cerita zombi 5

>>> hai. ezra kembali menyapa.
chapter ini agak-agak 'gore' nih, disarankan jangan baca sambil makan yak bahahahhahahaha.

update pendek, yang penting ane berhasil nulis chapter 5 setelah sekian lama.
kalo lo baru kali ini baca ezra zombie, jangan lupa cek tag http://logikatanpacela.blogspot.com/search/label/cerita%20zombi supaya lo bisa nemu cerita ini dari chapter pertama oke.

thanks. selamat baca.









If Ezra is being honest with you, he's never seen a real zombie before. The little girl from the first day he got sent out to the government's shelter didn't count. She wasn't vicious or anything, remember? She just chewed her dad's arm off.

The troops in the government's shelter never share about their battles, either. They keep to themselves; all solemn faces covered with dirt marching around protecting what's behind the walls, collecting supplies every two days and probably coming back with a new dozen of survivors and less of their own. They eat at their separated quarters and their interaction with the citizen are minimum to the max. Ezra would think that they're just being a snob because they're the troops, but sometimes he swears there are pain reflected in those adults' eyes.

Ezra doesn't know about the rest of his so-called teammates. Had any of them seen or directly confronted by zombies? Will their daily half-assed training pay off now that they're about to slay some? Will they be overpowered? Are the zombies fast runner? But the most important thing for now, what are they going to do next, escaping back to the government's shelter or continuing their silly mission to raid the minimart?

Is this what they often scream about in movies that they're panicking to hell and back? Is this how being hysteric feel like?

It's not a really good feeling, Ezra decides. He doesn't want to die. He's only seventeen.

All around him are Pipit, Tyo, Ambar, and David looking like they're not ready to do their best. Ezra can hear their irregular breathing and maybe if he concentrates—if he cares enough—he might hear their racing heartbeats.

The thing is, Ezra doesn't.

*

Aside from their very own deafening paranoia and the night's chilly wind, there are no sound at all. No lifeless groans or dragged feet meeting the asphalt. You know what? Maybe Ezra was wrong. Maybe he didn't see anything before. Maybe they should keep going.

And then Ezra hears it.

From a split-second glimpse he manages to get before David's scream piercing through the night, Ezra understands that the living dead is scary. It's a man; greying hair caked with dried, darkened blood, his eyes are empty, hollowed. Torn jaw showing the remaining of its mouth and yellowing teeth. He looks like a regular man you see on the street, medium height, wearing collared shirt and black slacks. Its arm, yes, only one, is reaching out, his spider like fingers are clawing at them. He doesn't have nails anymore, Ezra notices as he walks backward, pressed close to David who is of course moaning that he doesn't want to die no no no no—

Splat!

The lone zombie falls to its knees, skull split open thanks to Pipit's quick witted nerve to slash her machete right on top of its head. It's not a pretty sight. Is that brain? It looks like a mini version of intestine, only less red in color. There's a loud, wet crack when Pipit pulls her machete out and Tyo, followed by David and surprisingly Pipit, they vomit right on their spots.

Ambar gurgles, but she holds hers down.

Ezra jumps to avoid getting splashed by David's already processed fried rice dinner and whatever it is.

They've made enough noise as it is.

They really should get going.

cerita zombi 4

>>> yo pakabar?

ezra akhirnya berpetualang. kurang lebih. bahahahhaha.

di chapter 4 ini gue harap lo bisa agak nyengir-nyengir jijay karena ezra bertingkah kocak. kurang lebih.

lol oke selamat baca!

p.s. kalo ada kalimat usang aneh ih bam salah grammar lu, tolong kasitau yak. >>>

“Play what?”

Nakula looks at Ezra like Ezra is The Cutest Boy Ever Graces This Earth. His mom used to give him that look. Even worse, his dad still thought he’s The Greatest Son Ever after he started seeing the psychiatrist. What is wrong with people?

“It’s just a game I came up with this afternoon,” Nakula throws an arm around Ezra’s shoulders like they’re the best of friends. When Ezra shrugs it off gently to take a step back, he smiles. “You know, just go out there to look around.”

“Out?” Ezra frowns, barely aware of the giggling around him. “With all the zombies? Why?”

