cerita zombi 3

 > > > ternyata belom eksyen. chapter 4 yach.

tapi lebih banyak dialog.

tokoh-tokoh baru gitu.

suspense.

komen yak sodara-sodara. mungkin disebarin ke temen2 (penerbit) juga LOL.

p.s. gue baru tau kalo 'i am legend'-nya will smith ternyata diangkat dari buku. berhubung nonton pelemnya asal-asalan, boleh lah kucari bukunya untuk referensi. world war Z dan prekuel-nya juga. hm.

met baca! > > >

There’s nothing much you can do as it is. You either sleep, help around, train, cry, freak out, or talk, and talk and talk.

It’s been exactly two months ever since it all began.

Even for a boy like Ezra who literally never minds basically anything, the unchanging routine is killing him.

But not today though. Today he finds his washed pants and t-shirts are gone from their usual spot on the communal clothesline on the northeast building. There’s a folded A4 paper pinned with the wooden clothespin and it has his name written in bold, block letters.

if ur so great,meet us @ da southwest backyard
We have ur posesion
x

   
“No shit.” Ezra mumbles and shoves the letter into the pocket of his cargo pants, because if anything does go south, all pun intended, he will have it as a proof that he’s not the one initiating shit. After scanning the empty rooftop, he kicks the metal door open with his misplaced strength until it meets the wall and gives a loud bang!

What he’s going to face? It won’t be his first confrontation. A boy like Ezra was misunderstood way too often he didn’t even try to stop pretending that he cared anymore, because he didn’t (doesn’t, will never) give a damn whether his lack of facial expression was annoying a bunch of upperclassmen or whether his choice to be alone was mistranslated as an arrogant I’m-holier-than-thou act from his peers. Like, wasn’t that what they want? For him to be out of their lives? Then why did they always seem to make a hobby out of calling him to ‘have a talk’ right after school at the deserted, public gymnasium where teachers or adult alike wouldn’t know what kind of ‘talk’ they were going to give him? Of course Ezra had had enough of the typical yapping and the following memento of bluing skin on his torso or hips or upper thighs. He’s no less human than them, he didn’t deserve the ‘talk’ at all he made sure he had their regular recorded in his smartphone the last time a dozen of upperclassmen called him to have the ‘talk’—because earlier that day, Ezra remembers vividly, probably because he made sure he stared seconds longer with his soulless, haughty eyes—their words not his—to the upperclassmen’s gang leader who wasn’t even that tall or big, during recess. And that was enough to get his ass dragged to the public gymnasium. He had to stifle his smile while they taunted him with their dull NGAPAIN LO NGELIATIN GUA TADI SIANG, HAH? LO MAU NYARI RIBUT?! LO MAU RIBUT SAMA GUE? LO BERANI RIBUT SAMA GUE?! BARU KELAS SATU AJA LAGAK UDAH KAYAK RAJA—and for the first time ever, and the last, he begged for unheard mercy in between their laughter and mocking HAHAHAHA BARU SEKARANG LO MINTA AMPUN? TELAT NJING!!—assured that his smartphone which was taped tightly on his left ankle, hidden by the pipe of his grey slacks and white socks, had been recording their voices. He went to the principal office the next day, still with fresh bruises on his cheek and stomach, with the voice recording and a sprinkle of victimized sobbing, successfully kicking all of his upperclassmen tormentors out of their school in disgrace, and nobody ever messed with his poker face and his unfriendliness anymore.

He will do it all over again. Zombie apocalypse be damned.

*

When Ezra is lying idly on his bed, hours later, he hears the stomping first before the person owning the expensive boots is appearing on his room’s door without knocking. A boy, short, furious.

Ezra is good with faces, but he’s not good with names.

“What the hell are you doing here?! Nakula’s been waiting for years you dickhead!” Yeah, not this one. Who is this anyway?

Ezra sits up and raises his eyebrows. “Who?”

“What—!” the boy’s mouth forms an O. And then he’s gaping like a fish out of water. “So what they say about you is true. Shit.” Suddenly, he’s laughing without a mirth on his trembling voice. “It’s not funny, you dickhead! Come out and follow me!”

“Why?” Ezra asks again.

“Don’t you want your clothes back?!” the boy is almost shouting by now.

“Oh,” Ezra makes a face, and shrugs. “It’s almost dusk. I’ll go see him after dinner. You didn’t write a specific time at that paper, by the way.”

“My god,” the boy spits it like a curse, “I hope you die!” he points a finger at Ezra and runs.

*

Tonight is fried rice day. Ezra sits at the corner of the dimly lit dining room and only gets four spoonfuls before unfamiliar shadows are falling over him.

“Get up.” Says a pleasant but cruel voice from his right side.

Ezra looks up and squints. Is this Nakula? He recognizes Pipit smirking among the human barricade, and the boy who wished him dead, but the rest, not really.

“I’m eating,” Ezra declares the obvious.

“No you’re not.” Probably-Nakula snatches his paper plate with a lightning speed. Tch. Ezra likes fried rice, he does, he could eat fried rice his mom cooked for a week straight a long time ago. “You’re coming with us, now.”

“Okay.” Ezra stands up and finds he’s eye to eye with Probably-Nakula. Good. He knows being tall is a threat for the nearest self-proclaimed leader like Probably-Nakula, and he’s glad he’s not losing in that petty aspect.

Probably-Nakula starts to walk without any word, still carrying his paper plate, and disposes it at the huge trash bag situated by the entrance. He’s not stupid, then. Ezra tells himself to be extra careful.

They’re heading to the southwest backyard as expected, and Probably-Nakula says conversationally in his mostly pleasant voice, no cruelty detected,

“Jakarta’s sky without pollution for two months, huh?” he speaks to the rest of the group, nodding at the starry sky above them. “It’s beautiful, right?” and echoes of agreement are parroting his statement.

Except for Ezra, who prefers the ocean and its haunting beauty over anything.

“What do you think?” Probably-Nakula is smiling when he addresses our protagonist like they’re old pals from birth.

“Me? Nothing.” Ezra blinks, and hears the sneering and scoffing from Probably-Nakula’s toy soldiers surrounding him.

Probably-Nakula chuckles. “Sure,” he slows down his steps to clap Ezra’s shoulders, “how are you, Ezra?”

“Hungry.” And Most-Likely-Nakula laughs out loud. See? Ezra can be hilarious, too.

“Sorry about that,” Most-Likely-Nakula claps his shoulders again, “but you won’t be hungry anymore once you play with us.”

They arrive at the southwest backyard, protected by ten feet tall black wall and wired fence as cherry on top. About twenty meters behind is the south guard post, currently occupied with fried rice-eating watchmen, their AK-47s are poised ready toward the street outside.

What kind of game are they going play here?

“So!” Verified-Nakula whispers to them all, telling them to crouch down underneath the big rambutan tree. “Who’s excited?”

Hands shooting up so fast Ezra wonders if their muscle joints are alright.

“Who would like to play tonight?” Nakula hums as he scans his eager toy soldiers trying their best to look the most appealing. “Pipit, you’re in, then you, Tyo, David, Ambar, and of course our honorable guest, Ezra.”

T B C . . .