Cinéma du corps

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It’s a sense of being we all know, a sense of not being alone; it’s as he ventures into the spot once more, knowing he’s a madman, for sure; he must be; his feet feel light, and they tend to; the boots, really, appear incapable of making him heavy; crunch crunch, the footfalls speak; crunch-fucking-crunch; it’s like he’s eating; it’s light; crunch, crunch and crunch yet again, but he’s not feeling heavy. He’s light as a feather, he will promise. But the twigs and so snip, still; if they do litter the dirtroad, and the other alternative is going past the infected as if they could not sense him from a distance, and realize he’s delicious and fine, he must think otherwise. He must make do with what he's got. He’s smart. He thinks he is. Normally, he is; he’s crouched low and creeping, hugging the wall of the building he’s approached; he has reached his target, you could speak, the destination wanted but there’s an issue, and he knows it; the binoculars strapped to his neck do, too; they’ve seen it with him-- as if they could be friends-- that horrible sight of a smaller infected crowd, hunters and a few ferals sniffing around. It’s mad to think it’s managable; more so when he thinks to himself, if there was a reaper, I’d be goner.

He’s not wrong.

But the walls at least feel sturdy. It’s no comfort, neither knowing that the afternoon is dying; where he exists, he gets a harrowingly limited view of it; from against the wall he cranes his attention upward, sighting the sun through the few trees about, and their shy, not-touching crowns. It distracts him; he’s locked in a book he’s read a while ago, such, such long ago he cannot remember what age he was; he knows his parents were alive; it’s the damned age, then; he remembers reading about trees and this spectacle called canopy disengagement, or intercrown spacing; one might prefer the more romantic of titles-- crown shyness-- he doesn’t; he’s special; he remembers the Latin names for his figure-- listing them from the top to bottom as if the foreign whispers in his thoughts may be speaking to the trees, and communicating secret, and forbidden ideas; of course the tree may not know it; they’re oaks, he thinks, regretting his knowledge here; it’s lacking; but the channels are plenty; he gazes on and on, and through these channels between the trees can see that the sun is still out, but not for too long; he can predict an hour left of sunlight; then, half an hour of dusk; then, the dark; when he shivers, it’s anticipation and fear.

But Jessie knows it.

He stalks out; he can hear his footsteps; here where the trees exist, lining the side of the old high school, they’ve built traps, not wanting it; he cannot blame them; they’re innocent, and amoral, and he figures that the deaths they have caused at their barks were never wanted; he reckons they’d hate the knowledge of killing, were they capable of human thinking; he also reckons that there would be those to hate the humanity for the virus they have spread onto every being; when Jessie thinks next, he’s sure that in a world of sentient trees, they all plant traps for the likes of him to end the miserable humanity.

He still cannot blame them.

He continues his creeping progress, finally reaching the back of the building; after all, he’d be a fool to enter through the front; he might not be that much of a fool, eventually.

There’s a door; there should not be a door, and the reality of it being there could be a cause of questions; the drifters coming in here will want to know, aware that at some point, there the door was not; the drifters might quiz and fret, wasting time by not stepping through in yet; will there be traps, is this reaper made; is this made by any of the factions, does death await?

He opens the door comfortably, and even with a key from one of his many pockets, for his scavenger-survival outfit contains a hundred; he enters, too, with the same cheeky confidence; he will not tell a soul he had put the door there, neither that those who had helped him no longer count among the living; he’d prefer to never speak.

But the mission he’s on beckons him.

He focuses, and as he finally gets inside the building, he pauses first, once again crouching; he reminds himself: what he can hear will be ten times stronger to the infected; what he cannot hear about himself; the tempo of his breaths, his heart’s delicious cadence-- are alluring songs that lull forth the mad; he reminds himself of that over and over again; it breeds fear within his veins, a reaction natural in every way; it doesn’t matter; when he gets out to walk, he cannot deny he’s nervous; the large knife he holds in his palm is of the army size-- its edge sporting teeth that tear up the flesh and the covering skin; it’s a deadly weapon-- more than anything, it’s his preferred weapon; ain’t no bullet out there that can replace the feeling of a hot blood on his hands.

But hand to hand combat is madness when it comes to the infected--

He progresses forth, anyway; the halls are maze-like, but he’s been here before; twenty years of this job and he’s managed to draw a map; it’s incomplete, though, today is the day he’ll make sure it’s done.

He’s promised himself that.

--even if that’s not the point of his mission here.

