Awakening of The Dead
Robin looked with longing at the barely 12 milliliters of murky water at the bottom of his bottle. Five days ago he saw a puddle in the middle of the road, and its water had looked safe enough to drink. He filled two of his three bottles, used half the contents of one to wash his face, because when he saw his own reflection on the window of a dilapidated shop days prior he noticed with horror that he couldn't tell the difference between his face and a corpse's.
He probably should have rationed his supplies better.
His head was pounding, so hot under the merciless summer sun that he could maybe fry an egg on it. He wished he had eggs. All he had now was that foul smelling jerky crap he found in a corpse's pocket. Thinking back on it, he'd had no reason to bother killing the ugly bastard again. It wasn't any threat to him. It was trapped, its lower body crushed under a rusty Land Rover's wheel. And Robin wondered if crashes were still possible in the midst of their... his ruined world. Or maybe that one had died long, long ago.
It was a really ugly one. Possibly the ugliest he'd ever seen. Thick-headed, spindly fingers, bony, blue-green chest peeking out under its tattered clothes. And he really had no reason to bother. But it was just so ugly. And its broken groans really got to him. To the point he saw red and had to stick his tactical pen right through its horrible, leaking skull. It was by chance the jerky fell onto the cracked pavement. His vision stopped being blurry long enough to notice. And that's what got him this far.
At least he managed to get enough distance between himself and the swarm. He could have stayed back in Plymouth. Tucked in a safe corner inside the old motel. But then they came and they were many and persistent. Like starved vultures. They filled houses to the brim, tore through decaying wood and crashed into doors hard enough that the hinges came off. He hadn't even had enough time to pack more of his reserves.
He even forgot her picture.
He really could have stayed. Except he didn't like the poor song it would've made to end up as a toothpick for the undead. He'd rather melt in the middle of the forgotten moorlands. In the middle of nowhere.
But no. He wasn't in the middle of nowhere. He remembered a sign. Miles ago. Lychway - that's what it'd read. Lychway. Kind of fitting. Lyche meant corpse, but colloquially, it was known as the Road of The Dead.
Not many people knew that.
The ones who knew were probably dead.
Everyone was.
A/N: So? Interesting? No? Who knows. I just felt like writing zombie-ish sf stuff so there you go. Plus, somber Robin is the best.