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It's the end of the world. One month, two weeks and three days since the presidential announcement that it is confirmed that the virus has infected people worldwide. One month, two weeks and four days since the first time I saw someone get infected with the virus. One month, two weeks and five days since the last time I did feel safe. Two months since the last time I got laid.
The government and whatever else said they are doing all they can to contain the virus. To ensure the safety of U.S. citizens. And yet, I sit here, watching "U.S. citizens" get gunned down by government trained snipers on abandoned buildings. One by one, they aim and fire. No matter the age or condition they're in, they get a bullet screwed into their head. Figures.
I shake my head and sigh. "We're not gettin' in." I shift my weight from one leg to the other and adjust the rifle hanging from my left shoulder, frustrated.
"Well," Bill says through smacking lips, "we could try, huh?"
I turn around to face him, scowling. "You shit faced? Do you not see those people gettin' shot at? We have a lesser chance of gettin' in then they do. I mean, look at us!" I flailed my arms out in pathetic rage.
We were standing on the remains of a collapsed concrete building. The air smelled like burning oil and flesh. Smoke coated the ruin town like morning fog. I examined my little team of everyday people gone S.W.A.T. We all wore camouflage we found in an abandoned supply truck we found at the beginning of all this. Tyrone, the big burnt shaded skin ex-wrestler, wore a set covered in dry blood. He volunteered to wear the dead man's set we found in the front seat, since there were only four sets when we had five people. We all knew he offered so he could look tough and all. But we also knew he was extremely squeamish when he strapped it all on. We road in the gag-inducing truck for thirty-miles until it ran out of gas. We walked day and night until we came across this little town called Buckham. We looked like shit.
Every inch of our skin was covered with something. Dirt, blood, sweat, bandages, waste. Eds' ridiculously large glasses were speckled with grime; every time he rubbed them, something new appeared on them. Bill, with his smacking, squinted eyes and cocked head made him look more redneck then he did in his little country-town of wherever. Pint sized Bobby stared at the ground with a glazed look in his eyes; clothes hanging from his shoulders, a size too large. And for me, I had no idea. But definitely no different from the others.
I look back at the sniper-camped buildings. I could barely make them out behind the shadows. It'd be impossible to pass their blockade. I turn back to the group.
"We'll have to go to the next town, there probably should be one not too far from-"
"What if there isn't a next town?" Ed retorts, stammering.
"He's right, y'know." Billy agreed, smacking vigorously. Tyrone nodded in agreement.
They've always considered me their leader; I got this role by default. But now, it seems, they doubt my authority.
"Well," I shrug, "if you want to try to get passed their guns, be my guest. But, I'm gonna' find me a car."
I looked across the gravel road to a parking lot littered with cars. I point to it, shrugging again.
"Anyone gonna' join me?" I asked.
They all stared, uncertain. I began walking casually to the lot. Not soon after I began my confident stroll, they began to break off and follow me like obedient dogs; one after the other, Bobby first and Ed on our flanks, staring around nervously.
We reached the first car; a Honda of some sort. The windows were smashed and anything not bolted in hard enough was taken out; a passenger seat was missing. Tyrone laughed deeply.
"How would a car seat be useful?" He asked, examining the Honda.
"Well, if ya strap it tuh uh lil' lawn mower, you got yuh-self a lil' go-cart." Bill remarks between obnoxious smacks. He then jumped through the window and began fiddling with the wires.
"How'd that work without a wheel?" Ed asked, pushing his glasses higher up his nose.
"It's uh joke, four eyes." Bill retorts.
"Able to get it started?" I asked, looking around for anything suspicious.
"Nuhuh." He grunts, squirming out the window. "Someone musta' fiddled with it before or somethin'."
I look at the other cars worthy for his odd thievery tricks. I spot a truck a few rows ahead.
"Try that one." I point out.
"Yes, sir." He salutes then swaggers to the truck.
For the first time since the abandoned supply truck, Bobby looks up, wide eyed and staring. Something was wrong.
"What is it?" I ask, following his gaze.
He was staring at a motel down the street. It was tacky, painted with disorienting shades of pink and brown. Most of the windows were smashed and the doors hanging on by a single hitch or completely missing. A light breeze seemed to flutter the drapery in the window. The problem was, there was no breeze.
"Oh, shit." I muttered.
Out from the shadowed room window burst a rotten undead stained with blood. With a screech sounding like finger nails on a chalk board, it charged toward us at full sprint. Its yell was like a calling card. Ten more exploded out of buildings, houses and deep shadows, all sprinting, screaming and snapping their jaws in cannibalistic hunger.