The nights to come
Timothy Tang
Part I: Memories
The war was supposed to end yesterday... Nothing seemed to change in the world, nor did it really matter... Resistance was futile and only strong managed to cope with the horrors of the night and the walking dead. The fires still burn as homemade explosives are used in self defence, and sometimes self-infliction. It is usually cold at night, but the fires attract them, making sleep almost impossible. I try to sleep during the day, but the threat will not sleep, nor do they need to. World governments crumble one by one with each passing day, and the world’s military power disappears in a blink of an eye. Life is scarce these days, but I live on to tell about my tales.
Today is another day, ‘another day...,’ I tell myself, another day of death, pain, and a countdown to the time I will finally be put to rest in my grave. I remind myself about the past, and what I used to have; a job, a house, wife, three kids, and even the odd vacation here and there. I had ‘the good life’ as one might refer to as, needless to say I was happy with what I had; I never did want it to change.
I was waiting for one of my company’s business partners; Joe, George, or whatever his name was. I was lounging on the reception area’s couch, reading the paper and helping myself to a cup of Americano, when I heard a few mutters across the room. It was the receptionist and the boss’s personal secretary; they were discussing something on the news it had seemed. I wondered what the fuss was about, and turned to the front page that I had skipped ahead of to read the daily sports article. On the front was a cartoon depicting the Roswell incident decades ago. The headline read, ‘What you don’t know,’ and it smaller subtitles, ‘-courtesy of the US Government.’ The article told about a leak in a confidential letter sent to the president. The letter had been traced back by unknown investigators to an unknown address in Nevada. Suspicions rose among those he first knew about this and went to decode the letter that was sent. The private investigators eventually came out to the public just yesterday to announce their collected findings of the private message. They were to hold a press conference later on the date of Tuesday, March 15th 2019 when their offices were raided by New York City police. The two investigators were taken into custody for questioning and were charged with treason against the US government. On the 2nd page were people’s opinions on the subject, and the results were of no surprise. Many people are now withdrawing support from the government in fear that they may turn ‘corrupt’; while others voiced that it was of no right for the investigators to ‘peek’ in on private matters of other people, including the subject of today. Most of the population however, were simply apathetic and went about their daily lives as usual on this apparent not-so-eventful Wednesday afternoon. “Creighton!” I heard my name as the main office doors swung open. It was George after all.
These days, things are different. I never carried a gun with me, nor did I ever own or want to fire one. I was never an irrational American civilian who acted upon gut rather than thought. I had found the small .357 sig cartridge which incidentally fit perfectly into the Glock 17 pistol that was found not a foot away. I had never fired a gun before, but my life now depended on a natural instinct.
“C’mon son, just pull it back,” I followed the instructions carefully; I had never felt such a rush before in my life. I pulled, closed my eyes, and released. A satisfying sound of a direct hit filled my mind. “Good hit!” the balloon was no longer filled with water, nor will it ever hold anything else, ever. It was my first day with any sort of a weapon, an old sling shot that was passed down for generations from my father, and his line. The rubber strips had been replaced over the years, but the integrity of the wood still held firm.
I searched through my closet for it, unable to remember where I had left it in my haste. The mess of clothes and supplies always seemed to work as a system of organization for me; probably why I was still alive...perhaps... I finally found the small shoe box that once held my first pair at size 2. I pried open the cover that was sealed tight with super glue as a sort of time capsule till when I was older. It was the first time I had looked through the objects of this treasure cache since twenty years ago. In the box were several pictures of me my parents had taken of me at the many ‘first times’ of my childhood. I scanned them quickly; ‘first day out of the womb, first day at kindergarten, first day at baseball practice...’ and then finally, I found the picture I was looking for.
“Craig!” people used ‘Craig’ in preference rather than my actual name, it was simpler after all, to say and spell; an economically productive, one syllable, simple transformation. I turned around to gaze into the eyes of her. I still remember those eyes to this date; a perfect combination of blue and green to attract one’s attention such as myself. Her smile as well, perfectly symmetrical on all angles, and the voice that came with it; I could hear harmonies and melody in perfect sync. But to sum it up fairly economically, in a one syllable transformation, ‘Rebecca’.
I had lost track of time over the period of which I spent gazing at the picture. I lifted my hand to look at my watch as the hour hand grazed the bottom of the circumference. ‘Another night,’ I thought to myself. Walking over to my old rotten dresser; I had managed to peer out of my apartment window to catch a glimpse of a commotion outside on the streets. This certainly wasn’t going to be another night.
I could hear gunfire outside of the apartment as I woke up to another day. I slowly crawled out of the sheets to take a look at the street fifteen stories below me. It must have been the night guard on duty, as it was still only two hours into Friday. I opened my closet to gather what I needed. Slowly, I pieced the one of a kind jigsaw puzzle until it was viewed in its entirety. I carefully place it on the window seal. I peer through the circle of glass, and then fired. The bullet was dead on, as I aimed to take another shot. Soon there were more guards on the street. They held behind a barricade of chunks of metal, debris, and the odd overturned semi.
