There was nothing like it. NO, there is nothing like it. No nightmare, no horror movie. Nothing Is as bone chilling, as utterly frightening as the horrid howls of the undead, as they feed on their victims, our neighbors, friends, even our family. All have become a midnight snack. Though, somehow I lived. I survived the outbreak, the infections, now slowly but surely I'm surviving the aftermath. Though with each day I die, alone and cold. I have yet to find another survivor. And I start to think I might be the only one. But why should I be so lucky.

I remember the day it happened. My mom had drug me to the park, saying I needed fresh air, a life. Me, being a teenager, body full of raging hormones and mood swings to rival a pregnant celebrity on a bad acid trip; though not happy, I went along. What was a 17 year old girl to do? Throw a fit, argue for about 15 min, get grounded, argue some more, then end up going anyway? Me and my random moments of clarity skipped right to the end. Muttering incoherently all the way to the car, and began to read some morbid poem about death and a life relived, Ironic right? The Park, what a wonderful place to be. The sun shining bright in the sky birding chirping, scattered birthday parties, children screaming there joy at the playground. And then there's me, sulking under a tree at the edge of the dark wood, reading some dark poetry that I had no interest in. Black hair, disarray against my back, dark clothing momentarily hiding me in the dark in my 'solitude' of shaded nothingness. Little did I know, the children in the distance weren't screaming for joy. There screams where filled with fear, laced with a thick blanket of betrayal, the ones who they trusted with their lives; to keep them safe, to chase away boogieman, and the eerie shadows there toys made on the walls, had become their biggest fear