Jungleland
From the churches to the jails
Tonight all is silence in the world
As we take our stand down in Jungleland.
As the metal baseball bat collided with the walker's face, Jack Miller felt a painful tremor travel up his hands and into his shoulders. His back stiffened as the zombie's jaw broke off entirely followed by an April shower of teeth and blood. The body slumped down by the side of the road, just next to a drain overflowing with blood diluted by the pouring rain into a free-flowing pink liquid. It was still groaning. After a moment of adjustment, Jack raised the bat and drove it down into the zombie's head. Twice. Its brain spilled out into the murky waters and soon Jack was running through the street, the rain making a tap-tap noise as it bounced off of his brown leather jacket.
His legs were aching and he was sure that the bottoms of his feet were bleeding with the amount of running he'd done in the past week. His boots, luckily, were still holding together strongly and showed no signs of wearing out. For this, at least, he was grateful. "Fuck" escaped his lips repeatedly as he sprinted through the rain and turned a sharp corner and across a playground. A set of swings moved back and forth, like the ghosts of children continued to play in amongst Armageddon.
These haunting thoughts were doing nothing for his nerve which, as the days pressed on, was growing desperately thin and unstable. He felt like any day now he might lose it and turn a gun on himself. If only he could find one. A thick black cloud passed laboriously across the pale yellow moon and for a long moment there was no light at all in the street. Jack fell to the wet floor and leaned back against a rough building—maybe a house, maybe a store. He didn't know. He just sat there and closed his eyes tight, wishing away the hell around him.