Hell is empty. All the devils are here -Shakespeare
The world is basked in sunlight. It creeps past the empty, abandoned houses, through the windows, illuminating the once warm bodies that lie motionless upon the previously scrubbed floors, now tainted with a trail of red, seeping in between the tiles like spilled milk. It moves like a phantom, the gold light covering every square inch of this country, past every blade of growing grass that the mower sitting in the now dusty garage ever cut. It gleams bright against the rusted bike leaning against that wooden fence, and against every single shovel that had been planted into the dirt, marking what once was and will never be again.
And you? You are one of the lucky ones, although you would laugh cynically about the irony of it all. As if anyone could ever call a person living in this zombie infested hell, lucky. But perhaps one should rephrase. You are one of the living ones.
Not that the dead aren't living. In fact, they have lived twice. Once, when they were human, and the next when they were a little less so. You see, it happens all too quickly. You'll turn away for one minute, and your guard will drop (because it's been quiet long enough for you to forget); and before you know it there will be a pain that shoots throughout your entire being, sharp teeth cutting through your skin, ripping the limb clear off your body, as the blood spills out of you faster than you can scream. Or maybe, you'll meet another human being (as close to one as you can get out here). You're so desperate, that you'll let yourself believe there is still something in this world as pure as trust. And one day, when you least expect it, they'll put a bullet right through your head, and you'll wake up later to have it done all over again.
But that's not even the half of it.
You see, there is so much more that could happen to you. Maybe you're the one with the gun, the one who breaks. The one standing alone with no one left to see you lose all the humanity you have left. And the blood spilled across the tiled floor will be stained just as much as your hands.
You don't like thinking about death, do you? The idea scares you. In fact, it scares you more than any walker coming at you with its rotten claws held out, and its unhinged jaw stuck forever in a scream. It scares you more than the monsters themselves. Because you don't want to become one of them. But then again, that's not it, is it? It isn't death you're afraid of. No, you want to die. You'd give anything to escape this living hell. Anything to stop dreaming in nightmares and waking up to relive them all over again. Death sounds like a fucking paradise. So, why are you running from it?
It's because you have a duty, don't you? You're humanity's last hope. Because if you die, everything you've ever fought for goes right down the bunny hole. This ain't no wonderland, kid. You have to find a solution, some kind of cure. It is your civic duty. You're forced to play the hero card. You've grown up in this world, and you'll be damned if you don't find a way to save it. You can't die, not when there is so much at stake. You have to avenge the ones who have given their own lives trying to survive, whose voices pierce through your thoughts like a scream.
It will get better. We'll be safe here. No you're not going to turn. Stop crying, it's okay. We're okay. You won't die. It's just a scratch. I'm alright. No, you're not going to die. I said you're not dying!
You can't forget them, can you?
But don't act like you're some mighty hero sent down from above as humanity's last hope. Because you're not. You're just some kid. You just got wrapped up in everything. Even if you are still surviving, still living, it takes more than that to defeat them. This isn't some story where the good guys come out on top. No one here is good. Because as long as you stay in this world, surviving, you're just as infected as any member of the undead.
Think about it.
You both are hungry, dirty, and restless. When you see, you kill, and don't think twice about it. You're an empty shell of what you once were, and you're not going to get any better. But the worst part is, there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Maybe that's why, you are too terrified to fight. Maybe that's the reason why every time you kill, you breakdown. You fall the ground in a dirty heap, rocking back and forth, and shielding your eyes from the world, as if it is the only thing you can do to make it go away. You don't want to see any more blood. You don't want to see anymore gore. When the bullet flies through the air, splitting through the cracked skull of one of them, you scream. Every. Damn. Time. You don't think it will ever get easier, because It's hard to fight anything knowing that they are just as much of a human as you. It makes you weak, and in this world you can't afford to be weak.
And yet...
Do you remember, the first body you saw?
Its eye was nothing but a hole. Maggots squirmed through it, along the length of its face and arms, and what was left of its gaping chest. Half of it was gone, leaving just the upper torso, gnawed upon and oozing red blood. Despite its loss, it was still breathing. The chest moving up and down, with deep ragged air flowing through its lungs. It saw you. You remember it perfectly. Don't act like you didn't. Its gnarly fingers reached for you, a strangled gurgling sound emitting from its mouth, almost as if it were calling for you. Its jaw opened, stretching the peeling bits of skin as rubbery as elastic. You were close enough to smell the rancid breath. You were close enough to tell that it wasn't human. You knew.
And you know what you did? Do you remember, you coward?
The sunlight continued to pour through the hole where its eye once was, it's brown hair turning gold from the rays. And you, you walked away.