Your in a room 15 zombies have you cornered you have a gun with 5 bullets how do you get yourself out of the situation (no suicide responses)

You are in the zombie apocalypse. What's the worst Zombie type to deal with? We here at Oddcast have said fast moving zombies. You'd be kidding yourself to think you'd stand a chance of survival. Jared stated "I'd kill myself. No fucking way anyone makes it"

Someone needs to write a story, about a big city cop who has moved to a small town for the slower pace. He's he's the Sheriff/Chief of Police, whatever.

There is a prominent murder, as he works too solve it, a zombie apocalypse breaks out. He's is working on both, trying to keep the town safe while solving the crime.

In the end, he solves the crime, save the town, and moved back to the city, where things are much more predictable.

https://youtu.be/IbzwYeWR0iA

Serious question..

Sleeping with a dead body is necrophilia, right? If someone had sex with a zombie would it be necrophilia? Two different theories I have thought of. If the person died and came out of a grave as a zombie it would be necrophilia because the person actually was dead. If the person became a zombie by a virus would it still be necrophilia because the victim never actually died, just turned into a zombie....?

(What we have in mind)

We would like to set up a monthly article where we would let the community set the stage (provide scenarios). Then, based on that scenario, do a fun article on how to survive. They could also go into details regarding key items to look for, best places to go first, to set up camp or not. They can make up fun, hypothetical, situations and each month receive more information so it’s more like a continued, informative, storyline fed by the community.

(What we’re looking for)

We’re looking for someone fairly skilled with grammar and vocabulary use and willing to write one article per month on any givin scenario from the community.

This position is technically voluntary; but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t come with perks. Writers and staff gain access to our GunNook Plus membership for free. This includes free shipping and discounted rates on all items in our warehouse.

At the end of the year I’ll have my artist buddy draw up some scenes from our stories. We could then maybe turn it into a free e-book or just a free PDF download.

If anyone is interested please PM me, reply here, or through the website here www.members.gunnook.com

Realistically, what percentage of the public would successfully handle a first encounter with the walking dead?

https://youtu.be/pAuOr1yngFE

wow.

So I am translating this novel, The Trembling World (TTW) http://gravitytales.com/the-trembling-world/
The main character is quadruple amputee, but before that he knows how to parkour. As I'm translating this novel, I find that it seems like a vital skill to have. Being able to parkour to escape situations that would've otherwise been hopeless. On top of that, the MC doesn't trust anyone that might compromise his safety. I guess that's the survivor mentality we should have for zombie apocalypse.

So it's part-fiction and takes place in an apocalyptic world with zombies. I was wondering if there are any readers that can give me feedback on my writing. Perhaps, you might like these types of novels too. Enjoy!

Ok, so Im thinking of designing a Zombie game, and I could use some of your imagination:

Imagine you being the king of zombies. You can enter any ONE zombies mind, and you can access all the skills that zombie had as a living person.

I.e If you enter a former pilots mind, you can direct that zombie to an airplane, he will be able to fly it, and crash it into your pittyfull little fort you've built as shelter. Or if you lock the door, one of the zombies was a locksmith etc. etc. you get the point.

So, Can you imagine up a few scenarios.. how would YOU conquer the world/Destroy the human race. Keep in mind you have to start from outbreak point 1, so maybe you are just 10 zombies strong at start. So dont go into a heavily armed barracks and have the soldiers wipe you out before you can grow to a threat.

Have fun!

Link: https://youtu.be/OdxRbcICok0

-One day later-

A group of four college buddies were driving down from the local university. They were going participate in a weekend-long paintball event at a paintball field located on the outskirts of Gonzalez, Texas. The weather forecast called for a sunny morning followed by the chance of scattered showers and light to moderate wind conditions during the day.

Steven closed the weather app on his phone and relaxed. It was going to be a pretty good day down in South Texas. Alan, Steven, Alex, and Vincent had been planning this road trip for a while and it would take more than a little rain to keep them from another adventure. The sun was beginning to peak over the horizon and the sky was turning a deep blue with no clouds in sight.

Alan was driving his truck and Steven was riding shotgun next to him. Alex and Vincent followed along in another vehicle behind them. Alan drove an ’81 Ford pickup truck with a hardtop camper shell in the back. The odometer had logged more than a couple hundred thousand miles on it.

The truck’s paint was sun faded to a well-worn light green with hints of rust on the chrome bumpers from exposure to the salty sea air of the Gulf of Mexico. The truck's engine parts were replaced more times than Alan could remember. The vehicle wouldn't look out of place parked in a salvage yard either, but Alan loved to drive it and he had many good memories in that truck.

When he was younger, Alan and his father traveled all over Texas camping in state parks and visiting the small towns that dotted the highway. Both of them used to go fishing all the time at the 91st Street Pier in Galveston.

His dad used to wake him up at 3:00 A.M. on weekends so they could make it to the fishing pier before sunrise, and they would listen to the oldies station on the drive there while Alan would fall asleep on the passenger side. That old truck was also the first vehicle Alan learned to drive.

Steven took in the scenery as he looked out the passenger side window from inside the truck. They both watched the rolling hill country as they made their way toward the paintball field. Driving behind them was the other two members of the group in their traveling convoy. Alex and Vincent drove in Alex's blue ’97 Ford Mustang. They were both roommates at college and they had become friends with Alan and Steven during their freshmen year.

All of them had just taken final exams during the week. They had been counting down the days to the weekend waiting until they could replace the daily highs and lows of college life with an exciting trip. Each of their vehicles was packed to the brim with paintball equipment and camping gear. They were ready for an entire weekend of adrenaline-filled paintball battles and grilling up some delicious barbecue.

Alan started up a conversation with Steven about what types of strategies they could use on the field. He suggested they use his "suppression fire plan." Steven just rolled his eyes and laughed. Alan was a master tactician whose military strategy came second only to George Armstrong Custer.

“I remember your idea of suppression fire and so do the other twenty teammates that got sent to the dead boxes by friendly fire,” added Steven.

That big Texas style shit-eating grin appeared on Alan’s face from behind his aviator mirror sunglasses. Alan thought back to the Alamo scenario paintball game they all played last year. Through a series of alcohol fueled hi-jinks that occurred on the field, Alan lead the charge that eventually helped their team successfully defend the paintball fort and later came to be known as "Davy Crockett's Revenge."

Alan picked up the small microphone connected to the CB radio that was sitting on the dashboard in the truck. Even in the era of smart phones, Alan still relied on the tried and true citizen band radio.

Alan spoke into the CB microphone and did his best Burt Reynolds impersonation. "Breaker breaker this is Rocket Crockett, what's your 20? Over."

"Yeah, uh, Crockett, we're right behind you," replied Alex.

"Dude you have to say over after every reply," said Vincent.

"Why are we even using these things? Why doesn't he just call or text me?" complained Alex.

"You got to remember cell phone reception isn't the best out here in this area, and besides these old things are cool as hell. Remember Smokey and the Bandit and all those open-road trucker movies from the 70s," said Vincent.

As Steven sat next to Alan in the truck, he studied all the stuff that was covering the dashboard. Alan kept the inside of his truck about as clean as his dorm room. Steven pushed a small pile of trash off the edge. The trash contained various items of crushed Mellow Yellow cans, discarded scratch-n-win lottery tickets, and empty Whataburger ketchup packets. Steven also found a half empty bag of Cheetos buried under the bottom of the pile with an expiration date three years late.

“Why do you keep this in here?” asked Steven, as he held up the bag of stale chips.

“Awesome! Where did you find those? Pass them over here!” said Alan, as he took the bag and munched on the snack.

After clearing off the dashboard Steven comically inquired, “When are you going to clean out this truck?”

Alan replied with a smirk on his face, “As soon as you start paying for gas.”

They both had a good long laugh. Alan spoke into the CB microphone and told Alex and Vincent to pull over at the last gas station before they reached the paintball field.

They were planning to load up on junk food and the regular food staples that are all part of the college diet. Vincent picked up a hand-shopping basket as all of them entered the half-gas station part mini-mart building structure that has become synonymous with long stretches of rural open roads in South Texas.

Vincent went straight to the freezer section in the back of the mini-mart and started grabbing microwave burritos and knock-off versions of pizza flavored Hot Pockets.

He piled all the frozen food products into the basket and in his best comic-book-guy voice said, "Yes, this should provide adequate sustenance for the Dr. Who marathon."

Steven followed Alan who went to the homemade beef jerky section in the store. Next to the jerky section was a buffet style food display case. There were also metal tongs hanging from a clip and individually cut sheets of butcher paper with a sign reading “Self Serve”. Under the glowing red heat lamps, every piece of food in the display case was either deep fried or drenched in barbecue sauce, and in some cases both.

Steven turned around for a minute to check out what other food items were in the store and remarked to Alan, “Can you believe that anybody would actually eat food cooked in a gas station?”

As soon as Steven turned back around, he saw Alan standing there with the metal tongs in-hand. He was scooping fries and assorted fried chicken pieces on to the butcher paper while using his mouth to hold on to a giant barbecued turkey leg. They both looked at each other. Alan spoke some garbled words from behind the giant turkey leg. Steven could only guess at what Alan was saying.

Steven grabbed another sheet of butcher paper for his friend and asked, "Is this what you wanted?" Surely enough Alan nodded his head.

Alex completed his usual routine of filling up an extra large cup of cherry slush. He pulled the handle on the slush machine. As the drink filled to the top, the handle got stuck in the on position. The red icy liquid quickly overflowed and spilled all over the counter and on to the floor.

Alex did his best to stop the cherry flavored avalanche, while Vincent stood laughing next the register and a very frustrated store clerk. All of the guys paid for their stuff and they were back on the road again. The food that Alan had accumulated in the store was sitting in the middle seat of the pickup truck between him and Steven.

The butcher paper had almost completely disintegrated due to the amount of grease it was soaking up from the fried food. Alan had perfected an eating and driving technique unparalleled by any other human Steven had known. Alan drove with one hand and with the other he took a full size chicken leg and in one quick bite stripped every ounce of meat off it leaving nothing left but the bone.

A sea of endless fields of brush and trees covered the sides of the road. After about twenty minutes of driving, Steven had already fallen asleep. The sun shined brightly with a few clouds lining the sky. Alan was switching between radio stations trying to find some music when he looked up and spotted an unusual sight. Alan saw an old barbed wire fence coming up ahead.

