Bolt, no Bolt, don't!

We got one over here, we got an infected-

BOLT NO-

Bolt opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight. Then he closed them again, as the heavy weight of memory settled on him.

Around him, the shredded husk of Fresno lay nearly empty.

A fly began to buzz against his ear, making it twitch. Bolt tried to roll over to get it away. Yet still, it insisted on zapping against him, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. Finally he lifted his head, looked around at it, and fired a pair of lasers from his eyes. The insect's body fell to the floor, roasted and smoking.

Well, he wasn't going back to sleep anymore, not after that exertion. With a grumble he pulled himself to his paws, looking around again at his temporary shelter.

It had been a diner, the kind that tried to recapture nostalgia for some distant decade. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photographs, burn marks, unlit neon signs, a crack in the plaster where a body had been thrown against the wall. A copy of Nighthawks hung above the tables, and beside it were black-and-white photographs of curly haired waitresses smiling as they offered milkshakes and burgers on platters. A serving bar sat empty before a menu offering sandwiches, soups, salads, and twenty ice cream flavors. The menu was framed on either side by mirrors, both shattered. Bolt stepped over their broken glass now, maneuvered around the body that lay sprawled across the floor, and made his way to the kitchen.

A pack of dogs had already cleaned out the main kitchen. However, caught up in ecstasy and bloodlust and madness they had failed to open the pantry and refrigerator, which Bolt had bothered to check. A hearty supply of fresh beef rewarded his diligence. At the very least it filled his belly, distracting him from the headache that rocked his skull. His head had been smarting for the past three, four days, and the stress wasn't helping.

Finishing his meal, Bolt peered into the steel door of the refrigerator. His reflection was blurry, but he still tried to see himself. Was his coat still full? Were his teeth and gums still healthy? Were his eyes clean? He finally concluded that he was still well enough, and began to head out of the diner and into the streets.

Columns of smoke marred the sky, some distant and some near. Lowering his eyes to the streets, Bolt found overturned cars with twisted metal; storefronts with shattered facades; and dragged to the side of the road, bodies of every age, too slow to escape…

Bolt felt a shiver of disgust roll down his spine. And yet, a slight buzz of excitement - which accented his disgust even further. With a growl he shook his head and began walking on, consciously trying not to look at the dead. Besides, they weren't the ones he needed to watch for…

The scene lay quiet, with only a few noises to provide soundtrack. A burning fire here and there provided a crackle, and the blowing wind sang its ghostly tune through the streets. Sometimes a staccato note, like a bark or a gunshot or a shriek, echoing.

Bolt didn't know where to go or what to do. Part of him wondered if it even mattered anymore. But another part kept nagging: get back to Penny.

But after what had happened...he felt his stomach flip at the memory, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Would she even love him anymore, now that she'd seen what he had been turned into? Why should he bother trying to reunite with her if he would simply be rejected, or put her in danger, or both?

Thus the debate cycled. His heart demanded he chase after his person, and his mind did everything in its power to negate that mandate. The battle drove him to despair, and occasionally to anger. He couldn't be with Penny, she hated him, the world hated him, everyone hated him.

And it was their fault.

In a sudden rage he rammed his head into a sedan's overturned roof, leaving a large dent in its red surface. It rolled back onto its wheels, tilted to the opposite side, and settled upon its tires with a crash. Bolt still felt incensed though.

If they hadn't come along…

If they hadn't taken him…

If they had left him well enough alone…he would be with Penny right now.

Scowling, he turned a street corner, revealing more cars and bodies. A three-vehicle wreck blazed two hundred feet down - and a small group of humans dashed across the street.

Bolt scrambled behind a van and peered around its edge. There were five people. Two he recognized as police officers from their uniforms. One was a man wearing a wide brimmed hat, who held a rifle in one hand as he darted across the road. There were also two women, one carrying a pistol and the other wielding a golf club. All five of them nervously watched their surroundings as they crossed one by one, except the women who went together.

"Clear?" One of the officers asked his partner.

"Clear," she replied. They began to lead into an alleyway, both of their handguns drawn. Bolt watched as the others followed them. Once they had all turned the corner, he trotted after them, as fast as he could go while still remaining silent.

"My God…" The man with the rifle was visibly shaking, "Oh my-" He bent over, making dry heaving noises.

"Shh!" One of the women hissed as she tried to stand him up straight again. "What's the deal, not like that's the first body you've seen lying around here!"

"He…" The man gestured weakly to something that Bolt could not see. "He used to trim my lawn during the summer...every week, he'd come by. Oh my God…"

He bent over again, using the rifle as a crutch. Bolt retreated back behind the alley's entrance, content to just listen.

"Okay," the female officer spoke, "Vons is just around the corner. Do we want to risk going there for food though? Down this way is a residential area, we could barricade ourselves into a house there, it'd be more secure-"

"But how many dogs?" One of the civilian women replied. "A lot of them could be infected and just haven't started running loose yet. When they do…"

"We won't be any more secure in a supermarket," the male officer said. "There might be fewer K-9s, but with such an open space we'd be sitting ducks."

"Well we can't stay here," the man with the rifle replied. "We need water, my jug's empty."

The other woman answered him back. "You just drank the last of it, you'll be fine for a bit."

"Hey, we need water, or we're gonna die here!"

"I know that, but we can go an hour without it if it's safer."

Bolt kept listening to them plan and argue, not knowing what to do. If he showed his face, he'd be shot. Of course the bullets would barely injure him, but it was the psychology of the thing. He didn't dare reveal his presence.

At the same time, just being there...he felt he was part of a group. Part of something resembling a family, even if it was in reality a patchwork group of survivors that hardly knew each other. No, don't think about it. Just listen to them talk, right around the corner. He might have been right beside them…

Then there was a yell from the man. "There!"

There was a loud echoing blast as he fired, and a chorus of snarls came from the other side. Bolt froze, unable to move as he heard barking, screams, bullets spewing from weapons. He couldn't take them on, he knew he couldn't, so he pressed against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut, dropping his head on the ground and trying to clamp his paws over his ears.

The chaos began to subside, and he dared to open his eyes. There was scuffling, sounds that churned Bolt's stomach. Then two dogs ran out past him - except they could hardly be called dogs anymore.

Bolt stared at their teeth, all bared and sick. Patches had worn out in their coats, exposing bald skin, and they moved in quick jerky motions. With a snarl one of them snapped at Bolt. He retreated a few steps, looking right into its raging eyes. The infected animal scampered off again with its partner, and four others followed from the alley. Some sported wounds, but they were already healing over.

Days ago they had been dogs, man's best friend. Now they had fallen victim to K-9, the terrible virus that twisted their bodies and minds. Bolt had seen its effects too well, when he had been captured and - no, no don't let those memories come back.

He watched them leave, breathing hard from fear. Then he consciously closed his mouth, gulped, and rounded the corner. The five people lay there, the rifle bitten in half and the handguns melted - they never had a chance.

Bolt had not been up fifteen minutes, and he already felt exhausted. He turned, and began to trudge north along the streets.