“What the hell is going on outside?”
“More of them,” I took another shot as soon as I could. Yaris closed the door behind him as he left the room, swearing under his breath.
“And I thought I would be getting some sleep tonight,” Rachel leaned over the window sill, like she did on most nights. Her sarcastic tone lightened the mood just a little. “How many are we talking here?”
“From estimation, maybe two hundred,” I quickly glanced and added.
“There are more of them every night, I wonder how long we are going to last…” it was a rhetorical question, especially with the inactivity of government troops in the area. The firefight was over fairly quickly. We regrouped as soon as we could at the main lobby of the hotel.
“Role call, state your assigned codename, specific order, you all know the drill.” The men and women of 61st street motel lined up in order. There stood 12 of us, each, a different code name; the names mostly resembled their role in the party and personal traits.
“Overseer.” (Charlotte Noel)
“Talker.” (Malcolm West)
“All nighter.” (Ted Bell)
“Keg Master.” (Akemi Yoshida)
“Glass eyes.” (Blake Rink)
“Tank.” (Kgosi Koroma)
“Leapfrog.” (Jun Lu)
“Campfire.” (Jason Rink)
“Shooter.” (Me)
“Steering.” (Jack Rent)
“Red Cross.” (Rachael Moon)
And last but not least…
“Full House.” (Frank Weld)
No one really understood why we used codenames rather then our actual names, but it definitely helps the new comers.
The sun rose between the once crowded streets of Broadway and Main, but not today, like most other days. These streets were never safe, and they certainly aren’t safe these days ether. I try to understand why no one goes out anymore; it isn’t all bad these days, you just have to be careful. The cafes in Soho never open, nor do the churches or the businesses of New York City. ‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask myself.
The day was clear for most of the morning, a true blessing to the 61st company of New York. The day went on as one would expect when finding him or herself in a worldwide holocaust, struggling to survive and get through the day to see another dawn.
The creatures slept during the day, or at least they chose to remain unseen. But the threat was always present. Government forces were to be avoided as well. The white house had ordered full lock down on as many infected areas as they could, and encouraged other world leaders to follow. Other remaining armies on the face of the earth were ordered to ‘cleanse’ anything that moved within these areas.
Timothy Tang
17
Rockdige Secondery
Jan 13th 1992
[[ The Wishlist ]]
I could use a new set of headphones...
More guitars?
Maybe a grand piano...
and the will power to write my books
If only life was a fantasy story...
A weekend away with my extended family perhaps? (You know who you are) (^_^)
Fantasy of Darkness (A book project of mine)
Da creater
[[ Don't talk crap, it's ****ng rude ]]
The nights to come
Timothy Tang
Part I: Memories
The war was supposed to end yesterday... Nothing seemed to change in the world, nor did it really matter... Resistance was futile and only strong managed to cope with the horrors of the night and the walking dead. The fires still burn as homemade explosives are used in self defence, and sometimes self-infliction. It is usually cold at night, but the fires attract them, making sleep almost impossible. I try to sleep during the day, but the threat will not sleep, nor do they need to. World governments crumble one by one with each passing day, and the world’s military power disappears in a blink of an eye. Life is scarce these days, but I live on to tell about my tales.
Today is another day, ‘another day...,’ I tell myself, another day of death, pain, and a countdown to the time I will finally be put to rest in my grave. I remind myself about the past, and what I used to have; a job, a house, wife, three kids, and even the odd vacation here and there. I had ‘the good life’ as one might refer to as, needless to say I was happy with what I had; I never did want it to change.
I was waiting for one of my company’s business partners; Joe, George, or whatever his name was. I was lounging on the reception area’s couch, reading the paper and helping myself to a cup of Americano, when I heard a few mutters across the room. It was the receptionist and the boss’s personal secretary; they were discussing something on the news it had seemed. I wondered what the fuss was about, and turned to the front page that I had skipped ahead of to read the daily sports article. On the front was a cartoon depicting the Roswell incident decades ago. The headline read, ‘What you don’t know,’ and it smaller subtitles, ‘-courtesy of the US Government.’ The article told about a leak in a confidential letter sent to the president. The letter had been traced back by unknown investigators to an unknown address in Nevada. Suspicions rose among those he first knew about this and went to decode the letter that was sent. The private investigators eventually came out to the public just yesterday to announce their collected findings of the private message. They were to hold a press conference later on the date of Tuesday, March 15th 2019 when their offices were raided by New York City police. The two investigators were taken into custody for questioning and were charged with treason against the US government. On the 2nd page were people’s opinions on the subject, and the results were of no surprise. Many people are now withdrawing support from the government in fear that they may turn ‘corrupt’; while others voiced that it was of no right for the investigators to ‘peek’ in on private matters of other people, including the subject of today. Most of the population however, were simply apathetic and went about their daily lives as usual on this apparent not-so-eventful Wednesday afternoon. “Creighton!” I heard my name as the main office doors swung open. It was George after all.