He picked up the CB radio microphone and said, "Hey guys, I'm going to pull over in a minute to check out something on the side of the road."

Steven slowly woke up from his nap. "What...why are we stopping?" he said.

"I thought I saw something hanging from that fence over there," said Alan while pointing towards the barbed wire boundary.

Both vehicles slowed down to pull over and came to a stop. Steven opened the truck door and got out. He used his hands to shield his eyes from the bright sun. Alan reached under his driver side seat and pulled out a small camouflage zip pouch. Vincent and Alex left their vehicle and walked over to Steven.

"So what's up, why did we stop?" asked Alex.

"I have no idea. I was in the middle of taking a nap and then Alan said something about a barbed wire fence," replied Steven. Alan walked up to the guys wearing a straw cowboy hat.

"Follow me," said Alan. They walked about thirty feet from the road and came to a fence line. The sound of flies buzzing got louder as they got closer.

"What is that thing?" asked Steven.

"It looks like some kind of dead animal," said Vincent as he pulled his t-shirt collar up to cover his nose.

"It's a coyote," replied Alan. Alan could tell from the decaying look of it that the animal had probably been up there a few days.

"Why is it tied to the fence like that?" asked Alex.

Alan studied the wounds on the deceased animal and said, "Ranchers and farmers have always gone back and forth with coyotes. My uncle used to say they haven't built a fence yet that can keep a hungry coyote out. They mainly go after small game like rabbits and other critters. Once they find out that they can get chickens off a farm, they will keep returning to it as a food source. When the ranchers kill a coyote they sometimes leave the carcass out to scare off the others. There's a belief that they don't like the smell of their own dead..."

Alan paused a moment. He knelt down and grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and let it fall through his fingers. Alan saw a set of animal tracks leading out towards the field.

"...They remember," said Alan as he stared at something off in the distance.

Alan unzipped the small camouflage pouch and took out a pair of binoculars. He scanned the horizon around them. A small figure moving in the distance immediately caught his attention. He adjusted the focus setting on the binoculars. As the image became clearer, he could see the outline of a fur coat.

A lone coyote walked across the field. A sudden gust of wind picked up and swept across the landscape towards the animal. The coyote stopped in its tracks and turned its head toward Alan and their eyes locked on each other. He watched its unwavering eyes.

Alan could see that all the fur around the mouth of the animal was colored a dark crimson, and a small blood-stained, torn cloth was clenched between its teeth. The coyote stood still for a few seconds more looking at him, and then ran off and disappeared in to the brush.

The time was 5:00 A.M. and Fred was already up making breakfast. Fred lived in a two story house on ten acres of farmland located just outside the small city of Gonzalez, Texas. He also had a small chicken coop in the backyard and some produce crops. Fred was already retired and enjoyed spending his free time in the quiet rural setting away from the stress of city life. Some nights he would just sit on the porch and look up at the sky filled with stars as far as the eye could see. On those nights, his thoughts often drifted away to his younger days.

He stood in the kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. Fred took a sip of the rich, bold coffee blend from his cup and a slight smile came over his face. "Today is going be a good day," he said to himself. The front page news was all about the upcoming Fall Festival that the town was planning. Fred was in the middle of his usual routine. He was going to eat a hearty breakfast then drive in to town to sell some eggs and vegetables at the local farmer’s market.

Fred had a large pan preheating on the stove. He retrieved a stick of butter from the fridge and cut a few pieces off into the pan. The butter instantly started to sizzle as it touched the hot skillet. Fred picked two eggs from a wire basket sitting on the counter and cracked them into the pan. He left the food cooking on the stove while he went to the fridge. Fred rummaged around inside the refrigerator for about a minute, and then pulled out a package wrapped in butcher paper. There was only one word written in marker on the package, which read "Chorizo." Fred opened the package and it contained sausage his neighbor had given him earlier in the week for helping repair a tractor. He took a piece of the sausage and mixed it with the eggs. A flavorful aroma filled the kitchen as the food cooked in the pan. As he continued cooking, Fred felt like he was being watched. He turned around and thought he saw two eyes staring back at him from the darkened hallway.

Fred focused his attention back to the food and grabbed a few pieces of bread to make toast. A small figure slowly emerged from the shadows. The creature crawled stealthy across the floor inching closer and closer coming towards the light of the kitchen like some invisible magnetic force was pulling it. With his back turned, Fred had no warning until it was already too late. He felt a cold, wet nose hit the back of his leg. Startled, Fred jumped and looked down to see his dog looking up at him. His loyal companion and friend was a Blue Heeler dog named Lucy. Fred had raised her since she was a puppy and she went everywhere with him. Lucy sat at his feet and looked up with two soft eyes and let out a whimper as the delicious smell of food filled the kitchen.

“Aw, don’t give me that look…alright just one piece but no more,” said Fred.

He took a small piece of sausage and gave it to the dog. She gobbled up the food and went to lie down on the small rug in front of the back door. Fred took a small mason jar filled with strawberry preserves out of the fridge and set it on the counter. A muddled faint noise outside caught Lucy's attention, and the sound woke her up to full alert. Her ears were standing straight up. She turned towards the backdoor and started barking. Fred went to the backdoor and looked through the glass window. It was pitch dark outside and only the sound of a few crickets filled the air.

“Quiet down girl, there’s nothing out there.”

Fred ignored Lucy’s barking and went back to the stove to finish making his breakfast. He had just moved all his food from the large pan and on to a plate when a loud clatter from outside frightened him. He turned abruptly and accidentally knocked the jar of strawberry preserves off the counter. The small jar fell and broke into pieces as the red contents splattered on the floor.

“Dammit! Those coyotes better not be sneaking into that chicken coop again!" he shouted.

Fred had already lost a few chickens to a pack of coyotes a couple days ago, but this time he was ready for them. He grabbed an old 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun from inside a closet. He reached for the top shelf and pulled down a box of ammo and a flashlight. The box only had four shells left. Fred loaded two shells into the gun and put the other two in his pocket. He flipped a light switch for the back porch light, but nothing lit up. He tried flipping the switch on and off a few more times.

“The bulb must have burnt out. Just my luck,” griped Fred. Lucy his dog was eagerly waiting by the backdoor for him. Fred gave her a quick pet on the head. “Sorry girl, I know you want to get at those coyotes too, but it’s not safe out there.” With no light outside, Fred didn’t want to end up losing sight of his dog and risk her getting attacked and there was always the chance of rabies. He carried a flashlight in one hand and the shotgun in the other.

He stepped out the backdoor and quickly closed it. Fred was too occupied with pursuing the coyotes. He didn’t notice that the door lock was unable to close properly. The door frame had become warped from years of regular use. Fred felt the cold breeze as it swept across the Texas landscape. There was a small ramshackle tool shed next to the chicken coop and Fred shined his flashlight on it. The wooden boards on the shed were all different sizes and colors, which Fred had been given for free from a local lumberyard. The door on the tool shed was slightly open and it banged back and forth in the wind. Some of the chickens in the chicken coop were softly clucking while Fred looked around with his flashlight. He opened the tool shed door and looked inside, but nothing seemed out of place. Fred shined the light on the ground and found a set of paw prints in the mud. He knelt down to study the animal tracks and declared, "I've got'em now!"

Lucy started barking loudly again from inside the house. He turned around and standing there about ten feet from him was the outline of a person. Fred used his flashlight and shined it towards the mysterious figure from the feet to its head. The clothes on the person were ragged and torn in pieces. The tattered shirt and jeans were covered in dirt and stained with dried blood. Fred shined the light on its face and its rotting flesh was a greyish green color with blood running down its mouth. The thing looking back at him looked like only the shell of a person devoid of any life. Fred was panic-stricken as he stared into the dead eyes of the person and it stared back at him with a menacing intent like it was studying him and looking into his soul. The mouth on the person started to snarl revealing blood covered teeth rotten to the gums. It let out a deep, rumbling groan that shook Fred right down to his bones. The person reached out for Fred and shambled towards him while violently biting the air.

“Holy shi-” Fred shouted, too scared to even finish his words as he threw the flashlight down and in the blink of an eye hip-fired with the shotgun. The shotgun blast was deafening as the muzzle flash produced a second of illumination and smoke. The shot hit the person square in the chest and the sheer force knocked it off balance onto the ground. Fred stared at the shadowy figure lying in the dirt, as it remained still. Fred picked up the flashlight and his mind raced while he looked at the person that tried to attack him. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered. Fred couldn't believe his eyes. It was like something out of nightmare and he kept hoping to wake up any minute. The person slowly moved again until it got upright as Fred shined the light on it. There was a gaping crimson hole in its chest as it limped towards him.

All doubt left Fred’s mind this time. He raised the double-barreled shotgun to aim at its head and another zombie attacked from behind a split second before he fired. The shot went off and it hit the zombie in the shoulder as Fred fell to the ground with the other undead attacker on top of him. Fred used the end of the buttstock on his shotgun to strike the zombie in the head and keep it from biting him. With a violent shove, he separated himself from the re-animated corpse. Fred left the flashlight on the ground with dirt kicked up in the air as he scrambled to get back on his feet. He opened the tool shed door and stumbled inside as he rushed to shut the door behind him. He immediately grabbed multiple sacks of corn and put them against the door to keep it from opening.

It was dark inside the shed except for the faint light coming from the flashlight on the ground outside. The two undead creatures banged on the door and sides of the walls as some of the wood boards buckled and vibrated against the onslaught. Fred knew this shed wouldn’t hold them back for long and he had to come up with a plan quick. Under normal conditions it only took Fred a few seconds to reload his shotgun, but right now his nerves were frayed and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He fumbled with reloading the fresh shells in the dark dropping them onto the muddy, dirt floor below.

Fred was still reeling from the rush of adrenaline in his body, and his fight-or-flight response had kicked in again. Fred had already fought and now his instincts were telling him to get the hell out of there and back to the house to safety. His weapon was now fully loaded with the last two shells of ammunition. Fred could still hear Lucy barking from inside the house. He gripped the shotgun tighter as he waited with his body braced against the door. A cold sweat formed on his face as the zombies walked around the sides of the shed banging and bumping into the walls. His heart raced with panic. He knew he had to keep a rational mindset and think for a minute. Too much fear can kill a man. Better to be angry than fearful at a time like this.

He took a deep breath and shouted, “Calm down you old fool, you ain’t dead yet. There are two of them out there and you got two shots left. Make’em count!”

