“You don't have enough able-bodied people to get supplies.” She stated.

“We don't have enough able-bodied people to get supplies.” Father Morgan corrected. “As it stands, you're not the youngest or oldest among us. And it would be stupid of us to send a group of gatherers to get supplies when noise attracts those…things.”

Without blinking, she asked, “When do you want me to go?”

“I haven’t said anything about you getting the supplies.” He frowned.

“Quit beating around the bush.” She smiled. “I could read between the lines. You wouldn't have brought me here for a private chat if you didn't want to ask me to do something important.”

“Rosemaire, this is a voluntary mission," her cousin quickly interrupted. “You don't have to agree.”

“But if you do agree to go and get supplies for us, if you come back, you get to pick and choose what you get.” Father Morgan pipped in.

Rose pressed her lips together.

What Father Morgan won't say is that if she doesn't go, she'll be seen as ungrateful, or worse, she won't be seen as one of his worker bees. In an organisation, if one of us stops working, the whole system collapses.

Then what do you do with that one cancerous rot? Not cut it out?

‘That’s also why he wants to persuade me to go get supplies by promising to give me the first pick of the litter as a reward.’ She observed.

We are all driven by consequences. We are all rewarded for achieving good results, whereas punishment is expected for bad results.

This is how they manipulate us to conform to the organisation known as society.

“When do you want me to go?” She repeated.

Her cousin's shoulders slumped while Father Morgan's face brightened.

“As soon as possible.” He replied.

Rose nodded. As she walked down the hall, her chest felt tight. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Memories of bent bones and bloodied corpses flashed across her mind, causing her to cover her mouth.

“Rosemarie.” A voice called out.

She turned around and saw a young man limping towards her. It was Michael. He handed her a backpack and smiled, his dark eyes reflecting the UV light.

“I heard you were taking my place. Sorry, girl.” He smirked. “If you need help with anything, don't be afraid to ask me.”

She hesitantly took the bag and nodded.

She didn’t need to check the bag. She already knew what was in it. A bottle of water, a first aid kit (which only had two bandages), a chocolate and granola bar, and a knife.

When she left the church, it was as if someone put mufflers on her ears—the drips of rain and the tapping of feet stopped. She couldn't hear a sound.

Rose gulped and walked down the street, making sure she didn't step too hard on the ground. She headed towards a nearby convenience store.

The ground was littered with broken glass bottles and dried blood. The store door was left wide open. Shelves were stocked with preservative snacks and canned food. Toilet paper and chocolate weren't in sight—those were the first things looted.

She grabbed any canned food she could and stuffed them into the bag. Which wasn't much. The most she managed to get was five cans of beans and three cans of corn. She walked down the aisle.

Suddenly sharp and cold dug into her ankles. She shuddered and bit her tongue. Her tongue felt like it had been pierced.

She slowly looked down.

A hand covered in dried blood almost touched her shoe. Nails filled with what looked like dirt squeezed her jeans.

‘Don't move, don't move, don't move,’ she internally chanted. ‘Don't move…’

Her eyes followed the hand, and a face with white eyes pushed against her feet. Its face looked hollow as if it had been starved for years. Its mouth was open, filled with yellow and black teeth.

She breathed in deeply. Then she breathed out slowly. She slowly moved her foot, carefully avoiding the undead's mouth. She took a step back, then another, then another, lightly putting her weight on the ground.

Crunch!

She froze. She looked down and saw an empty plastic bottle. She was focused on the undead in front of her so she didn't bother looking behind her.

Rose could feel her heart beating against her chest. She got what she came here for. She took her backpack and rushed out. Behind her, she heard feet slapping on the floor. Getting closer. Closer. Closer.

She felt something sharp grazing her hair. She turned a corner and ran since her life depended on it. Between lampposts and across streets, her long black hair tied into a pony tail became undone.

There were rocks and stones on the ground, causing her small feet to almost trip and stumble. A flock of doves flew past her, cooing along the way. Rose ignored them, urging her legs to run faster and faster. She glanced back but didn't see the undead chasing her anymore, but she didn't stop running.

To call them “zombies” seems childish.

It had a name. Loved ones. Likes and dislikes. It had a life and died. It was once a person, so would “undead” be the proper term?

The first time she saw one, it was a year ago, crammed into the back of a maxi-taxi during the morning rush along the highway. She had smoothed down the skirt of her office blouse, acutely conscious of her sheer black stockings as a man a few rows up began to retch violently. Fortunately, she was too far back for the spray to reach her, though the commuters beside him weren't as fortunate. He went down rigid, his limbs locking before he hit the rubber matting with a heavy thud. The driver slammed on the brakes, scrambling for his phone to call for help.

By the time sirens finally wailed into traffic, the man was up. His eyes had gone entirely milky, teeth bared as he lunged into the panicked crowd. The police arrived with weapons drawn, hesitating to shoot him while civilians screamed. Rose didn't wait to see how that confrontation ended; she shoved past the paralysed onlookers, flagged down an empty taxi, and locked herself in her home. Her boss had chewed her out over the phone for abandoning her shift, but within hours, the phone lines went dead anyway.

That day…the world officially came to an end. Work. School. Breakups. Make-ups. Fights with friends. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered but survival.

In this world, being able to survive another day is something to celebrate.

Just one more day. One more.

The rest of the survivors still talked about that day; they wondered if they knew what would happen and what they could have done differently. However, rather than feeling helpless, the majority of people in the country took up arms and looted electronic stores and groceries.

