Death...
There is so much death...
Bullets-or something-keeps flying past me...
Screaming...
Please...stop...
People don't need to die...not like that old guy...
No, stop!
Stop it!
NO!
STOP!
The morning sun touched the top of Woodbury. The bright blue sky was optimistic and provided merit to the somewhat grim mood of the people; it was a consensus, practically. Birds chirped empathetically as the citizens of Woodbury woke under the sun and puffy clouds. Trees and leaves waved their "good mornings" with the assistance of the zephyr that blew through the Georgia community.
In one apartment, one boy awoke groggily. He was shitless, showing his abs and his toned body. He groaned slightly as he rolled in his empty queen-sized bed. He enjoyed sleeping-it was one activity he could enjoy- but waking disturbed the merit that sleep brought. The young boy sat up and yawned loudly. He rubbed his face and swung his legs over the mattress. His feet touched the cold floor. Frightened by the cold, he yelped slightly and pulled his feet away from the cold. He gently placed his feet on the floor again, then the cold seemed somewhat welcoming.
The leg muscles within him groaned with agitation-they didn't want to begin their long day of working; neither did the brain that controlled their movements. The boy looked around his bedroom. His shirt and jeans were tossed on the floor from his exhausting night of playing poker. He smiled-that was fun as hell. He moved across his bedroom and grabbed his jeans and his white t-shirt. He groggily placed the cloths on his body. He ran a hand through his fiery red hair. He walked into the bathroom.
He stopped in the bathroom, looking at the mirror that was suspended over the sink. His blue eyes stared at the person that was reflected in the mirror. He was once taught that the mirror showed the true personality of the gazer; the greedy, hideous side of the gazer. He frowned- he looked too much like his father and his father's brother. He turned on the water to the sink. The cold water fell into the porcelain bowl. The boy dipped his hands into the cold water and splashed water on his face. Some landed on his t-shirt, but he didn't mind. He looked back at the mirror, seeing the red hair and the young face.
His blue eyes looked into the mirror, seeing death and destruction. He looked away and walked out of the bathroom. He walked back into his bedroom. The hipster look of the room somewhat made him comforted; it reminded him of an American Eagle outlet. The tan walls were bordered with a dark wooden frame. Next to his bed was a nightstand, where he kept a glass of water, a book, and a heavy hunting knife. He was protected in this community, but he didn't take chances.
The boy sauntered across his room, making a journey to the closet. The doors were heavy to open, but the boy swung them open. Inside, the hangers were suspending several flannel shirts and two sweatshirts. He grabbed a black and white flannel and threw it over his shoulders. The soft fabric comforted him. He sauntered towards the door, which was in the other room.
He walked into the other room, which consisted of the main living area and the mini kitchen. He saw his olive coat draped over the couch. He grabbed the coat and emitted a languid sigh; he liked his life in Woodbury. He put the coat on, and pulled the gray hood onto his red hair, pulling the hood slightly past his ears. He nodded and sat on the couch, putting on his favorite hiking boots. The young fiery ginger tied the laces tightly, not wanting to succumb to walkers by tripping upon his untied shoelaces.
The ginger stood tall, then arched his back sharply. His spine cracked. More despondent feelings entered his mind; he remembered the silent Sunday mornings when the young boy awoke to the smell of frying bacon. His father savored the taste of bacon, albeit his wife loathing bacon and most meats in general. The young boy, too, loved bacon and greasy foods, like his father.
He frowned. He missed bacon and greasy foods, like French fries and chicken wings.
His frown grew. He missed his father and mother-too bad they were dead.
He could still remember the despondent day of death that ensued; it was also ironic, because that day was his birthday, and the world had gifted him with the loss of his parents-well the walkers gifted him with the loss of his parents. He could still hear the gnawing teeth on bone, the tearing of flesh; these morbid images and sounds were all too familiar.
The boy closed his eyes, remembering the horrific day...
"Liam! Open that fucking truck-now!" shouted his father.
Liam was panicking. His eyes darted from side-to-side, looking for an answer. He saw Boyd, a retired policeman, fall under a pile of walkers. The walkers tore at his chubby flesh, biting into his skin. Liam looked towards his right, seeing an old lady clutching her neck. She was crying silently, moving her lips quickly. She was wearing a white blouse with jeans. Liam looked back towards his father.