Forgive me if this has already been posted, but what about people in high security prisons, monks in solitude, and people in underwater or space exploration missions?

http://www.reddit.com/r/monsterdeconstruction/comments/32q514/the_most_plausible_zombie_scenario/

So you want to hear about the Downfall? Okay, okay, I'll tell you about the downfall, little one. We were one of the first hit, the first city to fall. We never received military support. By the time the dead marched, there was nowhere for the military to 'form up,' or mobilize. We never received any assistance; I don't know of anyone who did.

When the dead came marching up the hill, we were largely unprepared. Preparations had only so far moved at the speed of rumor- some of us were arming or preparing ourselves, and others were on their way to lacrosse practice. I was among the former category, but as fortune had it, our "practice," gear worked wonderfully at keeping us alive. As we suited up, some brave people jumped into the fray, I guess to find their friends and loved ones. I've never had that kind of affection for anyone, but no one else questioned it, so I shut up and continued suiting up.

Weapons I never knew were being stored in the dorms came out to see daylight as scenes of ultra violence played out in the courtyard below. One skittish-looking rail-thin blonde had a baseball bat, swinging it inexpertly at anyone who came near. A pair of long cooking knives in the hands of a matronly security woman who was already covered in blood found their way into the eye sockets of a grasping zed. A pasty pale fat kid with frenzied eyes and a decorative sword got bowled over by a diving zombie wearing a nightgown. A hockey stick waved by a lanky man was snapped over the head of a zed. He pushed the shaft through the rotten chest cavity, to no effect. I saw a diminutive warrior woman screaming her head off and waving a (I shit you not) fucking scythe over her head be dragged down after sweeping the ankles off a zed was pulled down by her short, chin-length hair. In the end, even she got and eaten alive, her screams of rage died as as quickly as she did. In another age, she'd have been a warrior queen. In modern times, she was lunch for a pack of zed.

An out-of-control pickup truck plowed through the field, mowing down friend and foe alike. I think it was her fiancee. He somehow lost control, and the truck flipped. The battle for the parking lot finished, as those who could broke and ran for the relative safety of the great indoors.

We were the fencing squad's officers. We were still suiting each other up inside, most of us having brought our club equipment for doing inventory purposes and a planned demonstration to up recruitment for the team. The practice swords may have been largely useless, but the armor wasn't, nor was prying the legs off the student center's bar stools in the student center. Those were our "brain bashers." This was much to the consternation of the anal-retentive girl behind the counter. She died screaming as a zombie tore into her massive gut; I wonder if she was screaming about the blood on the carpet, or if she wished that she had a brain basher to defender herself with. As the fight inside spilled inside, we all turned and formed up to face the doorway.

Our team Captain, he didn't even look back at us- he just slipped his mask over his face and bellowed a challenge, and charged the door, waving his makeshift weapon over his head in a war-whoop, equipment halfway-on. His partner, a domineering nearly 6' tall sabreist with waist-length fine crimson hair, screeched her fury and followed him close. I understood immediately. We hold the line, or we get picked off in our rooms, hiding like sheep. His first strike caved in a zed's head, and it rallied everyone to join him. I slipped my mask on, and charged, screaming my fear.

For me, it was hardly a question. I didn't know back then what it was about me that had made people avoid me. I'd had dark thoughts in my head- you know, the ones about "if you pushed that person right now, they'd fall off the bridge and no one would see," aspect of my personality, quietly waiting for the right moment to pop up. Apparently, the apocalypse was just that moment. I went off the hook with the killing and the ultra-violence that had been pent up forever.

The battle in that first wave was chaos. The line didn't hold- it nearly became a free-for-all. I felt one bite me on my shoulder, but it was unable to breach the thick weave of my fencing jacket. Another one, the one the woman had chopped the ankles off of, chewed away at my breeches and I panicked. I dropped to the floor and kicked and punched and screamed. I even dropped my makeshift brain-basher, and began furiously jamming my fist into the face of the zombie. Finally, a combatant stepped on the one grasping my shoulder that was holding me down, crushing the head under a heavy work-boot. I sprang up, kicking my leg free of the grasping zombie, and in a display of pure hatred and fury, grabbed the nearest wooden chair and began crushing its head with repeated blows until it stopped moving.

By the "end" of the wave, I looked around the room and saw that only four others were left standing. The rest were on the floor, either writhing, wrestling with a zed, or lying completely still. All I knew in that moment was war, rage, and fury. I gnashed my teeth and screamed with every kill. All the frustrations I'd had- poor grades, a lousy social life, the shit-talking, and the rumors of my relationship and the drama...I'd always vented it all into my fencing. Now it came out like a volcanic eruption of fire, and I let it burn as I swung with all my might, over and over, using the wooden high chair's weight to crush the remaining zeds that were on the floor.

The next few hours were hell. Five is not enough fighters to secure and hold the various entrances, and so we threw many noncombatants into what we called "the meatgrinder." We threw everyone into the fray- even the morbidly obese were given a rock and told to go bash brains. It became survival of the fittest and luckiest. That's what saw our now-living through those hordes on Day One. The city was aflame. Gunshots rang out in the valley below like popcorn.

Captain tried to keep everyone calm- he began giving orders, things for us to do. My everything was sore and I was made to sit for "mandatory rest," and a "future mission." Captain said if he saw me walking the campus alone to crush some skulls, he'd bash my head in, zed or not. I still am not sure if he was joking, so I took him at his word.

Captain was infested. I was the one to cut him down. He took me aside after my mandatory rest. He removed his cloth armor, revealing a bite on the back of his neck, where there's a small gap in the helmet's protection. He handed me his trusty fireplace poker, and said that he knew I was the only one he wanted to do it. He said he saw how I swung with no hesitation, how it almost didn't matter to me whether there was any humanity inside left or not, and he knew he didn't have long. He got us through that vicious and bloody first and second waves, where we lost half the student body. He set us up down the path of building up the college into a fortress. There was more work to be done, but he said he was out of time. He was my boyfriend, did I mention that? And I took that fireplace poker and I put it through his eye.

He was the first one I killed that day. The first person, I mean. The others... the not-yet-turned... well, before the apocalypse, people already gave me a wide berth. I was left alone by Psycho, the second-in-command in the club, to build up the defenses of that great old stone castle. And if she was the Queen, I was the blood-soaked "Princess." And that became my name.

Good bedtime story, huh kiddo?

I'll tell you more about "Captain Morgan" later. But... for tonight? That's enough. Sleep tight. Don't let the zombie-bugs bite.

We in /r/Askasurvivor need more active writers, especially those who are into and familiar with zombie lore. We do ask that the standard rule fare for RP's be abided by (no supermanning "Hi everybody, I have a thousand troops overnight and you've somehow never heard of me," no killing other PC's without permission, etc.). As you guys love zombies and zombie fiction, I thought this might be the place to post about the sub so you could write some of your own.

Think WWZ (book), wherein it's years after said apocalypse, and humanity is begining to try and rebuild. Zombies are still a major threat, and hordes are still abound, but the threat has reached equilibrium between zombies and marauders.

We have a wiki, guides, and more, but we do need growth from more writers and new characters to help spread around the map (especially in Europe!)

We also have some dedicated troll characters managed by the mods to irritate anyone who breaks the rule about not taking things seriously; (no getting bent outta shape. Remember, it's just fiction.)

Question: Why don't any zombie movies and/or TV shows show vultures trying to eat a zombie? Zombies are, after all, rotting flesh and remains. Don't vultures eat that stuff? I wanna see a vulture try to eat a zombie, and have the zombie turn around and munch down on it. That would be original.

His Walk

The noises had kept her up all night. Whenever they seemed to pause, even for that split second of sweet, beautiful thoughts that perhaps they'd moved on, it would start right back up. She feared that they would get bored of their tirade in the lobby, and make their way up the steps. If they did, how long would they be there? Would they pass by her room not realizing she was resting there, or would they smell her out?

She kept her bag with her at all times. She debated writing in that journal until the sun came up once she realized there would be no rest for her, but she didn't want to be caught unprepared. So she sat at the edge of the couch and waited patiently. Listening.

She stood by the window by the time the sun arose. Nothing outside moved. She looked out of it carefully, scanning the streets for any sign of life. An animal, mostly. She could go for some meat somewhere. Perhaps she'd see a rabbit?

She was fooling herself into believing she could catch it, and was already formulating her course of action for when she caught up to the animal... should it ever come around. Of course, that was before the movement actually began.

For a moment, she wasn't sure of what she was seeing. The figure hobbled down the road, shuffling its feet. It paused for a moment, glancing up at her; it looked back down, but stiffened. Fearing an intelligent infected, she ducked beneath the window while it was distracted, eyes wide. She listened to the shuffling and groaning downstairs and waited, her breath held, for whatever it was on the road to lose interest.

She peeked over the windowsill, and the figure had begun walking again. It was a full four or five feet from where it stood when it noticed her, but it stopped to stare up at a board. She looked at it, too.

A vaccination reminder? Did she get vaccinated? Did she ever go to the hospital?

She'd been in and out of hospitals for the greater part of her 'adult' life, and part of her teenage years. It wouldn't have been surprising to her if she'd gotten infected, but she knew for certain, after a few heartbeats of consideration, that she hadn't gotten vaccinated. She couldn't even remember the name of the damn disease. Started with a 'B', she thought.

Yet here she stood the only survivor in this town. The weak, pathetic woman lived where all the strong women died. It confused her, and she would have liked to be thankful, but the loss of her friends and family clouded that hope and relief. She hadn't made it out of the woods yet, and wouldn't until she found some sort of camp to live at. People.

People.

She watched it disappear over a hill and exhaled. She relaxed against the wall, and let her head fall against the wood beneath the window.

Stella opened her eyes to the sound of her stomach rumbling, and she held her hand over it carefully, brows furrowed.

I need to find food. Quickly.

She didn't dare go back out the way she came in, as the sounds of shuffling had gone from the lobby downstairs to just outside her door, patrolling the corridor.

Carefully and painstakingly slow, she pushed the window up, just far enough to maneuver her way out. Unfortunately, as she attempted this, she realized it would need to go up an extra inch or two. Glancing back at the door, Stella noticed the eerie silence. No shuffling. No groaning. No snarling.

Absolute silence, as if something out there had heard something out of the ordinary and was listening just as intently as she was.

She inched her way closer to the door, crouched and stepping lightly. Her lower back twinged with every step, and her jaw tightened in the attempt to keep herself silent. She stopped next to the door and began to go down, soon pressing her cheek against the carpet. She focused her attention to the small space beneath the door, but she was lucky enough that it was far enough off the ground to see.