“That’s why it’s called ‘a game’,” Nakula is still smiling, “because it’s fun.”

Yeah, right.

“Then why don’t you play too?” Ezra asks, giving Nakula the stingy eye his senior upperclassmen had hated so, so much. “If it’s so fun to you?” but he keeps his voice indifferent because that just pissed them off so, so much back then.

Nakula’s eyebrows are raised while there’s a collective, disbelieved gasp coming from his toy soldiers.

Ezra mimics what Nakula just did.

“Ezra, here’s the thing you need to understand,” Nakula seems to have a hobby to throw his arm around someone’s shoulders, because he does it again to Ezra, who doesn’t bother to shrug it off this time. “You don’t get to question me. You do what I say, because that’s how it is.”

Ah.

How boring.

“Okay then.” Ezra feels himself smiling as Nakula squeezes him closer. He doesn’t miss the puzzled look coming from the so-called leader and his blind followers when he said it. “What are the rules?” he redirects his handsome smile (his mom’s words, not his) toward the rest of the group like either he’s too thick to get the ‘joke’ or he’s insane to agree to the whole messed up situation involving one charming maniac.

Nakula doesn’t take too long to recover and deliver the basic rules.

You just need to go to a minimart located three blocks from here, take anything you like, and come back as soon as possible. Nakula provides stolen machetes from the warehouse as weapons. There’s no winner or loser in this game, because it’s just for fun. You will come back braver and stronger after you go out there. Sure, Ezra keeps his thought for himself, says the guy who isn’t even going out there.

“Do you have any questions, Ezra?” Even though Nakula’s smile doesn’t have any significance to our protagonist, still Ezra has to admit that that smile is going to be strongest contender to his very own handsome smile.

All the more reason to ‘play’, yeah?

“Me? Nothing. Let’s do this.” And because Ezra can be hilarious just like any other seventeen year olds, he adds, “Been craving Oreo and Ultra Milk, to be honest.”

Ezra swears Nakula is this clo~se to hug him after he cracked the joke, but he manages to dodge out of Nakula’s overly friendly nature by siding up next to Pipit, bumping their arms, and she giggles as Ezra clears his throat in lieu of an apology.

“You’re nuts,” she has to tiptoe to whisper to the side of Ezra’s neck, sending warm, minty breath to the cold skin. “But in a good way.”

Oh.

Well.

*

Getting out means climbing the rambutan tree to reach over the ten feet tall, black wall. There’s an electricity pole right across the wall, so they can slide down like firemen to go out there. How are they going to come back? Good question. You have to climb up the electricity pole or get in from the front gate, feigning innocence and desperation.

Of course Ezra is going to come back using the second method.

They have to move fast while the watchmen are still enjoying their goddamned fried rice dinner. Ezra swears he’s going to take a hundred of instant fried rice seasoning from the minimart and then he will make his own fried rice that he will eat for a week.

Pipit climbs first, followed by the kid who wished Ezra die earlier that day, Tyo, and then David, a quiet, Betawi-Chinese boy, Ambar, a hijab-wearing, trekking kind of girl with her thick checkered flannel and Northface sandal, and finally it’s Ezra’s turn to climb the rambutan tree but not before a creepy good luck from Nakula, who wishes him to come back safely because they have so much to talk about.

What a turn off, Ezra thinks as he reaches the wall. He would have preferred to run away and never come back, if only he has his backpack with him and he isn’t really that hooked to eating fried rice. He can’t cook fried rice out there, not without a proper kitchen utensil et cetera. Hell, Ezra can’t even cook rice!

He’s still pressed about his interrupted dinner as he slides down the electricity pole and lands in one piece next to Pipit.

“Ready?” Apparently, Pipit is the appointed leader for this fun game. “Stay close together and try not to make loud noises. Remember to aim for the brain! I know where the minimart is, so follow me. Is that clear?”

Everyone nods silently.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Source of lighting is scarce, despite the fact that the government’s shelter is located in the posh area of South Jakarta. They can see the road alright, but still it’s way darker than the normal days before this shit went down. The street lamps are rationed, so it’s 1:5 every a couple of meters. They stay low, hiding beneath the shadow or else the watchmen will be interrupted from their nice fried rice dinner by thinking that they’re a hoard of zombies going further, not closer, from them.