One of the first things a person thinks about in a crisis is their own safety. Despite all the negative situations thrown at them, human beings have an uncanny ability to change that negative situation into a positive one.

By the time the orange sun dipped into the sky, her silhouette disappeared from the ground. She stopped running, her stomach aching. She recognised a bakery at the corner of the street and used it to guide her way home.

Her feet burnt every time she made a step, and sweat rolled down her forehead. A frigid breeze brushed against her, giving her a pleasant chill. Using her hoodie, she wiped her face, opened her bag and took a sip of water.

The bakery she passed usually glowed with a warm light during this time. Before the world ended on her way to school, the bakery used to smell of freshly baked bread.

She missed the smell. She realised little things like these she started to miss. Things that seemed so insignificant a year ago she now deeply cherished.

Squeak!

Squeak!

Squeak!

A rat ran over her shoes. She bit her lip hard to keep from screaming. Her gaze followed the rat as it ran towards a horde of undead at the end of the street.

The undead were limping slowly towards someone lying on the ground. A man wearing a white vest, his forearm on his head. His tired dark eyes stared at the sky. He wasn’t moving.

Rose attempted to ignore him, trying to sneak past the horde. She kept her gaze down, not giving the man a second glance. She made it to the end of the corner and stopped. If she continued on her way, she could make it back to the church in no time.

She just needed to take a step forward. One more step forward…

She couldn't move. It felt as if her legs were made of lead. She was too slow to make a decision. Cold arms brushed against her arms. She stopped breathing.

‘Leave him.’ Her mind screamed. ‘He chose this.’

She didn't want to help him. She should mind her own business. It's survival of the fittest out here. She can't help everyone and yet…

What does it say about her if she just left him to die?

She should save him. Or at least try.

The undead moved past her and towards the man. She was like a small seashell being pulled out into the ocean. She felt as if she made any sudden movements, they would turn towards her and bite her.

She slowly twisted her ankle, taking her foot off her shoe. She kicked her shoe a couple feet ahead of her, causing it to clang against a nearby gate. It made a small sound, but it was enough.

The undead slowly turned and moved towards the gate. She breathed out a bit more easily but didn't dare open her mouth. She turned to face the man.

She took a step towards him when her bag strap slipped off her shoulder. She looked over her shoulder and saw an undead clutching a strap in its clawed fingers. The undead's milky white eyes remained fixed on her face. Blood dribbled from the corner of its mouth, which stretched into a wild grin.

Bile climbed her throat. It limped closer. Its hot and rancid breath brushed against her cheek. She froze as if she were a statue. It tugged her backpack strap again. Without taking her eyes off the undead in front of her, she zipped open her bag and took out a can of beans. She threw it hard at a lamppost, causing the undead to turn and sprint in that direction.

All but the one clutching her backpack strap.

Her hands clenched. It felt as if her heart was beating out of her chest. She realised she had two choices. One, she could kick the undead away and run for it, but if she did that, the undead would come closer to the man and kill him.

She could also slip the bag off her shoulder and silently try to make her way to the man and try to save him, but if she did that, the food she promised to get for her group would be lost.

Food is currently being rationed at the church. It's going to run out in a week. She can't afford to lose her food.

The weight of her bag cut into her collarbone—the food that bought her another week of safety in Father Morgan’s fold.

What matters more? The life of her group or one man?

Unconsciously, she loosened the backpack strap from her shoulders inch by inch. Her eyes prickled. She felt as if she was giving away a precious limb. She immediately wanted to take the bag back but knew she couldn't.

What's done is done.

She crouched beside him. Up close, his features were sharp and hard-edged, his lips parted in slow breaths. A jagged scar ran down his collarbone. His lips were full and pink. His skin was pale, and his dark and emotionless eyes stared at her.

“Do you know me?” His voice was low and raspy, like dry leaves.

"No," she replied.

“Why did you save me?” He asked.

“I don't know.” She said helplessly.

As he lowered his arm to his stomach, his dark hair brushed against his forehead.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” He suddenly asked.

Rose’s chest tightened, heat rising to her cheeks in a wave of shame and anger. She drew her knees to her chest, teeth clenching until her jaw ached. She wanted to stomp her feet, scream or shout, but all she did was silently shake her head.

She sighed. If someone told her they saw this man on the cover of a magazine, she would believe them; he was infuriatingly handsome. However, no matter how someone looks, she has trouble getting intimate with them if she isn't emotionally connected to that person.

She buried her face in her knees. She didn’t know how long she stayed there. Her head felt fuzzy. It felt like time stopped, or she was in a dream.

She glanced back to the horde of zombies. They were limping into a wall; some crawled towards a lamppost, while some were quietly groaning on the ground. Her backpack was nowhere in sight.

She failed. Father Morgan was going to chew her out or worse, kick her out of the church. She'd be left on the streets to fend for herself. She knows she's safer in a group. And yet…

She felt her nose burn. Her eyes filled with tears. Get up. Get up. Get up.

What's done is done. She needs to get to the church. What the group decides to do with her, she'll accept it. She won't complain.

Get up. Get up. Get up. It felt like someone put a spell on her. She couldn't move her legs.

“Get up,” she whispered.

The man's eyes narrowed. He tilted his face toward her, dark eyes hollow like empty wells. He didn't move even as hot tears dripped down her face and spilt onto the ground.

“Just get up, get up.” She continued to whisper.

Was she saying that to herself or him? She didn't know.

He didn't move. But slowly, his hand lifted from the ground; he brushed the tears from beneath her eye—his hand felt unbearably warm.