(Chapter 3)

Billy lay, through the night, tossing, and turning on his rugged bed. He rolled back and forth, breathing heavily. Visions of zombies that had attacked him back in the mansion still haunted him. He imagined himself beating against a metal door. A group of 15 or so undead slowly moved after him, menacingly wailing cries of the agony of death.

Coen beat on the door. He was terrified. His empty gun, now a hindrance, was cast aside as he attempted to kick down the door. It didn't budge, but he tried again. This time, however, it gave way, slightly.

With one more powerful kick, the rusty bolts holding the door in place snapped. About to dash toward freedom, Billy felt a soggy hand grab his arm, and then a set of human teeth sink into his bicep. The pain was excruciating. He felt the teeth hit bone, but continue to bite more flesh and muscle off. Grinding his teeth together, Billy snatched his arm away from the thing's teeth, punching the zombie in the jaw as he did so.

Apparently, the ghoul had bitten a piece of tendon, because he couldn't move his arm. The zombie still had hold of his arm, s he fell, pulling the ex-marine with him. Billy fell, horrified, as the multitude fell upon him.

He remembered seeing the walls and the roof as he fell arms pulling, and teeth tearing, each with immense torture. He realized that he was in his own room. The windows were nailed, and the door had been bolted from the outside, somehow, but was now down. There was no town outside. No rural, rundown community. He was being killed in a cabin in the middle of some forsaken woods. Then, as he wished he would die, already, a rotten hand with only 4 fingers grabbed hold of his face, jamming a thumb into his eye. He couldn't even scream when incisors were set into his neck.

All he felt was pain, all over. It burned like fire. It stung like acid. It felt...

He awoke, staring at the ceiling of his room. He felt sick, and was sweaty from every inch of his body. He just lie there, looking at his roof. He was listening, not for anything, but just listening. He knew it was just a dream. He was just listening, for anything to help him to soothe his nerves. He started to hum. He felt somewhat feminine, being 6'2", 172 lbs, and humming to himself in bed, but he shrugged it off. He needed some way to feel better.

Eventually, he nodded back off to sleep, and awoke again in the morning. He was still tired, like everyone, always, in the Arklay. He had to go find more bounty, however. His pantry was empty, and he was getting sick of blueberries, which were native to this area.

He rubbed his eyes, digging out some eye-crusts, and sat up. His back hurt. His legs did, too. And arms, and everywhere, really. He slowly rose to his feet and looked in his little hand-made nightstand drawer. He pulled out a little medicine container and shook it. They were pain-killers, and he had only one left; not even a full dose. He downed it, anyways. It would take about an hour to kick in, but he needed to get started soon.

It was already dawn. Undead did not have a preference between night and day, but they hunted by sight, so the darkness could be used to Billy's advantage. He walked into his bathroom. As there was no indoor plumbing, he rinsed his face in a bucket, to help wake up. He didn't have the resources to eat breakfast, so he walked out of the room, just as hungry as last night. He clutched his stomach which ached and groaned.

The ex-Lieutenant reloaded his gun as he locked his door behind him. He realized he was down to his last box of ammo and cursed to himself. He grimaced; it hurt even to talk. He slipped the box back into his pocket, and continued on towards the main part of town. Quietly, everyone was already at their business. Somebody was selling rice he had grown, in small sacks. Coen approached him.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you happen to have any spare sacks you might be willing to spare?" Billy asked, in a raspy voice. Seeing a chance for possible cash, the man offered one in exchange for a $20. This is outrageous! Billy thought. Nobody has that kinda money around here. Billy slowly reached for his pistol, and brought it to the man's gut. Seeing the weapon pressed against his stomach, the man cried out "Fine! I'm sorry, just take it. Here!" He handed the empty sack from his back pocket to Billy, and ran off, rather swiftly.

He felt bad, as he tied the sack around his waist, and put the pistol in his jacket pocket. Billy knew that that man needed to survive just as bad as the next guy. However, so did he, and he was not about to get robbed like yesterday. Two middle-aged women hurried by, averting their gazes. They were both carrying water from the well, and had obviously seen his robbery. He wanted to let them know that he was not another low-life scum stealing from poor rice-sellers. He wanted to redeem his dignity be talking to them about how he was actually protecting the town from undead by bounty hunting. He wanted to talk to them, and just talk.

In most Arklay towns, however, nobody could be trusted. Those women would no doubtedly gut him with a fork, and take his stuff, just as fast as they'd eat a free fried chicken. He continued, and reached the edge of the village without being bothered. He stood, gazing into the trees. He really wished he could have a nice city life, in the modern world. He wished he wasn't hiding in a rundown old village that everyone was to frightened to enter. He wished that these horrendous waves of undead would stop, so civilization would be brave enough to enter and freshen up this place.

But then he'd have to leave, and hide some more...

With a dissatisfied grunt, he strode into the forest, ready to do his job.