Destination Zero

DESTIN DAY TWO

"Eh...," Marty groaned, his consciousness returning. He opened his eyes and looked around, seeing the sunlight blasting through the windows. All around he saw water, blood, glass, and zombie corpses. A zombie hadn't stumbled onto his broken form by some miracle of God...

He tried to stand but was again met with resistance, just like he was the night prior. The swelling of his ankle had gone down but it still pounded with pain... If it wasn't broken, it was at least badly sprained. How could he get up feeling all this pain?

He got an idea. He reached into his pockets, emptying its contents on the floor. Inside there were two joints left...

If he were to smoke one, it would relieve his pain, but also compromise his senses... Yet if he stayed here, on the ground, there was no chance of survival. He lifted one of the cigarettes to his mouth and reached for the lighter...

... which was still where he had fallen last night. He could see it, the light gleaming off its silver casing...

He rolled onto his stomach, agonizingly crawling around the shelves. There was no way he was going back through those pieces of glass. He crawled until he was in reach of the lighter, rolling onto his back and lighting the cigarette up. He smoked it for five minutes, feeling his pain slowly diminish.

Feeling a bit better, he sat up on his butt. He shook his ankle, feeling only a little pinch. He used the shelves around him to lift himself onto his good foot and balance himself, hopping over to the corner of the store, where large ornamental walking sticks were piled in a container. He grabbed one, using it to take some weight off his ankle.

Using the walking stick, he limped over to the dressing room, where Luke was laying on the ground. His hands and feet were still tied and he looked pretty beaten up, probably by being smothered by the feet of a dozen zombies.

He painfully knelt next to him, feeling his neck. The pulse still remained. He stood up with a grunt and gazed at his younger brother. The skin was peeling from his forehead and his teeth were beginning to rot...

Marty suddenly felt sick. He stumbled out of the dressing room, gagging and heaving, but nothing came up. He gagged again, this one lasting several seconds. He took multiple deep breaths, trying to think of anything else than the thoughts that plagued his mind...

He felt weak. Sick. And... hungry. Although the thought of food repulsed him, his stomach still ached with emptiness. He hadn't eaten in... He looked at his watch, which read 10:48. He hadn't eaten anything substantial in almost 24 hours and he could feel it. He needed food, but he wouldn't make it five minutes outside...

Marty grabbed two souvenir knives and a roll of duct tape. He laid out the walking stick and pulled out the blades, taping the knives to the top of it. Now he had a walking device... and a weapon.

He also put on a fresh Destin shirt and shorts, finally changing out of his trunks. Putting them on was a trouble, but he managed.

He peeked outside, surprised to see that no zombies were around. He took some slow steps outside, finding out why. All around were zombie corpses, riddled with bullets. It must've been the chopper that had nearly killed him last night. Some zombies were eating the dead ones...

He kept his gaze forward and tried to remain as small as possible. Finally, he reached a grocery store. The glass was already broken and most of the interior had been raided.

"I just need some food...," he muttered, walking through the aisles. He heard a small noise at the opposite side of the store. He whipped his head over, but saw nothing. That's the Mary Jane kicking in, Mike had said. Maybe it was making him delusional.