The street was quiet, all except for the breeze that ruffled what few Palmetto trees were still standing. Ashes danced in the noon sky, obscuring the sun and creating an extended night. Many of the old Victorian homes had collapsed in on themselves, revealing forms of the ones who had perished inside of them. Inside one of these said houses, stood a figure covered in the dirty white ash which blanketed the rest of the Holy City. Behind the gasmask that covered his face, a thin layer of perspiration began to build up, fogging his vision ever so slightly.
Across the street stood what was once an open air market, its stalls ransacked and falling apart. A slight movement caught his eye and that's when he noticed it: An antler poking up from a stall marked "Cajun Cooking". The deer, its frame showing signs of malnourishment, had stopped to rummage through some cans, and the man saw the perfect moment was nigh; He lifted his rifle, covered in gray rags to blend in, slowly, as to not startle and have the deer bolt on him.
The deer, to the man's dismay, did notice the movement, and stood stark still, staring with its big black eyes at the source of the slight commotion. The man lined up his shot, putting his finger on the trigger. Suddenly, the deer was torn from were it was standing, a massive pink tongue wrapping around its torso, pulling it towards one of the dilapidated houses a block over. The man sighed; today he did not have the strength and ammunition to deal with even just one infected. His family would have to go hungry for another night. A tear came to his eye when he envisioned his frail daughter, already twelve pounds underweight.
He was about to cautiously retreat down the alleyway behind the house, but all of a sudden he was stopped dead in his tracks: he could hear the faint sound of movement on the floor above him. Suddenly, the ceiling collapsed and the man felt the form of a man fall onto him. The man reacted just in time and rolled the infected off, sending it crashing into the bookshelf across the room. The infected tried to pick itself up, its hoodie caught on one of the shelves. The man rushed over, crushing the thing's skull with one swift movement from the stock of the rifle. But the damage was done: he could hear the calls of a horde who had heard the scuffle coming from the house. He dashed into the alleyway behind the house, jumping over the refuse and trash littering the alley. He could hear them closing in, their growls and shrieks getting closer by the second. As he reached the street, more infected joined the chase, running after the man down the ash covered street. As he ran, the man saw a semi crashed into a signpost, blocking off the road. He cursed to himself, and placing both hands on the hood of the vehicle, vaulted over in one solid leap.
But to his horror, he saw the red-orange "Open manhole" signs to late, and instead of hitting the pavement, he fell into the gaping mouth of the road. He let out one final scream as he collided with the cold, clammy ground. His head was spinning, until after a few minutes, gave into the darkness and blacked out…