Free Undone: A Dystopian Fiction Novel by Chad Evercroft Page A

the bleeding stopped. The policeman’s gunshot wound wouldn’t stop. Someone else’s blood scared me more than my own, because I was totally helpless. I didn’t know what he felt in those last moments, what he had felt when the bullet pierced his neck. Was he even aware of me bending over him, my hands wrapped around his neck? Did he know how much blood there was?
    I couldn’t get the feeling of the blood off me, even after we had used nearly all the Wet Naps. I peered into the bathroom mirror, convinced I could still see traces of it inside my pores. What I would have given for a scalding hot shower. Tyrsa, Lawrence, and I took the clothes out to the yard to burn them. People were still running around the neighborhood, some carrying supplies, and some with scratches and bruises. We covered our mouths and noses as we watched the clothes burn. Since they were still damp from blood, Tyrsa poured a little propane gas over them before she lit the match, to make sure they caught a flame. The gas went up quickly in bright, thick flames, slowly nibbling away at the fabric, which turned black and frayed at the edges. We dug a hole and buried the Wet Naps, a small, crimson-stained mountain of them.
    “I didn’t think I’d ever see someone die like that,” Tyrsa said quietly. “And then deciding that I would have to kill someone, too, if they came at me.”
    “Which was weirder?” Lawrence asked. “Seeing someone die or thinking about killing someone?”
    I thought it was a strange question, but Tyrsa looked thoughtful. She tapped one of the fire pit rocks back into place with her foot.
    “Seeing someone die,” she said. “Just thinking about killing someone isn’t that weird, in the moment. If I had to actually do it, it would probably be harder, because I’d have to justify to myself and there would always be doubts about if that was really my only choice. My dad always told me to never hesitate if I really thought my life was in danger. He would have me practice shooting tin cans and imagining they were people with guns pointed at me. But they were still just cans. You can’t really “prepare” yourself, I guess.”
    Tyrsa put her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. She watched the fire burn steadily, her eyes tired-looking.
    “I didn’t like the idea of having a gun,” she mused. “My dad has a bunch. Part of his prepping. That’s the part that always seems crazy. The survivalists who are really unhinged, the ones that end up in the news because they’ve shot all their neighbors or something, they’re always the ones who were ready to kill. I wonder if after they pulled the trigger, they got snapped back into reality - even for just a second - and realized how horrible it is to watch someone die. That policeman...he didn’t look like he even knew where he was.”
    When it came to surviving, I never factored in surviving other people. Before, the only real “enemy” was an empty wallet. Surviving just looked like choosing the cheap crackers, working jobs I didn’t like for too little pay, and having to be really clever about stretching out meals or buying school supplies. Now, looking around at people boarding up their doors and our own deadbolt locks, it was clear that the main fears now were human beings. When the clothes had burned up into tattered black rags, we nudged the remnants into a hole and filled it in. Inside, Rick and Beth had nailed the wooden planks against the windows. They blocked out the natural light, so we had to light candles, even though it was daytime. Rick went to see if Jenny wanted him to put up boards for her, too, but he returned with a note and a worried expression.
    “She’s gone,” he said. “This was on her door.”
    The note read that Jenny and Darcy had gotten a car and left early in the morning. She hadn’t wanted to disturb us and was sorry she had used up so many of our supplies by staying. 
    “I’m going to my cousin’s in Kentucky,” the note