Eyes Wide Open

Earth, a perilous wasteland, was tormented by evil monsters. Demons prowled, hunting prey at night, sucking dry the souls of the living. The only haven for humankind—light.

Lightning sparked over cloudy grey skies and a drizzle of rain sprinkled as thunder rumbled in the distance. Despite the stormy weather, autumn blossomed. Flaked orange leaves covered the wet forest floor. A lonely traveller dawdled through redwood trees, hiking in muddy terrain. Thick, gunky sod swallowed the man's black boots as he journeyed towards a glade of long, peach grass, the tips lined with tiny white wheat petals.

The wood's edge mellowed out onto a tarred road. A glimpse of sunlight peeked through, lighting up his path. He followed the winding road, hoping to find food, water, medicine, and shelter—and some place the monsters did not exist. The tarred road stretched across, smooth and flat; walking on it was easy.

After a few hours, his legs swelled up, and his knees turned into jelly. Sweat cried from his forehead. The trees thinned out on a curved path. In the distance, a sign read Redwood Valley. Abandoned vehicles barricaded the entrance road to the isolated town. Struggling, the man pushed and prodded his way through, squeezing past the wall of traffic.

The stench of death consumed the air, a pungent aroma of rotting flesh infused with a stale perfume smell. Redwood Valley's main street was littered with corpses, too many to count. Every single one of the deceased had pale white skin and devilish black eyes. Blood oozed freely from their mouths.

The pavement where the cadavers lay was stained with blood—not red and fluid as blood should be, but thick with an orange glow. This was a familiar sight for the beanstalk, dark-haired man. Built well and robust, with muscular shoulders, he stood boldly next to the lifeless bodies piled up on the ground.

He took a quick glance to make sure there was no danger. The only reassurance he could find was the eerie quietness in town. From the peaceful silence of day to the empty vessels scattered on the streets, one could tell that Redwood Valley was terrorised by merciless creatures. But at the moment, it was empty.

He was there to scavenge supplies. It was challenging searching the meandering street for what he needed. He was starved and dehydrated, and the soles of his feet were covered in fiery blisters. He carried on despite the excruciating pain. Trekking a hundred metres further along the road, he stopped and scanned his surroundings.

To his right was an alleyway filled with industrial-sized garbage bins, like those used by restaurants. He walked towards the bins, then stopped dead in his tracks. A frightening nostalgia crept in. At the far end of the alleyway was a terrible, yet familiar sight. He stood on the edge of the curb, frozen with fear.

The little girl at the far end of the alleyway reminded him of little Isabel. Only it was not her; this was someone else’s little girl. She sat on the floor next to one of the industrial garbage bins, looking so tiny in comparison. He walked closer towards her. She gawked at him, her eyes wide open.

Unlike everyone else, her eyes were blue and her soul still intact, content on leaving this world on her terms. Clutched in the little girl’s right hand was a butchers’ knife. The knife sharp enough to cut raw meat, she had used it on herself. Her left wrist was slashed, the cuts so thick that he could see bone. Blood had gushed out, judging from the splatter.

Beside the little girl laid a sterling silver heart-shaped locket. Inside was a blood-stained photograph. He hesitated to peek, not wanting to pry, but with a sense of uneasiness he opened it. A deep sadness filled him.

He closed the locket with care and placed it in his bag.; he looked into the little girl’s glacier blue eyes. A haunting reminder of how his little Isabel left this world. She was only 12 years old, crying tears of fear, sitting in the corner of her dark bedroom. Isabel shivered, yet held the meat cleaver in her hands. Her wounds were a spitting image of the little girl’s.

That day was vivid in his mind, his and his wife’s—Amy. A burden no parent should face. In an ideal world, suicide was a coward’s way out, but this was an apocalyptic nightmare. Those who committed suicide in this world died with dignity. Both girls were afraid of dying the painful and agonising deaths many other people had faced over the past year.

The evil spirits who roamed at night did not devour their souls. It was a blessing in disguise, even though he still couldn't fathom the girls’ need for overkill. Both Isabel and the little girl had pressed their knives into their wrists so hard that the blades met bone.

Tears fell and he cried. This was not a good time. He needed to conserve his strength. Even though the world wasn't a safe place for children anymore, he wished Isabel was alive. Not everyone could be survivors. Not everyone dared to walk amongst the soulless bodies staring back at them.

He looked over his shoulder as he wiped the tears trickling from his eyes. Now focused on the horizon, he walked back toward the main street. In the distance, a yellow sky, with shards of stretched orange. The orange streaks were a reminder of blood split on the sidewalk.

Twilight was the calm before a stormy night, and night had a darkness to it that even the brave feared. He knew time was running out and he needed a haven for the night to protect himself from any uninvited guests.

