There was an infection in the city.
And no matter what I could do, I would never be able to stop it.
But someone has to. It will kills millions of people the same way it killed my father... and my mother... my whole family. Dead, because of this psychotic infection that triggered at their brains and tore apart any consciousness they had.
That's why I'll never be able to stop it.
All I remember was running as quick as I could, everything a blur to me as the words "get out of there" shouted in my head, repetitive like echoes in my tiny mind that was like a canyon. I reached a dirty and rusty old hotel complex, the signs uneven and with only one strobe light, but was easy to see; Preston Hotel. I made my way through the double metal doors, and looked around to see the furniture on its' side and the air as quiet as night. Only the sounds of my heaving breathing could be heard, and I made my way to the front desk. Knowing that no one was there, I just went on upstairs before I heard a sound of... what was it, exactly?
It sounded like someone was craving something, or just the weird sounds people make when they have withdrawals. But I felt as if that sound was all around me, and I cletched my shirt tight to my chest as I walked forward until I reached stairs. I took a deep breath, and opened the door, then making sure the coast was clear, made my way up the stairs.
I was about to the fifth floor when I heard the sound of running and the nostril-breathing of rage as I turned behind me to see a man raise his arms, a pipe in his hand as I quickly dodged with my forearms, the steel scrapping against my skin as I made a grunt in surprise and slight pain. I was unarmed, and I felt like I was panicking, so I broke out into a run as the guy behind me shouted, "Get back here, you fucker!"
This made me run faster as I noticed a pipe on the floor, picked it up and turned behind me to see the guy striking me again before I blocked with the pipe. His strength with, ovbviously, a lot more than mine, but I took the initiative and kicked him in the crotch as he bent forward, stunned. I hesitated a split second before my actions went before my thoughts and I began beating him in the head with the pipe. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth hit blood started to spurt on my clothes and in my face, and I stopped.
I stood there breathing heavily and wiping my face, looking next door; room 508. I looked once more at the dead body and entered the room. It was completely dark beside the faint light from outside. Slowly, I made my way in the room, holding my nose and looking around the environment that I could make out. The walls seem to be pastel, with dark stains of what seemed to be blood and scrapped-off pieces of wallpaper. There was a broken bed with no sheets in the left corner, and a couch in the right corner that was just as tore up as the walls. To my direct right was the bathroom, where a lamp lay on the floor, the shade broken but the light bulb started to work. The smell of bodies, drugs, and blood filled the room like perfume, and I gagged a little as I made my way towards the couch, sitting between the side and the wall.
I pulled my knees to my chest, and since I settled down more, I thought about my father. The news report was still fresh in my mind; James Thompson, handsome 35 year-old physician was declared infected and killed his own family. Tears of sadness and rage, built up by the short time I had to realize them, started to cloud my vision as I heard running footsteps above me.
The sudden realization that I where I technically knew where I was but didn't, and the fact I'm probably in the infected "homes", made me cry even more The sudden thought that I'd die, knowing my father killed my family and not having that sense and ability of vengeance that made him that way upset me greatly, and it felt like all he could do was wipe his hands and it be over.
But it could be over with the wipe of his hands
And my family was the washcloth, wiping away and soaking up his infection and his problem.
Even though they didn't deserve it.