Day of Reckoning

NH

“ANOTHER GOAL FOR DERBY! THEY ARE ON FIRE, TONIGHT, LADIES AND GENT—”

Dirty fingers clicked off the hundredth rerun of Derby County’s last game before the outbreak.

Niall Horan sat up on the yard chair that was positioned in the hotel room’s balcony; he dropped his propped up feet to the ground as he reached for the hot beer next to the cracked, charging iPod he was watching the game on. He took a sip, and ran a hand through his course, no longer blond hair. There was no point in bleaching it anymore. The dead didn’t care what their prey looked like, and he knew this. He watched them savagely rip throats and bury their teeth in between rib cages nearly every day.

No big deal, he was used to it.

Fucking used to it. As if cannibalism was an everyday thing like a pigeon’s shit on the roof of a car.

He stood, beer still in hand, sniper rifle leaning against the aging stone of the balcony wall. A large exhale slipped from his lips, and he propped his elbows against the stone, his eyes looking down at the abandoned streets of Las Vegas—the place of their last concert.

Ha. Concerts. Seemed like a silly thing now, meaningless almost. What was the point of that hour and a half rush of adrenaline when the adrenaline was pumping through his veins nearly 24/7 now? Useless. Damn concerts didn’t help him stay alive, not even his bandmates did. Second confrontation with the dead and they all went their own ways.

Oh well.

Niall’s eyes were trained on the streets below, waves of heat taking over his vision. He missed London’s cold weather, to be honest. At least over there the beer didn’t get boiling hot. With resentment, he drank the last sip of his Bud Light and stuck his tongue out in distaste. When did he get so lost from himself that he stooped so low as to drinking Bud Light? A warm Corona was bound to be better than that crap. As a scowl took over his lips, he crumpled the can in one fist, and returned his vision back down toward the streets.

Everything was so silent…

He glanced over at his McMillan M89 and acknowledged the mixture of anger and boredom boiling within him. Why he was angry, he had only a vague idea for an explanation. He was alone. He had nothing to fight for unlike his bandmates. Did they have anything to fight for anymore though? It’s been months since he’s heard from any of them.

Liam Payne… Who knew anymore. Last time Niall heard any word on the caring puppy was from Danielle Peazer. He went bald again, she told him, had a scar running down from his right temple to his chin. After two minutes of conversation, she disappeared along with news of and from Liam. He wondered if she told Liam about him.

Louis Tomlinson left with Eleanor Calder, his sweetheart of who knows how long. Last time he heard from him, they were somewhere outside of Vegas running some lame excuse of a refuge. He was begrudgingly welcome to their camp, as long as he helped, but Niall thought them idiots. A refuge didn’t work, in his eyes. Instead, it was just a bowl of fresh food for the predators.

Zayn Malik. Perrie Edwards. Pretty reasonable. He hasn’t heard from them at all since they parted. Knowing Zayn, he was probably fine, smoking a pack a day, and Perrie scolding him for it. Who knew anymore though? In these times, maybe even Perrie picked up a cig too. Rough times. At least he had decent aim with a gun.

And finally Harry Styles. Niall saw him last, but never exchanged words other than blank stares. Styles was probably still running around with some gang. Who would’ve known; definitely surprised Niall when he saw the curly-haired lad dressed in a trench coat, blending into the background of a group of modern-day barbarians. Niall laughed at him when he caught sight of the gun gripped tightly in his hand. It just looked out of place on Harry, but hell, everything was broken nowadays.

Niall Horan though? He was alone. Fighting for himself, and no one else. It’s not that he didn’t want to, he just didn’t have anyone willing to accept his hand in times of need. So instead, he took haven on the top floor of the Venetian Hotel, stocked up on food and water, batteries, ammo, and locked himself in, only going out on occasion. With the wide view from the balcony, he didn’t have to worry about anything though.

With what seemed like hesitation, he let the can in his hand fall to the ground, and after counting ten seconds, he heard the distant rattle of metal against concrete. He waited, ears at the ready for any sudden movement. Then it came—a subtle scratching of heavy feet against hot cement. His hand went straight for his rifle, his fingers putting a bullet into place, and in one swift moment, he had the butt of his gun pressing against his left shoulder, one eye peering into the telescope.

“Hmmm,” he mumbled as he searched his target.

It came into view; a large, obese man with a deep and thick gash in his belly, the painless wound oozing black liquid.

Niall smirked and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was loud and clear, sharp and clean. His target went down with a bullet to the head.

Then Niall frowned.

He wasn’t a killer, he told himself. They were all dead anyway. But deep down, he didn’t believe himself.

He fell back into his chair, rifle leaning against his chest and the side of the barrel pressing against the right of his neck. He reached for another beer and rubbed his eyes.

Notes