Fresh blood, black bones, dead children, all prone to death- Virus, bombs, what does it matter? The millions lost, all the lives shattered.

Even if you live everyone you've cared for dies, the good man falls while the undead rise. Where to go, force yourself to sleep, nightmares haunt you, they're in your dreams. No ones safe, no ones okay, the people who are left will never be the same. To kill who you are or suffer on, each day wondering if you'll make it to dawn.

Force yourself to kill the infected people, with a blank face you're now stained with dark blood. Were they even human, what were they now? Are you a murderer for surviving, saving yourself, or heartless. Best just to erase your feelings, cut out your heart as if you're dead, too.

They scream with scratchy voices as the sword cuts deep, they're already dead, so can you really call this defeat? The little girl screams in agony while poisonous fatality runs through her veins. No choice but to kill her, the small girl you once knew. It had to be done, she was going to turn, too.

You can't think back, you may only move forward. Thinking back will destroy you just like the others. The afterlife may not be your assassin, but insanity will be just as bad, the delaying killer getting you gruelingly, and silently, in the shadows is where you'll go mad. It's a venom for your brain, the thoughts of what these people were before. The people you kill now... Knowing one day they were just like you. The living.

But, now stuck between being dead or alive, you can only end them with your crimson knife... What's your purpose anymore, this question haunts who you were. Who you are now is nothing like the person you used to be, when society wasn't broken. Before disease decided if you were to live, or die. To kill, or to be killed.

Grip onto the weapon you hold, the one you'd never pick up before. Use it to annihilate them all. You're going to be fine, you've made it so far. You're invincible, living for eternity- Alone. No one is here to see your accomplishments, or here to hug you, say hello, or goodbye. Everyone, out of the millions you're now one, the last one who is actually fine. Is 'fine' a proper term for something such as yourself...? ...No, no it isn't. Because fine might as well be dead if the worlds desolate. Raising the gun slowly, you say your final goodbye.

The infected are lucky, they at least have each other... The gun will be your friend, since the worlds finally at end.