Only one building on the street caught his eye, the local diner. The diner had a glass door covered in motes of dust, only visible to the naked eye because the piercing rays of the twilight sun beamed through it. Using his right hand, pulled out a knife from the back pocket of his blue jeans: a gift from his father. Engraved on the front was his name—John.

John wiped dust speckles off the door with his left palm and took a peek. Redwood Valley Diner was empty. Using the knife his father had given him, he picked the lock on the door. John had been on many supply runs. Breaking and entering was no longer a crime to him but a mere survival skill he had mastered.

After picking the lock, John pushed the door open with his remaining strength. Once inside, he bolted the door. He knew his survival depended on more than just closing the door, so he grabbed several chairs to secure the door. The tables in the diner were bolted to the floor and could not be used as barricades, which infuriated him.

The constant ache in his stomach intensified as he took a seat on one of the bar stools next to the wooden bench top. John used to be fun-loving, cheery, and animated, albeit a man of few words, but this had changed with Isabel's death. Drowned in a world of sorrow and heartache, he evolved into a reclusive, violent, and angry person.

Even though most survivors or scouts went out in groups to scavenge for supplies, he preferred travelling alone. Living in a group meant watching out for people who got sloppy. There was no room for mistakes. Besides, he did not want to carry the burden of anyone else's death on his shoulders.

“Shit,” John blurted out, as he punched the bench top with his right fist. He hit a splinter; it sliced through his index finger. A speckle of dust glided through the air, and blood—red and watery—trickled over his clenched knuckles. The colour and texture reminded him of the vanilla extract Isabel and Amy used for baking on the weekends.

John jumped off the bar stool in anger and wiped the blood from his knuckles on his shirt. His white polo shirt was already stained with blood and dark orange streaks: a constant reminder of the death he’d seen. After seeing the girl in the alleyway and reflecting on his daughter’s death, he had lost his appetite.

Despite this, his stomach let out a rumbling growl. He strolled toward the stainless-steel double doors of the kitchen, peered in, then walked through. The items in the pantry caught his attention. On the very top shelf were three tins of Heinz baked beans, and on the adjacent shelf were four cans of John West tuna. Enough for another week. He grabbed the food and shoved it into his backpack.

John walked to the kitchen tap; he breathed a sigh of relief as he drank from the stream of water gushing out. He removed the scabbard and backpack from his shoulders, knelt and laid them on the ground. Twilight evaporated. Wailing echoed in the distance, overshadowing the dying thunder. It was feeding time.

John curled up in the foetal position, using his index fingers to drown out the blasphemy. Darkness descended quickly. The distant wailing turned to ear-splitting howling. The night sky was pitch black, the moon disappeared, and the violet veins of lightning vanished. It sounded as if a pack of wolves were trying to communicate with each other.

The atrocities humanity faced were not a result of their indifference, nor a failed scientific experiment. According to rumours, they were Black Ghosts, sent by the devil to rid the world of evil and punish those who had sinned.

Since the Earth's demon infestation, John recited a prayer every night before bed, but he was not religious. His prayer served as a ritual for hope. No one ever prophesied supernatural beings tormenting humanity. He had a recurring realisation that if such vile creatures existed, there had to be a God to create balance in the world.

As the night progressed, he tossed and turned, struggling to sleep. Deafening howls continued, penetrating his eardrums. John reached into his jean pocket, pulled out a pair of earplugs, and put them in his ears. He slept as best he could for the rest of the night. No matter how invincible anyone felt in light, there was always an unsettling sensation as the Black Ghosts watched their every move in the darkness.

The diner turned icy. John convinced himself the wind flowing through the crevices made him jittery, but he had a worried expression on his face. He sprung up as the lights flickered and braced himself against the wall. A power failure was imminent, and death was close.

Satan’s dogs were waiting for him, licking their lips, growling, ready to pounce. Putting on a brave face, he grabbed his hunting knife and placed it on his wrist. John was adamant he did not want to die at the helm of evil. He was ready to slice open his own wrist. John shut his eyes, avoiding looking at the demons on the other side of the door.

There was a gritty taste in his mouth. His hands shook, and the knife slipped to the ground. He tried with desperation to pick it up, but his body lay inert. The fluorescent lighting died out; John felt the darkness swallow him whole. Eyes wide open, he stared into the abyss.

Two enormous white razor-sharp claws darted towards his hazel brown eyes. In a split second, there was a loud bang, followed by screeching. The whole building quaked as pieces of rubble floated into the blackness.

Then, John saw a blinding bright light absorbing the white fangs, which darted toward him. Pealing shrieks echoed through the air and turned into dull outcries for help. Then everything went silent.