A normal world seemed so long a past; a quiet suburban home with a lovely wife and two beautiful children. A job as an IT professional at one of the largest computer companies in the country. Louis K. Grow would trade anything to get his life back. Now, it was all about the constant fear of being utterly destroyed; the mad dash toward salvation from this hell. His life destroyed, with nothing left but his son's metal baseball bat and a backpack hastily stuffed with various foodstuffs, Louis ran. Murderous zombies chased him everywhere, and as Louis decapitated and beat down the horrifying beasts, he couldn't help but worry about his family. "Could any of the zombies I killed been my own wife? Or my children?" Louis constantly thought. Tears streamed down his eyes as he heard a sickening crunch of his bat connecting with a rather young-looking zombie. The zombie fell as blood leaked out a hole Louis cleaved out.
With a huge sigh of relief, he saw up ahead, a heavily reinforced steel plate door, which was painted red. Louis rushed towards the beckoning doorway as he pushed a couple of zombies out of the way. The zombies chased after him, but Louis ran into the room and slammed the door into their disfigured faces. Panting, Louis slid a large rusted steel rebar into its slot, and began to pile furniture against the doorway. Taking off his backpack, Louis turned on the light and slid to the floor in exhaustion. After he wiped his brow of sweat, he took a look around the safe room. Shelves of supplies lay there untouched, and Louis's jaw dropped. Nobody else made it. But how is that possible? This safe room was only one of the many stops along the road to evacuation. Surely more people could have come by? But the undisturbed boxes of non-perishable food, medical kits, and ammunition spoke the truth. Louis was tortured by the fact that none of his friends, his family, have made it. They were gone. All gone. He is the only one left, and yet he still had a long and torturous route ahead of him. What was pasted on the walls made his feelings even worse. Unhelpful governmental warning signs have been plastered all over the wall. However, there is a sign of hope. The walls were also covered with blatantly (2) rude graffiti expressing the cynical (3) views of other survivors. In the corner of the room, he saw a dusty stack of old weapons. He looked at his son's bloodstained baseball bat, and sobbing, lied it on the floor, and scribbled an RIP note with a pencil nearby. He took an old 9mm pistol and a rusty military-issue assault rifle. He dug into a pile of ammunition and stuffed them into his backpack. He also took a first aid kit and a bottle of instant pain relief medicine. Scattered around was empty food packaging and a greasy tub of KFC. Louis was mollified (4) by the fact that at least some people made it as far as he did. Finally, he turned around to look at a similar steel-plated door, out into the open, where the rest of his route continued. Louis sighed once more, and laid down on the cold, dirty floor to rest.