She noticed four pairs of feet stationed just outside.

Forcing the cry of terror down, she allowed herself to stand again, and she pulled herself back up, rushing as silently as she could back to the window.

She had to be quick. She doubted the peace would last long, and when it finally broke it would likely be joined by the door.

She slid her backpack on quietly, taking hold of the window again. With a steadying breath and a quick prayer, she pushed up slowly. It didn't move much. She had to push harder.

Fearful of what would happen if she made noise, she faced a very tough decision. Risk them leaving, or rush the window open and jump, hope they don't get to you first?

The thud against the door made up her mind. Now that she'd been discovered entirely, she made a soft yelp and pushed harder on the window, looking back at the door as her efforts proved fruitless.

"No, no, no." She whispered, repeating the mantra louder and louder the more she pushed. Her back hurt even worse, now, and she wondered if she'd even be able to make it through the window if it did open.

The door was splintering, at least four bodies slamming against it desperately.

"Come on, you son of a bitch!" Stella screamed, shaking the window back and forth violently.

It seemed to do the trick, as whatever it was blocking it from going higher broke free. She slid up and she released the window, making sure it would stay up and not catch her leg on the way out. When she was certain, she rushed for it, throwing one leg through and weaving beneath it.

The door burst open, and she had a brief moment of realization. They were in, and this room was small. If she'd thought about it, she was almost certain there were windows elsewhere that could have put more space between them. But she'd picked the one window directly across from the front door.

And now, as they hobbled toward her, she made a second realization: her other leg was still inside.

She'd paused for a second too long, and when she jolted back into action to pull her leg through, her ankle was grabbed. Tight hands gripped her like a vise. She grunted and hissed, at least thankful that they'd pulled on her good leg - she had the strength to kick at them. And kick she did. She gripped the window frame with both hands, her body at an angle, and kicked her leg out. She scored a few hits on the infected woman holding her, and managed to pull herself free. The sudden lack of a counterweight threw her off balance, and she jerked sideways. Desperately, she flung one hand to meet the other in front of her to grip at the same side of the frame, swinging her body at the last second to find a perch on the roof, using her hands to move to the higher parts of the roof from the frame, one at a time. It was out of the way and she'd need to ease her way over, but she didn't have the time to be careful, nor did she have the strength. The fall wouldn't be fatal from here, but it would certainly hurt and she couldn't afford to be injured in a world like this.

She shimmied her hands closer to her legs, and the infected were crawling out the window after her. One lost its footing and plunged to the ground. She wasn't sure if it survived, but it gave her more incentive to stay up. The rest seemed to catch the hint that it wasn't safe crawling out, and left the window, likely in favor of finding easier prey.

She grunted and hissed, her leg throbbing. Sweat dripped from her brow and slicked her hands, and as she neared her goal, she lost her hold.

She didn't feel the impact.

Her Diary

Silence is thick. It's heavy. Most of all, it's alive. It's much like shadow - it moves when you do, sending ripples through the air like rain on a lake. There's nothing quite like silence, and nothing quite like darkness. When paired together, the two elements become an overbearing, overpowering, physical force. It presses down on you, keeps you in your place. It lets you know that it is alive, that it is feeding, and you were dead the moment it noticed you.

Much the same, he was a force of nature of his own. He always had been, from the day he learned to walk to the day he stepped out of his home into the dying city, and even now he walked with a sense of purpose. He had to, or the silence would be the death of him. He'd long ago tried burying thoughts of his old life, but the empty bottles and toppled cans were hard to clean up. He had nothing left in his bag to support any sort of accusation, but the damage still ate away at him.

He passed the apartments, unable to recall the name. The sign was painted over. With what, he couldn't be certain, and he didn't want to be. It was best left alone.

He could swear he saw someone by the upstairs window, but he continued on. What use would it be to investigate? Curiosity killed the survivor, and he was walking in a silence that wasn't often found.

He picked at the scabs on his arms unconsciously, looking up at a towering billboard.

"HAVE YOU BEEN VACCINATED?"

"A bit late for that, now." He muttered bitterly, breaking off a piece of his scab and flicking it onto the dried, cracked earth. Fresh blood welled to the surface slowly, but the pain and blood didn't bother him. It hadn't for a long time.

Living on his own had taken its toll. The same routine, every day. Day in, day out, everything the same no matter where he went. He'd welcomed change, then. He wanted it all back. The monotony of his job at the local grocery store. The frustrations of a backed up intersection. He even missed the never ending struggle to find a movie to watch while he ate a TV dinner, settling for one he could recite by memory.

He wanted a bath. He wanted a drink. He wanted food, but those luxuries were long gone. He heard of a Q.Z. the next state over, but it would take a while for him to get there, especially if he needed to slip through town unnoticed by the hordes. He hadn't seen any yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He looked back at the apartment. The figure was gone. He sighed, hoisted his bag further onto his shoulder, and continued his journey.

[Sorry for the wait and shortness, I'm trying. D: ]

Her Struggle

Silence. It's like the world became at peace even with all the horror going on. It wasn't as i'd expected - well i guess nobody knows what to expect. A zombie apocalypse. It really happened. It's all fucking unbelievable really, yet i'm living in it. They're silent; the zombies that is. A lot of people scream when approached, knowing what their fate is. But a lot of us have come to acceptance; there is no way to escape this hell. I guess we deserved it. Humans weren't here first yet we came and destroyed what was already here, thinking we had right of way. If people of the past could see the way the world turned out i'm sure they wouldn't treat the world with such a lack of respect. Anyway here we are, 5 of us living in a fucking 5 star hotel alone. I don't know any of these people. We'd lost everyone we knew so joined together in hope of survival. Now it kind of seems stupid - i don't really want to live this way. Sometimes i think of just walking out there and waiting for my inevitable fait. But no. I'm still here. I don't know what it is that holds me back - maybe it's my natural instinct to survive or maybe i'm scared. I don't really feel any emotion anymore. My brother was a good guy, never hurt anyone, constantly had good intentions. He disagreed with how the whole world was run. I wish i could go back in time and tell him he was right. It's the fact that he was the only sane person around yet the first one to go - gave up without a fight. All those years people considered him stupid, yet he was the only one with a brain. Stupid fucking society. Did nothing good for anyone. All of you: take a look around. Fucking appreciate what you have. Then take a look at how you act; how oblivious you are to the wrong things. Go the way the back of your mind takes you, NOT the part of your mind society has warped. Good luck.

I was thirteen when I came out. My mother and I... never talked about it, much. Not at length. I wish we had, now. It's only been a few weeks, and already I'm at my breaking point. The silence is... overwhelming. Even the scratching of this pencil on paper echoes in the empty streets. Food's scarce. Most of it's either taken or spoiled. I've been drinking water that's been running off the roof. I put a bucket outside, hopefully I can catch some rainwater. Even the infected are having a hard time surviving, lately. When there's not much left to feast on, even the dead begin to starve.

I never thought I'd say that. I'm laughing at it, really. It's a... horribly ironic thing, that someone like me has survived when my friends weren't so lucky. I miss the internet. I miss the mall. I miss my job. I miss the library. I miss the general noise of the city. The assholes, the sweet, friendly people left over after the holidays. I miss all of them. They're all rotted, now. I'd like to think they're laying somewhere and not walking about. I've always been a fan of zombie movies, but none of them have ever touched how damned lonely it is. It's scary hearing the groans halfway down the block, but it's even scarier hearing nothing.

No cars. No lawnmowers. No children playing. Nothing. Even the birds have left us. I rarely see one. Even rarer do I hear one.

It smells of rot here.

Right. Okay. The reason I've started this.

My name is Estelle. Honestly... I preferred Stella. I was never a fan of my name. I'm twenty-two years of age, and I'm the last survivor in this town. At least... I think so. I haven't seen anybody else. I haven't moved since it began, not really. I've never been much of a fighter. I've never touched a gun. My strength is less than satisfactory. I can't run fast. I've always had trouble with my leg.

How I've survived this long is beyond me. I think I just let those... things take care of themselves. They will. Eventually.

In case I've gone by the time this is found, or... if I'm... unrecognizable, I have dark hair and dark skin. I've been called many things, but I guess that happens when you're a black girl living in a racist neighborhood. I've never let it bother me. Let them do what they want, I guess. Anyway, I have brown eyes, I'm about 5'6". I think the last time I weighed myself I was at 129 lbs. That was a while ago. I'm probably lighter now, but... whatever. Doesn't matter much.

I want to be remembered as a face, not a document. That's the best I can do, short of adding a photo, and... well, I don't have many of them. Any, actually. I'm currently holing up in an apartment complex. Safest place I could find before night falls. Managed to avoid a couple infected downstairs. They're making quite the racket down there, tearing the place apart for food, I think.

Jesus... the sun looks so dark. It casts a strange sort of light on the sky, on the clouds. It looks unnatural, but I can't explain why. It's... it's like it's constantly moving. The light, I mean. Like it's constantly changing color, but only when you aren't looking at it. It's been that way since this whole thing started. Maybe I'm losing it. I've never been good with stress.

I've found this notebook. I'm taking pens, pencils, anything I can find. Using a backpack I found in the street. It had a teddy bear in it when I picked it up... I think this was a child's pack. I don't feel right tossing the toy away. It's still in there. I dumped everything else out. School books, papers, folders... I won't lie, I sat down and read some of them. Homework, the simple stuff that little first graders get. I remember when my handwriting looked like chicken scratches. My mom always joked that I was trying to contact the mother ship. She said my chicken scratches were hardly identifiable as English. Looks like a whole new language.

God, I'm so tired. I haven't been sleeping well... obviously. I keep waiting for rain, but it hasn't come. Hasn't rained since it began, so... two weeks? Three? I don't know. Shit, I'm not keeping track.

I need to sleep. I hope I can manage it with the noise downstairs.

His Walk

Visitation

Self loathing was, for a long time, all I could feel.

For various reasons, I thought about just... lying down and accepting my fate. I was destined to die - we all were - and I could see no use in standing back up. My life was never really mine, and the moment I had become free I was enslaved once more.

They came in waves. All of them. Thousands of them. Millions. Impossible to tell. All at once and none at all, I suppose. They were there, and... not. Human, and alien. We all remember the day we opened our eyes and saw the chaos. I remember it well.

