Sleep

Chapter 4

Tom sat in the dirt, his face angled towards the now visible sun. He would go to his house, but first, he desperately wanted to find people. He positioned himself against the wall, breathing heavily. Tom needed to find food, water, and shelter before night, but this was virtually impossible due to the destruction of his surroundings. He stood up again and gazed at his arm. The bleeding stopped overnight, but it started to swell and ooze at the edges. He winced when he tried to touch it, so he dropped his arm and started towards the ruined road.

He walked for about a mile when he found a crushed water cooler in a destroyed cafe. The water was bitter, but he relished it and kept moving.

He had walked about 2 miles when Tom reached his house. It was small compared to other New York estates, with an angled roof and broad windows. It was demolished entirely; the entire front of the house laid in ruins on the corner where the side patio met the grass. He found that the door was unhinged, so he walked inside and stared around in confusion.

Everything was gone. The dinner table was splintered, with black edges that poked through the cloth. The couch was reduced to a frame of old wood, and the kitchen was crushed by a dead oak tree. It had smashed the roof and now rested on top of the fridge, a flat piece of dull metal. A massive chunk of timber blocked the way to the bedrooms down the hall, so he went to leave when he heard a slight noise and paused.

"Alisha?" Tom called out.

The noise sounded sharp and delicate, almost soft. Tom ran back into the house and stared at the timber blocking the hallway, and then at his arm. Carefully, he tried to wedge himself through the narrow gap, but he only got his leg in. He pulled his leg out of the hole and walked outside to the side of the house. This side was still intact except for a small hole at the base near the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through, wincing in pain. He emerged in his sister's bedroom and paced through to the end of the hallway, where he heard the noise distinctly now. He walked into his bedroom and saw it.

In the corner, whimpering quietly, was a tan bulldog, which had started to lick something on the side of its paw. Tom approached it carefully; he didn't want to startle it. The bulldog slowly glanced up with big, fearful eyes. Tom put his hand on the dog and gently stroked it, but he quickly dropped his hand when it yelped. Concerned, Tom put his hand on the dog's face, except it wasn't a face anymore. On the other side of its face, the fur peeled away to reveal exposed, raw flesh. Tom blinked, and it turned into a withered skull, and then into dust. Tom blinked again. The dog was gone. He glanced at his arm, which had become a deep purple and was starting to form pustules that turned into blisters. He made to stand up again, but failed and instead he crashed to the ground. Tom heaved in pain, over and over, until he felt his head touch the floor, and he was still.