Jessie progresses; he's got a plan, of course he does-- whenever coming in here, he will duck into the second or third classroom on his left, provided he's alone; he cannot hear a sound from the second one; but his gut feeling tells him to move on; he gets to the third classroom; the door's been torn off its hinges, always a problem. It's why he prefers the second one. Why it behooves him to keep updating the survival plan, daily; hourly; let a minute after a minute--

But he halts. Suddenly. He can hear sounds; if he can so will anything about; he acts in haste; he back-pedals, and instead exists against the second door, the goggles he's got on allowing him the gift of night vision-- after all, these halls here are dark, perpetually dark; he'd be an idiot, a downright suicidal one if he used a flashlight; he might be some level of idiot after all when he doesn't fuck off; instead, looking rapidly to his right, he glimpses the stairwell that leads to the upper floors, and with the glint of his knife lowered down, he reaches for a gun-- a click of the trigger, and whatever shall come he's ready; he can run back, forth, or duck left to right; so many escape routes, almost, could drive a man mad.

Almost.

Posted 05-16-2021, 07:27 AM

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He needed to clear his damn head.

His journey into Hudson High School was expressly for that purpose. It was, after all, so much easier to forget about his anger and the things that plagued him when he was distracted. There was a wealth of supplies in the school for those willing to risk facing the Infected that lurked there. It was so lucky for him then that they were no threat. Or perhaps a curse. He wasn’t quite sure. He preferred to stay away from mankind until he felt drawn to feed and that left him plenty of time to ponder his existence. Often he wondered whether or not things would have been better if he had died during one of the many times he was rushed to the hospital.

Would he be less furious, less consumed with near blinding rage? Would he have been better off never having seen his brother again? Would he be content never having to witness the end of the world? Would his disgust with humanity and its selfishness have never reached the peak it was at now? Or would his anger with North and the rest of the world prevent him from passing on? Was that the reason he was still here now, despite being a mindless beast for such a long time? Was that why the Military never put an end to his existence? Had this all been intended?

The answers to those questions, he found, were beginning to provoke a part of him he disliked, and so he pushed them to the back of his mind. Locked away where he pretended they did not exist, he could focus on the task at hand -- supplies. If nothing else, there was at least one benefit to being a bloodsucking monster -- the rest of his kind paid him no mind. It was for that reason Silas strolled through the halls of the school without much care, or a need to appear stealthy. He did not expect to find a human here...alive, that was. It seemed most of them were too intelligent, or still attached to a sense of self preservation to traverse these halls, let alone at night.

Apparently, even after the end of the world there were still reckless idiots.

Reckless idiots with a gun pointed right at him.

Oh dear.

Silas raised his hands slowly, looking past the man as though to give the illusion he could not see in the dark. “Are you crazy?!” He whispered harshly. “If you pull that trigger, we’ll be swarmed!” Well, there wasn’t a we. Silas knew well enough that he would be fine. In fact, there was not an ounce of fear in his body. It was this reckless idiot who would be torn to pieces. Perhaps if he was coldhearted, he would have goaded the man into shooting him, risking injury or death, as though watching a human being being ripped apart amused him. He was, however, not so cold and so, played along if only to spare this man a most painful end.

“Please,” he whispered. “Put that down.”

Posted 05-19-2021, 12:39 PM

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The straggler responsible for the noise responded with his arms up; oddly, Jessie found reprieve in that-- he found reprieve in all that.

Releasing a breath he knew he’d been holding--

“Hey,” he mustered in a whisper, half offended.

And then-- he made a face-- rolled his eyes as if himself and this man here were ol’ buds, and he was being chastized again for something small, say, leaving the dishes out, c’mon mom, we fuck, don’t do me like this--

Don’t do me at all.

… Ba dun, tss.

But Jessie didn’t say that; still tense where he was, crouched down and tryna be invisible, and one with the wall, he stared at the cunt, stared--

One, two three… and something familiar hit his mind.

He didn’t say it, yet-- he couldn’t; as the goggles allowed him a relatively good gander at the man, he could only stare, and in a quiet, and growing suspicion stare-- in his silence; in that disconcerting, and stress-inducing silence…

Then, please.

Please.

And Jessie frowned.

Without a word yet, he stood tall, only his back meeting with the wall, until he had fully abandoned his position, and could look at the cunt--

‘Well, since you ask nicely.”

Punctuated with a vague smile.

He lowered his gun with reluctance; but he did; he didn’t lower it fully; his heart beat hard; if he wasn’t alone in here, this man could be anyone-- from a drifter, to a jabberwocky cunt, the goggles none- the options existed in haunting multitudes, and Jessie knew picking didn’t make sense. Only time could tell-- only time, so--

He stared on and on, until he huffed a bit.

Just huffed.

“Well,” he spoke, whispering too, “I guess this is… as fancy as one gets when it comes to meeting new people,” he spoke, attempting sourly at jest-- he pointed with his gun to the long, and unwinding corridor on his left, knowing that at a point, it would branch out, introducing one to a maze-like world; it was a daunting thought; it was, also, oddly comfortable--

A tiny smile pulled at Jessie’s mouth.

And very much in the vein of his last thought, he chirped back to the familiar, familiar stranger--

“Hi. How are you. I’m Jessie. What a nice something we having.”

Posted 05-19-2021, 01:26 PM

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