The year is 2017. The world finally seemed to be stabilizing. There was a terribly harsh winter in 2016 that finally broke. U.S. forces had fully pulled out of Iraq and Afghanistan only to deploy to Syria. Tensions between both Iran and North Korea had dissolved for the most part.

There was a long spell of relative peace and economic prosperity over most parts of the world. Then, the Rising happened on Valentine's Day 2017 (there are several other terms for this day that are used). All over the world and without warning, the same reports started coming in. Headlines read "The Dead are Rising!" Or "Zombies? Outbreak or Hoax?" At first, it happened slowly as governments, with the help of media outlets, downplayed the whole thing. Things started very, very slowly, but it seemed like when the floodgates opened, there was no stopping the force coming out.

Within weeks a handful of smaller countries were overrun. When there was no use denying it, governments tried to initiate quarantine procedures. To make things worse, Pakistan launched a nuclear strike on India. Only moments after that, Iran sent a nuclear device that ended up landing but not detonating for some unknown reason. Israel then attacked Lebanon in full force while dozens of other minor conflicts erupted all over the world.

All of these because the world was looking for someone to blame for the Rising.

It took less than 5 weeks before even the strongest, most secure governments fell, absolved, or simply went silent. This was called The Apocalypse, The End, or Day Zero, and it coincided with the day that the last two governments had any activity, those being Poland and New Zealand.

The RP takes place November 3rd, 2017.

That is about 9 months since The Rising and Day Zero. The story takes place in Missouri, and while it's not a particularly cold or harsh winter there, it is winter nonetheless, and it's cold. Much snow hasn't fallen however, but in almost every area in the state, there are several inches on the ground.

Chris Darly.

It was interesting how much noise everything made now that man was no longer the dominant species, no longer driving, talking, building, or bustling about. On the flip side of that fact, it was almost always so quiet. There were now no clocks, no appointments, no car alarms going off, or text message alerts. It was easy sometimes to drift off and lose perspective or drive. Being witness to the world now and how it had changed along with how it changed those still alive was hard. It was even harder when you were alone for long periods of time.

Chris struggled with finding motivation right now. He laid on the second floor of the abandoned building, staring up at the black and charred ceiling for a few moments before turning his head and looking first left, then right. He looked back up with a sigh and closed his eyes.“Just lay there. It doesn’t matter. You know this. There’s nothing out there for you or anyone. Everything is dead. Everything is dying.” Chris grimaced and ignored him. Always nagging, bitching, or wanting to quit. Sometimes, Chris would just dismiss him, sometimes he’d pointedly correct him, or go point-counterpoint. At this time, he closed his eyes and just went with it. The truth of the matter is that right now, at this moment, Chris agreed.

He closed his eyes and wiggled his fingers momentarily. One of his hands wrested on the 9mm revolver that was laid on his chest. That was the norm: that gun was almost always at the ready for danger, but at this moment, his fingers wiggled on it as he contemplated using it.

It wasn’t the first time, even dating back to before the Rising. It most likely wouldn’t be the last. Unless, well, unless it was his last battle with the idea of punching his own ticket.

Then there was a sharp voice that all shouted at him, even though at the same time, it was a whisper. “CJ, what the HELL are you doing? You know better than that, so don’t even think about it. You DO know better.” He rolled his head back to the left, opened his eyes, and looked into the face of his wife. Even in all of this, she was beautiful and pristine, as if the whole world crumbling around here didn’t affect her at. In fact, it was almost as if amidst all that the world had become, it made her beauty stand out even more. He registered then that her last statement WAS a statement, but it also had a tone that indicated she wanted some form of answer back. “I know babe. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s so hard. I can’t imagine going through this without you.”

She smiled and looked back at him. He sighed and looked back, wishing he could change all of this, give her everything she deserved. Instead, she was condemned to this fate, and that was just the way it was.

His ears perked up at that moment and he stood extremely still, holding his breath. Confirming that he did indeed hear something, he looked to the window and his father waved him over. “There’s activity, come check it out.” He nodded and as quickly as he could move to remain quiet, moved over and looked out the window. He couldn’t quite see yet, but he could make out footsteps off to his right. He knew it wasn’t a roamer. The steps of the roamers tended to be heavy, almost THUDS and many dragged one or both feet when damages. These were plain, good ol’ fashioned human steps.

They walked into view and he counted 5 men who were armed with a combination of melee weapons and a few firearms. They were talking and laughing somewhat casually but what drew Chris’ attention was that 3 of them were leading--well, prisoners it looked like. At this point he started relaying what he was seeing loud enough that he could be heard behind him. “There’s five armed males, melee and a mix of several firearms. Three of them are leading...it looks like 3 prisoners. Wrists tied by rope and they’re leading them. Looks like. A male, two females. One is younger looking, or small. Can’t tell.”

As he watched, one of the men gave the rope a jerk and the larger woman stumbled. This elicited a laugh from the group and Chris shook his head. “Son, leave it be. If they got caught now, it’ll happ—,” Chris angrily waved a hand behind him to shut up. That, below, it wasn’t right. It disgusted Chris. In this world, people should be helping one another. They should be sharing and aiding. And that girl, she wasn't even an adult, he could tell.

He did the math though. Five on one. Those were not good odds at all. Regardless, he pocketed the handgun, picked up his rifle, making his way downstairs. He wasn’t worried about the men coming in here, Chris generally selected building that were noticeably destroyed, burned, or extremely dangerous. People tended to check places that LOOKED worth looking inside of. You didn’t stumble across too many people thinking HEY, let’s go check out what’s on the second floor of that burnt out, shell of a building.

He made his way down and slowly stalked to the window. He peeked, the group walking no more than 15 feet, moving to his left. He looked behind him quickly and his father was shaking his head disapprovingly, but saying nothing. Chris looked back outside and listened.

“...to get this fine thing inside and get down to business. And don’t worry Timmy, I’ll leave some left for you when I’m done.”

The hooded man then said something that Chris couldn’t make out because of the hood, but it seemed the other men heard it, because one of them walked up and kicked the legs out from under him. The man fell, hard, and then got another kick. There was confusion then as the men laughed and talked about killing the man and raping the women while the women pleaded for freedom or not to hurt the man. “Son, you have exactly 76 rounds. Is this worth it? You can’t take them, you can’t go with them, you know this. I know it isn’t easy, but this world, it’s cruel.”Then, Corporal Black was next to him, whispering in his ear. “You got this. Do it. Take the ones with firearms first, you know the drill. They’re close together, easy targets. And you’ll get at least two before they react. Make that third one count and you’re golden, Devil. Kill those piece of shit rapist thugs. Look man, someone in this fucked up world needs to do some justice. Be that guy.” “Ooh Rah Corporal,” he said with a slight smirk to his old friend. He moved to the backside of the building which was completely gone from the fire and moved out, taking a deep breath and steadying himself. He looked back and saw his wife, father, and Corporal Black, each of their faces a mix of emotions. He took another deep breath and turned the corner.