Whenever the chilly wind blows, the foul stench of those walking dead is transmitted in the air. Ezra is glad for his handkerchief, although running with his nose blocked is quite uncomfortable as he notices his teammates begin to struggle with the seemingly foreign act of putting one leg after another in a (rather) fast pace after lying around like pregnant whales and gossiping and being teenager-y for more than a month. They haven’t even reached the first block yet.

For a good measure, Ezra tightens his grip on the machete’s sturdy handle.

Now there’s an out of sync raggedy pant-pant!-pant! from his teammates—what a weird way to address these strangers—and Ezra thinks he just sees a moving silhouette from his peripheral vision as they take a left turn to the second block.

“Oh god, please,” Tyo whines abruptly, “please, Kak Pipit, can we rest for a minute?”

Pipit’s answer is a short no. Ezra almost smiles.

“Please?” Tyo stops running then. He folds his knees to heave. Ambar is kind enough to pat his back to coax him to keep going. It’s too risky stopping out in the open like this. The abandoned photo studio is dark like the rest of this block, and Ezra swears he hears something.

He nudges David and whispers, “How about we get ready?”

“For what? Did you, did you see anything?!” David, for a quiet dude, sure expresses his panic loudly.

Tyo gasps at that. Ambar crouches down so fast Ezra wonders whether she pulls a muscle or not. Pipit orders them to stand back to back, creating a circle, with Tyo in the center, probably crying for real now.

Ezra doesn’t want to be the party popper, so he obeys the order and prays that he was hallucinating.

But a famous proverb once said ‘the third time is a charm’.

T . B . C

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 . . .

cerita zombi 2

•  jatohnya (masih) character study nih.

si ezra kayaknya bukan psikopat, tapi mengidap asperger syndrome. hmmm.

kuberpikir action nanti di chapter selanjutnya.

big thanks buat joce, dhita, abong, dan zetra yang udah baca dan komen dan brainstorm di FB. iseng-iseng aja ini biar otak gak karatan.

• jangan lupa komen yach!

Before this shit went down, Ezra had to go to a psychiatrist twice every month, usually on Fridays right after school with his mom driving his dad’s SUV, making small talks about her colleagues and asking a lot of things about his day.

Ezra’s mom is (was?) a tall woman. She speaks in a low volume and her tinted red lips are always curling up as if she smiles all the time. She only eats chicken and she only reads fictional politic novels. Actually, she’s five years older than Ezra’s dad, who was (is?) an avid comic book reader. Ezra doesn’t even like to read anything, so that’s pretty much heartbreaking for his dad. Now that he realizes his dad’s comic book collection is probably nothing but ashes thanks to the demolition, well, the left side of Ezra’s chest clenches uncomfortably.

“What are you thinking?”

Ezra glances to where his psychiatrist, Dr. Fulan, is sitting cross legged on the cold, tiled floor.

It’s like a deja vu, because Dr. Fulan would ask about what he was thinking before he asked about what he was feeling, back then in his cozy office with the dimmed lighting and a dozen of bronze plaques for his dedication, accomplishment, and recognition as a renowned psychiatrist. The only different thing is, now Dr. Fulan is dressed in a frayed sweater, a pair of turmeric colored chino, and black sneakers, of all things. His hair is longer, too, unkempt, and his frameless glasses are crooked.

“Me? My dad’s comic books.” Ezra answers, shrugging.

“Oh? What about them?” Dr. Fulan links his fingers together, clearly intending to reestablish himself as Ezra’s former psychiatrist.

“Huh, nothing,” Ezra decides to play along. “They’re gone.”

“And how do you feel about them gone?”

“Nothing. They’re my dad’s.”

“Is there any knickknack of yours that you left behind, Ezra?”

“Yeah, my laptop.”

“Would your laptop help you feeling better in any way if you brought it along?”

“Of course not. It’s not a weapon.”

Dr. Fulan nods, and he sighs.

“Do you think help will come?”

“I don’t know, doctor.”

“Do you miss your parents? Your friends?”

“More or less.”

“Aren’t you worried about them?”

“Eh. No.”

Dr. Fulan leaves without another word and Ezra continues sitting down on the cold, tiled floor, tuning out the bristling all around him at the government’s shelter, and falls asleep.

