I didn't know how long it had been since "the outbreak" had happened. I heard a low growl but paid it no mind; I heard the noises all the time now-even when there was nothing there. Sometimes I'm concerned that I'm losing what's left of my sanity. When people go crazy do they just snap? Or is it some hellish downward spiral that slowly rips away the last happy moments you can remember? Do you feel insanity sneaking up on you? Do you try to run? The thought almost made me laugh but it never escaped my lips; you can't run away from your own mind. I didn't even have a name anymore, it didn't make sense to have one when there was no one around to call you by it. Maybe...maybe that was a mistake, maybe when I decided to lose myself I became susceptible to madness.

It was only when a decaying hand managed to wrap around my shoulder that I realized the growl I had heard earlier was real. I snapped out my my switchblade and whirled, coming face to face with yet another growler. As it lunged toward my face I slammed my knife into its eye socket, keeping a tight grip on the handle as the dead man fell, slowly releasing the blade to me. I shook my head and stumbled away-where there was one there was bound to be more. Those things were like cockroaches, I wonder if they could survive a nuclear holocaust as well. I shrugged to myself and then chose a random direction and began walking, once again losing myself in thought. As I wiped my knife on my threadbare cotton shorts I gave another snort inside my head. I wasn't a professional by any means, but I knew the brand 'benchmark' on the blade meant it was more than likely military issued. The men I had won these from didn't even see it coming. I flipped the somewhat clean knife shut and shoved it into my pocket alongside its match. I had two other knives that were labeled busse rigged onto each thigh by way of a cut and stitched bra (it had rubber or something on the inside of it...made it keep from slipping as much) and a whole ton of duct tape. They jostled more than usual as I walked and it irritated me. It meant I had lost even more weight and that I would have to find more tape and redo the makeshift sheaths or risk losing them.

I hated to go anywhere that had a chance of live people. I used to think that people were inherently good, that if just given a chance and opportunity they would better the world around them. I was wrong of course. People are not inherently anything. They just are. Everyone starts the same and ends the same-it was the choices in-between that made you "good" or "bad". My theory of giving people a chance was blown out of the water by the first living I had encountered after the dead began walking. Maybe that was when I started to crack, the first hairline fracture in what would become a multitude, and an eventual descent into psycho-ville. Have you ever heard the saying not to corner a frightened dog? I was the dog and I was terrified. I still don't really know what happened that day. I remember them approaching me with knives, the thought screaming through me that they had lied and I was a fool, and then, suddenly, nothing. My next full memory was full of red. There was blood everywhere, the walls, the floor, the men...myself. They were dead and I was glad, I think I was even somewhat proud. I understood psychology, I knew that I was justified and it was ok to feel that way. It was normal not to feel remorse for those that were going to harm you. Only...I was fairly certain there should be at least a sliver of guilt. Instead of respecting the dead I looted them, taking everything but the guns...I didn't like guns. I didn't like people anymore either.

It was odd how the silence didn't bother me...it used to. In the beginning, after I had killed those men, I talked to myself. Something to pass the time, keep my humanity, and remind myself that I was still here. Turns out when you talk to yourself not only do you attract growlers; you also can't hear them coming. I stopped talking to myself. It was a gradual progression from there, I started singing-it attracted them-I stopped. A light hum? Same thing. I kept perfectly quiet now; I wasn't even sure what my voice sounded like anymore. Was it low and sultry? Or high and grating? What did a laugh sound like? I hear screams all the time; there was no need to wonder what they sounded like. Did I have a girlish giggle? I don't remember giggling. In fact, it was hard to remember anything from before. Maybe that is when a person is classified as insane? When they became content to be nameless, faceless, silent wraiths. When they were ok with losing everything that had once defined them.

