Kennebunkport, Maine
April 12, 2017
William Renault
Will sighed deeply, shrugging his shoulder to adjust the corpse of the doe he had resting over it to a more comfortable position. Two months- Two months since the first reports of 'The rising' had come to Kennebunkport. It was a small, river town in Maine, cut off from nearly everywhere. A town that survived mostly on local game and fish. Off the map, off the grid. Or at least, his little area of it was. For the first month, they had thought it was just a hoax, like every other secluded small town.
Then the first corpse unburied itself in their graveyard. Old Man Harkin- He'd died only two days before he came back. Death by heart attack. But he'd seemed perfectly fine as he sprinted into town, screaming incoherently. Four people had died before somebody had the sense to smack Harkin over the head with a baseball bat, limp, rotting corpse dropping to the ground.
But that had started it all. In the month that followed, nearly all of Kennebunkport was bitten and turned. Those few that survived the month- Barely forty of them, all told- had moved to a secluded bar about an hour out of town. They'd fortified it, made a protected home of it. And now, Will stood in front of the makeshift gates of fresh cut trees, waiting impatiently for somebody to open up. The bar hadn't been very well stocked when they arrived- So Will, and the few others like him with skill in tracking and hunting, had gone out regularly for food.
It was some minutes before somebody finally opened up, another young man around Will's age heaving aside the cluster of smaller trees that made up the gate.
"Hey, Jason- Took you long enough. My shoulder was starting to go numb."
The pair exchanged a grin, Jason shrugging innocently at the accusation of taking his time.
"What can I say? Had to be sure you weren't a rot'."
"Yeah, sure. Because a rot' can carry a bow and a doe, and shout 'hey ho!' to get you to open up in the first place. Jackass."
Will snickered, heaving the slain doe off of his shoulder and at Jason. It was a fairly small catch, but it would be enough meat for the day. Still, the bigger boy had some trouble catching it- For despite Will's smaller stature, he was stronger than Jason by quite a bit. A fact Jason regularly blamed on him constantly using 'that oversized stick you call a bow'.
"You get to carry her in for making me wait."
The rest of the day was probably the best Will would have for a long, long time- the catch meant a meal, and in current times, that was all the survivors needed for a celebration. So Vinn- The owner of the bar, and thankfully an avid recorder of -everything-, put on the superbowl from a few years before. It was their third Superbowl Sunday that week. The doe was cut up and cooked, served to everybody- And despite being carefully portioned to leave enough for them all, they treated it like the last feast they would ever have- Beer was passed around, the venison thoroughly enjoyed, and even though they knew the outcome, nearly everybody was betting on the football game playing on the bigscreen over the bar. They'd stopped betting on who would win, of course- Rather, they bet on the little details, seeing who remembered how much. Will himself won three extra bites of food and an extra beer for beating Vinn in a bet over who it was that got one particular amazing pass- 48 or 49. The afternoon wore into night like that- And in time, everybody was passed out in various places around the bar.
The last thing Will remembered from that night was leaning against the bar lazily and asking for a bourbon from Vinn- After all. Drinking age didn't mean much anymore.
The next morning, Will awoke groggily from his sleep, head pounding and eyes oversensitive- A hangover, certainly. But something felt... Wrong- Something smelled off. There were the usual smells- Spilled booze, maybe a pile or two of puke that hadn't quite made it to the bathroom. But why did he smell blood? He didn't remember anybody getting into a fistfight.
Then he heard the scream outside, and jolted upright, along with several others in the bar.
"No, no no no no NOOOO!"
It cut off abruptly, and with dread, Will recognized Jason's voice. He stumbled off of his stool, grabbing groggily for his bow on the bar beside him, fumbling around for where he'd left his quiver- He couldn't find it. Where did he put it!? But in the end, it was too late. The doors of the pub shook under a heavy impact, and Will heard a crack as the lock gave way slightly. These doors weren't built to withstand abuse. A few of the others had managed to find their own weapons, always close at hand, and form some kind of defense- Hiding behind tables, or trying to wake the others- Dragging those that were too far into the world of sleep behind cover. Another impact shook the doors, and this time, they gave way. A zombie- A rot, a walker, a zed. Whatever those present might call it, it was a living corpse... And it stumbled through the doors almost drunkenly, giving a low, mindless groan. Fresh blood oozed down its chin and chest, scraps of skin hanging from its teeth. It could have been anybody's... But Will knew it was Jason's. He ripped the knife from his belt with a snarl, sprinting across the space between himself and the rot. He vaulted one of the tables, and before the corpse had time to register it was being assaulted, Will had his knife buried to the guard in the creature's jaw, twisting viciously. He felt it go slack after a moment, and ripped the blade free- Only to slam the corpse's head into the doorframe just to be sure.
