Remains.
That's all that's left. Remains of lives. Remains of homes. Remains of, bodies. Bodies that lay on the streets and pavements, swimming in pools of dark crimson blood. They lay their, sort of sort of inside out, with intestines decorating their corpses.
Pools of blood
Dotted around the city like an infection.
The splattered blood that sprayed up the walls made a canvases of people. Bloody foot prints left by the dead haunted the streets, leaving a bold reminder of what life used to be. Before the dead came.
Everyday is a constant bet.
How long will we survive? Who's the first to die today? The questions bombard your head, you can't stop how they, terrorise your mind. When they
enter, they don't leave.
They won't leave. The ghostly images haunt the corners of your mind. The people you once knew, even for only a day, stand closely in the corners of your eye, that the poisons don't blind or silence or but the emotions at bay. Even though the ghostly figures, the voices and the
dead walk with us.
We walk alone.
Just like the others, the other that have survived. The others that still played the betting game. The others that 'live' to find the greater good.
The other that grip onto the last string with all their
weight.
The ones that can go on, without even blinking when they watch their groups members being killed off one by one, each death just
as sad and sorrowful as the next.
You see,
We're not all that different. We live the same lives, hold onto that last line of hope, all survive the same way. Eventually will die the same way. We survive in groups, rely on each
Other.
But. We are alone.