Black was right. The first two didn’t have a chance to move, and the third armed man was holding a rope and kicking one of the prisoners, only having time to look up before taking three rounds.

The fourth man got out half of a plea to let him live before he was gunned down, and the last one managed to flee a few steps before taking a round in the back of the hip. He fell down and screamed and Chris kept the weapon trained on him, moving by the hostages and looking around to monitor the rest of the area, checking for other threats. He moved to the bleeding, shot man and just looked at him. The man was almost screaming and you could literally see he was in an excruciating amount of pain. “Please, man, please, don’t shoot me. I...I wasn’t...I swear I hardly—,” he went on quickly before Chris cut him off.

“Shut up. I’m not going to shoot you. You were shot in the hip. That round probably shattered your hip. You don’t feel it now, adrenaline and all.” He took a moment to look back at the hostages and then scan the area before continuing. “So you’re either going to die from internal bleeding, die of infection, get bit, or live and be unable to put much, if any weight on your lower body. Not ideal I know, but people like you should be fucking wiped from the earth. I hope you fucking suffer.”

Just for good measure, Chris kicked him one time in the hip with all of his force which prompted the man to scream bloody hell for several moments. He was back at the hostages in a moment, and the man was still screaming. He removed the head covers quickly and looked at them. They were beat up, sweaty, dirty, and you could see that they’d been crying to some degree. “I’m gunna cut those ropes. You are more than welcome to anything these guys have after I take anything I need.”

The group looked around, slightly confused for a moment before the light of hope shone in their eyes. He didn’t untie them, but instead looted the bodies first. Behind him, they were telling one another it would be ok and trying to be reassuring. The only thing he took was a gerber utility tool, and some 5.56 rounds that he wanted. He looked around one more time, ignoring the man screaming in pain about 20 feet away, he moved to the group and began to cut their bonds as they thanks him. He cut the young female loose first, she was around 16 maybe and she immediately went to hug her father while Chris cut the mother free, then the father.

He simply said there was no reason to thank him and then he declined an invitation to join them. “I have my group, we’re good. I appreciate it. Please be careful.” He moved to the building he was using, told everyone “we’re out in less than five mics, let’s go.” He got his own stuff together and when he went down, he heard his wife. “I am not happy you risked your life like that, but. You did the right thing.”He nodded and looked over at Corporal Black, who was smiling and nodding his head to indicate he too approved of the decision. He looked around, seeing that they were ready to move out and didn’t waste any more time. He stepped out and moved away from the building and in a direction that wasn’t where the other group had come from, but not where they were going either. Gunfire drew attention, and they needed to stay low and quiet and be on guard.

The mother saw Chris leave and held her hand up to wave, sobbing as she watched the lone man walk off without another word. "Son, you're going to have to learn. You can't save everyone."

December 18th 2015.

The man sat at his desk inside the CIA South Regional Office in Oklahoma City, going over the diagnostics of a test server that they'd be shipping off to Europe. It was a typical boring day, starting with going through emails, prioritizing them and then scheduling the day and rest of the week, knowing the emails tomorrow would change the majority of the schedule anyway. Thus was the life of Jon Erikson, a Computer Maintenance Tech for the CIA. Although the title sounded mundane, there was a lot to what Jon did and on top of that, he was amazing at his job. He would build, install, set up, and then integrate servers all over the world, servers that needed to be isolated from the public, safe from the highest levels of intrusion and be networked to the upper levels of the US governments, along with that of other nations on occasion.

A lot of money was spent on Jon because he was aggressive with his job, opting to go well beyond the normal CIA book of "how to train a tech" and get involved in things like cyber security, hacking and staying up to date on what was going on in the cyber world at all times. Initially, the higher ups didn't want take the time, or spend the money, training him. That was until Jon went home and in 8 hours, hacked into a CIA database and collected all of the personal data on the director of operations himself. He sent his boss an email asking, "how much would terrorists be willing to pay for this on e-bay?"

As soon as the investigation was over and Jon was released from a maximum security facility, and his house was tore apart and searched...and his entire life combed through by agents... he was given a lot more flexibility in his schedule.

Some days were simply answering emails and trouble shooting remotely, and on those days he DID feel like a glorified comp tech, but they were also a bit of a relief from the every day stresses. And to be honest, Jon didn't like dealing with people. He preferred to do things along and would rather work remotely so he just didn't have to deal with people and their daily crap.

He looked outside and threw on a spring jacket, getting ready to head to lunch when the PING sound of an incoming email could be heard. The title was "SERVER - OCONUS" and Jon immediately groaned. He opened and read the email and his response was a somewhat loud, and annoyed "mother fucker." A few other people in the office looked at him for a moment, but one of the guys in the office who Jon actually talked to, Austin Boggs, came up over to him and clapped him on the back, asking "what's the good news?"

Jon threw his hand towards the screen, indicating to the email. "They're sending me to Turkey. Tomorrow. Un-fucking-believable."

Austin simply laughed at that and again gave him another clap on the back. "Oh man. Happy Christmas man. I guess that's why you get paid the big bucks, huh Mr I-Build-All-The-Top-Secret-Computer?"

He stared at the screen, shaking his head for a moment longer then sighed before turning to look at Austin. "Well. Looks like you're going to take me out and buy me lunch, since I'm going to be leaving early to pack my shit."

"Man we're CIA, didn't they teach you to keep your go back packed at all times?"

"Yeah, remember I had to go to Mexico a last week? My shit isn't even clean yet. And you're such a tool, those go bags are for when shit hits the fan. That's my stealth, ninja shit. Not my Fixing-Server attire."

"Yeah, because when shit hits the fan, they're going to call the CIA South and say 'quick, we need some of your deadliest techs to come and save the day!' Happens all the time Jon. We're all actually a bunch of super spies, ready to go take down super villains at a moment's notice."

Jon shoved Austin, timing it perfectly so that Boggs was pushed into and almost knocked over the big water jug on its dispenser. "Don't kill my dreams, asshole. I'm going to be the first person in this office with a confirmed kill."

"Yeah, confirmed to kill a bunch of time," Austin shot back as the two entered the elevator, heading towards lunch.

Late February, 2017...

Fuad.

The first nights were all a blur due to shock and sleep deprivation. Most of the days were spent running at a jog pace, putting distance between him and everything. On the fourth day, he stopped in a small clearing in between sprawling, new subdivisions and sat.

He looked around him, making sure he wasn't near anyone or anything, and he found himself panicking slightly when suddenly it hit him. He needed a plan. Running just to run and stay alive wasn't a solid plan, he needed something more, at least something to run towards.

He heard two gunshots fired far off in the distance and was roused from his thoughts. Death was everywhere and it was worse than he could have ever imagined. One would imagine that in a time of crisis like this, people would come together, nations would find a common cause, and trivial conflicts would be over looked. At first it seemed that way. People helping, offering shelter, donating things and giving excess things to those in need.