These days, things are different. I never carried a gun with me, nor did I ever own or want to fire one. I was never an irrational American civilian who acted upon gut rather than thought. I had found the small .357 sig cartridge which incidentally fit perfectly into the Glock 17 pistol that was found not a foot away. I had never fired a gun before, but my life now depended on a natural instinct.
“C’mon son, just pull it back,” I followed the instructions carefully; I had never felt such a rush before in my life. I pulled, closed my eyes, and released. A satisfying sound of a direct hit filled my mind. “Good hit!” the balloon was no longer filled with water, nor will it ever hold anything else, ever. It was my first day with any sort of a weapon, an old sling shot that was passed down for generations from my father, and his line. The rubber strips had been replaced over the years, but the integrity of the wood still held firm.
I searched through my closet for it, unable to remember where I had left it in my haste. The mess of clothes and supplies always seemed to work as a system of organization for me; probably why I was still alive...perhaps... I finally found the small shoe box that once held my first pair at size 2. I pried open the cover that was sealed tight with super glue as a sort of time capsule till when I was older. It was the first time I had looked through the objects of this treasure cache since twenty years ago. In the box were several pictures of me my parents had taken of me at the many ‘first times’ of my childhood. I scanned them quickly; ‘first day out of the womb, first day at kindergarten, first day at baseball practice...’ and then finally, I found the picture I was looking for.
“Craig!” people used ‘Craig’ in preference rather than my actual name, it was simpler after all, to say and spell; an economically productive, one syllable, simple transformation. I turned around to gaze into the eyes of her. I still remember those eyes to this date; a perfect combination of blue and green to attract one’s attention such as myself. Her smile as well, perfectly symmetrical on all angles, and the voice that came with it; I could hear harmonies and melody in perfect sync. But to sum it up fairly economically, in a one syllable transformation, ‘Rebecca’.
I had lost track of time over the period of which I spent gazing at the picture. I lifted my hand to look at my watch as the hour hand grazed the bottom of the circumference. ‘Another night,’ I thought to myself. Walking over to my old rotten dresser; I had managed to peer out of my apartment window to catch a glimpse of a commotion outside on the streets. This certainly wasn’t going to be another night.
I could hear gunfire outside of the apartment as I woke up to another day. I slowly crawled out of the sheets to take a look at the street fifteen stories below me. It must have been the night guard on duty, as it was still only two hours into Friday. I opened my closet to gather what I needed. Slowly, I pieced the one of a kind jigsaw puzzle until it was viewed in its entirety. I carefully place it on the window seal. I peer through the circle of glass, and then fired. The bullet was dead on, as I aimed to take another shot. Soon there were more guards on the street. They held behind a barricade of chunks of metal, debris, and the odd overturned semi.
“What the hell is going on outside?”
“More of them,” I took another shot as soon as I could. Yaris closed the door behind him as he left the room, swearing under his breath.
“And I thought I would be getting some sleep tonight,” Rachel leaned over the window sill, like she did on most nights. Her sarcastic tone lightened the mood just a little. “How many are we talking here?”
“From estimation, maybe two hundred,” I quickly glanced and added.
“There are more of them every night, I wonder how long we are going to last…” it was a rhetorical question, especially with the inactivity of government troops in the area. The firefight was over fairly quickly. We regrouped as soon as we could at the main lobby of the hotel.
“Role call, state your assigned codename, specific order, you all know the drill.” The men and women of 61st street motel lined up in order. There stood 12 of us, each, a different code name; the names mostly resembled their role in the party and personal traits.
“Overseer.” (Charlotte Noel)
“Talker.” (Malcolm West)
“All nighter.” (Ted Bell)
“Keg Master.” (Akemi Yoshida)
“Glass eyes.” (Blake Rink)
“Tank.” (Kgosi Koroma)
“Leapfrog.” (Jun Lu)
“Campfire.” (Jason Rink)
“Shooter.” (Me)
“Steering.” (Jack Rent)
“Red Cross.” (Rachael Moon)
And last but not least…
“Full House.” (Frank Weld)
No one really understood why we used codenames rather then our actual names, but it definitely helps the new comers.
The sun rose between the once crowded streets of Broadway and Main, but not today, like most other days. These streets were never safe, and they certainly aren’t safe these days ether. I try to understand why no one goes out anymore; it isn’t all bad these days, you just have to be careful. The cafes in Soho never open, nor do the churches or the businesses of New York City. ‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask myself.
The day was clear for most of the morning, a true blessing to the 61st company of New York. The day went on as one would expect when finding him or herself in a worldwide holocaust, struggling to survive and get through the day to see another dawn.
The creatures slept during the day, or at least they chose to remain unseen. But the threat was always present. Government forces were to be avoided as well. The white house had ordered full lock down on as many infected areas as they could, and encouraged other world leaders to follow. Other remaining armies on the face of the earth were ordered to ‘cleanse’ anything that moved within these areas.