After saying said his farewell to his deceased neighbor; a nice widowed lady who took care of him as a child after his parents passed away, he thought it was best time to leave.
It's horrifying really, but at the same time, brilliant. He thought as he strolled along a sidewalk, glancing upward at the vast, deserted skyscrapers of what used to be a largely populated city. A new infection, spread through bite and scratch; that killed and basically "Hijacked" the infected human and took control of the nervous system and brain. At least, that's what the hundreds of scientists at the multi-billion dollar research centers said. But granted most of them were, in a sense, dead. And all the money in the world couldn't save them. Those that didn't get caught in the initial widespread panic to GTFO probably succumbed to the weather or other diseases. Or even starvation.
And with those thoughts in his head, he kept on trudging along day-by-day to get out of the city, with only a thirty-pound survival pack, a few mementos, and tire iron.
He only stopped when he had to, such as when he needed a water break or to "borrow" necessary items and foodstuff from the occasional gas station or a lowly marketplace; attempting to avoid high-traffic areas such as larger stores and malls, as they were a common place for looters, essentially bandits, and undead alike. He owned a firearm, a small nine-millimeter Glock that he had picked up from some unlucky fellow about a week ago. He wasn't keen to use, as the sound made by it would most likely reverberate throughout the hallways and buildings; maybe traveling for hundreds of feet.
Unbeknownst to him, the man was heading right into a bloodbath.
A late-winter chill swept through the bright neon colored tent, sending a shiver along the man's spine. The tent did almost nothing to stop the freezing temperatures, and he had been tossing and turning in his sleeping bag; held high above on the roof in a three story apartment. The safety was only temporarily, as the man wasn't keen to stick around, vulnerable to the merciless climate.
At dawn he opened his eyes; his pupils slowly adjust to the bright orange glow seeping through the nylon threads of the tent. He exited the tent, folding the base frame into the small satchel, and tucked it back into his pack. Shouldering the bag, the man got up and found the emergency exit; his flashlight tucked in mouth, penetrating the pitch black vertical corridors. He made his was down very slowly, weapons in hand; ready for anything to lash up to attack. He was at the first floor door, leading out into a patio-like center where a pool lay still, he gasped at what he saw. That gasp would probably be the death of him.
The man felt something grasp his foot, pulling and tugging. He kicked wildly at the general direction of the grabbing; a slight thought of relief when he made contact with something solid. It relieved its grasp as he stumbled backwards flailing his arms, trying to balance himself; and almost falling in the ice cold pool.
To his disbelief he caught his balance, and with one swift motion he curb stomped the upper portion of a dismembered crawling zombie.
The mass crowds of deceased citizens didn't notice him. Until a nearby zombie witnessing the entire scene, moaned.
On a nearby Group's 16th day of trudging along outside the city limits, they were almost unbeknownst to the slaughter-fest happening on the other side of the apartment complex's wooden wall they were walking parallel to on a side walk. One member, Avery, an ex-con-artist with exceptionally keen hearing, heard a clanking noise on the opposite side of the fencing.
He caught up to John, the group's leader taking point, and whispered in his ear, "Did you hear that?"
"Yeah, I heard it. What about it? It's probably just another infected or something."
The lone survivor, panting and sweating with every swing of his tire iron, and caught in a fury of hands and gore, was fighting for his life up against the closed lobby doors of the apartments; when he picked out something through rustling of clothing and moans.
Actually, not just moans, as he had learned to distinguish the unnatural guttural sounds emitted from the zombies from the winds and for other words, 'naturals sounds coming from a dead city'. These sounded vaguely familiar, like a dream that you just woke up from. That you could remember, but felt like it was ages since it happened. 'They' or 'It', sounded very close. Like around the corner and heading you're general direction, close. He snapped out of his thoughts and took a look around; trying to hold his breath and listen closely. Still fending him self, he was trying to make the important decision whether to dismiss it or call out, and risk calling even more zombies.
He yelled.
The man made this decision out of pure instinct, as he had not made contact with another human being, at least relatively "alive"; for quite awhile.
"HELP!" He roared out, his voice going raspy and coarse.
The reply was the most surprising and probably blissful thing he had ever experienced in his life, if he was not in an apocalypse surrounded by cold concrete and a horde of moving cadavers with only one intention.
Eating him alive.