Then, bad things happened. Yes, amidst something like in infection that reanimated bodies, OTHER bad things. Nuclear weapons were fired. Countries were at war. Minor looting broke out. Then, not even an hour after he'd left Phoenix and made it out to the suburbs, 2 fighter jets ripped by over head, followed by a larger bomber of some sort (or at least that was his guess). Both dropped payloads over the city.

The. Whole. Fucking. City.

It was shocking, awe inspiring and terrifying, and that was only added to when the force of the explosions pushed everything outward, and eventually, he was forced to hide inside an abandoned car as dust and debris moved past him. He laid there, moving in and out of half-sleep, until things outside calmed down and he felt it was safe to exit. He looked around and didn't know what to think, what to make of the situation. He jogged off east, never looking back at until the city was out of his sight completely.

That was about, what, 9 or 10 days ago now, and he sat in the field, alone and with nothing but a bat, a sword and a backpack with some clothes and food. The only thing he could think of was "head east," but that was too vague. Then he thought of something. Find a small town, or maybe an isolated house somewhere and either see if they'd let him in, or if it was abandoned, stay there and find a secure and safe place to sleep.

It wasn't long before he chanced upon a new home off of a two lane highway, a two story yellow house with no vehicles parked anywhere. He made his way to the door and on it was spray painted was "Empty. Enjoy. Pray hard." After a quick walk through the house, he made his way upstairs, closed a door behind him and laid in a bed. He was about 3 thoughts into figuring out a plan when sleep over took him.

It was the best sleep Fuad could remember in a long time.

And that sleep was ruined when he was roused by a violent shake. He suddenly became aware of the words around him, people yelling. "Get the fuck up, slow."

"Now!"

At first he thought they were police, but even in his sleepy state of confusion and shock, it immediately became apparent that they were not. They were guys in clothes, armed randomly and there was shouting and arguing below, on the first floor.

There arguing below intensified as Fuad heard men arguing about something "being mine" while another said the same. Then some others laughed but Fuad was shoved and one man who was holding a shotgun commanded "gimme your shit Osama."

The other who didn't seem to be armed added "poor habibi, looks like no virgins for you."

He reached for his back, debating grabbing his sword when the argument downstairs intensified and gunshots were fired. Both of the men looked out the door, towards the stairs and Fuad wasted didn't hesitate. He picked up the sword and slammed it up with all of his force into the man with the shotgun. The sword went in through the man's stomach, just below the belly button and came up through the back of the man's shoulder blade area. There was no hollywood scream or spray of blood.

But Fuad would never forget how disgustingly hot and wrong the blood felt as it immediately spilled out onto his hand. It took a moment for the other to realize what happened, but Fuad was quicker. He grabbed the shotgun from the man's weak grip, aimed it in the general direction of the other man and pulled the trigger, just as more gunshots were fired below.

By sheer luck, the buckshot round took the unarmed man clean in the neck and lower face, and at less than three feet, the damage was devastating. "Holy fuck," he said.

Sometimes Fuad still saw that in his nightmares.

Thinking quick, he grabbed all of his gear, the shotgun and looted the bodies, then closed the door. He took a moment to listen and no one seemed to be worried about upstairs, since there was chaos below. He opened a window, climbed out and dropped down into the grass, sneaking away.

His hands didn't stop shaking for several hours that night...

CDC Facility

Energy bristled from the middle aged man's body as he snapped off another series of crisp punches into the heavy bag. Again it swung, its chain rattling overhead, only to be caught by a quick succession of hooks sprinkled with jabs. The shots were strategic and fast, but lacked nothing in power; these were the practiced movements of one fully familiar with the brutal finesse one needs in combat. His legs flowed beneath him, propelling him around the bag, never staying still for too long. He swayed as he dodged a nonexistent attack before feigning another jab, only to follow through with a menacing elbow strike to what would be the throat. Three palm strikes travelling up from the gut ended with verve where one might find the nose of an opponent of equal height. Between the oncoming spinning elbow and a snap kick from hell, it was clear the bag had had enough. He removed the weights he'd wrapped around his ankles and took off his boxing gloves, promptly laying them down beside the bag before heading across the room to his treadmill. This was life now and it had been for what felt like a lifetime. As he ran he distractedly wondered at which point in a prisoner's sentence they cease the incessant counting of hours in days, days in weeks, weeks in months and so on. He'd arrived nearly a year ago, before any of the worse had even begun to show, a countermeasure against a projected threat that seemed increasingly likely to come to fruition. His early departure had been advantageous for many number of reasons, mainly in that it afforded him time to prepare himself and receive any equipment necessary to meet that end, though that time came at a heavy cost. The being apart from his wife and children, the not knowing what may have come of them, the isolation. He'd done his best to cope; throwing himself into a strict, daily schedule of rigorous physical training (several miles a day with sprints mixed in, speedbags along with the heavy bag that doubled as a grappling dummy, and targeted weight training and stretches), tactical shooting drills (with a set of airsoft guns and paper targets he'd requested), and intensive language studying (consisting of reading upper level books on various topics ranging from survival to astronomy, watching movies and documentaries on a government issued tablet, and recording himself as he conducted a daily vlog to keep his skills from slipping away without use). The training was his job, which quite frankly he wasn't even sure he was being paid for, but his sense of duty refused to waver and he kept at it consistently. With the additional downtime afforded from "working from home", he cooked his own meals, cleaned his cell twice a week, played guitar, danced, tried his hand at magic with the help of a few videos he had sent in, and most importantly wrote letters. He had no clue if the letters were even being sent out, he certainly wasn't receiving any replies, but it didn't stop him from writing.

He looked up at the collage of pictures he'd taken from home and honed in on one in particular. The cheerful smiles, a genuine twinkle in his daughter's eyes, a humorously large carrot in his son's hand. Emmerich had been behind the camera snapping the shot as his wife picked their son up and brought him closer to the snowman they'd all built together. The group stood gathered in front of the snowfort they'd pressed together just before assembling the snowman. A time before confinement, capturing both the joy and warmth that made him willing to rise every morning and continue to count the days that ticked away like minutes. He looked more closely, chuckling wistfully as he remembered Jonas' little face glowing with glee as he shimmied around the yard that day to the sound of a jingle bell necklace he'd put on in the morning. Delilah, only six at the time, sported a bright red nose and a short, fluffy tail that kept her occupied even while the photo was being taken. The snow had practically refused to stop that winter, but they enjoyed themselves all the same. As he closed his eyes Emmerich could still see the individual snowflakes gently cascading downward, a gentle breeze breathing life into their descent. He could see the snow interlaced within his wife's dark hair, her short cut framing her face elegantly even as the wind sighed. Suddenly his senses were filled with the sounds of caroling neighbors and the scent of cookies baking. His hand came instinctively to his cheek, wiping away tears that had gathered. It couldn't be helped though. No matter how well things here went, life would be irrevocably different when he got out. No matter how much he distracted himself with his work, that fact would forever remain the same. He'd missed out on a full year of his kids' lives. He had no way of knowing how they were faring. All he could do was continue, week after week, to send these tear stained letters reminding them that they were forever on his mind, that not a day went by when he didn't think of them, and hope beyond hope that some force somewhere had kept his loved ones unharmed in his stead.

