I was nineteen when the plague hit. It seems so long ago, and it was. But time blended together for me. I'm not sure if I have survived as long as I think I have. But that doesn't matter.
I'm alive.
----
The outbreak started in Los Angeles, and before anything could be done, it had traveled to New York, traveling north and east from those cities. By the time the government recognized the treat and acted accordingly, most of the north and some of the south was destined to be lost.
Rumors were heard about surviving colonies in Vermont and other places, but that was almost entirely engulfed by yellow journalism.
Stories of the dead coming back to life, attacking humans and draining them of their blood sparked article after article about vampires, and anything relevant and useful vanished from the media. Not that there was much use before. But the tabloids, and indeed some of the biggest newspapers in the world became them, had one good effect.
They knew what was coming. Houston became a haven for the uninfected, a place where the survivors waited in fear, and a place where the brightest minds in the nation gathered in a last chance for a cure.
The city held for nearly a year.
In that time, the water and power hubs were remodeled and upgraded, becoming almost entirely self-sufficient. The city became its own being.
But even the most well-designed stronghold was doomed to fail. In a matter of weeks, the plagues' progress in seizing the world jumped forward. The port of Houston was ready to evacuate the people living in there to another country, maybe somewhere in Europe, and then the disease began afflicting those within a few hundred miles from Houston, they radioed for help.
They never got an answer.
Desperate, the city integrated all of the population into one area of town. But there was one problem.
They weren't immune.
Not all of them, at least.
Of the seven million people who thought they were immune, thirteen were.
----
Musing in my armchair, I pondered what was left of this world. I knew these thoughts only brought heart and headache, but I could not resign myself to defeat so easily. Yet over time I found and would find that I thought less and less about the outside world. This was my world; here, where I was trapped. Maybe forever. I knew that there was little point in thinking alone, yet there was nothing else to do. It was five in the morning; too late to go back to sleep, too early to go out.
How I hate this time of day.
The only part I hate more is sunset. That's when my world is handed over, and I am helpless.
Sighing to myself, I rose and put on some clothes. A pair of jeans, some rough and worn combat boots, an undershirt and a leather jacket: those were my favorites to wear.
The combat boots were good for running and climbing over some of the worse terrain, and Houston had some of the worst.
Leather was an all around useful thing. Though not too heavy, it was durable and protected well from claws and teeth of all sorts, making it ideal for protection in hard times.
The jeans I had covered with another layer of denim, so it protected just as well as the leather. It never hurt to have protective clothing on. We had learned that a long time ago.
Slowly I began my descent down the stairs. As my boots landed on the floor below they were greeted by the soft clanking of a metal spoon against a glass bowl. Turning the corner into the kitchen, I was met with the site of Vladimir Puten, a big burly Russian who may have been affiliated with the dead Russian mob. That's what some of the others had said, but I doubted it.
"Vlad, what are you doing in here?" I asked the Russian who was in the process of finishing up his cereal.
"I am out of Coco Puffs," he responded in his thick Russian accent that did not fit the statement in the least bit.
"So you decided to come in here?" I asked as I sat down and poured myself some cereal. The Russian nodded with his whole body. Pausing for a moment, I tentatively asked: "Those nightmares again?"
It was a soft subject for the huge man, and sure enough a tear welled in his eye as he nodded again, this time mostly with his lower lip. As another tear formed, a soft sobbing could be heard deep within the man. Reassuringly patting him on the back, I mumbled something about how I was sorry.
Through his whispered choking, Vlad asked him, "How is it that you do not cry?"
Exhaling sharply, I turned my head and thought for a minute. "I suppose, it's because I've run out of tears."
Well, what do you think? Please review! This is not a fic of the movie, just so you know.