His father was holding a .22 caliber rifle, and shot it into the crowd of walkers. Liam's father was easily identifiable; his fiery red hair was distinguishable. The red hair was a common trait for all the males in Liam's family. His father was wearing his favorite leather jacket and dark jeans, along with hiking boots. His blue eyes gazed upon the walkers.
Liam simply couldn't do anything-he was paralyzed with fear and anticipation. He was scared.
"Liam, move your ass!" shouted his father, again. "Get Ruth to that truck, now!"
Those words cut through the traumatizing stupor of fear that had thwarted his common sense. He looked back at Ruth, then trotted towards her. Walkers brushed past him, moaning and groaning from hunger. Liam looked down at his cloths, seeing blood and intestines cover his chest and arms. He shrugged and continued towards the old woman.
Ruth was rocking on the road, muttering about something inaudible. Liam sauntered towards her and knelt beside her. One of her hands were pressed against her neck while the other was clutching a cross. Liam never understood why people clung to religion-God was dead. God died the moment that the first walker bit into it's first victim.
Ruth continued to rock, reciting verses from the Bible. Liam simply watched her as gunshots echoed in the air. Ruth looked at the sky. "I beg for forgiveness, my Lord! I sinned, and sinned, and sinned! I wish to confess to my sins! Punish me with the most horrific punishment fathomable due to my sins! Strike me with Your power! Forgive my sins!"
God delivered His forgiveness when a walker bit into her neck.
Liam gasped. Blood flew in high velocities as another walker approached and began to devour upon Ruth. Tears clouded his vision as he rose to his feet. He wanted to scream. He wanted to lay on the ground and cry. He wanted to die. Ironically, that feat wouldn't be hard to accomplish; the walkers swarmed around him, simply groaning and feasting upon the deceased. Liam flinched when a gunshot filled the air.
I need to find somewhere to hide...
"Liam!" cried out his father. Liam flinched at his words as he looked back. Hot tears immediately filled his eyes as he saw the horrific scene through the heads of the walkers; two walkers were devouring into his father's neck and arm. Liam wanted to scream, but that would get him killed, too. There was nothing he could do-he was useless.
"Son, I love you!" screamed his father as blood sprayed from his neck. "Find Uncle Abe! Find him, son, he w-" he never finished his sentence because the walkers finally killed him. Liam turned his head and began to walk through the horde, leaving the corpse of his father behind. He felt tears rolling down his grimy cheeks as he glanced back. He couldn't see the morbid scene of gore, but, he wished he was the person that was being devoured, not his father. Liam turned away and continued to walk without a purpose.
Liam shook his head, knocking himself from his horrific thoughts. He was standing outside of his apartment, leaning against the door. The morning sun hung overhead. Liam wiped some freefalling tears away from his cheeks as he tried to forget the macabre scene. Liam watched apathetically as people crowded near the town entrance. Oops, forgot, they were his imagination.
He knew he was going crazy; insane.
It was the fateful day when Woodbury was overrun from walkers and that damned group from the prison. He sighed as he looked around. Near his door was a barrel, and inside, was his M4 rifle and his favorite hatchet. He reached inside the blue barrel and pulled his weapons out. He reloaded his rifle with a new mag, and then, placed the old one in his pocket. He slung the rifle over his shoulder as he held his hatchet.
Why am I still here? I have nothing to live for, anymore. I gave up on looking for Uncle Abe...he's probably dead, too, like everyone else I use to know. I don't have the balls to kill myself-I can't do it, because I already tried it. Maybe that prison group will kill me if I got close enough.
Yeah, that's a good plan! I know where the prison is, too.
Liam nodded to himself and looked around. No walkers were around, so he slowly sauntered down the street, heading towards the open gates. He left the gates open when everyone fled and went towards the prison. Why didn't I just go when they all went to the prison? I believe they were all taken in, became friends with that man, Rick. Perhaps I could've joined their family, too...
He shook his head. "No, I'm a lone wolf-always have been, always will!"
He smiled as he passed through the town gates, heading towards the prison.
"Maybe Uncle Abe is still alive..."