He stared longingly at the Christmas picture, knowing all too well that the holiday was approaching yet again and wondering what his chances were of ever feeling that way again.

Kennebunkport, Maine
April 12, 2017
William Renault

Will sighed deeply, shrugging his shoulder to adjust the corpse of the doe he had resting over it to a more comfortable position. Two months- Two months since the first reports of 'The rising' had come to Kennebunkport. It was a small, river town in Maine, cut off from nearly everywhere. A town that survived mostly on local game and fish. Off the map, off the grid. Or at least, his little area of it was. For the first month, they had thought it was just a hoax, like every other secluded small town.

Then the first corpse unburied itself in their graveyard. Old Man Harkin- He'd died only two days before he came back. Death by heart attack. But he'd seemed perfectly fine as he sprinted into town, screaming incoherently. Four people had died before somebody had the sense to smack Harkin over the head with a baseball bat, limp, rotting corpse dropping to the ground.

But that had started it all. In the month that followed, nearly all of Kennebunkport was bitten and turned. Those few that survived the month- Barely forty of them, all told- had moved to a secluded bar about an hour out of town. They'd fortified it, made a protected home of it. And now, Will stood in front of the makeshift gates of fresh cut trees, waiting impatiently for somebody to open up. The bar hadn't been very well stocked when they arrived- So Will, and the few others like him with skill in tracking and hunting, had gone out regularly for food.

It was some minutes before somebody finally opened up, another young man around Will's age heaving aside the cluster of smaller trees that made up the gate.

"Hey, Jason- Took you long enough. My shoulder was starting to go numb."
The pair exchanged a grin, Jason shrugging innocently at the accusation of taking his time.
"What can I say? Had to be sure you weren't a rot'."

"Yeah, sure. Because a rot' can carry a bow and a doe, and shout 'hey ho!' to get you to open up in the first place. Jackass."
Will snickered, heaving the slain doe off of his shoulder and at Jason. It was a fairly small catch, but it would be enough meat for the day. Still, the bigger boy had some trouble catching it- For despite Will's smaller stature, he was stronger than Jason by quite a bit. A fact Jason regularly blamed on him constantly using 'that oversized stick you call a bow'.
"You get to carry her in for making me wait."

The rest of the day was probably the best Will would have for a long, long time- the catch meant a meal, and in current times, that was all the survivors needed for a celebration. So Vinn- The owner of the bar, and thankfully an avid recorder of -everything-, put on the superbowl from a few years before. It was their third Superbowl Sunday that week. The doe was cut up and cooked, served to everybody- And despite being carefully portioned to leave enough for them all, they treated it like the last feast they would ever have- Beer was passed around, the venison thoroughly enjoyed, and even though they knew the outcome, nearly everybody was betting on the football game playing on the bigscreen over the bar. They'd stopped betting on who would win, of course- Rather, they bet on the little details, seeing who remembered how much. Will himself won three extra bites of food and an extra beer for beating Vinn in a bet over who it was that got one particular amazing pass- 48 or 49. The afternoon wore into night like that- And in time, everybody was passed out in various places around the bar.

The last thing Will remembered from that night was leaning against the bar lazily and asking for a bourbon from Vinn- After all. Drinking age didn't mean much anymore.

The next morning, Will awoke groggily from his sleep, head pounding and eyes oversensitive- A hangover, certainly. But something felt... Wrong- Something smelled off. There were the usual smells- Spilled booze, maybe a pile or two of puke that hadn't quite made it to the bathroom. But why did he smell blood? He didn't remember anybody getting into a fistfight.

Then he heard the scream outside, and jolted upright, along with several others in the bar.
"No, no no no no NOOOO!"
It cut off abruptly, and with dread, Will recognized Jason's voice. He stumbled off of his stool, grabbing groggily for his bow on the bar beside him, fumbling around for where he'd left his quiver- He couldn't find it. Where did he put it!? But in the end, it was too late. The doors of the pub shook under a heavy impact, and Will heard a crack as the lock gave way slightly. These doors weren't built to withstand abuse. A few of the others had managed to find their own weapons, always close at hand, and form some kind of defense- Hiding behind tables, or trying to wake the others- Dragging those that were too far into the world of sleep behind cover. Another impact shook the doors, and this time, they gave way. A zombie- A rot, a walker, a zed. Whatever those present might call it, it was a living corpse... And it stumbled through the doors almost drunkenly, giving a low, mindless groan. Fresh blood oozed down its chin and chest, scraps of skin hanging from its teeth. It could have been anybody's... But Will knew it was Jason's. He ripped the knife from his belt with a snarl, sprinting across the space between himself and the rot. He vaulted one of the tables, and before the corpse had time to register it was being assaulted, Will had his knife buried to the guard in the creature's jaw, twisting viciously. He felt it go slack after a moment, and ripped the blade free- Only to slam the corpse's head into the doorframe just to be sure.

"How the -hell- did it get in here!?"
He turned to face the others, as if looking for an answer- Only to see looks of surprise on their faces. One of them managed to shout a warning before Will felt a sharp, horrible pain in his arm, giving a shout of agony. He shot his eyes back behind him- More walkers. They had flooded into the doorway when he turned away- So many, he couldn't count them all. He felt the adrenaline pulse through him- Pain came second. These things... They killed Jason- And who knew how many others had died trying to keep them from getting inside, to those who had passed out the night before. He tore himself away from the corpse chewing on his arm with a savage growl, knife whipping around to slam pommel first into its skull, sending it crashing to side, head banging against the oldschool jukebox that Vinn had always been so proud of. He felt an almost sick kind of amusement when the impact caused the machine to shudder to life, a upbeat, Irish Pub tune flickering to life. Just the kind of thing he expected people to get into a fistfight too. But punching the dead was a poor idea- He backstepped a ways, clearing the way for the others awake in the bar to open fire. Shotguns, handguns, a hunting rifle or two- Bullets of all sorts hammered into the line of the dead. The town was full of decent shots- At least, the survivors. So, more than a few of the rot's fell with parts of skull missing, bullets clearing out their graymatter rather effectively. Somebody threw Will his quiver as he made his way back away from the door, and he caught it with a nod, skidding to a stop and whipping around, adding a flurry of arrows to the hail of bullets. He'd never been a good shot with guns.... But nobody in town had ever matched him in an archery contest.

