The Dead Will Walk
Prologue:
New Woods
I've always loved the woods. No matter the time of year; winter, spring, summer, or fall—I loved 'em. There was never one particular thing that I loved about the woods. The trees weren't anything special, neither were the animals that roamed among them. The air was just like any other air, except a bit fresher, and the soil was just dirt and old leaves.
In winter time, the trees would thin out and turn frail, their foliage crumbling off and sinking to the floor without a sound. I lived in Georgia, so the forest wasn't usually covered in thick, white blankets of snow, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a beautiful sight. When the sun would rise, the light would reflect off of the frozen dew drops that covered the trees and it would look like thousands of tiny, sparkling diamonds. Then, by midday, the sun would have melted the ice and the soil would be wet and cold under my bare feet (I never wore shoes. Papa called me "Toes" for years). Once nighttime rolled around, it would get so cold that you could see your breath in the moonlight. It was absolutely breathtaking.
Now, summertime was a different story. Georgia in summertime was hotter than the Devil with a fever. When Papa and I would wake up to go hunting or to spend some time outdoors, after just a few hours into the day, we'd be drenched in sweat and praying for a breeze. The air would be thick like a fog and it made it hard to breathe, but it was worth it. That's when all the game was out. Deer, rabbits, squirrels—all sorts of animals came out in those woods. Summertime was also when I was out of school, so Papa would take me out and teach me everything I needed to know about hunting, skinning, and cooking my catches.
I never thought it would've come in handy one day.
It's funny, Papa used to tease me when I was younger, saying that man-eating monsters lived in the trees and only came out at night. Being a young and naïve little girl, I believed him. So when the sun went down and darkness overcame the sky, I'd be tucked in bed, listening to Papa's loud snores and stealing glances out my window, wondering if I'd ever catch a glimpse of those man-eating monsters.
I never did.
And I'm thankful I never had.
Because, now? Now those bastards are everywhere.
Now the woods I once loved and cherished, the woods that I spent my childhood and most of my early adulthood in, the woods that secured the bond my Papa and I had, were now gone. Those woods were replaced with evil, with Hell's beasts that lurked around all day and all night. They never got tired, they never slowed down (unless you shot their legs off, of course), and they never gave up. They would keep coming, hoards of them, with their jaws snapping and their mutilated fingers reaching for their next meal.
No one really knows how it started. First it was just a common cold. Sniffles, sore throat, head aches—the norm. But then it started to get more serious. Sniffles turned to nosebleeds, sore throats turned into coughing up blood, and headaches became mind-numbing migraines that made your skull feel as though it was being cracked open with a sledge hammer. And that's not even the worst part. Soon after you experience those symptoms, this ache would spread throughout your stomach. Day by day it would grow, until moving became next to impossible. Then, finally, you'd die.
But, you wouldn't, would you?
No, instead, after a few hours of succumbing to your "death", your off-colored eyes would shoot wide open, your body would be cold, and you'd be craving the flesh of the living.
Frightening, isn't it?
When the sickness first spread, small cases were popping up all over Georgia. Papa and I lived right outside the city of Atlanta, in the outskirts of a small town called Chattanooga. I decided to stay with him after graduating college, just in case his health turned sour or if he'd need anything. Good thing I did, too. Just when the first few cases popped up, hundreds more just like them started popping up, as well. It was crazy. Everyone was in a panic, fleeing to the city for some sort of safety. I remember confronting Papa about maybe heading into the city to see what all the hype was about. "Ain't no need for that, Toesy Rosy. You n' I both know we're safer here then out there," He had said before shooing me into the kitchen to finish making dinner. That's my Papa for you. Old man was as stubborn as a pack mule.
But he was right. In just a few short days, they broadcasted that the military was sent in. They were putting the city under quarantine, keeping everything in and everyone out.
Then, just a week or two later, they dropped the bombs.
The earth shook violently, rustling the trees and scattering the birds. You couldn't walk outside without smelling the smoke. Of course, that wasn't even the half of it. With all the commotion those bombs caused, it wasn't a surprise that it brought a crowd.
Papa and I had just finished eating the night his world and mine would change forever. I'd put the dishes in the sink and closed up his TV tray. He always liked eating in the living room so he wouldn't miss Wheel of Fortune, even though the cable had been out for a solid two weeks. It was nearly eight at night, and the old man had fallen asleep in his La-Z-Boy, his snores sounding throughout the small house. I chuckled and placed a blanket around his legs and over his shoulders, knowing that if I tried to wake him up he'd probably just swat me away. After I turned out the lights, I headed to the bathroom to take a shower before going to bed. I hadn't even turned the water on when I heard the sliding-glass door break, shards of glass sprinkling all over the floor. The moans were the worst. They were desperate, needy, and downright terrifying.
And there were dozens of them.
I remember thinking when this all first started how awful it must be to turn into one of those monsters; to lose yourself and all of your thoughts and memories. I used to think it would be the worst thing that could happen.
But it wasn't
You know what was?
Watching as you lost the people you loved.
When I ran out into the living room to warn Papa, I knew I was already too late. He was screaming, wailing as three of those bastards ripped the flesh from his bones. One was at his chest, digging its nails into his skin and pulling out chunks. The other two were at his legs, gnawing away as he attempted to kick his way out of their grasp.
But it was no use.
He was trapped, and so was I.
I couldn't move, couldn't think, and couldn't feel. All I could do was stand there and watch as Papa hollered for me to grab the guns and get the hell outta there. And finally, when my body decided it was ready to move, I did. I ran downstairs into the basement, opening up the gun rack. Handguns, shotguns, ammunition, buck knives, pocket knives, and one large machete, were sorted out and hung up on the wall. I scrambled for the duffle bag, zipping it open and shoving every single weapon inside. I added a few bottles of water and an extra change in clothes, just in case, and slipped into my hiking boots.
I still to this day don't know how the hell I did that without shedding a tear. Maybe it was the shock? Or the adrenaline? I'm not sure. But for whatever the reason may be, I'm thankful that I was able to hold it together long enough to climb up stairs, shoot my way past a group of the bastards, take one last look at Papa, send a prayer his way, and climb into the jeep, whipping out of the driveway and speeding off towards the tree line.
I've always loved the woods.
Hey everyone! Here's the start to my new story. Hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to leave a review for me. Thanks!
