The world had to crumble down somehow.
As much as we like to deny it, the fact that everything, even the most beautiful, has an end. We, the human race, like to ignore that ironic of a fact as we see fit. Maybe because deep down, in the depths of our soul, we're terrified by the thought and concept of closure, or because we don't want to experience the aftermath, the consequences.
Gluttony. Greed. I believe every human being is born with it. Desire for more. Will to cease the endgame. Non-stop hunger, the excessive craving. Could it be the reason we attempt to avoid closure at costs?
Maybe we were born not so innocent and pure at all.
The earth. Only planet known to contain ongoing life. Home, shelter, food and family to men.
The end of the world, the Doomsday as called by some, was roughly imagined as a simple but effective explosion, surrounding the surface and destroying all the life sources, leaving only ashes and flat ground behind. Some believed the oblivion to occur in a more, let's say, technological way, man-made robots taking over the nation, recklessly and leaving nobody behind, just like in the movies. You believed it to happen more clichéd, all the human life disappearing from earth and regrouping somewhere out there to reach eternity.
Never did anyone thought it'd all end because of a damned mushroom.
And yet, there she stood, leaning against a random wall in an old, long abandoned and rotten apartment, one hand on her heavily bleeding wound, no clue on how she ended up in there, as it all happened too fast for her to comprehend or make plans accordingly.
It was just a matter of time.
The room she had been trapped in was barely barricaded by a rusty, old, metal bookshelf pushed with her last left efforts, not estimated to last too long. There was a window on the far right side of the abandoned study, it seemed. Big enough to slip through without a hitch, if she wasn't on her last grip of life. No need to beg for more, it's long over for her.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, only to get some severe coughing, she immediately sealed her violet lips, aware of the Clickers banging loudly on the wooden door, which was about to break down and second. She could hear the gruesome groans and grunts of the abominations,scratch marks occur as their claws covered in fungus contact the wood surface.
Blood drenching her trousers and shirt fast, she tore a piece of rag from her dirty and bloody top, forming a makeshift bandage. Her wound hadn't been no bite, no, then she'd not hesitate to place that precious pistol of hers to the head. No, this stupid, unnecessary wound was caused bu some disgrace of a hunter she'd come across in the building. Bastard drew first, but his aim was truly pathetic, she liked to admit. She had taken good care of him with a clean bullet through the head, all a result of her brutal survival experience, which obviously attracted the damned infected.
The bastards definitely loved a good bang.
There she was again, at last, in an overrun study which possibly housed such great ideas and creations in it's early days, or maybe just procrastinating and video games, who knows, with no where to go, and nothing to do other than sit back down on the scrapped wooden tiles, wait for closure, and for some endless shut-eye. It didn't seem so bad after all, she'd kill for some serious shut-eye, not that she hadn't. And they say death is of another great adventure, she wasn't afraid of the aftermath anymore. She was quite the survivalist.
My luck had to run out sooner or later.
Hopeless, the warmth of death slowly surrounding her. Solid, flawless, pure, pitch black. Eyes closing ever so lightly, like feathers landing down on a white, puffy pillow. She welcomed the sensation dearly. She'd done enough killing. Let the ones who deserve survive. What was left on this post-pandemic world to live for anyway? Hope? Nah, she had run out of that way too long ago. She had raided CDC's, talked with former doctors who used to research for the antidote before they started eating raw flesh. All answers led to the same door, there was no fucking cure. None. Humanity was doomed with this hell of a fungus for eternity, or for as long as the world endured.
Getting as comfortable as she could in her death bed, as one of the wretched Clickers tore a large part of the wooden door, it's hand trying to reach and see if his dinner was inside.
She surely had not been expecting the sound of glass shattering all around the soon-to-be tomb of hers.