And yet, in the end, they just didn't have enough bullets, arrows, or bottles to throw at the corpses- They just kept coming, as if they had gathered en-mass the night before. And quietly... Will wouldn't have been surprised if they had. Within minutes, the pub had been overrun, and most of those inside were dead or dying, turned to zombie food. Will was among the last few to survive, all of them huddled towards the back of the pub, brandishing what close-quarters weapons they had, knocking corpses aside and to the ground, smashing as many skulls as possible. Forty survivors, perhaps twice as many undead.

And now, barely five survivors... And nearly thirty undead still standing to rip them apart. At one point, Will went to thrust his knife up under a corpse's jaw to return it to the dead where it belonged- But he felt his foot hit something soft, and slippery. He never found out what it was, as he went toppling backwards- A searing pain erupted in the back of his head, and he felt no more.

Some hours later, when the sun was low on the horizon and the pub was lit with dim orange light, he awoke. He became aware of things slowly- First was the smell. It was rancid, and horrible. Gore and refuse, the sickly sweet stench of dead, rotting flesh. Then the noises- First, music. The same few words, over and over, scratchy and repeating themselves.
"Fa-aiiir thee well.... Fa-aiiir thee well... Fa-aiiir thee well..."
Then, beneath that, what sounded like... -Eating-. Groans and mutterings, wet ripping sounds. Then came the pain- It flared everywhere. His left arm. His head- Most of all his head. And smaller aches everywhere, all over his body. Finally, he opened his stormy gray eyes, gaze cast out over a hellish scene. The dead feasted on the deader, ripping apart fresh corpses with their horrible, rotten teeth, consuming people that.... Did he know these people? They seemed... So familiar. But that couldn't be- And who was -he-? He couldn't bring himself to move yet, not much. But he clenched his hands, feeling them squeeze around something solid. Glancing down, he noticed two things that seemed more familiar than anything else so far- A bow and a knife. That was it. That was what they were called. Moving slowly, getting the sense anything sudden would be the end of him, he reached under himself. He felt like he was sitting on something- After a moment, he fished a square of leather from the pocket of his pants, letting it fall open and blankly looking at the first item he saw. Something called an 'I.D'. It had a picture on it, and a name- And many small details that he didn't understand. But the name, he got. William Renault. Will. The boy in the image was smiling, and with a start, he realized that -he- was this boy.

He was Will.

July XX, 2017
Taylor Marsha Johnson

No, no, that wasn't it... She miscounted again... Fuck, was it a leap year? No, that was last year. Okay, so if it had been... how many days again? Shit, she knew she lost the date, she couldn't count the days anymore. There weren't satellite clocks or calendars to mark off anymore, she didn't even think to have a watch when the shit really hit the fan. Honestly, it didn't seem important until it was too late anyway. All she knew was that it was July... ish. And it was hot. And the Illinois-Indiana Border had to be around here somewhere.

She adjusted her sunglasses and hat, through which a ponytail was fed in the rear. God damn that sun... She swore this weather was going to be the death of her someday, even before all of this. Humid, hot summers with dry, cold winters. It was like Hell part of the year and like... Cold Hell the other part. Ridiculous. Her backpack had her hoodie folded up inside of it, taking up way too much space. She needed to be sheltered and back in Ohio by winter, but at this rate, she was never going to make it. Why didn't her parents teach her to read a map, anyway? She stood now on Highway... Fuck, she could hardly tell at this point. All she knew was that the sun rose from that direction, so it was the way she was going. If she could get anywhere near home, she'd be able to tell from the signs where she was. She needed a car, or a bike, or something... But not a single one of the abandoned pieces of shit out here worked anymore. They were all left with keys in them, running, or out of gas. It would take far too long to try them all, too.

She sprawled her map out over a car hood as her eyes raked its contents. She checked the surrounding signs... Yeah, that... that had to be her spot, right?

The unmistakable sound of fuel being burned at an excessive volume filled the air quickly and loudly. She looked around but saw nothing. Not yet, at least. Shit... Three bikes, not one of them giving a friendly sound. She snatched her map off the car hood and darted for the treeline just off the highway. No, no, no... Please don't see... Please, for the love of god, don't see...

She burst into the woods and kept running like hell. Twigs snapped under her foot while branches scratched at her sides and calves. Fuck, she'd worry about that later. Just get away, just go, go... She haphazardly folded the map and stuffed it into a jean pocket before pulling her pistol from her side, slowing to a creeping walk. So far, she'd only had to kill a handful of those... things, and not a single person. She was lucky, that was all there was to it. And really, those had been heat of the moment instances... She'd never had to decide to kill one before it got her - it was always defense. She found a large tree and placed her back to it, hiding away from the highway with her ears focused. Maybe they hadn't seen her, or better yet, didn't follow her.

"C'mon, Jack... Let me go first this time... Did you see the legs on this one? Hot damn, man! In those little jeans..." One of them complained scratching his balls with a bit more enthusiasm than one should.

"Shut up... I think we should let this one live, Martinez. Shit, it'd be good for us to have a little road whore, don't you think? She's got the tats for it, she'll fit right in. We can take her down south, I'm sure she'd love to have a nice warm place to spend her winter, after all. But fine, you can start it off this time, if you really think it's going to matter. She's not gonna feel yours anyway," the one named Jack replied with a gut-wrenching snort. It sounded like 'Martinez' was about to retort, but decided against it. Never once in her life had Taylor regretted the tattoos she'd had done over her young life. They always felt like a part of her... Today, she wished she could burn them all off her skin if they would just go away.

"Well fuck me, I guess," A third voice spoke, figuring it was time to stake its claim in the conversation. "I don't get shit?"

"Fuck no. Now both of you, shut the fuck up... I saw her start slowing down over here somewhere... C'mon out, girlie... We just wanna keep you safe, it's gonna get cold in a few months here... Don't you wanna keep warm?"

Crack. A branch snapped only a few feet from her tree. Fuck... Fuck, they were right there... C'mon, Taylor... He taught you how to use this fucking thing... Derek wanted to protect you, so he taught you to do it yourself... Now just do it! She whipped out around the tree and fired off as many shots as she possibly could before the pistol clicked empty, screaming as she did it. It wasn't until after she ran out of ammunition that she opened her eyes to two very pissed off bikers and one, dead as a doornail. Dear god, she hoped it was Martinez... Fucking savage. The woman started to back away, watching her footing with one hand as she pulled out her machete with the other.

"Get the fuck away from me! GET AWAY!" She cried, swinging the kukri to ward them off. No such luck... She tripped backwards over a root and tried scrambling farther away.

The two grinned, "You don't really think we can let you get away with that... right? I mean... I didn't care about the guy that much... But shit, girl... You just killed a man..." He said in an almost 'disappointed father-like' voice.

The next several weeks were hell... Her salvation came, almost ironically, in the form of a curse. Two bikers who couldn't contain the sounds they made one night were attacked by a small band of Shufflers. They could have easily killed them all, but they weren't paying attention and were, quite literally, caught with their pants down. Taylor slipped away in the confusion on one of their bikes, which she only kept for a day to get away before letting it roll down a hill, twisting around itself.

