Footsteps echoed softly across the street. The soles of combat fatigues clattered with the bricks of the sidewalk. The man who whose feet were in them strode to an empty bar. The windows were shattered, the shelves were nearly empty, and the jukebox appeared to have taken in a handful of bullets. A duo of corpses lay beside it; one headless, the other without a torso.
Poor sods. He slowly set his feet onto the shards of glass that scattered across the floor. It still dark and the fluorescent lamps were flickering with whatever energy that was circulating through the wires.
Bottles, empty or broken, were shoved aside. The rifle rode his arm and slid onto his back. It didn't take a minute for an in-tact, half-filled bottle of alcohol to be salvaged from the confines of the bar and placed carefully into a small travel bag.
This process was repeated in many other establishments with the bag gaining weight from liquor to ammunition to medical supplies. His feet throbbed but he ignored them. He was used to it. By dawn, he found himself standing in front of a bridge that seemed to have been heavily fought over.
Remains of the Infected painted the scene in a mesh of blood and gore. There were markings of a vicious battle. And he interpreted that easily as that of one of his own.
Fresh rubber tracks lined the road and faded along the bridge right near where a nearly mangled hit-and-run victim lay. He was about to step forward when he saw that the skin was pale. Infected. He turned and noticed the generator sitting on the front yard of a bricked-up establishment. There was a bulk lying next to it. That must be where the levers are. Explains all the gas gallons lying around. They were really desperate to get out of here. The flies were still recent. And to think this all happened last night. Damn, missed all the fun. And some company.
Despite his urge to be a part of a group, his instincts declared a personal law of solidarity where no one was allowed to interfere with his affairs regardless of how he much help he needed. When he was pounced on by a hooded vampire in the alleyway; when he was snagged and dangled ten feet off the ground while being suffocated by some creep's enormously elongated tongue; when he was puked upon by a bloated son of a bitch and had to fight off the smell and an army of Infected sons of bitches; when he was nearly boiled to a crisp by some pregnant bitch; when he was ridden by an overexcited pervert; when he nearly had his rips crushed by a some Infected foot ball player with an enormously large hand; when he was nearly raped by a crying emaciated wraith; when he was nearly flattened by the Hulk's cousins—all of those, he survived without any outside help whatsoever. What saved him were the instincts he longed to lose but valued for his survival. I can hold out on my own. Yes, you can. And you will.
No, you can't! Look at you. Do you think an overused Russian assault rifle is going to save your ass from an army of those creeps?
Hey, I survived ten. I can mana—
You can't manage a damn business. How can you manage your own ass! You're a wreck! Just like everyone else.
Listen, jackass! Haven't I reminded of all the SHIT I've been through? Huh? Have I reminded you of all the sons of bitches that I killed—even with my bare hands, goddamnit—way before all this bullshit hit the fan?
You did. But you're starting to become too cocky. You're way over your head, now.
And so are you. Shut up and let me drive.
He thought he had silenced his conscience long ago. But it returned with a microphone strapped to its mouth once the Infection hit him in the face. And it was just these arguments that made him want to jump off a cliff.
Snapping out of his sightless gaze, he noticed that glints flashing in the corners of his eyes. He approached one and picked it up. Lead shells. Discharged recently. They were too clean. Beyond that were shards of a glass bottle and a burnt up roll of cloth. Molotovs. Ashes and debris made it clear as to how it all went down. He looked back at the generator and then the road beyond the bridge.
Bunch of guys find a bridge but its raised. To get it down, they try the generator. Runs out of gas so they start salvaging some. When they get it back on, it works but the sound of the whole thing sliding down calls in the cavalry. Things get messy and its every man for himself. But instead of a gruesome ending, it appeared as though they all survived and took off before they were overrun. Not quite.
What appeared to be a pile covered with tarpaulin turned out to be one of the Hulk-like behemoths that he'd encountered in on his journey. The morning sun's rays shone across its leathery skin before revealing the dark strands of dried blood running down to the ground. He saw several holes where the lead penetrated. And then, when he circled around it, found blacked areas especially around the head. Nearly burned to a crisp… helped a lot in putting this son of a bitch down.
Then he noticed a trail of blood leading into one of the buildings that operated the bridge. The sun was already at an angle were an orange tint lined his figure across the tiled floor. He followed the trail further up until his eyes could visibly see its source—a fresh corpse.
He approached it and crouched in front of it, eyes examining this somewhat rare find.
The body leaned against one of the wheels that drove the bridge's mechanics. He wasn't at all astonished with its "neatness" and immediately knew that this person was immune. Bite marks and bulges marred his exposed arms and a mark of where the killing was delivered stared at him from his battered chest. What made his brow raise was the fact that he wore combat fatigues as well as standard issue military uniform. 'Nam vet. He ran his hand around the stiff limbs and drew them back to rub his chin. He noted the half-burnt cigarette that sat on the vet's thigh. To think he survived long enough until now. Almost cremated himself even.
He sighed. He glanced at the M16 that were in lifeless arms and noted empty clips and shells scattered all around him. Survived long enough. Fought to the death… like the hardcore bastard he looks to be. And there was no doubt about it.
The man bowed his head in late reverence to the uninfected dead.
"Guess you didn't make it, did you?" he told the body in a low voice as if it was unconsciously listening. "Decided to take 'em all so the others could escape." He tapped the corpse on the shoulder. Something I wish I could do not only for myself.
Then he heard the click of a gun behind him.