I stumbled, barely catching myself before I fell face first into a ditch. I was exhausted and it showed. The growlers were starting to thicken and it concerned me. I hadn't been clean since the beginning and I know that at least one winter had passed. I was permanently covered in gore. I considered the growler from the woods a fluke, it had been a long time since I had been sought out like that. Although they were ignoring me now they wouldn't be for too long-especially if they kept up what was starting to look like a swarm. I heard shouts ahead, and I started cursing inside. It was impossible to turn away without alerting the dead. There were shouts and screams and it was inevitable that I was going to come upon the living once again. Shots rang out and I felt my mouth form a sneer. Guns were for idiots, causing more problems then they solved. I tried to breathe steady, not wanting to attract attention until I was ready for it. There was a man almost cornered into a fence by growlers. I would not help him. I never helped the people that I was unfortunate enough to know were there. But, seeing as there was no way I could get away without being stuck to the fence as well or eaten, I could at least kill some growlers. None that were going for the man of course. They were free to kill as they pleased.

I slowly came to a stop, grabbing the bosse knives off of my thighs as stealthily as possible. And then I started. One knife in each hand I worked though puncturing sculls as quickly as possible. It wasn't rocket science after all. Deep enough, hard enough to the head and they would die, not deep or hard enough? Well then you die. I knew there should be some sexual innuendo worked into my previous thought but I was too distracted. Two men rushed past me and I flinched, barely keeping a grip on my knives...that was way too close for comfort. The two men quickly dispatched what was left of the dead, and then for some god awful reason they turned to stare at me. They were talking and it hurt my ears. It had been so long since I had heard a voice, even longer since I had heard one other than my own, that their rushed and frantic speech hit my ears like a buzzing hornets nest. I struggled to open my eyes, not even realizing that I had closed them, and was met with the first moral dilemma that I actually recognized as such. First, I was met by striking blue eyes, flanked by what appeared to be his own redneck bodyguards. Second, three feet behind the men, a growler was shambling along a few seconds away from having a snack. I could run away. The thoughts floated in and quickly out of my mind in an instant. Maybe this was my chance to prove to myself that I wasn't as morally bankrupt as I felt. I threw my knife, hoping to god it would hit what it was supposed to. I felt...relief as the rotting carcass fell, my knife protruding from its head. And then more emotions flooded in. I was relived, prideful, on so many levels, not only about the throw but also about myself, my sanity, and that shred of moral compass I apparently still had left. I was scared as well, the men were talking and shouting and it was all jumbling and getting muddled in my brain. And then to my relief I felt familiar anger coursing its way through my body. Anger was good at drowning out other emotions, at least for a little while. Ignoring the men and forcing myself not to flinch I stomped past them and yanked my knife out of the growler, wiping it quickly before placing it in the sheath. As I moved to pass the men again, desperate to get back into the woods, away from this madness (I had enough of my own to deal with after all) a voice registered seconds before I felt a hand grab my arm.

"Tha fuck-" One of the men started to speak but it was too late.

My knife was at his throat cutting off whatever he was going to say. I was tense and trembling, ready to cut him open when the two others moved. One to point a crossbow at me-I raised my eyebrows in reluctant approval, at least this man had enough sense not to use a gun. The other was blue eyes and he moved to place one arm in front of the crossbow wielding man, the other raised, palm out to me. The universal "I come in peace" gesture. I chanced a look to access the man who's life was hanging in the balance and jerked, accidentally causing a thin line of blood to form under my blade. He only had one hand. The man with the crossbow was shouting again and the man I held had joined in the fray and the buzzing in my head started up again, getting louder and louder till I felt like my eardrums were on the verge of exploding. Once again I tore my eyes open not knowing when they had shut and once again I was met by blue eyes. The grip on my knife slackened just a tad, it was enough. If I lived I would never again underestimate people missing body parts. They weren't handicapped, far from it-to survive in this world they were superhuman. I was flipped over and landed hard on my back, the air leaving my lungs in a desperate huff. And then I was cuffed by that one handed asshole straight in my temple. My last conscious thoughts ignored the self satisfied leer on his face and instead, concentrated on why I had given my knife slack. Blue eyes flashed into my mind and I was hit with a startling thought: he was as crazy as me.