I don't screech. Why must all the survivors hate us? We never had a grudge against them for being the last of their kind, yet they keep on insisting onto themselves that we are enemies. Oh the bitterness of never-were enemies. Such intolerance. Yes, humans have the primal instinct to kill, I do know that. But cannot humans and we infected co-exist? They are immune to our airborne virus, our curse. But the survivors do not care. They never did.
I leaped off of the hospital building, without a sound. "Reloading!" a familiar voice yelled. It was Louis, a tan-skinned man. He was in good physical shape; the prime of his life. I stood; back erect to show my confidence. Even in the dark, he saw my broad contours of my body. He didn't shoot. I stared into his eyes, and he tried to look at mine, although human eyes aren't well suited for dark places. He blinked; I leapt without a sound.
I went back to my shabby, broken down room. It was in a hotel, infested with us. The survivors go past us, not noticing that we organized ourselves into hotel rooms, similar to the post-apocalyptic hotels that existed. I stared at the survivors, my eyes filling with tears for the dead, and the ones that are not. I opened the window (yes, we can open things) and jumped out.
I pulled my hood down, ready to die. I jumped right in front of them with my hands at a forty-five degree angle to my body, signaling that I was not an enemy. The one with the tattoo just glared. The old one had a suspicious tint to his eyes. The others were dumbfounded. I waited for the click of the gun. A minute passed; nothing. I answered the silence and said, "Are you gonna shoot me or what?" Their silence, turn to incoherent babble of intelligent zombies (classifying me as a zombie is harsh). I then jump out of the discord. They continue on their endless road of going to safe-house after safe-house. I follow. They don't notice – they never do. I take a leap without a screech.