Survive

Cynthia looked out her bedroom window and all she could see were bodies. There were at least ten of them laying in the middle of the road and the moonlight illuminated their wounds. Some had their stomachs ripped apart, others had gouges in their faces. Never having seen a dead body, she silently stared.

A person like herself was once alive and then they... died? She frowned, unable to comprehend. She knew what dying meant, but putting that concept together with the image before her... It was too much for a nine-year-old to understand.

“Cynthia?” her mother called from downstairs.

“She’s up here,” her father replied as he entered the room, the wooden floor creaking under the weight of his combat boots.

Cynthia looked over her shoulder. He had bags under his blue eyes as if he had not slept for weeks. Clearly exhausted, he ran his fingers through his neat, dark hair.

With a sigh, he crouched next to her. “You’re okay, right? Those things, they haven’t touched you?” he asked, lifting her sleeves to check her arms.

Rushing into the room, her mother’s eyes instantly fixed on hers. She was wearing her favourite red jacket and some sweats. Her brown locks were the spitting image of Cynthia’s, and their almond eyes mirrored one another.

She looked her up and down one more time before turning around to scan the corridor. They were afraid of something, but she could not tell what it was.

“What things?” she asked, looking between them.

Instead of answering, they sighed. Her father set his hands on her waist and lifted her before she could protest. Confused and tired, she wrapped her hands around his neck as he carried her out of the room and into the hallway. Her mother followed, scanning their surroundings. Something silver gleamed in her hand - Cynthia looked down to see it was a kitchen knife.

They walked through the dimly lit hall, as shadows moved across the carpet from the single window at the end of the corridor. When they reached the top of the stairs, her father froze and examined the first floor.

“What’s going on?” she quietly asked, despite her parents’ apprehension. Her father leaned over the railing, continuing to look towards the bottom of the stairs.

Before she received an answer, the familiar creak of the front door resonated through the air. She tightened her grip on her father as she peered over his shoulder. A figure stood in the doorway, right across from the stairs.

Whipping around, her father hissed at her mom, “You left the door open?”

Her mother simply glanced at him apologetically, pointing her knife towards the bottom of the stairs.

Cynthia stared at the person now entering the house. It was so dark all she could see was the intruder’s silhouette, moving across the first floor.

“Are you...” her dad began to ask, with a shaky voice.

No answer. Instead, the figure wandered around the first floor, moaning with every step it took. The sound of china breaking echoed through the house as it bumped into the display case her mother kept beside the door.

Alarmed, her father slowly lowered her.

“Who is that?” she asked, loud and clear.

Her father quietly ran down the hallway and into her parents’ bedroom. A cool hand slipped beneath her chin, tilting her face so she was staring into her mother’s eyes. Slowly, she pressed a finger to her lips - a sign Cynthia knew well. No more talking, now she needed to be quiet. She then grabbed her by the hand and tried pulling her back into her bedroom. Cynthia moved to follow, but was frozen at the sight of a figure.

For the first time, she saw and recognized him right away. It was Mr. Stevens, their next-door neighbour. He had a gaping wound on his throat that stretched from each side of his neck, yet he walked as if he did not feel it. His skin was pale, and his mouth seemed to be set in a permanent slump.

Shivers coursed through her spine as she turned to her mother and pleaded, “Mom, he needs help.”

“No!” her mother hissed, attempting to drag her away.

“Laura!” her dad yelled at her mom, exiting their bedroom with a gun in his hand

Cynthia knew what a gun was. Her dad was a cop, so he always had one with him. In addition, she had seen them in movies and cartoons. They hurt bad people, but Mr. Stevens was nice, so why was her dad raising his weapon at him?

“Get her away!” he shouted, hesitantly placing his finger on the trigger.

“Mr. Stevens?” she called out to the person tripping on every step. The sight of his wound caused her to tremble. Yet the thought that they could help him, made her stand firm. “Mom, what’s wrong with him?”

“Don’t look, sweetheart,” her mother whispered, trying to pull her back into her room.

“He’s not okay, he needs our help!” Cynthia protested, attempting to escape her mother’s grip.

Suddenly, a loud, horrible blast startled her. Then another one. And another. Her ears painfully rang as she looked up at her father. Finally, there was a thud. Mr. Stevens toppled backwards, down the stairs until he came to a contorted stop at the bottom of the steps.

Her mother began to sob behind her. “What do we do, Mark? What do we do?”

Wide-eyed, Cynthia stared down at Mr. Stevens. His clothes covered in blood, as was his messy hair. The sight of his limbs, bent at unnatural angles, made her stomach twist.

“Is he...” she looked away, trying to find the right word, “Dead?”

“I don’t know,” her father replied. “Let’s get out of here before we find out.”

He ran downstairs, past Mr. Stevens, and peeked through the front door before quickly closing it. Leaning his back against it, he took a deep breath.

“Not through here,” he said, grabbing a chair from the dining room and blocking the door with it.

“Why not?” Cynthia frowned. “What’s going on? Please tell me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her heart pounded in her throat as she clung to her mother.

“We don’t have time to explain, sweetheart,” her mother whispered, softly kissing her forehead. Cynthia was surprised and relieved that she did not scold her, “Right now, you’re going to have to be brave and trust us. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded, noticing how scared her parents looked, and not wanting to make it any worse.

“The back door,” her dad’s voice echoed from downstairs, “I’ll go first and see if it’s safe, then you follow with Cynthia.”