"How the -hell- did it get in here!?"
He turned to face the others, as if looking for an answer- Only to see looks of surprise on their faces. One of them managed to shout a warning before Will felt a sharp, horrible pain in his arm, giving a shout of agony. He shot his eyes back behind him- More walkers. They had flooded into the doorway when he turned away- So many, he couldn't count them all. He felt the adrenaline pulse through him- Pain came second. These things... They killed Jason- And who knew how many others had died trying to keep them from getting inside, to those who had passed out the night before. He tore himself away from the corpse chewing on his arm with a savage growl, knife whipping around to slam pommel first into its skull, sending it crashing to side, head banging against the oldschool jukebox that Vinn had always been so proud of. He felt an almost sick kind of amusement when the impact caused the machine to shudder to life, a upbeat, Irish Pub tune flickering to life. Just the kind of thing he expected people to get into a fistfight too. But punching the dead was a poor idea- He backstepped a ways, clearing the way for the others awake in the bar to open fire. Shotguns, handguns, a hunting rifle or two- Bullets of all sorts hammered into the line of the dead. The town was full of decent shots- At least, the survivors. So, more than a few of the rot's fell with parts of skull missing, bullets clearing out their graymatter rather effectively. Somebody threw Will his quiver as he made his way back away from the door, and he caught it with a nod, skidding to a stop and whipping around, adding a flurry of arrows to the hail of bullets. He'd never been a good shot with guns.... But nobody in town had ever matched him in an archery contest.
And yet, in the end, they just didn't have enough bullets, arrows, or bottles to throw at the corpses- They just kept coming, as if they had gathered en-mass the night before. And quietly... Will wouldn't have been surprised if they had. Within minutes, the pub had been overrun, and most of those inside were dead or dying, turned to zombie food. Will was among the last few to survive, all of them huddled towards the back of the pub, brandishing what close-quarters weapons they had, knocking corpses aside and to the ground, smashing as many skulls as possible. Forty survivors, perhaps twice as many undead.
And now, barely five survivors... And nearly thirty undead still standing to rip them apart. At one point, Will went to thrust his knife up under a corpse's jaw to return it to the dead where it belonged- But he felt his foot hit something soft, and slippery. He never found out what it was, as he went toppling backwards- A searing pain erupted in the back of his head, and he felt no more.
Some hours later, when the sun was low on the horizon and the pub was lit with dim orange light, he awoke. He became aware of things slowly- First was the smell. It was rancid, and horrible. Gore and refuse, the sickly sweet stench of dead, rotting flesh. Then the noises- First, music. The same few words, over and over, scratchy and repeating themselves.
"Fa-aiiir thee well.... Fa-aiiir thee well... Fa-aiiir thee well..."
Then, beneath that, what sounded like... -Eating-. Groans and mutterings, wet ripping sounds. Then came the pain- It flared everywhere. His left arm. His head- Most of all his head. And smaller aches everywhere, all over his body. Finally, he opened his stormy gray eyes, gaze cast out over a hellish scene. The dead feasted on the deader, ripping apart fresh corpses with their horrible, rotten teeth, consuming people that.... Did he know these people? They seemed... So familiar. But that couldn't be- And who was -he-? He couldn't bring himself to move yet, not much. But he clenched his hands, feeling them squeeze around something solid. Glancing down, he noticed two things that seemed more familiar than anything else so far- A bow and a knife. That was it. That was what they were called. Moving slowly, getting the sense anything sudden would be the end of him, he reached under himself. He felt like he was sitting on something- After a moment, he fished a square of leather from the pocket of his pants, letting it fall open and blankly looking at the first item he saw. Something called an 'I.D'. It had a picture on it, and a name- And many small details that he didn't understand. But the name, he got. William Renault. Will. The boy in the image was smiling, and with a start, he realized that -he- was this boy.
He was Will.