I told my story. I told as much as I could - as much as I could remember, that is - and now, there is nothing to tell of how I arrived.

There is, however, this. The future, the present. The past is long gone, far behind me. The Rain had taken a toll on us all, and I hold no thoughts on my life being more precious than any other... regardless of what I was told early on. I was a tool, a guinea pig. Surely, if newspapers were still in print there would be countless cries for justice for what they'd done to me.

A necessary evil.

We moved 'camps' several times. I was always the first to board, as I was 'precious cargo' that couldn't be lost. What space could have been given to others, it was given to me. A whole truck... and only me. I was dangerous. I was contagious, even when we'd already proven I wasn't. I still lay awake, thinking about all those people who were told they would be rescued...

Nevermind that. I was alive. They were alive. The story of a trio that survived and thrived made its rounds, the story embellished and stretched far beyond the truth. They were made to be heros.

I was made to be a tragic liability.

They knew I was alive, make no mistake. I was not hidden, though I should have been. It felt like high school again, under heavy scrutiny and whispered voices silencing as I walked by. Parents hiding their children. Conversations cut short upon recognition.

It took me a long time to realize that I'd become so accustomed to being the black sheep, I'd barely noticed the difference between roaming the infested streets of a dead city and a thriving camp of living, breathing humans.

It disgusted me.

The doctors came as often as possible. They inspected me, probed me, watched my reactions. Gauged them. Predicted them. It became a favorite game of mine to purposely go against their expectations, just to see that dumbfounded expression. It was my only entertainment.

I spent the time outside of the interrogation and testing rooms inside my cell. I didn't have to, the doors were opened for me after I'd been deemed safe... but the idea of going outside felt less appealing than staying between a room all my own.

My only visitors were Casey and Mason. They came to see me every once in a while, once they gained the one-time clearance required each time. From what I understand it was a long, painful process. I didn't blame them for not coming more often. Mason always seemed so distant, but he constantly asked if I'd been treated well. I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth behind my aversion to the outdoors. I didn't want to make him angry and tell him that my determination was slowly dwindling.

It wasn't him or even Casey who finally made me straighten up.

It was raining. The camp, I imagine, was empty. All of us stayed inside until given direct orders to walk outside.

All except me.

I walked outside, always. I touched everything, felt the droplets give way beneath my fingers. I listened to the dirt and rocks beneath my feet, to the sound of light rain falling on canvas tents. I didn't feel the cold, not until I finally went back inside. As always, I was made to dry off and I was inspected thoroughly before I was ever allowed to enter the main area. That was fine. I enjoyed my time alone.

I was outside. I sat in front of the main gates, watching through the chainlink fence.

I almost didn't believe it, at first. Seeing a truck coming across the abandoned road was something I never considered, and it was coming slow but sure.

I raced toward my holding center, and after a bit of coercing, I made them believe me. They donned their gear, sent me to the regular room to dry off, and left for the gates.

I shared the building with six other infected, just like me. They all had their own stories to tell, not that anybody listened to them.

Clara, who once worked at a strip club outside of the town I'd grown up in. She'd been on her way home from work when she was attacked. She survived with minimal bruising, but she'd been wandering on her own ever since.

Jared. He had come to see his family from Boston. Poor guy lost them, and hadn't the slightest idea of where his friends were. I doubt he ever will.

Terrence had just flown back home from his six-month volunteer run in Lima. He hadn't even gotten unpacked.

Marie was homeless. Always had been. She'd 'lived' with her fourteen year old sister, Anna. Anna didn't make it.

Vera worked at a business firm in Chicago. She never elaborated on why she was here and how she'd walked so far, but from her hints I suspect she was having an affair.

Then there was Jessie. She was the most open of the seven of us. She told us everything she could about herself. She had been a waitress in some big restaraunt. She loved her job, loved her family. She'd been a mother of two. She was a mother of one, now, if her daughter was still alive. She'd gone to visit her grandparents in Italy. Jessie hadn't gone because of her financial situation, and only sent her daughter because she'd begged to go. She could never say no to her little girl.

These six people, while I didn't know them for long, quickly became my way out of the rut I'd found myself in. We all shared something. Some of us didn't get along, but we all had a common 'trait'.

Immunity.

We all had varying degrees of immunity. Clara was the most tolerable - she showed very few signs of even being infected. Unfortunately, Jared was the worst. He had the most awful coughing fits, and sometimes I wondered if when he went to sleep at night, he'd ever wake up. He appreciated my concern, but I think having someone like me touch him made him uncomfortable. So I let him be.

Jessie and I hit it off almost immediately. She showed interest in my story, in what was before all hell broke loose. She mentioned clothing that would have looked good on me, and said often that she wished she'd known she'd meet me. Being accepted by a stranger was quite endearing.

We were moved three months later. I lost contact with Jared, Terrence, and Clara. I hope they made it. Vera, Marie, and Jessie, however, stayed with us. I introduced them to Casey and Mason. Marie was stoic, but she seemed to like Mason. They shared their habits of being sticks in the mud.

Casey and Clara seemed to... tolerate one another. They didn't fight, but they didn't talk. He liked Jessie as much as I did.

I know this is unecessary. I know I don't need to tell you about them, but what I do need is to remember. Remember what kept me alive, what kept me sane, and what kept me going.

Not being alone certainly did it.

I stuck it out. The girls and I shared battle scars. We shared our stories, we cried sometimes. I think I got more emotional than any of them did.

It was nearly six years before any change was made. They tried to make vaccines, but none of them worked. Fortunately the rain had cleared up, but the infection still spread in other ways. It poisoned a lot of the water supply. It spread by through contact with bodily fluids. Heavy filtration was always necessary, as were the constant inspections.

Six. Years. We moved further and further away from my home town. We found ourselves across the country. We merged with other camps. We gained traction. More doctors, more soldiers, more research. More needles, more probing, more tests. All the while, we got sicker.

Marie was the first to be taken by it. I woke up one morning, and she was already cold. We were the only ones who mourned.

Casey and I... drifted, a bit. We weren't allowed any intimate contact, as I could still infect him. The only contact we ever had was through glass or a door. Outside of my room, we weren't to touch... just in case.

I still felt for him. I'd like to think he felt for me, as well. He always gave me subtle nods and smiles when he walked past the door. I always knew it was him walking. He'd always hum, and though his steps were light his voice was so distinct to me that I could pick him out of a crowd of screaming people.

The tests continued, and I took a turn.

I woke up one night to blood on my pillow. I couldn't hear a damn thing besides an incessant ringing. My eyes burned, my tongue felt thick, and my vision was far worse than usual. I couldn't walk straight. My body ached.

I was dying.

There was... a chance. I was the first to be found, and according to a doctor I'd gotten used to, he believed I deserved to get that fighting chance. I didn't have time to mull it over, he said, but I did it anyway. I asked the girls. I asked Casey, and Mason. They all said the same thing.

"Try."

So I did.

In the tenth year since The Rain, I was the first test of the experimental drug that would later cure new infections. The road to recovery was long, and the testing required to keep tabs on it was painful, but I'll be damned if I didn't survive.

I was lucky. It could have been another failure. Worse, it could have become a new mutation. I didn't escape it without a few side effects, unfortunately. I can no longer walk. The infection had taken hold by the time I'd made my decision, and I've no doubts that if I had waited any longer, it would have taken my life as well. As well as this, my hearing and vision has decreased significantly. One would have to shout for me to hear them. I tried to read lips, but without a clear picture of said lips it was fairly difficult. I manage.

As of this writing, I am forty-three years of age. I am the last of the group alive. Mason had died three years ago, and Casey a mere two months prior to my telling of this story. The girls had made it through testing, but Vera killed herself three years after her recovery. Jessie caught the flu.

It's a long one. A very very long one, because it didn't begin with me and it won't end with me. We are still recovering. We are still in the dark, and we are still fighting what seems to be an endless battle against an impossible enemy.

We're winning. At least, I'd like to think we are.

You only hear one side, and it's unfortunate that you are hearing mine. It is a far less exciting story to tell than others, as the important things were all personal. But maybe we need a little more of that. We are losing the very things that make us human: Humility. Bravery. Personality. Strength. It is my hope that this helps. The transcripts are all here, included with this here note.

I am one of a million faces. If you put me in a room with them, I'd doubt you could pick me out of it. And that's alright. It was a golden opportunity to tell my story, instead of the tale that's been bounced around facility to facility.

I've walked blindly through live until now, and I intend to keep doing so. Through the door that I sit across from is my freedom. This is the last loose end. The final shot at clearing things up, at showing my point of view. As soon as I tell my 'scribe' to put down his pen, it's over. My chapter is finished, and the next can begin.

With any hope, the heavy click of this door will be the last one I hear in this lab.

[Phew! Got this out. Had a lot of trouble getting it where I wanted it. That's it for this one!]

Session Ten

The door creaked open. Sitting in a chair, handcuffed to the bars of the table in front of him, Dakota lifted his gaze.

Casey entered first, his eyes wide. Mason followed, avoiding eye contact.

"Dakota..." Casey murmured, his lips pursed. He stood still for a moment, swallowing nervously, until the door closed behind Mason. The three were alone, and neither knew why.

"I'd expected you to decline." Dakota said, his voice raw. His eyes were red, puffy. Thin, wet streaks trailed from his eyes to his chin.

"We..." Mason started, and Casey held up his hand.

"I'm sorry. We both are. We really thought you were... We just..."

"Hey." Dakota chuckled, shaking his head. "Relax. I gave up my anger a while ago."

Casey stepped forward slowly, swallowing and blinking rapidly. If Dakota had looked closely, he'd have spotted the onset of tears. "We thought you'd die before you ever... we didn't have the heart to kill you."

"Yes, well... Casey, really. Don't concern yourself with it. I'm over it. I'm too tired to be angry at anybody."

Mason stood next to the black haired man now, his hand on his shoulder. "Don't blame Casey. It's... my fault. I talked him into leaving with me."

Dakota, lips pursed, only shook his head. "I'm fine. I just... wanted a chance to talk to you."

"Alright. We're listening."

So they talked. They talked, and they talked, and they never touched on their time surviving. They didn't mention Alexis, or the old man. They didn't mention how any of them had met, they just... talked about their pasts. They vented. They laughed.

The room had gone silent for nearly a minute following Dakota's admission that he'd miss times like these, and he'd wondered if he should have said anything at all. They'd been having such a good time, mentioning... that felt cheap.

