After We Ran

Back when I was 7, all I remember were the lights.

The frantic steering of cars on the street and the traffic jam that had resulted. The rain that had started to paste itself onto windows, and of course, the crying out of cars driving passed our house faster than the speed limit. Away from the city.

Urgency erupted from my uncle next to me, "Lindy, we have to go!" His usually warm, friendly eyes were now coated in a glaze of worry, consistent with the creases in his forehead.

The news report was still echoing in my head. On a loop that seemed to speed up each time, but still never reached the point of comprehension, never felt all the gears lock into place, never fully understood the meaning of it.

Eruption at the Academy of Sciences. There seems to be some sort of radioactive element that has affected civilians.

I could feel my head trying to race my heart, trying to wrestle with what the hell was going on. I could see my uncle, Emerson, grabbing his rifle from the linen cupboard and rushing to sort the bullets inside. The beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and the flickering lights illuminated his wide, green eyes. His hands fumbled, packing a bag quickly with a few jackets, blankets, and cans of food.

I followed suit by grabbing a backpack. My mother's camera. A thick raincoat. Another t-shirt. The Swiss army knife that Emerson kept behind the mugs in the kitchen. The house quaked with every car that thundeted past. The deer skull above the fireplace rattled, desperate to break free.

The keys. Headlamps. More food.

With a whistle I call over Otto, our Australian Kelpie. He's barking frantically at the sirens. "Come on boy."

Together, we run across the wooden floors of the house in the garage. I encourage Otto into the back seat, dumping our things in behind him. Emerson gets behind the wheel and starts up the pickup truck. We drive out of the farm, leaving only behind the crunch of gravel, past the pine trees, and don't even bother to indicate as we race onto the road. My uncle's breath remains shallow.

He's on edge. I can tell. He only gets this way when there's something wrong; a fire, a fallen tree on the road, a medical emergency. I can't tell what's wrong, but I can see the whites of his knuckles and the way he grips the steering wheel, and the forced, shaky driving technique. The engine revving loudly as we speed down the dirt road.

We don't talk.

We only listen to the radio, which is relaying messages of fear. Over, and over again. A female news host, probably safe in the radio station speaks.

"Devonport has been overrun with the infection. Multiple jams across the Hamilton Highway, congestion mostly at the bridges. Many are fleeing to the countryside. We instruct people to be careful on the roads."

"Holy--" I spot a car in flames on the side of the road, engulfing trees and embracing burning corpses. More screams in terror.

"Watch it." Emerson is calm, but I can hear the strain in his voice, still catching my swears, which I learnt from him. I can tell that he's just as afraid as I am.

"We have to help them!" I grab his arm but he swipes it away, hand clutching the gear stick and the wheel. Listening to the radio again, the reporter is recounting the scene of the explosion. The science building. People are apparently running around frantically, hopping into cars. Some tackling each other. Stampedes of bodies in the night, finding their way through the thick black smoke and the blinding flames.

"There are still people in the building! They're-- they're running. Fuck. Dylan. They're fucking eating them!" With that, the news broadcaster screams. There's a sound of the mic cutting out and the muffled sound of crying and shaking.

Emerson and I didn't even notice the lights.

We had just made it onto the freeway. The hyper-beam of the car lights were imprinted in my eyes, and we were stuck behind what seemed like an endless line of cars.

"Stop!" I yell, as Emerson pulls up the handbrake and just hits the back of the Toyota in front of us.

It's just silence. Slight shifts of cars every few seconds. Very slow. More cars were queuing up behind us.

"Why aren't we moving!?" I can still feel my head attempting to keep up with my heart. Emerson looks ahead. We just hear the occasional honk.

"People are getting out of their cars." He whispers, just loud enough. I can see his eyes of intelligence, assessing the situation, uncovered by the wrinkles surrounding his eyes. The people running, were yelling. Eyes frantic, dancing in the rain. Scrambling against the rough concrete road, just yelling.

Run.

Up ahead, was a mob of people. Some on fire. Some missing limbs. Some with arms or legs bent in directions they shouldn't be. Hair singed. Cuts and blisters covering their skin. Blood. Rain. They were moving like puppets without strings, rushed, awkward movements that seemed uncoordinated and clunky. It was a scene out of a nightmare, one buried so deep behind the layers of my mind. The excessive envelopes of skin blowing in the heat from the fire.

Then, my heart finally decides to stop. I spot a few. Necks holding on by torn muscle, bones visible. Parts of bodies that were scorched black. I could smell the burning of flesh. How the hell were these people moving?

"Those people..." I begin, but Emerson stops me. I can hear Otto whimper in the back.

"East Devonport Station is piling people onto the trains, for those who are still here listening. Hurry." The radio.

"Lindy, you have to listen to me. You have to run, okay? Grab your things, and run." My uncle, who've I've known for so long, grips his rifle, clicking it into place. Ready to fire, like I've seen him done over a thousand times before while hunting with him. This is different.

His breath is shaky, mimicking my hands. I don't understand. "No. No!"

"Lindy. You have to. Down that street there," he points to the exit off the freeway, "just keep running until you reach the train station. Don't stop."

"No--"

"I'll be right behind you. Promise."

"Promise?"

He gives a nod, his chest falling-- not in defeat, but in hesitance. I still see the flickers of light igniting his eyes, and the stern, grim line of his mouth. The speckles of stubble on his chin that prickled against my skin whenever he kissed my forehead; his short-cropped pepper hair that I insisted he cut. My only family. I trust him.

And with that, I open the car door with my bag and Otto. I've never run so fast in my life. I can hear the snarls, and smell the revolting, gut wrenching scent of human bodies that are singed, cooked, and rotting with disease. Otto barks, but keeps at my side. I run.

"Go Lindy!" Emerson yells from behind me, and I can see the army of humanoid creatures pick up their pace, yearning for us and the few other hundred that have scrambled out of their cars. Children crying, being carried by parents.

I hear gunfire from Emerson and a few others.

We finally reach the station, lines of people trying to get onto the train, and police standing at the entrances. Women and children.

I hear a painful cry from my uncle, followed by a yelp from Otto beside me. I didn't realise how far back Emerson was. A man, eyes boiled out of his head, had latched onto Emerson's ankle. He sinks his teeth into the flesh, and my uncle, wide eyed, shoots the man in the face.

Teeth marks.

I keep Otto close to me, not even realising that I was being carried and pushed along towards the train doors by hands. I could feel the tears on my skin, stinging my cheeks.

"No, wait! My uncle!" I try, but nobody under the dim lights of the station seems to listen.

I'm standing in the train, squeezed up against the window. All I can hear is crying of children, and the shaky, scared comforting of their mothers. Otto squirms at my feet, growling and whimpering as he sits behind my legs against the walls.

The train doors close and it hurts to see those pounding on the windows, trying to get in.

I don't just remember the lights.

I remember seeing my uncle through the window, his face half mauled off, left hand grasping the mud but no longer attached fully to his body. Blood puddled beneath his torso, and spider-webbed across the back of his shirt. Lying on the ground in front of the station gates, surrounded by dozens of insane people that were desperate for meat. I remember his head, rotating to look up at the moving train. Mouth open in a silent scream. As my eyes met his, he opened his mouth shakily.

I can't make out the words. I only see his eyes close in pain.