Generation: Apocolypse

Chapter 1 - Toby

God has made many bad decisions in the past four years.

Now, I'm not sure who God is or why we blame everything on him; but that's what Andy always says when I ask her why we need to keep running from these things and where they even came from in the first place.

And that's what I'm repeating to myself as the cold metal of a shotgun is placed against the back of my head. Because if there's some big guy in the clouds like Andy says, then it's his fault that I've survived this long, and it's his fault if I die today. 

"Put yer' hands up kid" the man behind me growls, as I feel the metal start to dig into my skin. My hands grip the knife in front of me tightly, my knuckles pressed hard against the brick wall, skin breaking against it as I run my hand down, tucking the knife into my belt. My bloodied hands raise into the air, and I'm left defenseless, at the mercy of the man behind me. 

Where's Andy?

"Alright, fine. Turn around, slowly. Or I'll blow yer little peanut brain out of yer damned head" the man says, moving back and giving me room to push off the wall and turn around. 

Come on Andy, I need you now. 

"What have you got, kid?" he asks, letting the gun fall slack at his side, hanging from a leather strap around his neck and shoulder. I don't answer as he looks me up and down for a moment. My pack is back with Andy, luckily enough, so the only thing that I have of any value is the long hunting knife, tucked into the front of my belt, and hidden by one of Andy's old sweatshirts. The only thing protecting me from the cool weather around us.

"Give me that" the man demands, pointing to the once Navy Blue sweatshirt that's far too big on me. I don't answer, but don't break eye contact as I pull it off, taking the knife out as I do, sticking it through one of the arms. The man tries to grab it from me and I lurch forward, the knife finding its home between his ribs. "AH! YOU SON OF A..." I pull the knife from the sweatshirt and his chest, ducking out of the way of the falling man.

He lands on his hands in knees, holding his side as he stumbles to his feet. I duck out of the way again as he brings out the gun, swinging it around like a bat. If I didn't know any better, I would think he's one of the infected. But no infected would have the brain power to carry a weapon around with them; and no infected feels pain. 

A groan from behind me informs me that the man is being a little too loud.  I don't need to turn to figure out that at least three infected are behind me, probably looking to take a big bite out of one of my now exposed arms. I duck to the side, throwing myself up and over the destroyed side of the brick wall, grabbing the edge and swinging myself around to the other side. Knife still in hand, I scramble up the wall, watching the scene below as the infected try to figure out where I am. 

The man with the gun swings furiously at them for a few moments, sending on flying into the brick wall. Unfortunately for him, the wound at his side became too much to handle. I jump down from the wall, scrambling to get away from there as fast as I can as the man is devoured by the hungry infected. 

That probably wasn't a good idea. If I'd been a bit faster I could have stabbed the man again and won myself a gun. However, going up against a group of infected is never a good idea, even with a loaded weapon. The shots would have informed others... both humans and infected. Three of them and a crazy man are enough. But bringing an entire army would be a suicide attempt and a genocide. 

I crawl through the broken window of a house that's long since been abandoned. One of the walls is blown out, and the rest looks charred; but I find my way into what I think was once a closet, stuffing myself under a pile of clothes and breathing hard. My bloodied knuckles have begun to sting, and I rub one of them down with what I think is a very long shirt. The stinging continues, of course, but after what feels like a few minutes and might actually be hours, I make my way to my feet.