“Be careful,” her mom pleaded.

Just like that, he was gone. Was he going to die, too? Her eyes shifted over to Mr. Stevens. As she watched his lifeless body, she began accepting what death meant. It meant you would never speak to that person again. Never hear their voice. Never feel their love and kindness again. She remembered all the times Mr. Stevens had come over for dinner. He and his wife would bring their son, Adam. Adam loved to play hide and seek, and Mrs. Stevens always brought their favourite chocolates for dessert. Were they dead, too?

All these thoughts wandered through her mind until she heard more of that horrible noise. The noise that took Mr. Stevens away. A gunshot. She could not take it anymore. Her heart was pounding so hard it made her chest hurt. She tried to place her hand over it, but she could barely move as fear froze her. Her surroundings blurred until her vision went pitch black.

Cynthia awoke to the sound of water dripping, and the musty smell of old paper filled her nostrils. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see a flight of stairs and many shelves.

She was in the basement. It was messy, with boxes all over the floor and dust covering every bookshelf. Sitting up on her elbows, she glanced at her own body, finding that she wore a familiar red jacket on top of her pink onesie. It was comfortable, soft and warm. Bringing a sleeve to her nose, she smelled the sweet scent of her mother’s perfume.

“How do you feel?” a strained voice asked.

Only then did she realize her mother was sitting right next to her. Turning around, she pulled her legs up beneath her, and leaned on one hand.

“What happened?” she asked.

Shaking her head, her mother glanced at the ceiling for a few seconds. “It was all too much for you,” she rasped, “And I’m sorry you had to see that- that you have to go through this,” her mother ended on a whisper.

“I-”

“Listen to me,” she interrupted Cynthia, grabbing her by the cheeks, “Your father might need help. I am going to go out there. You are going to stay here, you hear me? That’s an order.”

She shivered. The thought of being alone in a basement gave her the creeps. She hesitated, but her mother had never looked so serious.

“I’ll be good, please let me come with you,” she cried.

Her mother sighed and straightened her back, pulling her towards her chest and slowly rocking back and forth. Then, she took a deep breath like people do when they’re about to break bad news to someone.

“Mr. Stevens,” she slowly spoke, “He’s dead. Do you know what dead means?” Looking down, she met Cynthia’s gaze and wiped her tears away with her thumb.

“Yes,” she replied. There was a question in her mind, though. “Did daddy kill him?”

“No. Something or someone else did,” her mother answered, looking as confused as Cynthia was. “I don’t know how to explain it. He was not the Mr. Stevens you remember. It was...” she hesitated. “... A monster. It was going to hurt us and daddy protected us, sweetheart.” She ran her fingers through Cynthia’s brown hair.

“Are there more monsters?” she asked. The thought of more people like that made her tremble.

“Yes. Daddy is taking care of the other monsters but he needs help, so...”

Cynthia looked down at her own sweaty hands. She did not fully understand what was going on but she knew they were in danger.

“And you’re going up there? Where the monsters are? Will you be okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” her mother replied instantly.

Cynthia stared at her mom. The tears in her eyes, the way she avoided eye contact and the way she trembled could only mean one thing.

“You’re lying!” She cried once more, burying her face in her hands.

“Hey, now,” her mother whispered, hugging her.

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

“Do you remember this?” she asked, reaching up and opening the locket she always wore around her neck.

Inside, there was a picture of her hugged by her mom and dad. They all seemed so happy. It was the day they had gone to the beach. The blue sky behind them and their genuine smiles made her feel a little better. If only they could smile like this right now, she wished. An involuntary smile took over her lips. Her mother removed the locket from around her neck and placed it around Cynthia’s.

“Keep it. Look at it and remember how much fun we had. Building sandcastles, swimming...” her voice cracked and she moaned painfully. She got up, straightened herself, cleared her throat and continued, “This room is safe for now. Do not leave it. When we come back, we are going somewhere safer. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whimpered.

Bending down, her mother placed her hands on Cynthia’s shoulders and kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” she said, before pulling back and running up the stairs, closing the door behind her.

“I love you too, mommy,” she replied after her mother was long gone.

A couple of minutes passed. Cynthia intensely stared at the locket as mixed feelings grew inside of her. Emptiness consumed her, but her loneliness would be rewarded once her parents came back. She squeezed the locket, pressing it against her chest as tears rolled down her face.

Minutes turned to hours. She searched the basement for food or water in every place she could think of, with no luck. The dusty bookshelves gave her the creeps and all she wanted was to get out of there. Thoughts about leaving invaded her mind multiple times. Just for a minute, she thought, so she could get something to eat or drink from the kitchen. Then she would remember how serious her mother had been when she had told her to stay in the basement. In addition, the monsters scared her. What had they done to Mr. Stevens? How did they kill him? The more she thought the less she knew.

Cynthia could not tell how much time had passed, but hours seemed to turn into days. She wondered why her parents would leave her for so long, questioning if they were dead multiple times, but quickly brushing those thoughts away. She had to hope they were okay. She knew they were okay. They were probably finding a place to take her, that is all.

Sometimes she would look at the locket. The sight of her parents hugging her, their smiles bigger than ever... It made her feel better every time.

After a while, her stomach growled and her mouth dried. At first, Cynthia was lying on the floor because she wanted to, but after a while, her strength was gone. Giving into the exhaustion, she closed her eyes and laid there, waiting for someone to come get her.