*

Before this shit went down, Ezra didn’t have to do house chores other than keeping everything neat and clean after usage. Now he has to wash his own clothes, learns how to build something other than Lego, and, weirdly, smiles like everything is alright 24/7.

That’s a lot of work for him.

There are boys and girls around his age, too, and they seem to have a silent agreement to always stick together. They’re loud, they’re giggly, and they get angry when they understand that Ezra is not interested to play with their little merry go round circle, by ostracizing him.

Not that Ezra cares.

The Virus is still incurable. Ezra is good with faces but not names, and he’s been in the government’s shelter for five weeks. So far, he counts less than six people are missing. Or, who is he kidding, ha ha, they’re dead because they showed the symptoms and were quarantined and never came back. Ezra is scared, obviously. He doesn’t want to die, no matter what. The shelter is too crowded, and virus, according to his Science class, travels fast. Even breathing in the same air with the virus bearer can heighten the risk of you getting infected. What the heck, right? Nowhere is safe. For now, Ezra makes sure he lives in the separate headquarters from those unfortunate, dead people (zombies?), keeps his own spoon and fork, and ties a handkerchief around his nose and mouth day and night.

*

Before this shit went down, Ezra spent his leisure time watching TV. He watched everything; ancient football matches, music videos, cheap reality shows, the news, detective/horror series, cartoon adaptation from his dad’s favorite comic book, movies, animal documentaries, culinary reviews, talk shows, even the home shopping channel.

At the government’s shelter, he does nothing. When his chores are finished, he sits down on the cold, tiled floor right across his room, and just exists like that. He doesn’t mind. His hobby is not reading or talking or playing half-assed basketball. He liked his 60” high definition flat screen his dad bought only, what, half a year ago. Now it turned to ashes and he doesn’t know where his dad is.

Half a year ago, huh? He wasn’t seventeen yet. He was eight inches shorter, too. But the numbers don’t matter now.

“Hi.”

Ezra looks up and sees a pixie haired girl smiling down at him. Basically, her t-shirt swallows her upper body and her denim shorts are baggy. She wears a pair of pink sandal. Her toes are, somehow, tended beautifully.

Ezra nods, and uncrosses his arms.

“Can I sit here?” she points at the empty space next to Ezra, and her fingernail is pretty, too.

“Yeah.” Before this shit went down, Ezra didn’t think too much about girls in general. They’re alright. They’re easy on the eyes, they smelled fruity, and they seemed to favor his aloofness.

(Which was kinda ironic because his parents didn’t, thus Dr. Fulan.)

The pixie haired girl then plops down next to him, keeping a distance, and her smile is not blinding or what, but it’s a nice smile.

“Hi, I’m Pipit.”

“Ezra.”

Ezra doesn’t want to shake hands. The Virus, remember? Pipit raises an eyebrow as she pulls back her right hand with a giggle.

“What’s your story, Ezra?” she tilts her head and rests it on her folded knees.

“What do you mean?” Ezra has to readjust his handkerchief around his mouth so he can talk like a normal person.

"Who are you, why are you here, with whom, for how long... The usual.” Pipit smiles again, encouragingly.

"Me? I got here with the federal truck. They destroyed my home. I think I’ve been here for almost six weeks now.” Ezra says with a frown because if he were Pipit, he’s sure he wouldn’t want to know anything about himself.

“That sucks,” she shakes her head, and after a minute or two she bursts out laughing. “Don’t you wanna know about me?”

“Eh,” Ezra mumbles. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“Okay then, say it.”

“Say what?”

“The questions, of course!”

“What questions?”

“About me!”

Ezra can’t decide whether he’s annoyed or not interested, so he gets up and walks away.

T B C. . .

cerita zombi

* iseng. untitled kayak si april.

tapi cerita ini bisa jadi gua bikin serius sih.

setting di jakarta, sejauh ini.

ezra, tokoh utama kita, umurnya tujuh belas tahun. laki-laki. (kemungkinan) psikopat BAHAHAHAH maklum baru nonton film 'nightcrawler'.

eh apaan lagi ye.

semoga jadi bacaan yang kece.

dan bikin lo mikir.

emang sengaja cliffhanger, btw.
soalnya mentok segitu aja lol.

komen ye kalo udah baca xixixixixixi*

When this shit went down, Ezra was at school, sitting absentmindedly on his desk with nothing going on in his head while he was supposed to finish an assignment. He can’t remember what class it was, but he’s sure it was history.

