A/N: So, I was requested to make this a full story, so... here you go.
Shit... I think. Romero's dead.
Grenade's face is pallid; his bravado gone. "He sacrificed himself to save us." he mutters.
I stand and put my scimitar away. It doesn't seem possible that Romero's dead. His cocky grin, his laugh when he figured out something new about zombies... it just doesn't seem possible.
We're standing in the subway tunnel where we fled after Romero died. We jumped the old turnstiles and took cover besides the tracks. We don't know if there's zombies here, but we don't care for now.
Suddenly, my mind is plunged backwards, remembering. Remembering a time when my name was not Captain, but instead Joel Jameson, and there was a train tunnel very similar to this where I also had to hide...
"Mom, when does the train leave?" I shouted as we pushed our way towards the boarding train. The government shut down all the aboveground trains, but the underground ones still worked. We were heading out of New Jersey before the infection spread to our home city of Camden, and the train seemed the right way. I had my suitcase, and my little brother Daniel his. Mom had hers, and Dad... Dad had died in a street riot three days back. That was when we decided to move on.
"Not now, Joel." Mom looked harried and frustrated as she pushed towards the train. It was headed north, last stop Halifax, Nova Scotia, in Canada. Mom figured Canada would be safe, because they had no cases of infection there yet.
As Daniel dragged his suitcase over the steps and I prepared to board, there was a scream, "They're here!" right before the zombies poured into the station like ants from a hive.
"No!" I screamed right before the doors closed with Mom and Daniel on the inside and me on the outside.
"Let me in, dammit!" I pounded my fists on the metal sides of the train, to no avail. The zombies swarmed towards me at their normal shambling gait, and I screamed again as the train picked up speed and left the station.
"No!" I jumped into the middle of the tracks and raced after the train, oblivious to the chaos, only knowing that my mother and brother were on the train and I wasn't.
"Damn!"
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the suitcase's weight on my back. "Hopeless." I muttered.
I heard the undead behind me, but ignored it. Better to die now than later when hope comes back. Besides, I don't even have a weapon...
And then I remembered that I did. Mom had packed a handgun in my suitcase in case I needed to defend myself.
Scrabbling wildly at the outer pocket, panic making my movements erratic, I finally grabbed the pistol's handle. Flicking the safety off, I aimed at the closest one's head, pulled the trigger, and missed, sending the bullet driving into the thing's shoulder. The recoil forced my hand up, and I gasped as I grabbed at my wrist. I tried to move backwards, but my suitcase's weight on my shoulder's caught me and dragged me down. I fell backwards onto the tracks as they closed in.
Hopelessness settled in. I was going to die, far from home in a dank subway tunnel, and nobody would even know it until, a hundred years from now when this was all over, some guys would find my skeleton and go, "Hey, what a dumb kid. He got himself stuck in a train tunnel and died. Serves the dumbass right." And then they'd laugh and move on.
The first zombie reached out for me and suddenly jerked and collapsed. I scooted backwards just before it fell right where I was. Then I heard it- gunfire.
The other zombies fell in like fashion, and a figure emerged from the shadows. "You okay, kid?" he asked in the voice of a young-to-middle-aged man.
"Just about." I replied.
"Don't come somewhere like this again." he said. "You could get yourself killed. Tell you what," he continued, "maybe I'll help you out. What's your name, kid?"
"Joel." I answered groggily.
"Joel, huh?" The stranger laughed, a short, hard bark. "Got any siblings?"
"A younger brother named Daniel."
"I've got a little brother named Daniel too." murmured the man. "Tell ya what, kid. I like how you sound, so I'll help you out. Hold out your suitcase."
I complied, asking suddenly, "How did you know I've got a suitcase? It's dark as bowels down here."
"Wearing night-vision goggles." I heard a tap of fingernail on metal. "Military-grade, too. Won't be blinded by sudden flashes of light." I heard my suitcase unzip, then, after a minute or two, zip back up. "There. That should do it. Got a flashlight in there?"
"Yeah, in the outer pocket."
"Well, use it." I put my suitcase back on as the man continued, "And, one more thing. I can't spare my AK nor my sword, but... Hold out your right hand."
I complied and felt something round and leathery hit it. "What's this?"
"That should help with bashing undead." The man laughed again. "And remember, kid, don't trust anybody else in this world. Not everybody's a nice guy like me."
"Thanks, uh..." I realized I didn't even know his name. "What's your name?"
I felt rather than saw him shrug. "I've been called so many names over the years I've lost track of them. Just keep an eye out. You might see your little brother yet."
I heard his footsteps moving off into the darkness, and unzipped my suitcase. Bringing out my flashlight, I saw all sorts of supplies: canned food, a headlamp, bottled water, ammo...
Tears of gratitude filled my eyes. "Thanks, sir!" I called into the darkness, but he was already gone.
It wasn't too long after that that I met Grenade and Bones. We crossed over the Delaware, accidentally blowing up half the Ben Franklin bridge en route during an incident involving a burrito, a campfire, and a car's gas tank, and met Artemis in Philadelphia. We gathered our group from the kids in Philadelphia as the zombies encroached on the city, and that was the beginning.
I shake off old memories as I hear footsteps. Gripping the handle of the scimitar that the stranger gave me however long ago it was, one year, two years, I prepare to fight. We've encountered bandits, rogues, and zombies; we're prepared for whoever or whatever comes around the corner.
A single man walks around the corner, a SPAS-12 slung over his shoulder and a club in his hand. "Well, lookee here." he drawls. "A bunch of kiddies, on the way home from Sunday school."
I consider laughing insanely since I don't even think churches or Sunday exist anymore, but instead prepare to fight. Grenade draws his swords, and Artemis notches her bow.
"I'm looking here for some kiddies to sell in the Manhattan Ring, and what does I find here?" he continues. "A bunch of little kiddies, ready for-" He stops short as his eyes open in horror.
"I'd advise you get your worthless carcass off my property, Mr. Ewell." drawls a familiar voice. "I have no idea where I can find paint to patch it up."
Ewell looks terrified. "I can handle you in a fair fight, X. You and your 'Resurrection Coalition' can't do a thing." But nevertheless he runs for it.
The stranger I first met when everything went to hell puts his AK-47 over his shoulder, bayonet gleaming in the weak light, and says, "Well, kid, been a long time, hasn't it?"
