DESOLATION.

prologue

𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒; 𝑚𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑒

   It's hot.

   The sky is blindingly hot when he left the abandoned electronic shop, stacks of walkie-talkies placed in his palm. His vision blurred for a moment, adjusting to the sudden shift in lighting from the shop's previous dark setting.

   Blinking a couple of times, he let out a small exhale through his nose, back hurting from his former crouched position in search of useful phones or walkie-talkies he might be able to use to contact anybody that may still be alive. Surely, at least someone out there is also thinking the same thing. Maybe even remnants of broken governments or military facilities are still out there looking for possible survivors.

   Within a minute, sweat has already started to accumulate on his forehead and back, his dark clothes doing him no justice. Shaking the thought away, he ignores the obvious discomfort. It'll be colder by night anyways.

   Glancing around him, he wets his dry lips, getting ready to start his trek back to his temporary base. Although for months now there had been no huge threat, it's still safer to be somewhere within four walls.

   His footsteps are light against the concrete, his posture loose but still wary of whatever may come. Despite the fact it's been almost a year since he's seen actual people, his trust issues overpowers his awe.

   It has been exactly one year, four months and fifteen days since the outbreak. 

   It was a fiasco; within a day, half the world has gone to shit. News reports had only managed to alert the public about the virus before they too suffered with the sudden cut-out of television signals. By now, every government of civil shows are probably ruined to the ground. There were no news from the government days later, and only one sliver of hope managed to rain down on the remaining survivors who turned on the radio.

   It was some man by the name of Keechie. He brought daily updates he's managed to scavenged among the ruins of every military intel he could get his hands on, but the moment he started spouting about a prophet, the boy just cut off completely with the hopeless cuckoo. And here he thought that nut job could've been useful. 

    But he's used to such disappointments now. The moment he stepped foot inside that orphanage, he was meant for it. If you could even call it an orphanage. 

   He couldn't help the bitter scoff that left his lips as he continue to traverse the ruined highway with crashed cars and rotting bodies that continue to litter the ground. The sight does not make his stomach churn, nor does he pay much attention to it. There are much worse things that he, himself had been through that he continues to carry within the palms of his hands. Anything just so he could survive.

   The world is unforgiving, nor is it merciful. If he isn't too careful, it'd be his head sticking through the crevices somewhere. It's already bad enough that there are flesh-eating monsters running through every direction, but it managed to get worse with the man-made organizations and secret government associations that work behind the shadows to bring more chaos and ruin to what's already desolate.

   He didn't know which is worse between humans or the Runners.

   One of the things that Keechie had been useful for was the his identification of the Runners. They're zombies; simple. But they're also afraid of the heat. He thought they were just afraid of the sun, but when winter came by, even by daylight they continue to roam. He still remembers the tremor in Keechie's voice upon the discovery.