Both hands were grasped from either side, Mason and Casey looking forward. Mason's hands were shaking, and his face looks a little too red. Casey, for once, had remained calm.

"I will too." Mason whispered, his voice wavering. "I'm so--"

"Sh." Dakota snapped, glaring at him. "No more sorry's. What's done is done. You're not forgiven, but... I'm not angry. We're just wasting time by getting angry and throwing fits and yelling at one another. Those days are done, we're safe here. You're safe here."

"So are you. I'm sure they'll do everything in their power to fix this."

"I doubt it would be enough."

"You don't know that."

"I've been living this long with it, I think I'm ready to go to sleep, now. I'm... tired, you two. So tired. I'm glad I got to see you. I don't know when I'll... erm..." Dakota paused, the taste of the word burning through his tongue. He shook his head, unable to speak it. "It could be any time. Hell, maybe you're right. Maybe I will survive. I wanted to say hello and goodbye all in one... just to be safe."

"Mason?" Casey started, and the strange-eyed man looked up at him. "Could you...?"

Looking between the two, Mason only chuckled, standing. "Alright, I guess. Let me know when I can come back."

"Okay."

"Mm."

They sat quietly, the air heavy. Dakota stared at the door, aware of everything around him. His eyes fluttered, and even through the blur of the images around him, he knew what was what. He always had... he had a lot of time between sessions to walk about the room and touch everything. He knew they'd be disinfected, and he knew it irritated his 'guards'. He figured it was his way of getting back at everyone who'd wronged him... in an odd sort of way. He'd like to believe he'd won, just by making it this far. Everybody he'd ever known, everyone he'd hated, every person who'd bullied him in school... they were all dead. He was alive. He won.

Funny. He didn't feel like a winner.

"I meant it." Casey whispered, his eyes focused on his own hands, one clasped with Dakota's. "When I said I'd like to be responsible for you. I... Dakota, this is bullshit. You can make it. Just... give yourself time. Keep fighting. I've seen what you can do. It'd be a shame if we lost you."

"You'll move on."

"Nah. Don't really want to, now. Dakota, you are the most unique and honest person I've ever met. You didn't fuck around and hide things. You told me how it was, how you felt, what things were like. You told me the truth, and that goes a long way for me. You're perfect, even when you aren't."

"Stop it, you're making me blush."

"Good."

Dakota looked at the man beside him, jumping slightly. Casey had moved closer to him, his face mere inches away now that he'd turned his head. Their eyes locked, and suddenly nothing else existed. Dakota wondered - however briefly - if this was what it was like to fall in love. He wondered what it would have been like to meet him before shit hit the fan, before realizing he wouldn't have. He'd have had no reason to walk that far from home. Some extraordinary things would have had to happen for him to finally meet him, and for some reason Dakota was glad they hadn't. He was glad they sat here, even as the bodies of those who weren't so lucky rotted outside. A selfish thought, and he didn't care.

"If you give up," Casey whispered, his breath tickling the younger male's face, "I will never forgive you."

"We haven't known each other that long."

"A year was all I needed. It's long enough. I've heard stranger."

"We can't..."

"Watch me. You and me, 'Kota. I don't give a shit of Mason doesn't join us. It's us or nothing. Got it?"

Dakota's dams had broken, his vision blurring further and hot, wet tears falling over his cheeks. "I don't know if I can."

"You can. I know you can. Okay, remember what happened when we'd left the forest?"

"Alexis?"

Casey's face fell before he shook himself out of it, shifting. "No. Before that. Before the rain. You were in a good mood one morning. You were laughing, and it wasn't fake. You'd had the worst night. You had to kill a man. You had to physically kill him before he'd finished turning. You were devastated, and yet there you were, laughing again. You rose above it. You laughed, and you danced, and god nobody has ever looked as wonderful as you had that morning. Because for fuck's sakes, you were strong enough to keep moving." Casey put both hands on either side of Dakota's face, his fingers brushing through dark hair at the back of his head.

"You didn't shut down because you didn't want to. You say you're perfectly fine with dying, but are you really? Are you really okay with leaving us? With letting all of this go to waste? All the times you'd told us to keep moving, all the times you kept Mason from losing his shit and killing us, kept me walking after Alexis died... you saved us, Dakota. You made us. You kept us together. You did, it wasn't magic or coincidence or luck, that was all you and you don't realize that and that's amazing."

"Shut up."

Casey, having poured his thoughts out, paused. "...Eh?"

"Just... shut up." Dakota laughed, brushing one hand over the other's knee. "You're ridiculous... Thank you. I don't believe you, but thank you."

"You're welcome, I suppose. You know what I want?"

"Hm?"

"I want a big, juicy hamburger. One of those giant things that fall apart as soon as you pick it up. The most unhealthy thing, but I'll be damned if it wasn't delicious."

"Ha, yeah... yeah, they were--" he was cut off, Casey's lips pressing against his own. They remained still for several heartbeats, one in shock and the other in desperation. A wet droplet landed on Dakota's still hand on his lap, and his chest tightened.

When they separated, Casey licked his lips and laughed at Dakota's wide eyes and surprised expression.

"That... was the strangest pick-up line that's ever worked, that's for sure." Dakota tried to laugh, but he only succeeded in a half-assed chuckle. "...You shouldn't have done that, though. I mean... what if it goes to you...?"

"I don't think it will. It hasn't yet."

"I--... there's no arguing with you, is there."

"Not a chance."

"Figured not."

The door opened, and several doctors dressed in white approached the two sitting by the table. Dakota stood slowly, holding out his arms for the bindings. They handcuffed him, the taller doctor murmuring his apologies. Dakota only shook his head.

Casey could only watch, and Dakota could only walk between the two, escorted by three doctors and an armed guard through the facility, past the curious and scared.

"Will I be able to see them again?"

"Maybe. Depends on how testing goes."

"Right. How long will this last, exactly?"

"Long term? We don't know. Could be a few months, could be several years. Depends on how long it takes to repair the damage. Also depends on you."

"Me?"

"If you should give up... well there's nothing everyone else can do, is there?"

Dakota's lips parted, and for the first time since his arrival, a fire burned in his chest. He allowed himself to be placed in his new holding cell. He stood in the center even as doctors lifted the sleeve of his shirt, checking over his skin. He twisted his hands. He wiggled his toes. Streaks of tears stained his face, and though nothing had changed, his vision had cleared. He stared straight at the blurred wall, a blurred doctor moving though his line of vision every so often. He sat when prompted. He let them take his vitals, but his focus hadn't changed.

He wouldn't lose.

[Sorry for the wait. Had a few motivation issues getting this done!]

Session Nine

Is the new cell necessary?

Honestly, if I had been contagious, you'd all be dead by now. Besides, you'd known something was different about me. It's why you questioned me in the first place, is it not? I'm a new case. I'm special. "Patient Zero", you called me. What a laugh. So cliche, I'm surprised you ever dared use it. It doesn't matter, does it? If you put me in a cell. I'm not a carrier. I'm just an unfortunate soul doomed to relive the same year over and over again. I'm not contagious... but I...

No, I don't need a fucking tissue. Touch me, and you'll get a nice chomp on the arm and won't that be wonderful to explain to your superiors?

Let's get this over with.

I'd begun walking through the hordes. I thought sure I'd be dead, but I was surprised - and I won't lie to you, I was a little disappointed - when they gave me little more than a glance. I stopped moving slowly. I stopped worrying about knocking things over. I ransacked every little thing I came across, and this little... sound in my head kept driving me forward.

I don't know how to describe it. It sounded so... human and so incredibly not human that I felt terrified. I was going crazy. I was losing my damned mind. I talked to myself a lot, you know. As I walked through the city, I talked as if Mason and Casey still stood on either side of me. They were little mirages, images created by a deteriorating brain.

I couldn't remember which way I'd been going. I couldn't even remember why. That sound was the only constant, and the only thing keeping me company. I stopped caring about going mad and simply... waited for it to take its hold.

I woke up one morning, and everything was blurry. I'd never needed glasses - I'd been blessed with perfect vision. That day, however... that day, I realized my body was failing me. I'd gone partially blind, over the course of a night. The noise just kept getting louder. Thunder, screaming, crying, laughter... you name it, it was there, and it all played over and over in a loop, simultaneously. Can you imagine? Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, just... nonstop. It followed me into my dreams, if I ever slept at all.

"Die."

"Rot."

"End it."

It always taunted me. "They left you," it said. Yes, I know nothing was there. I know now I had nobody to blame but myself and the infection for a dying mind. I'm not absolutely convinced that this was the infection itself, sentient and ready to take me over. Oh, no, that isn't it at all. My... partial immunity must have had something to do with it. My body was fighting this intruder, but it was an uphill battle, and it was losing. Self-loathing and insanity crept up on me like a plague, and it took a toll.

Ah-ha, that's a nice question. Why am I so sane now? I don't seem like a raving lunatic. Remember, I'm only at two weeks before I ever got here. Two weeks of silence and loneliness would drive any man mad, and I'm not like most.

The infection saved me. In a way. It took pity on me, the only way an infection could. It let me live longer. My body got the upper hand, perhaps, at fighting. Time prevailed. I'd like to say I regained full control, but I haven't. Even now, I'm fighting the urge to run. My legs ache, I keep tapping my foot. I can't go anywhere, and it's killing me. It hasn't spared my life, but it most certainly slowed it's ascent.

Right.

As I walked through the city, making my way here, I'd kept an eye out for Casey and Mason. I thought I could, perhaps, catch up to them. They needed to sleep... and I couldn't, not until I passed out. Not with this noise.

I didn't catch up with them. Obviously, as I'd arrived alone.

Nothing of note really happened, on my way here. The infected left me alone, and I couldn't rest my eyes for long before I needed to get moving again. Always wandering, always walking. It only seems to be at rest when I'm moving. It seems the infection would prefer I keep my body active.

I dealt with my blindness until I came here. You didn't fix it, but you helped me. I thank you for that.

When I'd finally come to the city, you lot picked me up. You found me stumbling, weak and tired and hungry, into an alleyway. Your men had almost shot me, had it not been for one young man. He wanted to investigate... just to be sure.

You should let me talk to him. I'd like to say thank you.

You brought me here. I couldn't stand straight, but you helped me walk. I could hear Casey in the distance, hear him calling my name in shock. I was both happy and furious they'd made it here alive. I'm over it, now. We chat, every once in a while. Well, we used to, before you moved me.

Thanks for that.

And that's all. Anticlimactic, sure, but... that's my life. My journey.

