As he rubbed his bloody hands on his worn and loose jeans, Willy Campbell thought about the events leading up to this moment in time. It had all started with riots in small villages but quickly had progressed to the more populated areas. Within days, this disease, this killer without a proper name to describe its madness, grabbed a hold of England's balls. It took the innocent, the guilty. It enslaved the young and old without any intentions of letting go. Now, what was once one of the greatest countries in the world was a hell hole, something that only appeared in horror films. The victims were friends, family, and lovers. . . yet they weren't.
He found it humorous in a dark manner though. Yeah, he had just killed his best mate in their overpriced London flat, but only a week ago his one worry was how he was going to pay for groceries with the little money he had made off his paintings. Now, one week later, he was on the roof of his complex about to jump off before the savages ripped him into shreds like a famished person digging into a delicious Christmas dinner. Oh, not to mention, Willy was covered in his friend's dark coloured blood. He could still hear the screams as his friend was torn and shredded. The infected who destroyed his friend found a cleaver between his eyes. The friend had his head bashed in. Morbid thoughts of abstract paintings created after the scene of his death flew through Willy's mind. The colours entwining together perfectly: the thick grey consistancy of the brain, the shards of white skull that flaked the top, and the dark liquid that mixed it all together to complete the grotesque masterpiece. He shook the thought out of his head.
"What a wanker!" Willy laughed as an infected ran with its comrades through the shambled streets of London. He could hear the banging of the infected on the door to the roof.
Time to really hurry up.
He knew what he was going to do and this was probably the best time to do it. The growls and shrieks of the infected were getting louder and louder. They were vocalizing their death song. He took a step onto the ledge and looked back at the door.
Still closed.
He looked back down. Its amazing what can happen in 7 days. One could get married, get divorced, or make another life changing event. Or, better yet, the world could go to hell.
He heard the bolts break and the door slam open. He didn't need to turn around to watch as the horrendous creatures hurtled themselves to him. So he did what he had hesitated to do for so long. With a quick leap into the chilly England air, he felt all emotions and feelings leave him.
Willy Campbell didn't feel the impact of his body hitting the hard concrete. Nor did he feel the infected fall off the roof with him only to land on him, crunching him harder onto his concrete deathbed. The only thing he remembered before plummeting down to his demise was the thought in his head.
His thoughts on how his world had changed in just 1 week.
7 days.
168 hours.