It was long enough ago that the screaming in my head has faded to a slight whimper. I can remember the pitch of it, but don't hear it in my head anymore.
It used to wake me up at night, making me afraid to open my eyes for fear that something would be staring back at me. something no longer human. It scares me, I'm constantly in fear of losing everything I've worked to hard to keep, I'm afraid to try and survive. Now its much better. I can sleep mostly through the night when I'm not standing guard. But his memory is slowly killing me.
We yelled for him to come back, we yelled for him to turn around. But his diapered little butt waddled away, between us was a wall of walkers. “Mommy, look, that man needs help! He's blooding!” he ran straight for the road, where a man lay bleeding and crawling towards the house.
He was calling for help, but he should have known it was all over for him. His waist was a pool of blood and red squiggles dangling behind him. The sound of them dragging was something like mixing sauce into a spaghetti pan, and looked similar as well... but I knew in my heart I would never be able to eat spaghetti again.
I saw his bare knees hit the ground after a rock in his path made him trip, mud stained his diaper. My father pushed us out of the way, running off the porch and into the yard, everything was running in slow motion, no matter how fast he ran, it never seemed fast enough. The creatures were reaching for his warm pink stomach, no splotched brown and green from the mud and grass.
“MOMMY!! DADDY!!” he covered his face and rolled into a ball on the wet ground, no longer worried about the man in the road, who was still crying for our help. My fathers arms were outstretched and he reached the creatures, now realizing they were being followed. Some spun and hissed at him, turning their hook-like fingers in his direction.
“WYATTE!!” I heard my step mother's scream from behind me, and she pushed me out of the way as well, as a pair of gnarly fingers reached my brother's shoulders and pulled him off the ground, almost like he was an unwanted weed in a garden, and threw him into the air. I watched his arms flailing as he tried to keep himself in a protective ball, my father jumping into the creature that threw him, sending him flying into the road, where he turned his sights in the dying man Wyatte had been running to help. Hands ripped at my father's shirt and tried to pull him back into their reach, but he pulled away and tried to get under Wyatte as he fell, but he wasn't fast enough. As he fell, his scream pierced through the moans of the undead reaching for him, it seemed to go on forever, but once his head hit that rock... everything stopped.
My father fell to his knees, even the creatures reaching for him seemed to wonder where the noise went, and they quieted and looked around.
And as quickly as it stopped, it started again, my step mother shrieked with fear and anger, “MY BABY!!!” she reached him at the same time my father's hands covered his face, her arms wrapped around Wyatte's waist, his head lolling on his limp shoulders, a trickle of blood running over her arms and onto the ground, staining the grass dark red.
I fell to my knees, stunned. Everything had happened so fast it was like I was frozen in my shoes, glued to the cement stairs. My father let out a cry like a a war hero, going into battle once again, and he shot up and spun, his fists flying into the face of every creature that surrounded them
“YOU BASTARDS!! YOU FUCKING SONS OF BITCHES! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU ALL!” Stale blood spotted his face more and more with every hit he took, and it was my step mother who dragged him away, still holding Wyatte's body in one arm.
“I already lost my baby boy, I'm not losing you too!” she pulled him towards the house and pushed me in the door, her tears landing on Wyatte's face, washing away streaks of blood.
I sat in the doorway, staring at the wall in front of me. I knew I should have gone to them, crying to each other in the living room, Wyatte's movie still playing on the TV. I knew I should close the door, keep them out until we had the chance to get out. I knew I should be crying, I knew I should have run to him, my dad was overweight, my step mother had bad knees. I could have run faster than both of them, I knew I should have grabbed him when I saw them slowly walking in from the next yard over. But something in my body held me back, everything froze, and my legs wouldn't let me move, wouldn't let me stand up, or walk to them. I heard them on the porch, I heard them reaching for me. I would have gladly let them, they could take me, they could make me one of them. It was the pain I deserved for freezing up and not running and saving his life when I had the chance. It was what I wanted at that moment, an overwhelming need for pain, suffering, and death. What good was I if I couldn't even save my baby brothers life. What right did I have to live if I couldn't stand up and face what was coming through the door. They were what killed my brother, not me. I had to and up and fight.
But I couldn't, and my fathers footsteps behind me, and the click of the door locking was the last thing I heard before everything went black and silent.