Snarls and growls surrounded a wooden crate on an abandoned cargo ship. Inside that very crate, sat a man who was waiting for his last breath. This obviously was not the way to go on a run, and that was evident. He readied his pistol in his left hand and his army knife in his right hand and prepared for his final stand. Before the snarls got any louder, he burst out of the crate and ran for the dock. Little did he know the dock was full of them.
They were everywhere, pushing past each other to get to him. They were falling of the gangplank into the abyss, simply jumping from the dock, walking, crawling, pushing, snarling their way up the gangplank. He readied his pistol, only to be bit in the neck from behind. Apparently, there was more on the ship.
As the man went down in a swarm of biting and ripping, he could only think, I should've stayed at the camp. Bites tear his arms and stomach and ravage his neck and head. He's dead.
A prompt changed the screen to "You DIED. Select New Character" in the hands of a fifteen year old boy. "Turn that game off, bro, it's time to eat," An elder boy of nineteen commanded and a heavy plate of freshly sliced turkey hits the table.
The fifteen year old boy sighs and cuts off the gaming system before stretching out his muscles from extended sitting. "That's fine, Carter, I lost my best character anyways."
"You don't mean you almost lost Richard, did you?" He almost dropped the pot of hot beans from the stove. "That guy was LOADED."
"No, no, no, Steve. The Militiaman," The boy said. "The one with the strength, you know?"
"Will you two shut up and eat," the mother said. "I can't stand it when all you boys talk about is those video games."
"Ma, they're not just games," Carter tried to convince his mother. "They're personality."
"Your personality is zombies killing people? Keep away from me," The father joked.
The family sat around the table for dinner. A total of six of them sat around together, mouths watering, yet heads bowed in saying a before-dinner prayer. There was three boys, one girl, a mother, and a father. The first boy, nineteen, was named Carter. He was of medium height and build for a man, who was somewhat strong, yet had never been in a fight. The second boy, fifteen, was named Trevor. He was tall with a skinny build, who wasn't as strong but could fight and was extremely intelligent. The third boy, twelve, was named Walter. He was normal height with a stocky build, goofy yet somewhat strong for his age. The girl, seven, was named Ariah. She was small, skinny, and all but defenseless. The mother, forty, was named Tracy. She was short and medium build, and could shoot just about any kind of gun there was. Finally, the father, thirty eight, was named Jeff. He was tall and had a strong build. He was the strength of the family, with almost every skill there was.
The family was dysfunctional, but they were a family nonetheless. Times were good, or at least they thought so.
Carter often remembers life back then, but he tries his hardest not to.
"Carter! Carter!" He snaps to attention as he is awakened from his flashback by Bryan, the vice president of their ragtag group. "What are you doing? I told you to keep watch over the PEOPLE, not the grass!"
"Yes sir, I apologize sir," Carter mumbles under his breath. He wasn't sure how long he had been with this particular group, but he knew he hated it from the very beginning. No one had any idea what they were doing, but all acted like they did, which made it worse. There was ten of them altogether, living just outside of a deserted camping ground alonside a stream.
Carter was the only one in the group that was not at one point military trained, and he was the youngest. When they found him, he was armed only with his combat knife and a six shot revolver with four shots in it. He had been hiding in an old Campbell's shipping warehouse where, luckily, there had been tons and tons of untouched food. He remembered it like it was yesterday.
"Boys, keep your eyes and guns up!" Bryan shouted. "Biters on the floor means biters on their feet."
Carter was afraid to come close to them. He hadn't seen a regular person since his house was attacked. The only thing he had seen was walkers. Or biters, as their group calls them.
"Sir, I've found someone!" Vale, basically a rank private in the group, shouted back. He had found Carter busy eating a can of chicken noodle soup.
"Waste him," Bryan grimaced. "He's probably been bit. You know the drill."
"Wait!" Carter jumped and yelled. In the excitement, he had dropped his knife and was now unarmed. "I am clean, I swear!" He showed them his arms and legs. Although covered with matted blood and dirt, there were no bites.
"We take no dead weight. Sorry kid," Bryan snickered as he raised his .45 to meet his face.
"Stop, Bryan," Perry demanded. Perry was the undeniable leader of the group. He was an extremely strong, extremely smart ex marine who knew bad situations that would make anyones skin crawl. "Look at him, he has survived, on your own?" He gestured to me.
He nodded. "Yes sir."
"On his own for this long. He could be a useful asset to us. How much training do you have, son?" Perry ushered the group to lower their guns.
"None at all, sir," Carter lowered his head. He knew this wasn't the way to get along with a new group, especially when they all had guns more powerful than he had ever imagined. But he had to be honest.
Perry shook his head. "Still, he is a use to us. Men, gather up as many cans as your bags can carry and let's go." Perry paused. "You know how to use that gun, son?"
Carter nodded. "But I don't want to. I'd rather use my knife."
"Why?" Perry seemed concerned. "What's so special about this gun? It's not even that powerful."
"It was my father's gun," Carter replied. "I promised my family that if I found them and they had turned, each bullet was reserved for each of us. Two bullets are gone, two family members have been found."
The rest of the walk was in silence.