Zombies

• Rachael Woolridge, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2014

Meagan slipped carefully under the thin cotton covers, trying to avoid lying on her heavily bruised hip. The entire left side of her torso was black and purple, sensitive and tender to touch. The sheets did very little to fend off the night’s chill. What she really needed was a blanket. She zipped her jacket to her chin and sunk into the thin, crusty camp mattress on the floor. A continuous draft crept into the room under the door, and a strip of yellow light hit the edge of her pillow. They were awake again, fighting. Meagan often found herself caught in the middle of her foster parents’ drunken feuds, her injured side not the worst pain she’d experienced in her four years there.
“I don’t know you anymore!” a thud resounded throughout Meagan’s room as something- a body- slammed against the plaster wall. She wasn’t surprised by the sound of glass shattering, a string of slurred insults thrown carelessly back and forth. Plugging her ears with her chilled fingers, she shut the world out, anxious about the fresh pain the new day would bring. She fell into a restless sleep, painfully tossing and turning.
The sunlight crept in over the top of the broken blinds, kissing Meagan’s face with warmth, a sensation she’d not felt for a while. The feeling was short-lived, interrupted by the demanding ache in her side. She read the scratched department store clock. She leapt from the mattress, slipping on her jeans. She adjusted her twisted jacket and underclothes, wiping away a layer of sweat from her chest as she opened the door. She was late.
She tiptoed into the hall, confused by the silence. She hadn’t been up this late in months. She couldn’t recall a reason why they didn’t wake her. Maybe they’d miraculously pulled themselves out of bed to go to their dead-end jobs. But they were fairly wasted 12 hours ago.
She scanned the kitchen. There was no sign of breakfast being had. Maybe they’d left to get away last night in a drunken rage, only to end up battling it out in a trashy motel room. Sleeping on the couch after every fight wasn’t enough for Trisha. Her abusive husband’s snoring filled the house and resembled thunder with every inhale. He was responsible for many of Meagan’s sleepless nights, either breaking her slumber with his weight-induced growl as he slept, or his alcoholism and poor manners. She’d know immediately if they’d overslept; the whole neighbourhood would know.
She happily ate breakfast alone, grateful for the solitude. It was strange. She felt the loneliest at home, with two idiots breathing down her neck, but she still longed to be alone.
Besides her best friend, Ambrosine, she had nobody at school to confide in. She wasn’t bothered by her lack of friendship. A lifetime of moving from home to home had rendered her an introvert.
Opening the door to meet the unkempt lawn out front, Meagan got a fright. Her foster father, Rolland, stood still, facing the worn garden fence and over-grown hedge.
She instantly flinched, covering her face and chest with her arms, expecting to be beaten for oversleeping. She waited a full minute.
The beating didn’t come. He turned slowly to face her. Blood covered his face and his eyes were bloodshot. She thought he was still intoxicated and had caused himself an injury, but then she noticed the flesh stuck between his teeth. As he shuffled a little closer, she spotted her foster mother lying dismembered in a pool of blood on the lawn. The unmown grass couldn’t conceal her shredded torso.
Meagan caught her breath.
Zombies.