"But you didn't make it home that day, did you?"

"Nah, not so much. I had maybe a couple hours at most before the sun went down, and even on a normal day it would've taken at least three to hike that far. Add the dead and the nutjobs out and about back then, and it would've taken more like five or six."

"Where did you go, then? I can't imagine many people were willing to help out a guy with two bags of guns."

"Ha! No, not as such. I knew it was gonna be an issue, so I did what everyone else was doing: running around like nuts."

"And how well did that work for you?"

THREE

~In which Refuge is Found~

I've been asked before how I carried all of that gear around with me for days, 'til I got back home. I've always answered the same way: I didn't. There's a couple things you have to realize here. First, get it through your head that I never made it back home. I never got back to my parent's house; I still haven't been back, and this is like what, two years after the war ended? (Wow, has it really only been two years? Damn. Feels like longer.) Second, I'm crazy strong and I can carry fifty pounds for weeks on end by myslef. (No, not really, but I'll get to that part later.)

Anyway, right after Casey ran off I did the same. I managed to struggle on for maybe five minutes until the first zombie came after me from out of one of the houses. I tell you, it's hard enough to shoot a handgun accurately without two crazy heavy bags hanging off your shoulders. Even less so when you know that if you don't score a direct headshot on the shambling moaner, it's going to eat you until you die. So I wasted a couple rounds due to shaking hands and flinching every time that gun sounded off.

That's another thing movies don't teach you. Guns are loud. You're supposed to have ear protection, but that means being deaf to the world around you. There's really no good option.

Three rounds later, the zombie was like two feet from me. I did eventually manage to hit her in the head, but I got covered in her insides in the process. Which made me puke my guts out immediately after. That was the first one I ever killed. First human, first zombie. I wasn't real proud of myself, but I was so pumped up on adrenaline that I didn't fully get what had just happened. I wouldn't realize it until a couple days later, but that's getting ahead of the story.

I pulled myself together and decided that the house that lady had come out of was probably safe enough to hide out in, because my other shots would have brought out any other zombie in there, and there probably wasn't anyone alive in there.

Of course, I was still awake enough to know that I wanted nothing to do with dead people laying around half eaten in the house, so I moved on. I should've just bucked up and gone in, but I was a wuss and was new to all this. I eventually found my way back further into the neighborhood, and a family was kind enough to come running out of their house, shrieking their heads off.

This was around maybe six thirtyish? Maybe a little later. Whatever the time, the sun was starting to go down, and I was much more willing to go inside with a dead person than I was to stay outside with the dead in the dark. So, being the newbie that I was, I shuffled up to the door of the house the family had just exited.

Now, of course, I realize that that may not have been the best idea. They had to have left in the hurry that they did for a reason. I just wasn't thinking it through. So I waltzed in through the door and was immediately met with the family's little daughter. And boy, was she happy to see me! She crawled over to me and began gnawing on my shoe before I figured out what she was. Which made me turn and boot her out the door in a hurry.

You ever see those movies with the possessed little kid that starts killing people? This was kind of like that, but infinitely worse because I was actually there dealing with it.

I slammed the door shut and held it closed against her tiny fists hammering and clawing at the door like a deranged cat. When it seemed that the door would hold against the two year old's body, I took a look around.

The house was just a normal everyday lower class kind of house, which made it worse. I had met the people that lived here (briefly), and they were real people rather than characters in a story. So I had to force myself to go through each and every room of that place, trying to ignore the previous occupants' possessions and check every window and door to make sure it was secure.

Once I was sure it was all good, I helped myself to some of their generic Poptarts (what were they called? Toaster Pastries, or something? Anyway, the faux strawberry flavor was good). I felt a little bad about stealing, but I didn't figure they were coming back for their 'Toaster Pastries', and I hadn't eaten since eleven—it was now around seven. I did force myself to drink some water, and fill up some bottles for later, but I never did have to pee. I guess I was too tightly wound for that.

There was one room I couldn't bring myself to check. It may sound stupid, but I just couldn't go down into the basement. I know it wasn't safe for me to not check it, and I seriously could have died and been eaten, but it was scary down there, so back off.

The one thing I did do right that first night was go through what I had in my bags. I had ended up with six handguns, four rifles, and five shotguns, along with extra magazines and ammo and holsters and whatnot. I spent the next couple of hours planning out how to carry everything, and ended up carrying the Glock on my right hip and a Benelli pump action 12 gauge in my hands. I think it was a Nova? I don't know, shotguns weren't my area of expertise. I was always more comfortable with revolvers, lever actions, and black powder (of course, nowadays I'm comfortable with using pretty much whatever is at hand. Hell, I've even gotten to be a decent knife chucker). After I got all that sorted, I lay back down to sleep.

Guess what. I didn't sleep that night.

The noise of the dead stumbling around and moaning, the people screaming and yelling, the occasional car screech or gunshot…

It was not very conducive to my sleep patterns. So I stayed huddled in a corner of the room, shaking and crying that entire night (don't judge me; I'm allowed to cry when the entire world goes to shit and I have to kill someone for the first time). In the morning though, the sun came out bright and cheery, just like the sun has been known to do.

I'd like to be able to say that everything was quiet in the morning, that it had all died down and the streets were eerily empty and quiet. That there was no sound at all; no moans, no shuffling of feet, no cars, no nothing. But I can't say that, because I'm supposed to be telling the truth.