He liked history.

Right now he can’t be absentminded anymore. If he so much loses concentration of whatever is going on around him, he’s going to be some zombies’ dinner. That would be stupid, because he’s survived this far, miles away from his home, smart enough not to make unnecessary noises and stabbing the zombies’ rotten brains with the broom’s handle, a stolen property from his classroom, at first, before switching to knives and a hammer. Besides, those zombies? They’re just stupid people getting killed for panicking and screaming and generally being useless. Ezra is not stupid. Sure the world is messed up, but he doesn’t want to die. He’s only seventeen.

And he’s alone.

Not that he’s complaining.

When this shit went down, he grabbed his bag and took the classroom’s one and only broom with him. Instead of rushing to the main gate to get back home along with hundreds of distressed fifteen to eighteen year olds, he went to the empty canteen, raided every packaged foods he could find, lots of plastic bags, and foolishly so, three bottles of mineral water. He swore he would pay for everything if the shit was only an issue. It isn’t, now, is it? So...

Ezra went home then, his motorcycle was brimmed with gas, but he stopped by the, again, emptied gas station and rummaged through for a tank. He filled two, and the main street was chaotic. People were rushing, private cars, public transportations, buses... all were honking impatiently. There were accidents, too. That made Ezra focused on his motorcycle, and soon enough he was at his housing complex, which was also chaotic because family cars were trying their fastest to get out of there. Ezra’s parents were at work, their offices were next to each other in the city central. They had phoned him and said they’d be home ASAP.

They never showed up.

When this shit went down, Ezra holed up in his two story, minimalistic home with all the doors locked and windows shut. He didn’t turn on any lights at night. He kept a backpack ready within his reach; clothes, foods, water, money, his mom’s jewelries, lighter, flash light, batteries, knives were—some still are—stuffed inside. He monitored the news on muted TV and his class’ group chat on social media, getting some vague information about taking shelter at the president palace or at the nearest police station, hospital, or just stayed home until further notice.

Ezra opted for the later until he got woken up by a blaring siren and a very, very loud vehicle stating that the area, including the housing complex, was going to be demolished in fifteen minutes. That all citizens still living in their houses to get on the federal trucks because they would be evacuated to a safer place.

Ezra remembers the news were speculating about The Virus. Don’t get bit, no matter what happens, they said. Aim for its brain, they advised. Symptoms include coughing, bluing skin and nails, reddened eyes, and pain electrocuting your whole body you’re going to have a hard time breathing. If one of your kins is having those symptoms, better get out before it’s too late, they insisted.

When a little kid sitting right behind the driver in the truck where Ezra was evacuated showed those symptoms, and her parents were looking extra guilty somehow, Ezra stood up and swayed, hauling his bag on his shoulders and ignoring the protest from the people around the cramped truck as he excused himself to move nearer to the door. He thought of asking the police officers assigned to guard their truck to get off, but he scolded himself because no way the little kid would turn any minute now. Besides, there was an annoying woman who kept on asking when were they going to arrive every goddamn second, and the police officers never got tired of telling her that they were only—

That’s when the screaming began.

Ezra remembers a blur of movements, then people shoving him to unlock the door and more unnecessary noises as the little kid chewed on her dad’s bloody arm. The convoy stopped, the police officers were ready with their guns, and when the leader commanded to take down the little kid her mom pleaded to spare her family’s lives. At that point her husband was surely going to turn, and the leader said they couldn’t take a risk.

What made Ezra wonder how fascinating everything is was the way the dad shook his head at his wife and climbed out of the truck holding his daughter tight so she wouldn’t attack the other citizens. He was crying, his wife was wailing, and then he walked away to the direction of a dark alley. The police officers urged them to get back into the truck, but they refused due to the blood on the floor. The leader instructed the floor to be splashed with water and Ezra sure as hell was not going to get back into that truck, hello, The Virus, and moved to the last truck of the convoy, stationing himself near the door again.