For the next hour I set myself to work with some filler jobs in order to keep my mind occupied. I moved boxes around my new base garage and searched for anything that might have helped me. What I was really doing, however, was trying to keep busy enough to ignore the sounds of moaning and stumbling outside the garage, the zombies feeding on one of their former own. I happened to open the wallet I had found on the body and reviewed its contents. I found some cash, a credit card, and an I.D. It had belonged to a man named John Giddings.
It was funny, I thought, that I should know this information. I did not know this man, and I did not care about him. But sitting there in that musty garage, I found myself mourning his death. Well, not so much his death, for the man was dead when I met him. This man, Giddings, had a story. That story was ended the moment I shot him in the head. And to think, there are other stories out there, some good, and some bad. Giddings and others like him had the bad stories, the nightmares, ones that people want to end and have nothing to do with. In order for my story to live, I realized, their stories had to end. I could still hear the shuffling of the walking nightmares outside the garage, and I smirked to myself. Those bad dreams had to be brought to a close, and my story was going to be the one to do it.
"And," I said, throwing the I.D. over to the corner of the garage, "Giddings rested in peace happily ever after, the end."