The Walking Dead: To Greener Pastures
Some nights, if I shut my eyes real hard, and drown out their groans with the musings of my fears, I can picture a world free from the grip of death. I've built barricades, reinforced walls, all to keep them out. Or perhaps this is my tomb: where I will lie in fear, and scream, and attempt to claw my way out but to no avail. Nobody is out there, and I am buried amongst the dead and the rotten. Oh, what could we have done in the eyes of God to deserve such a fate. I'm low on water, and food is bound to run out soon, but I have on valuable commodity.. I'm alive. I may just have a monopoly on that. I haven't seen another soul since the army left to find a brighter spot to call their tomb. I remained.
The man at the desk shuffled, drawing the chair a bit closer, and wrapping his jacket tighter around his frail body. He shook his ballpoint, and continued to write:
My wife left me when the army did. She took the kids, Lucy and.. was it Alex? She said that they'd have a chance out there. I told her that our luck had run dry a long time ago. And so, I remained within the walls of my fortress, among the pictures of those whom I've loved and lost and almost forgotten. Every night, I hear them clawing at the door. Every single night, slow, consistent. They haven't abandoned me, at least. I'm not alone in the world. I am one of many.
At the front of the house, the door -- which was unlocked and unbarricaded -- began to creak under the pressure of the undead. More walkers on the street turned in curiosity, then began to converge on the scene.
It won't be long, now. My time is almost up, my tomb is almost uncovered. I will be free, and safe, just like I told them when they left.
The door shattered open from the weight of the bodies, which began filing in and down the hall.
I wonder how their safe haven turned out, so far away from our home. I wonder if Lucy still plays with the doll I got her last Christmas.
The walkers found the study, spotting their prey in the dull light.
I wonder if I'll feel pain, or if they did, when the world caught up with them.
---
Two months earlier..
Desmond Williams
The rumble of an automobile engine choked to a halt, as the beat-up old Toyota Corolla rolled to a halt on the outskirts of a largely forgotten city. The car gave the impression that it was running on its last leg, anyway: two windows were shattered, the body was dented from fender to bumper, and there was a large gash running along the passenger's side, rendering both doors inoperable. The grill was covered in blood and sinew, and it looked like a genuine horror movie under the hood. The car which had carried its sole occupant across three states and away from immediate peril was no more. But it had served its purpose, in the end.
Desmond Williams, clad in genuine Italian thread, stepped out of the automobile and smelled the too-familiar scent of death. He paid it no mind; working methodically, he slipped the dead Corolla into neutral and pushed it to the side of the road, before grabbing his rucksack and slinging it over his shoulder. Reaching into the side pocket, he felt the metallic grip of his silenced Beretta, and he held the gun out in front of him in traditional Weaver form while proceeding down the deserted road. It's a different world, now, the ex-lawyer thought, as he eyed his pistol, and the various wrecked cars lining the street, and found a noticeable lack of anything breathing. One week ago, he was sitting in his office on the eighth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, drinking coffee and poring over the file of his newest client. Then New York City became a tomb, and hell would freeze over before Desmond allowed himself to be locked within. So he found the first working, abandoned car that he could, and took off -- primarily sticking to back roads and auxiliary streets -- down the east coast. He made it as far as Delaware.
Despite all the ways in which the world was different, Desmond remained the same man. Sure, he now carried his life on his back, and never went to sleep out of arm's length of his Beretta, but he had always been a survivor. He didn't lose anyone close to him during the initial outbreak, simply because there wasn't a soul living on Earth who could say that they were close to Desmond Williams. There were only smiling faces and ephemeral flings, but Desmond made no roots: which made it far too easy to leave the city he had lived in all his life. His parents were dead, he lost them long ago and in another life, it seemed. But they were spared from the end of the world, and Desmond was spared from having an emotional reaction to the apocalypse. And so, he trudged along.
It took ten minutes of walking before he encountered the first walkers. At first, he only saw the one: what remained of a middle-aged lady, still strapped into the wreckage of her destroyed SUV, which had apparently collided with a road sign and spun out into a telephone pole. She spotted Desmond when he saw her, and immediately began trying to claw her way out of the seatbelt. The lawyer slowed his pace and detoured to the wreckage, where he stood and stared at the women for a lengthy moment. Her skin was yellow and sagging and rotten, and her eyes held utter indifference. No malice, no emotion, only death. They locked eyes, and the lady briefly stopped trying to resist the belt. Then, she gnashed her teeth and drooled a viscous red-green substance, and Desmond raised his pistol and lodged a bullet in her brain. She slumped into the seat, and only then did Desmond dare to fully approach the SUV. He walked around the wreckage, searching it for anything useful, before coming full-circle at the windshield. With care to avoid the glass, he hoisted the street sign up and out of the impaled windshield, and stared down at the faded yellow letters: Welcome to Wilmington.