Nn? I...

Yes. Yes, I am. I feel it. It's a poison, really. Running through me all the time. It burns. God, does it burn. Constant pain. It's hard even keeping myself from sobbing, at the moment. No, I don't want anything for it. Keep your medicine for those who can use it. I'm a lost cause.

I've come to terms. I lived alone, I'll die alone. The circle of life. The end of all things. You're born, you live, you die. You can fill your life up with as many friends and family as you like, when your time comes the bell rings only for you. I am... at peace. If heaven exists, I'd like to think I'm headed there, because I know my parents would be waiting. If it doesn't, well... at least I'll get the rest I've been searching for my whole life.

Right. Okay. I've told my story.

I have one more request. Just one.

Bring them in. Please.

Visitation

Session Eight

There are so many people out there, rotting. I can smell them from here. It's a scent you can never forget, the smell of decay. It... doesn't go away. It's burned into your mind forever, and you recognize it anywhere. It's the same as burning humans, or even just burning hair. It doesn't just disappear.

I saw the puddles outside, Commander. While they were bringing me in. Are the handcuffs really necessary, by the way? Where am I going to go? You say I could be a threat but really the only threat you need to worry about is infection. Everything else is simply... a hindrance. Nothing more. Am I wrong?

Right. Right, the rain. It came last night, I could hear it. How many have we lost?

Ah. Their families? I see. A shame. Nothing can be done, not yet... I pray that soon there will be a cure. Somewhere. Their bodies?

Right. Just burn them. That seems logical, I suppose. Make sure they can't really come back. Doubt they will, but hey. It's your compound, you choose what happens here. Ah-- mind bringing me some food, while you're stepping out? Haven't eaten in days, I'm starving. Sure, granola bar sounds fine. Shit, dog food sounds fine right about now.

Alright. Down to business, I can see you glaring at me. I'm only partially blind, you know.

I suppose... that's the next logical step, isn't it? Telling you about... about the way we arrived. I can do that. First, I need to tell you about... what happened before that. How we even got here.

When we'd first arrived at Central Plaza, even before the hotel, I'd noticed something off about the place. It wasn't so much ransacked as destroyed. Everything was decimated, as if a tornado had gone straight through and left nothing behind them. A few buildings lay in ruins, ashes in other's place. I'll tell you what, the smell was horrid. Flesh, fire, and ash. We were a three-man-group now, having buried an old man in a bush. We'd been so quiet, and after Mason's confession about the Rain, he'd spoken barely a word to us. He was always lost in thought, or just too frustrated or tired to talk. So... Casey and I kept each other company. Even after the 'hotel', he stayed close. I would feel his hand brush against mine, or his breath on my neck when we closed our eyes to sleep.

God, how I wanted him. He wanted me, I think, but there's no way to tell without asking him. It's only natural. We're human. Sex is what drives most of us. If nothing else, it's the only 'normal' thing we have, now. There's something so... beautiful about the idea of sex in the middle of all of this chaos. Love, or even lust, blooming while countless dead lined the streets, lost long before you ever arrived.

Guess my opinion is in the minority. Oh, don't look so disgusted. Gay people exist, Commander. It happens. If you're really so offended, don't be a coward and say something to me. I promise, it won't hurt my feelings any. And it isn't like I have a weapon to throw at you... I'm still handcuffed. Thanks for that.

We'd traveled through and out of Central Plaza shortly after noon. We tried to loot a couple places, but as expected there wasn't much left. Casey tried to talk to Mason, but he avoided any questions. "It's this way" had been the only thing pertaining to the present he'd ever muttered.

Three and a half weeks before we arrived in this town, I woke up coughing. Again. You may recall that detail, a few sessions ago. I'd been coughing every so often, fits that could last minutes or hours, in intervals. It always left my throat raw, and always felt like something was trying to come up. Like I'd choked on ice. Cold, heavy, and painfully solid.

Casey was concerned, but Mason had been the first to ask if I was alright, that day. I'd been coughing for over forty five minutes by now, I'm sure. My eyes had burned, and my body ached.

"I'm fine," I'd whispered, but I don't think he believed me. He looked at my eyes, made sure I wasn't infected. He must have decided I was alright on that front, as he didn't kill me where I sat.

It had gotten worse over the next few days. I couldn't sleep. I'd nearly given away our position while sneaking around. After the fourth day, Mason sat us both down when we stopped for the night, huddled in an old diner.

"Dakota..." he'd started, and I looked at Casey. He had an expression of dread, and I knew immediately that whatever Mason was about to tell me, Casey knew.

"We need you to tell us honestly. Has this happened before? Before the infection?"

I told him no. It hadn't. I'd never been known to get fits like this. I rarely got sick, as a child.

"When was the first time this happened?"

I struggled to remember. We must have sat in silence for damn near three minutes, and then another two of Casey talking to Mason quietly. I could hear their voices, but I hadn't tried to understand them.

Because I remembered.

Embassy Suites. The first time I'd woken up coughing was the month after we'd escaped.

"You look like a girl, little man."

I'd never forget those words. Because in that moment, that split second of uncertainty and fear, I'd been completely vulnerable. I was lucky, but perhaps not as lucky as I had previously thought. I tried to remember what I'd touched that Mason hadn't, but that man had been the only thing I'd come in contact with. I tried to remember the fight we'd gotten into in my blind rage, but all I could remember was the taste of blood. I'd thought it was my own.

As I pieced it all together, I couldn't help but cover my mouth and gag.

They'd noticed me, almost immediately. I'd stood to get away, but I hadn't made it very far before I vomited on the floor, only three steps away. I'd gotten used to the taste, but it still burned. I told Mason, and Mason filled Casey in on the story.

We sat in silence... and for once, I slept alone, and not by my choice.

Put yourself in my shoes, just for a moment. You'll need to, for what I'm about to tell you. After years of being alone, years of being picked on and bullied and ignored for being different, someone finally takes an interest in you, outside of your family. Even if it's friendship, or even if it's a purely physical relationship, somebody gives a shit what happens to you.

And after a year and a half of putting your life in their hands... suddenly, you're left alone.

So imagine how I felt when I woke up, cold and abandoned.

And tell me... was I justified? Was it fair I'd been left behind? If I'd been contagious, they'd have died already! That's if was even infected!

I'd been so damned upset. So angry. I remember screaming. I remember throwing things. I remember sobbing. All over the course of a few days. Part of me foolishly thought they'd come back... they didn't, of course.

I'd like to think Casey didn't want to leave me. I'd like to think he'd have fought, that he'd have tried to convince Mason I was alright before finally following him. I don't think he did. I doubt it.

So when it rained, I didn't stay inside. When I'd heard the thunder, saw the flash of lightening, watched the rain hitting the pavement, I walked out. I stood in the rain, looked at the sky, and waited. I'd made it clear to myself that I didn't want to live this way. I didn't want to try and fight my way through the hordes. I didn't want to stay there and die alone. I didn't want to try and survive out here, and I didn't want to make it to this damned camp.

I just wanted to die.

So was I justified? When I looked up at the moon, shining ever so faintly behind thick clouds, and let the rain enter my body, was I right? Letting... whatever it was that fluttered about in the air seep through me?

It wouldn't matter. I'm here, as you can see. My wish wasn't granted. I wasn't left with a weapon aside from the knife I'd been using.

The rain stopped just after dawn. I'd sat outside all night, even when I couldn't hold my head up anymore. I simply... plopped my ass down in the middle of the street, pulled my knees into my chest, and sat there. If nothing else, I'd get sick and die from something else. A sick part of me wanted Mason and Casey to feel bad and turn back, only to find me dead in the street. Maybe they'd realize that I had waited for them. That I'd looked for them.

I started walking a few hours after the rain had stopped. I didn't try to be quiet, and it didn't seem to matter. The shambling corpses just... let me pass. That was the moment I knew.

I was infected. I was truly, honestly infected.

Session Ten

Session Seven

When the rain subsided, we left. We treaded carefully, quietly. Avoided the puddles of water on the roads.

We tried to interrogate Mason, but he avoided it.

Casey didn't speak for... a while. He wanted to look at his sister, I think, but Mason forced him to leave. I'd taken a look, myself - I didn't quite like it, and I wasn't very close with her.

I thought we'd given up asking him how he'd known - how he'd figure it out, why he didn't tell us - until Casey stopped walking.

"Why?" he asked, quiet. "You knew. How?"

"Observation."

"Obser-- are you fucking kidding me?" Casey hissed, his arms limp at his sides. I looked between the two, and I couldn't help but feel... well, angry.

Mason had known, all along, what to avoid. And he'd said nothing to us. We followed him this far. Alexis was dead, and I felt betrayed.

"Mason." I'd whispered, and I swear to you he looked at me, his eyes pleading with me to stay quiet. I didn't. "Why didn't you say anything? We could have saved her."

"Nothing could have stopped that. What, you think you can stop the rain from coming down? The best thing we can do is hope that whatever's up there causing this filters itself out quickly, because otherwise we're dead. Look around you, Dakota. Think."

There's a reason I haven't been up front with you. There is a reason I haven't explained everything in detail.

Have you ever been just... completely blindsided by something, and when you step back to look at it, you realize that so many hints had been dropped? A breakup, a failed test, anything. Imagine being in my shoes, for just one moment.

So many... subtle things that I didn't notice. That I never even looked at. The farm was only one instance. The crops were dead, rotting... like I'd mentioned yesterday. It had been fairly dry, since this ordeal had started. Remember the fire, at Casey's home?

It had just been too damned dry.

Don't ask me how it works. I don't know. I'm no scientist. All I know is that as I tell this story, I wanted you to feel as blind as I had. But you don't, do you? I'm sure your superiors had figured all of this out by now.

Now, as we stood in front of Mason, I had another question.

Why hadn't we been infected?

"I don't know," Mason had groaned, turning and continuing his walk. I looked back at Casey, and he growled, following. "Maybe some of us are immune to it. Maybe some of us are just... stronger than others, and we fight it easier. All I know is it takes many forms, but it originates up there." He pointed at the sky as he walked, and I couldn't help but shake my head.

"You didn't even tell us!" I shouted, and his shoulders drooped.

"I know."

"A warning would have been great."

"I just... look, I wasn't sure. Okay? I'd never seen somebody actually turn like that. I've been suspicious, I've made some bad choices, and I didn't want to think about what would happen if I was wrong and sent you three into a tizzy."