She watched the metal twist as it crashed down the concrete decline and spit on the ground after it, screaming "FUCK YOU!" Over... and over. She didn't even know where she was anymore, but she knew one thing for sure... If she ever found a shower again, it wouldn't help her feel any cleaner.

November 2nd, 2017
Taylor Marsha Johnson

The woman cracked her neck, slowly rolling it from one side... to the other. She found herself in Missouri, her trek home taking even longer than she'd hoped. Those pricks took her a lot farther west than she thought possible, but she tried to push forward. She was going somewhere and couldn't let where she'd been hinder her now. Nobody traveled with her, and she avoided all people and things as best she could. Along the way, she found a couple of books and remembered some yoga classes she took as electives in college. It did wonders on the mornings she could do them... Just like today. Her P226 rested on the ground beside her with her machete and other gear as she sunk low into a stretch and sighed with relief. This was one of the few things that would allow her brain that euphoric release of tranquility. Fifteen minutes later, she was brushing the dirt from her jeans and shirt and gearing back up.

Over the last few months, she'd acquired a tactical vest and some magazines that, thankfully, fit her pistol. She hadn't needed to use many, but she kept them filled and always prepared. She holstered the pistol under her left arm and pulled her backpack over her shoulder before putting her CPD hat back on over her sunglasses. She had on a light jacket, but the weather was getting colder... It wasn't cutting it anymore. She'd need a real coat, or at least somewhere better to sleep, if she wanted to make it through the winter. Her breath showed in the morning, but not during the day if there was sunlight, thankfully.

Taylor rubbed her neck. It was sore, but she'd gotten used to the ground recently. She rarely took refuge in houses anymore. You couldn't trust them.

Harris was starting to freak out. While many in the other rooms had figured it out some time ago, it was starting to hit him that something wasn’t right and it came in the form of food ceasing to be delivered, then the rooms no longer being cleaned. He didn’t know if it was some kind of test, or if something went wrong, but he knew something was up. He kept all the trash over to one side of the room and that was the extent of him dealing with the problem. It was really all he could think of doing.

Every so often, he would try the intercomm system but now whoever was there was no longer responding. If anyone was there. That was a prospect that shook him to the core and kept him up all night. Dying here alone. Would he starve? Just die? Who knew?

Harris was never organized, at least offline, and this was no exception. The small room was messy, even before things started to get bad and that made it a bit worse. He looked around the room for something to do and was surprised by a sudden, loud CLICK. It wasn’t too loud and in another life, it wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but in the solitary silence of the room, it seemed like a gunshot. He looked around and focused on the intercomm but heard nothing, and the lights were off.

Then, he looked over at the door and then realized it wasn’t right. The door was normally parallel to the floor, but now, it was straight down. He looked around, as if sensing some kind of trap as he moved to the door. Reaching out slowly, as if expecting some kind of punishment, he tapped the handle, then moved it up quickly.

Working up the courage, he finally put his hand on the door and pulled. Immediately, there was a noticeable, albeit slight, change in pressure in the room, and then the sounds of chaos in the hall washed over him. After months of quiet isolation, the sounds were almost shocking even before he began to assess what they actually were.

There was screaming, yelling, and then what Harris recognized as panic. It seemed that for the most part, people were confused. As he made his way to the hallway and looked around, it was exactly that. There were dozens of people in a variety of states and he began to try to listen more directly to what was being said. He focused in on a few people in security suits as they seemed to be issuing orders and were also armed.

He heard them screaming things like, “try to stay calm,” and “get a bag together of your warmest clothing.” Eventually he heard someone mention the armory and stairwell going up. A man walked by him and seemed to be making a beeline for his room when Harris put a hand out and asked, “hey, what’s going on?”

The man pushed by him but at least started to answer him in a rushed tone. “The building is being evacuated, we need to get to the roof and get the hell out of here. Pack up and get ready.”

The man didn’t look back as he rushed into his room and didn’t seem concerned with Harris or anything else at all. Harris shook his head and went back into his room. He spotted a small gym bag and tossed it on the bed and spent the next several minutes shoving clothes into it.

When he walked back out into the hall, many people were out there, almost all of them if he had to guess. It was then that he realized many were armed and looking over guns. He carried his bag and moved towards the other end of the hall, finally asking one of the guards, “so, do I get a gun or something?”

The guard looked at him with an annoyed look, but there was a noticeable look of panic on her face too. She quickly answered “the armory is right there. Grab what you need, but if you can’t use something, don’t bring it. No reason to shoot yourself or carry unnecessary stuff. Hurry, we’re heading up in about 5 mics.”

Harris looked around made his way to the armory. He grabbed a shotgun and looked around at the other two people who were going through gear, not paying him any mind. He’d never actually fired a gun, but he knew the basics of a shotgun and had heard they were easy to use. He grabbed it, along with a couple boxes of shells and moved back out into the hallway. People were getting in line along the hall where the stairs lead up while others still moved about and packed or talked hurriedly.

Harris looked around and was about to ask a question to the security guard when there was a sudden flash and a blast of heat and a wave of concussive force that had him rolling over and trying to get his senses back. He inhaled and could smell fire, but his ears were ringing when he found himself being lifted up and pushed forward. He could see up ahead that people were moving up the stairs and then behind him, he heard a few bursts of gunfire, followed by screaming. The screams were human, and they were full of pain.

Quickly, Harris made his way up the stairs as he could feel the panic rising in himself, but also the others around him. It was palpable, almost like the smoke from the prior explosion. Soon there was more screaming, but it was yelling at others to move, go, run.

Never looking back, Harris moved as quickly as possible and eventually made it up to the roof. He didn’t know where to go, or what was happening, so he followed. He became aware of the loud whir in front of him and realized that a large helicopter was starting up. To someone like Harris, it was unreal. He didn’t know what exactly was going on or what to do. It seemed like time was flying by him as he was moved onto the chopper and seated and buckled in. After a few moments, the helo started to lift off and there was screaming and pointing, and then the machine lurched heavily to the side. Harris could hear, but not see, someone who was apparently grabbing on to the side, which seemed to be too much for the machine to life up properly.

Harris unbuckled and moved to the door and ended up looking down at two people who were on the side, not letting go. The pilot turned around and fired two rounds, each hitting those people in the face, right in front of Harris. He was pulled back and shoved into the seat, where he buckled in, unable to talk or move after witnessing the events.

Even with the loud turbines and blades rotating, it seemed quiet on the helicopter. No one was talking. They were either looking around blankly, or staring at the floor. It was then that over the loudspeaker, a male voice boomed over them. “We’re almost out of fuel people. Looks like a line was cut or something. Either way, I’m taking us as far as I can fly, then we’re gunna go down kind of hard. Put a pack or something on your thighs and brace. It’s not going to be too long.”

