Chapter 3: Primed for Action

The stench of the rotting flesh burned the inside of my nostrils, like acid would if it had been poured on human skin. As I attempted to pull myself together as fast as I possibly could, the crowd moaned louder, their outstretched arms reached toward me. I glanced at them, noticing the yellowish tint to the nails. To avoid regurgitating the only food I had eaten in the past four days I turned around lept for the back door and it crashed open; more Walkers entered the shop. Where the hell did all of these things come from? How did they find me? Then I remembered that I had an open wound on my upper torso. My shirt had been soaked thoroughly through to the surface with blood. They sensed it. But how? These creatures act only on intrinsic impulses, the predatorial instincts that would be innate in all homo sapiens. I backed up into the door to my left and hit it with a solid thud. With every breath I took they seemed to be getting closer. Inhale, one step; exhale, another step. As I came within reach, the backdoor suddenly flew wide open. A force that knocked the wind out of me pulled me back in the alleyway and three men with assault rifles came in. They pointed the guns at the disease ridden corpses and fired without hesitation. Shreds of rotten and putrid flesh began showering everything within the shop. Within what seemed to be seconds, the bodies became still, except for the occassional muscle spasm. The men that had saved me turned, looking in my general vicinity but I couldn't tell if they had been looking directly at me. Black gas masks covered their faces. In fact, their entire bodies, covered in black padding and armor. Not metal, just bulletproof, heavy thick padded armor. Then they stepped back into the alleyway and proceeded in the same direction they came from. This was the closest encounter with death that I've ever experienced. It may have been the most terrifying situation. After gathering what sanity I had left, I looked around the alleyway. It had been dimly lit by lamps on the wall at the end of the short alleyway, I could see the body of a man who had recently met their demise. Behind me, the door had been left ajar; so I walked slowly over to it and slammed it shut. The lock clicked behind me and I proceeded forward. In the corner of my eye I could see the glint of trigger. Judging by the size I estimated the model type to be of 9mm caliber. As I reached down, I pulled it from the vest pocket. The man's age had to be approximately 35, of Spanish descent, and a part of the Special Forces of a neighboring town. It definitely wasn't the S.T.A.R.S. issue Browning 9mm. Upon closer inspection I saw that this pistol was just a Beretta 92. Now that I'm up in arms, it should be easier to get around...