You have been walking through town for about an hour now, with no signs of life anywhere. The scorching rays from the sun above beat down on your head and shoulders. You think to yourself why you did you not think to bring sunscreen or cover your exposed skin, don’t you know skin cancer is a real issue here? What does it matter now? You’re the last one left. Would it really make any difference if you were sick or not? You’d like to think so. The choking dust has begun to pick up in the far distance. The breeze would be refreshing were it not hurling tiny blades of rock at your face and arms. You hold up your arms to shield your face, and dash to the building on your right. The sand colored boards offer a little protection from the harsh sun, and you sit underneath the sliver or shadow from the awning, and lean your head against the building, letting the sweat drip and pool over your shirt collar and in your hair, forming a halo. You look up through your darkened sunglasses and pant, reaching for the army green canteen at your hip. You take a swig, wipe your face on your bleached shirt, and hoist yourself up. You take stock of your body’s condition. The skin that was once pale and pinkish and peeling has given way to a healthy crust of golden brown, splattered with darker yet freckles. The once chestnut hair on your head is golden and splitting and in desperate need of a trim. You gather it off your neck and fan the exposed, lighter skin. You turn and lay a hand on the cracked and faded blue paint of the door frame behind you. Cautiously, you step a booted foot over the door frame and into the dim and dusty remains of a tea shop.

Lifting your sunglasses up onto your head, they sweep away fly away strands of hair, and allows your eyes to adjust to the darker interior. “Hello?!” you call out, knowing nothing will answer.

But something does.

A tall stack of wooden crates that held long-forgotten china dishes topples to the floor, the shiny porcelain, covering the hardwood floors like a think blanket. You brandish your pistol, but freeze at the sight in front of you. A man – at least that’s what you think it is – hangs from a rope around his neck, his toes pointed towards the ground in the hopes that he might one day reach it. The buzzing of flies assaults your ears, and they go scrambling around you, looking for more flesh to consume. You swat them away, and when the dust settles, most of the flies have flown away, fearful. The scene in front of you slows time to a standstill, you heart pumps blood past your ears like the wartime drumbeats on the Indians. You begin to sway and sweat as the ghastly smell at least reaches your nose. You gag, unable to break your stance, as your eyes water and at your stomach’s protests, you step closer before becoming overwhelmed and retching out a nearby window. Luckily, your measly breakfast does not allow this to last long. You tear a faded plum curtain apart and hold it against your nose, but even that smells faintly of death and rotting corpse. The hanged human in front of you has been picked apart by ravaged flies. The bones in the fingers and face clearly visible, with hanging muscles and tissue exposed where the rags held in place by thread bare stitching cannot conceal. The slack jaw hangs open in an eternal scream of agony. The black pits where eyes once were – these were probably the first to go – stare back into yours. The hole where the nose should be was home to a festering pile of white maggots, crawling over one another for their own space and food. You step closer to see if there’s anything around him – or her—to indicate anything about their death or the town’s emptiness.

“Help me.”

You almost don’t hear it, but a small whisper of wind across your cheeks, pungent with the putrid smell of corpse calls to you. You look up into the empty eyes of the hanged man. You could have sworn you see a hand swing, but brush it off as returning fly activity with unfinished fly business. You turn once more away, itching to leave this wretched little shop of horrors after finding nothing of use when bony fingers lace around your wrist.

At first, you can’t move and the only thing you feel are those cold fingers clutching the tanned skin on your wrist. Thump thump thump… goes the rhythm of your body. Like a sharp blade in the small shop, a scream rips its way out of your throat and echoes a million times off the wooden boards. It disrupts the dust and shakes the glass windows. Your wrist now devoid of the icy grip, as you tear it away from the dead hand. In a flash, you have the pistol pulled, cocked, and aimed at the body. The thing was ghastly. Blue and paled skin clinging to the parchment colored bones in the great ugly head of the man. Dried blood caked around the eyes and mouth, several layers deep. There was only one arm attached, the other had been tied up above its head and had decayed off the torso. Unseeing eyes burned right into yours. The translucent lips mouthed “Help me” once more before going slack. A whisper of a final breath escaped those doomed lungs before the head sunk against it’s chest, eyes shutting a fraction of an inch. Seconds, or perhaps minutes, passed before you lowered the gun. You don’t put it back quite yet, but rather kick open a few boxes looking for useful supplies. Food. Water. Ammo. Clothing. Nothing to be found. After searching box after box, you kick over a china cabinet in frustration and walk outside. The fresh air overwhelms your foggy brain and you double over, and heave into the dirt.

After the choking subsides, you wash your mouth out with water and spit it down by your boots. Kicking dust over the darkened dust, you holster the gun, lift the canteen and backpack and walk down towards the center of town. It’s been eight months since things went wrong. You think about the memories, the people, your life. Your lover was most likely dead. Or one of them. The empty killing machines responsible for this. They were even worse than the living casualties that would rip a man’s face off on sight. Protecting your family and those closest to you had been the biggest challenge of it all. Of your life. Eventually, you were not strong enough and they too succumbed. But not you. The Immune. You were one of the only ones who were unable to be affected by it. Those others who were immune had either been captured or joined the Orchestrators in their killing spree. You lower your head and close your eyes. Tears and emotions and loss and hurt well up in your heart and threaten to crawl down your face. You don’t allow this to happen. You open your eyes and look at your shoes. Your face rises slowly and looks up, a steely expression stuck over your face. No more regrets. No more sadness. No more pity or mercy.

Movement to the left startled you out of your thoughts. In a split second your weapon was in your hands, at eye level. One of those Living Casualties was devouring an overturned trash bin. Eyes locked, your fingers tightened around the trigger. Just as you’re about to press on it to end the miserable dead’s life, it dropped face first into its meal, black blood pouring from it’s wound. You spin around quickly to confront the one who stole your shot. But there is no one there. Your eyes and shot stay fixated on the point where the shot came from, waiting for the shooter to stick their head out from behind the building. Minutes pass and no one is seen again. You lower your weapon, but cautiously and continue walking on towards the town center.

A sad and broken oak door lies in a heap of splintered, bloodied wood near the entrance. You pick up the rock slab and push it aside. Once safely in the building, you move the slab back in it’s place and place a metal chair against it, just in case. Going through city hall, you set down and hang up your array of weapons and food cases out of the rucksack seated on your back. Swinging it heavily over your shoulder and slamming it onto the floor leaves the room with an air of finality. Relieved to have the pack off your back, you stand and stretch out stiff muscles and crack various joints. Once loosened up, you unload the rest of your protective clothing and survival gear onto a single wooden table, but leave the trusted pistol in its holster. Running tan hands through your tangled and sweaty hair, a sigh escaped your lips and dust dances along the stairs with every step. You enter up the rotten wood stairs and push the door in front of you open with your dusty and cracked hands.

“I thought you’d never make it.”

A man in a brown hat sits at the desk, his feet propped up on it. His guns and weapons laying in a neat pile near the bunk beds in the back of the large room. “Goodness knows I ran into some trouble getting here.” You respond, lightly. “I saw that, and had I not been there, you would have been undead meat.” He bites down on the toothpick in his mouth and stands up to embrace you. As his comforting arms around you, you finally feel at home. In a place you never knew about a year ago, in a world you had only read horror stories about. In these arms, the infection never got out, no one ever contracted it, and your family is still alive, seated in Christmas sweaters around the tree in your living room. You miss it. The old familiarity. This old former city hall and your dad are your home now. Those crazy infected humans out there are you enemies. But not now. The only thing that matters in this moment is the musky smell of sweat and Dad.


In this moment the only thing you can think of is home.