What the fuck does ‘go down kind of hard’ even mean? There was a lurch, then another, and the helicopter dropped slowly. A short moment later, there was another lurch, but this time, it was not followed by a pick up, and there was a loud crash...then, silence….

Will stood silently in the cover of the treeline, staring across an open field at a large, gray building. It was unremarkable in most ways, almost akin to the prisons he had often walked past before. The day before, he had come across it and decided he'd slip in for supplies when the sun rose.

Now, he was glad he'd chosen to wait. A large group approached from the front of the building. They were armed, and Will could practically smell them from his spot in the trees- They oozed with violent intent. Selfish. Murderous. Cruel. The violent ones were always like that, people who did foul, unthinkable things to other people for the sake of easy survival in a world where murder had more payout than hard work. He detested them. For a time, they seemed stalled on the lowest floor, little noise coming forth. But soon, he heard voices a level up from that- Faint, but panicked. They had to have been nearly shouting, for him to hear them all the way outside. And a lot of them, at that. It was some minutes later, when Will was considering moving in to help, that things clearly went sour.

He heard an explosion, and gunfire. Screams. Then people started filing onto the roof of the complex- They looked normal. Afraid, stumbling and rushing to board a great metal bird under the command of a few calmer, more composed individuals. Most of them made it on board... Some did not- They were left to the cruel clutches of the violent ones. And while Will understood, the thought of what would happen to -those- people made his stomach turn. He prayed for their sake there were no women among the number left behind. He knew what violent ones did to women. More than a few had taken a sharp knife to the back of the skull over it, but it was rare that Will was on time. Rare that the victim ever got to really recover.

He snapped his attention back to the present, eyes narrowing as bullets shot towards the metal bird. Most bounced off, but he saw one pierce something. Even from where he was, he could see fluid spray from the hole, the bird's lifeblood draining. Something told him it would not stay in the air for long. So he turned, and started following it, running like a ghost through the trees. A crash would draw the rotten ones.... The people would need help. He was sure of that. At the crawl the bird moved, it was easy for him to keep up. Whoever flew was smart- They aimed the crash well, avoiding trees to land in a clearing. Will was only a handful of minutes behind it, sliding to a stop in the grassy clearing to behold the smoke billowing, dying metal bird. Bow in hand, he slipped closer, looking for signs of life, quietly hoping that at least a few had survived. It hadn't been a terrible crash, so it seemed likely. But even at mild speeds, and controlled, a fall from above the treeline might prove fatal.
"..... Hello?"

Felix laid on his back on the floor of his 'room,' staring at the ceiling. He didn't feel like reading... or working out. He had all day to do either of those two things and right now, he was just wondering yet again when he was going to get out of here and make sure Will was alright. It was going to take a long time to get to Maine, but he knew for sure that whatever was going on had to be serious. They would have been let out if it wasn't. Their small town, despite being up north, was full of hunters and gun nuts. Will wasn't too bad himself, even if he was more of a bowman - they'd probably hole up somewhere and have a hell of a party until everything died down. That's just the way things went back home - no reason for anything to get in the way of that, right?

No, Renault knew better. He'd seen more than enough of his share of 'it's the perfect plan' go wrong to know that it was naive. He just needed a place to start and from there, he'd track him down. Or, everything was under control and they were just waiting until it was fully contained and eradicated to let them go. Whatever was happening, it couldn't go on for much longer.

Click.

Felix bolted upright... Was that what he thought it was? He furrowed his brow and climbed to his feet. He wore a pair of dark jeans and an underarmour shirt with a tan rigger's belt and his combat boots. Slowly, he approached his door, pressing his shoulder to it briefly. It instantly gave way to his weight as he started to press and finally he shoved it open, looking up and down the halls. He was toward the end, so his room actually opened up early. "What? No greeting party?" He asked, looking around.

"No time, Renault. Shut your trap, hit the armory, gear up." Was that one of the guards? It was hard to tell as they shouted and every room started to open with tentative heads poking out. Chaos ensued, but he rushed to the room at the end of the hall where he was directed. Several people were grabbing for anything and everything they could. He reached for a tactical vest and clipped all of the straps into place around him before attaching a holster and an M9 to it. He grabbed a sheathed K-BAR, smirking at the government's choice on weapons for their CDC armory. Never disappointing, he decided. Finally, he took hold of one of the M4A1 Carbines on the wall and placed the strap over his neck, holding it tightly to his chest. He pulled a couple of extra magazines from the ammo boxes in the cabinets under the weaponry - these idiots really had no idea how to raid a fucking armory and slipped them into his tac-vest.

"Stop grabbing for anything you dimwits!" He shouted as somebody tried to push past him for one of the shotguns. He pushed the nerdy kid aside, "If you don't know how it works, don't grab it..." He muttered - god damn, did they just grab a bunch of computer junkies and throw them into this place? Hell of a lot of good that did them. Felix returned to his work, finally grabbing a green, canvas ammo bag and tossing a couple of boxes inside. He zipped it shut and threw the straps over his shoulders.

He was just about to start helping move the group and equip the others to get them upstairs when he realized he hadn't grabbed anything from his room. The soldier dashed back to his cell, snatched a pair of sunglasses and stuffed a few articles of clothing into the backpack with a grin, fuckers told me I was crazy 'cause I wanted a pair in confinement... who's laughing now? - The answer still wasn't him.

He stepped back out of his room and things were getting worse. Some people were pushing others up the stairs and each of them was fending for themselves. He heard the shouts from the lower level and started backing toward the stairs, rifle raised, "KEEP THE LINE MOVING!" He shouted behind him, "Hasn't anybody done a fire drill before..? Geeze..." He muttered under his breath. The sound of shattering glass filled the hall as a bottle broke - who the fuck cooked up a molotov and threw it in the building? It took a second to process the real reason they were let out - the CDC was under siege, not ready to release them. His eyes remained fixed on the sights of his weapon as he moved backwards up the stairs with the throngs of people... He didn't want to waste a shot here, and luckily they were still a ways behind him. He had to get out of this building and find Will... The man finally made it to the roof, relatively quickly too as people parted for the man who looked to know what the hell he was doing. Times like this, everybody needed a leader. He didn't want to be it, but it was certainly convenient.

What were they doing with a helicopter up here? Was his first honest thought. His second was which seat to take. He settled on one by the door and, much to his dismay, only a few feet behind him was that nerdy kid from the armory. Well, they had to save who they could. He helped pull the runt into the chopper and pushed him into a seat, "Strap in, kid... You're in for a hell of a ride."

He smacked the side of the chopper so the pilot could hear it and shouted over the whirring blades, "We're full! She can't carry anybody else, we're gonna have to make a second trip," He said - the pilots and he both knew there was no second trip, but few others in that helo would understand the real gravity of it.