"Meanwhile, my sister's dead and going to rot in a barn miles from home."

"Yeah well, we're all miles from home. Deal with it, Casey, you aren't special. As far as I can tell she got an easy way out."

It took a while to get the fighting to stop. By the time I managed to break it up, Casey nursed a bloody nose, Mason a black eye and split lip. I told Mason he deserved it. He said he knew.

We didn't talk about it, after that. Alexis wasn't mentioned. We moved on.

You can guess that I wasn't pleased with Mason's response. Needless to say... neither of us trusted him as much. I think he knew. He avoided talking about the whole thing as well, choosing to pretend as if those zombies didn't exist. A coward's way of looking at it... which was why I followed suit quite quickly.

We found other survivors. Holed up in a basement in some old house. They accepted us pretty quickly, but insisted we couldn't stay. I didn't want to. The more people, the higher the death rate.

It was there we got word. Oh yes, that's right. We heard of you lot. A miraculous quarantine zone. They said they were heading toward it as well, but they had an injured man. They'd already been walking for months, running low on food and supplies. He was a drain, and they wanted him out as soon as possible.

I don't know why Mason accepted the offer. Before we knew it, we were hoisting a man up the steps and out of the house. He limped, but I could see nothing else wrong with him. He was perhaps in his seventies, which confused me more. I hadn't seen anybody over thirty since it began.

We did what we could. I won't go into detail about our walk with the old man - it didn't go well, let's say that. He was too far gone, Mason said, there wasn't a chance to begin with. He lasted around three months - longer than we'd given him credit for I think - before we had to leave his body behind. At least, Casey had said, he died quietly. He didn't turn. I suppose that was a plus.

We'd reached Central Plaza, by this point. Just a three month walk from where we sit. We were tired, hungry, and tension was high. Mason broke into a motel nearby, and after assuring us of its safety, we chose where we would stay.

Mason stayed on his own - I told him it would be best to stick together, but... I think he just had a lot to think about. So Casey and I stayed together, across the hall.

Thinking back... that likely wasn't the best idea. Or maybe it was. I'm still conflicted.

It had started out so... innocently. We talked quietly about the events. We laughed over stories from our youth. I told him my trainwreck of a life, and he told me his.

He'd come out to his family at the age of fifteen. He was twenty-two now. They'd been largely supportive of him. At least, his mother and father. His grandparents, not so much, but... he claimed that didn't bother him much. He got good grades in school, but had an awful time actually committing to work. He was always in and out of jobs, constantly falling into ruts he couldn't quite climb out of. He tried to pursue his dream of becoming a photojournalist, but it fell flat fairly quickly. I asked if he had a significant other. He said "Not yet."

What happened next was... unexpected. His lips tasted disgusting, but there was that... fire. The feeling you get when you share your first kiss, and you just know that it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't. He was kind enough, and it took me setting a hand on his knee to let him know I wasn't scared. When we came up for air, he looked at me in the eyes, and laughed.

"What?"

"You have the strangest green eyes I have ever seen."

"Oi. Watch it. Mine are nothing compared to Mason's."

"Pah. Haven't given him a second glance, really. You, on the other hand."

"Oh-- don't get all romantic on me now."

"And why not?"

"Well... I..."

To be honest, I liked it. Being doted on was one thing, being loved was another. The prospect of another kiss had been exciting, and equally as terrifying. We pulled together for a split second, then again for longer, and then doubled the time. This trend continued until he pushed at my shoulders. I remember letting out a huff, but his face was far too serious.

"How old are you, again?"

"Seventeen?"

"Christ."

"What? Old enough!"

"No. No. Not quite."

I don't know what I was being pouty for. Seventeen, in a world going to shit. It wasn't the time, nor the place, but I think that small part of my brain was screaming "I don't want to die a virgin".

Hell, I didn't want to die at all.

We slept next to each other that night, though I found that every little sound kept me on edge. I ended up staying up most of the night, looking out into the hallway and talking to Mason through the door. He spoke, but not much. Eventually he stopped responding, but I could hear the shifting of a sleeping man.

The next morning, we started toward the Q.Z., guilty and afraid. The only difference from the day prior was that now, my hand was firmly wrapped around Casey's.

{{Two in one day to make up for lost time. Not sure when I'll be jumping back into this, hopefully soon. Gotta catch up on my sleep. ><}}

Session Nine

Session Six

We were alive. We couldn't feel it, but we were. The air in our lungs, the blood on our hands... we were so painfully, unfortunately alive. We'd left that camp in the forest at first light, with nothing to make note of. Casey stayed fairly close to me, as did Mason. Alexis stood on the other side of her brother, her arms crossed. I think she was jealous of the attention I'd been getting. I don't know.

We hiked through the woods, telling stories and forcing ourselves to keep calm.

"You know what I miss?" Casey started, climbing over a rock. I followed faithfully after Mason, around the thing. I made a small sound that was supposed to be a 'what'?

"My mom's cooking."

Alexis made a low groan, chuckling and elbowing her brother. "Shut up, you're gonna make me hungry."

"She made one hell of a ham for Christmas, it was pretty amazing. She always had to smuggle some out of the family dinners so we could eat some for lunch the next morning." Casey snorted and looked up at the sky, his eyes softened considerably. Mason looked back at me, a brow raised. I laughed, and he followed my lead.

"Hush," Mason finally started, shaking his head and looking back at us, "you'll make us all hungry."

"Sorry."

As we came up over the hill, I stopped to take a short break, if only to catch my breath and take a look at our surroundings. As high as the atmosphere had been, it was unfortunate that it fell as soon as we stood still.

Casey's hand brushed mine, and I didn't react. Alexis let out a slow, pained whine as she stepped closer, standing beside Mason with her hands over her mouth.

"Jesus." Mason whispered, and he slowly crouched. We all followed his lead.

Casey had given me an expression so unlike him, so filled with fear, that for a moment I wondered if we had been looking down into our death. From our perch at the edge of the forest, we could see the next town, occupied and abandoned.

Laying before us were hundreds of them. They stumbled everywhere, but they hadn't smelled us yet. I wondered if we had simply smelled too awful for them to detect at first.

"What do we do?" Alexis murmured, and all eyes focused on Mason.

The man pursed his lips, furrowed his brow, and shook his head.

"We can't go through this. That's way too many of them. Even if we had a gun with unlimited ammunition we'd be fucked. We have to find a way around the town completely."

"I'm starving," Alexis groaned, earning a glare. She continued, "There's gotta be a way to get through that."

"If you want to run down there and be a distraction while we pack shit up, go right ahead."

Nobody moved, and Mason nodded his head, muttering to himself.

"Okay. We... Alright, this way. Come on."

I had taken a last look at the town, at the rotting zombies roaming the streets, before following the group. Once again, my stomach felt as if something was crawling out.

That was the first day I heard it.

I know none of you have been without a weapon for more than an hour or two. If you had, you wouldn't be here, and you wouldn't be giving me the look you would give to a madman. You could look through my medical files all you want, I've nothing to hide. The closest thing to mental illness you'll get is depression, and I think that's the least of our worries. It's the least of mine, anyway.

See, I didn't understand at first. It was so damned quiet, I almost missed it entirely. A low rumbling, like that of rolling thunder three towns over. So subtle, so quiet, it was like it never existed. The only problem was that it kept getting louder. Every time I tried to sleep, there it was. Louder. Louder.

We could all hear it. All four of us. Alexis said something first, three nights after leaving the forest and taking the back roads, and I spoke up.

"I've heard it too," I'd started, interrupting her attempt at sounding normal. "I thought it was just me."

Mason nodded quietly. Casey had gone white.

I don't think any of us slept that night. I know I only managed after my body simply gave out on me.

I woke up to a downpour. Soaking wet. It had only just started, as everybody else was reacting to it as well. "Shit," Mason had started, grabbing my arm and yanking me from the ground.

"We have to find shelter."

"It's just rain--"

"You haven't seen what I have. Come on, let's go."

We followed him. We were running as fast as we could through the rain for nearly ten minutes, perhaps closer to fifteen. I stayed fairly close to Mason, but Alexis had begun to fall behind - Casey forced her to keep up with us.

At the time, I hadn't noticed the rot.

There wasn't much to hide under, but we managed to find a farmhouse a ways from the road, set back. We huddled inside the barn, and already I was shivering. I curled up between Mason and Casey, and Alexis crawled off elsewhere. I hadn't taken much notice.

"Jesus, it's cold."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Casey set his hand on mine, and reached out to Alexis.

She didn't move.

"...Lexi?" Casey cautioned, inching closer to where she sat, huddled against the wall. Mason looked up, watching them. He pulled me closer to him before standing, getting in front of me.

As if shielding me.

"I'd stay away from her if I were you. If she's fine, she doesn't need your help. If she isn't, you shouldn't let her drag you down with her."

"What are you--"

"Stay back." Alexis whispered, coughing. He paused in his advance, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Alexis? Are you okay?"

"Do I look like I'm okay?" she snapped, hiding her face in her hair. "I feel like shit. It's wet. I'm cold. I'm hungry. God, I'm so hungry."

"Casey, back up."

"Shut up, Mason! Alexis, just... come here. If you're cold, we can just... huddle. It'll help."

"Casey, seriously, I'm not fucking around here--"

"She's my sister!"

"She's not going to be for much longer!"

As Mason's voice was cancelled out by a sudden crack of thunder, the four of us were caught in a staring contest. Nobody moved, nobody blinked, and I felt as if time had completely stood still. What were mere milliseconds felt like hours, prolonged torture as Alexis began to slowly writhe against the dirt floor.

Casey stood there for a moment, bewildered and concerned. Mason released me and leapt toward him, just in time for Alexis to jump at her brother. Casey fell over me, and we stared at each other, both of us knowing and both of us confused. Tears filled his eyes, and mine, as we came to terms. We knew what we would see if we looked over, and Casey closed his eyes, head falling. He shifted until he lay flat against my chest, and shook.

I stared at the ceiling, listening to the dull thumps and the cracking of a skull. The whines and groans echoed more than they should have, but I'm sure it was only me. The rain continued outside. The wind had picked up, I think, because I could swear I heard something crashing outside. A lawn ornament, perhaps a weather-vane.

Heavy breathing, and I knew it was over because nothing else followed it. The sharp clang of a shovel against a rock is something I don't think I'll be able to forget, knowing what coated it.

"The water." I'd whispered, and Mason shuffled toward us.

"No. The rain."

Session Eight