It had been seven years. Everyone thought it was over. After the chaos, and the dying humanity had won. Aided by those who dealt permanent death to the undead the humans had driven the dead away. Humanity grew while the dead dwindled. Everyone thought that it was over. That we had won. We were wrong.
The north fell first. Newcastle stopped broadcasting, and then it spread southward. Manchester and Liverpool fell quickly after. Soon the whole of the Midlands was uninhabitable. Reports came in that the rest of the world was suffering a similar fate. The numerous island strongholds fell after their safety was compromised when the dead came out of the sea, not needing to breath they had migrated and found them. Soon only London was left. The whole world had fallen into darkness. Again.
I am the last. My name is Frank. I was one of those who dealt death to the dead. I had a reason. I had been in Manchester when it fell. My wife, my son, we had been starting a new life. I couldn't save them. It was different this time. The dead were more concentrated. We couldn't hold them back. They overran the outposts, swarmed the city. The survivors made a last stand in Old Trafford. They were wiped out.
With every fallen stronghold, every fallen sanctuary, their ranks swelled. How do you fight an army that grows with every battle? That is unrelenting. That cannot be stopped. We had done it once before. That was our downfall. We thought it was over. When the reports came in we didn't believe them. We didn't want to believe them. The numbers were unheard of. There had never been that many. It was a hoax we decided. A sick joke by a sick mind.
I had been sent out on patrol. To scout. We had expected a big attack for days. I was their best. It was natural for me to scout out the enemy. The water tower was an ideal position. It was safe, being off the ground and secure. I could stay here for days. It had been weeks. Almost as soon as I arrived I heard random reports over the radio. They had attacked. While I was gone. While I could do nothing. Like I could never do anything.
After a few days the broadcasts became fewer and fewer. The last one was a frantic plea for help followed by hideous screams of terror and pain followed by gunshots. Then static. It had been static for two days now. There was no one left. There was no one left anywhere. I was the last. The last human alive.
We had been close to finding a cure. A vaccine. There were some who were immune to the virus. They were to be our salvation. Until they were killed. Jealous cowards, envious peoples had despised them for being safe. They were murdered in their beds.
The dead attacked the water tower in the early hours of the morning. The sheer numbers threatened to tip the tower over. If that happened then I would face a terrible fate. To be eaten alive is awful. It is so horrific that crime disappeared as the punishment became banishment from sanctuary and being cast into the hordes.
I sat calmly. The TNT sticks to my left. I did not tremble. I was to commit one last valiant act. So that the stinking dead would not forget the prey that they had hunted to extinction. Humans. I picked it up, taped it to my chest and walked to the edge of the tower. I lit the fuse. I jumped.
We gave it one hell of a ride.