Some nights, if I shut my eyes real hard, and drown out their groans with the musings of my fears, I can picture a world free from the grip of death. I've built barricades, reinforced walls, all to keep them out. Or perhaps this is my tomb: where I will lie in fear, and scream, and attempt to claw my way out but to no avail. Nobody is out there, and I am buried amongst the dead and the rotten. Oh, what could we have done in the eyes of God to deserve such a fate. I'm low on water, and food is bound to run out soon, but I have on valuable commodity.. I'm alive. I may just have a monopoly on that. I haven't seen another soul since the army left to find a brighter spot to call their tomb. I remained.
The man at the desk shuffled, drawing the chair a bit closer, and wrapping his jacket tighter around his frail body. He shook his ballpoint, and continued to write:
My wife left me when the army did. She took the kids, Lucy and.. was it Alex? She said that they'd have a chance out there. I told her that our luck had run dry a long time ago. And so, I remained within the walls of my fortress, among the pictures of those whom I've loved and lost and almost forgotten. Every night, I hear them clawing at the door. Every single night, slow, consistent. They haven't abandoned me, at least. I'm not alone in the world. I am one of many.
At the front of the house, the door -- which was unlocked and unbarricaded -- began to creak under the pressure of the undead. More walkers on the street turned in curiosity, then began to converge on the scene.
It won't be long, now. My time is almost up, my tomb is almost uncovered. I will be free, and safe, just like I told them when they left.
The door shattered open from the weight of the bodies, which began filing in and down the hall.
I wonder how their safe haven turned out, so far away from our home. I wonder if Lucy still plays with the doll I got her last Christmas.
The walkers found the study, spotting their prey in the dull light.
I wonder if I'll feel pain, or if they did, when the world caught up with them.
---
Two months earlier..
Desmond Williams
The rumble of an automobile engine choked to a halt, as the beat-up old Toyota Corolla rolled to a halt on the outskirts of a largely forgotten city. The car gave the impression that it was running on its last leg, anyway: two windows were shattered, the body was dented from fender to bumper, and there was a large gash running along the passenger's side, rendering both doors inoperable. The grill was covered in blood and sinew, and it looked like a genuine horror movie under the hood. The car which had carried its sole occupant across three states and away from immediate peril was no more. But it had served its purpose, in the end.
Desmond Williams, clad in genuine Italian thread, stepped out of the automobile and smelled the too-familiar scent of death. He paid it no mind; working methodically, he slipped the dead Corolla into neutral and pushed it to the side of the road, before grabbing his rucksack and slinging it over his shoulder. Reaching into the side pocket, he felt the metallic grip of his silenced Beretta, and he held the gun out in front of him in traditional Weaver form while proceeding down the deserted road. It's a different world, now, the ex-lawyer thought, as he eyed his pistol, and the various wrecked cars lining the street, and found a noticeable lack of anything breathing. One week ago, he was sitting in his office on the eighth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, drinking coffee and poring over the file of his newest client. Then New York City became a tomb, and hell would freeze over before Desmond allowed himself to be locked within. So he found the first working, abandoned car that he could, and took off -- primarily sticking to back roads and auxiliary streets -- down the east coast. He made it as far as Delaware.
Despite all the ways in which the world was different, Desmond remained the same man. Sure, he now carried his life on his back, and never went to sleep out of arm's length of his Beretta, but he had always been a survivor. He didn't lose anyone close to him during the initial outbreak, simply because there wasn't a soul living on Earth who could say that they were close to Desmond Williams. There were only smiling faces and ephemeral flings, but Desmond made no roots: which made it far too easy to leave the city he had lived in all his life. His parents were dead, he lost them long ago and in another life, it seemed. But they were spared from the end of the world, and Desmond was spared from having an emotional reaction to the apocalypse. And so, he trudged along.
It took ten minutes of walking before he encountered the first walkers. At first, he only saw the one: what remained of a middle-aged lady, still strapped into the wreckage of her destroyed SUV, which had apparently collided with a road sign and spun out into a telephone pole. She spotted Desmond when he saw her, and immediately began trying to claw her way out of the seatbelt. The lawyer slowed his pace and detoured to the wreckage, where he stood and stared at the women for a lengthy moment. Her skin was yellow and sagging and rotten, and her eyes held utter indifference. No malice, no emotion, only death. They locked eyes, and the lady briefly stopped trying to resist the belt. Then, she gnashed her teeth and drooled a viscous red-green substance, and Desmond raised his pistol and lodged a bullet in her brain. She slumped into the seat, and only then did Desmond dare to fully approach the SUV. He walked around the wreckage, searching it for anything useful, before coming full-circle at the windshield. With care to avoid the glass, he hoisted the street sign up and out of the impaled windshield, and stared down at the faded yellow letters: Welcome to Wilmington.
1x Laugh