Metal twisted, turned, rolled and folded into itself as they hit the clearing, sliding through the dirt only to stop at the treeline. Felix groaned, rubbing his head as he came to, several feet deeper in the woods, against a tree. Apparently, something in the belts snaps, because he was leaning against a tree with blurring vision of the smoking crash site, rubbing his forehead. He didn't want to move... not yet. He just listened for the sounds of other survivors or approaching attackers. Not even out of that compound for ten minutes and he could already feel it: the world had gone to Hell.

David Zhang

He could still hear it, cars zooming by, people screaming at one another to learn how to drive, and beggars pleading for change so they could eat, playing in his head over and over again, but regardless of how much he struggled to go back to the past, before the outbreak, he knew in his heart that he was stuck in this god forsaken world. Everything was going perfectly for him and he could finally start imaging a life where he would be living the ‘American’ dream that many people overseas talked about, and then, without any warning, everything began to crash around him.

It’s been around eight-months since Day Zero and David had finally just begun to understand basic survival techniques, but the need for food has started to become a more pressing event as his small supplies of canned food quickly diminished. Without any knowledge on how to hunt anything but the smallest of animals, squirrels and the like, he would eventually die out here and he knew it.

David shivered, for a second, before tightening himself within the coat that he had found a few months back, a few holes and splotches of blood decorating the thick wool. Winter had started to kick in within the last few weeks and even though this was nothing in comparison to a Beijing winter, it was still cold none-the-less, especially without the luxuries that he previously was able to enjoy.

He pressed his gloved hands against the dirt, a few pieces of dirt sticking onto the wool, as he began to stand, his back against the base of a large oak. He began to gather all of his belongings and placed it within his bag, besides his butcher’s blade and handgun, and started to head out back further into the woods.

“It’s probably mid-day right now..” he muttered to himself, in Chinese. The winter’s embrace had taken the canopy of the woods a few months and littered the ground with dead leaves, and while the leaves were still there, it was nowhere near as problematic as it was earlier in the fall. The constant crushing of leaves made lone shufflers start their course towards him.

The time seemed to constantly flow by, day-by-day, without any end or sight of the end going to be there. The only options that he had, at that point, was to continue trudging along this godforsaken world or end it all with a single bullet. He pondered if it was worth it anymore endlessly and if there could be any world worth rebuilding after this abhorrent event.

‘Pop, pop, pop!’ sounded out in the distance. He recognized it instantly, however, regardless of how faint the sound was. He knew that it had to be another survivor out there attempting to keep the yaoguai away, but the question was if it was worth trying to find them. Sure, it was still a constant struggle to live by himself and he had to devote all of his time to the survival necessities, but even if he started to group up with other survivors..

“Would it be an issue with communication, would they accept him into the group, and would they be instantly hostile towards a newcomer?”

Survival wasn’t just against the yaoguai, at this point. He was a part of a small group when the outbreak first occurred, but, at this point, it was just a memory that he never wanted to think about anymore. The day when that group finally crumbled was colored crimson and he wasn’t interesting in trying to relive such an event.

‘Pop, pop!’ it echoed out again into the woods. The scenarios of what was going on continued to cycle through his mind, faces of the past abruptly appearing throughout each scenario.

“Five shots fired, possible that they are taking out yaoguai but he or she has to be inexperienced with their weapon since it’s doubtful that five yaoguai would be out here in these woods wandering around in a small group.” He thought to himself. He reached towards the makeshift holster to feel the grip of the pistol that he found. He only had to shoot it a few times until now, but he didn’t want to run into a situation where he could die.

Pulling the weapon out of the holster, his hands trembling, he started to move towards the sounds. His heart kept pounding away at his chest; he could hear it vibrating through his head. He hated these situations, every last one of them. He wasn’t born to hold a gun, let alone fire it at someone.

It took fifteen minutes of shuffling through the woods in anxiety until a putrid breeze gusted through the trees. He recognized it immediately, his weapon starting to aim ahead of him. Gripping his weapon with both hands, fear continued to envelope the man. “You need to get out of here. What are you doing?” he thought to himself. “This is stupid. I don’t even know this person.” He tried to reason, but for whatever reason he continued forward.

“Stop! Stop right there!” a voice commanded, it was raspy and strained. The figure started to move forward with a pistol aimed right at David, the uncertainty of the situation was in the shaky grip of both parties.

“Wait! I do not want hurt you!” he called out, “Today, earlier, I hear a lot of gun shot. You killed them?” he continued, looking at the dead yaoguai before both of them.

“Yeah.. I killed them. Those fucking monsters.” The figure replied, a more curvy form appearing from the shadows. As the light began to embrace her form, David could see the wear and tear of this world taking a hold of her as well.

The two began to walk closer to one another, slowly letting their weapons down. She had long brown hair that cascaded down her back, deep jade eyes with dark bags underneath them, pale skin covered with dirt and grime, blood encrusted clothing, and a small pistol. He started to wonder how she was getting accustomed to this hell-hole of a world in this constant fight for life.

“Melissa.” She introduced herself, extending her hand to him. She wore a smile for a few seconds, genuinely happy that she found someone else here. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to survive out here too. Who could be?

“David.” He responded, although with a delayed response, “Nice to meet you.” He looked into her eyes to see if he could read her a little more. His mother always said that you could tell so much about a person through their eyes. It was the gateway to their inner self.

----- A few weeks later -----

He could still hear it, cars zooming by, people screaming at one another to learn how to drive, and beggars pleading for change so they could eat. It never ended and now more than ever. The last four months was his saving grace. She knew a lot more than he could ever imagine about surviving this world without the things he once took for granted. He couldn’t have been any luckier to meet someone of her caliber, but it was short lived.

What seemed like hundreds of the yaoguai started to surround the small city that they were staying in. “It’s not worth getting those supplies if we die, David.” She argued with her brows furrowed.

“Yes, but benefit better us than we do not go.” He retorted, “We are able to get food, weapon, bullets, and maybe some new clothes. Winter is going to be here soon and if we do not die to yaoguai, we die to weather!” It took a few days of convincing, but they started towards the town and, at first, it seemed like paradise. Not fully stocked shelves but enough food to survive for a few more weeks without hunting, but as things were starting to get brighter the world had a funny way to bring it all tumbling down.

‘Pop! Pop!’ echoed through the small grocery store, but as he turned he realized that more of them were starting to come to the once thought haven. “Run! We need to get out of here!” she called out as she fired a few more from her pistol. David froze for a second before going into flight. He didn’t even dare try to kill any of the yaoguai; he might accidentally waste his precious time to escape.

That was a few days ago and now David explored the woods again through Missouri. He wasn’t better off than he was before, not being able to grab any supplies from the store quick enough, but it didn’t matter at all if he couldn’t find his partner. The last few days he had been going through the woods looking for her but to no avail.

As hope seemed pointless, a figure shifted through the woods quickly, almost like it was an apparition. He wasn’t able to catch any glimpse of the figure, but a small logo ‘CPD’ on a hat. Whoever this person was, maybe he or she could be the one to help him.