Sʜᴇ Bɪᴛᴇs Bᴀᴄᴋ, Zᴏᴍʙɪᴇ || Zᴏᴍʙɪᴇᴇ Aᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ ||

ミ★

☾ ☀︎︎ ☽

The volcanic gray smoke filled the air above the building's height, dancing along the once clear beautiful blue sky where birds used to freely fly. Billowing plumes were darkened with a sooty black, contaminating the air without a hint of remorse. The haunting streets of the lurking deceased shadows around the corners and abandoned cars collecting dust over the top, trapped between vines latching onto it. Such tedious creatures shouldn't have been able to make it so far.

The rotten creature sluggishly walked mindlessly with its tattered features over its musty moss body. The unguided creature's arms lay limp to its sides with a finger missing with a bone peaking out; a ripped hole in its shirt where molded flesh with purple spots—igniting it beautifully—revealed its rib cage with one shattered. A bite mark served as a battle scar from once when the creature roamed around the world freely, holes digging into the skin that had eventually faded with dried mucky blood that used to be crimson. The very crimson blood that flowed within the bloodstream of the once living body.

The cause of such tragedy happened decades prior to an apocalypse rooted rampantly. Around those times were filled with glee when the world was filled with humans living blissfully among themselves. The selfish cherished greed, the homeless cherished memories, as civilians cherished hope with those blissfully unaware of the dangers that lie ahead in such a cruel, cruel world.

A power plant came to a meltdown letting chemicals flow through the soil into a nearby lake. The ones responsible for it escaped frantically, knowing the consequences of their actions. Due to their pompous behavior in disregarding to warn the public, the government and people were negligent as they continued about their activities. They lived comfortably in their little voyage until three years after when sirens flashed alarmingly causing disgruntled protests to roar. The news forced themselves into a radio, alerting all about the situation. To their dismay, the people grew callous and heeded the warning granted to them as they continued to carry on. Of course, the news continued to warn them knowing their endeavors will continue to be ignored. And so, the government abandoned the people stating: "The truth will be out and it will be too late."

And suddenly, life wasn't about living. It was about 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈.

How much the brunette would give for the world to return to the past. To go back to a time when the world was good was what the brunette longed for. Her parents had been exposed to the apocalypse and were found dead by a bullet that had dug into their skulls with their mouths hung open whilst laying limbless on the ground into a slumber where they will never be awoken. A harsh reality slapped her across her childish face when she was six. Until then, she learned to depend on herself, fend for herself, and what was most essential, how to survive by herself.

Standing sixteen, the brunette disheveled hair that seemed to be a mop that had been plopped on her head with her dull, mocha eyes. A white deep oval tank top had been layered with an olive green jacket as she felt sensitive showing her shoulders, wearing khaki chocolate pants. A white faded long ankle sock was planted with specks of mud along the sides paired up with black doc martens. Wearing a leather shoulder bag, which contained essentials prior to her survival, had been decorated generously with keychains—a bee keychain dangling from the side, a bee hive, and a daisy. A golden keychain necklace latched with a golden heart dangling was wrapped around her neck as it was her only reminder of her family, a fond reminder that led her to push herself into the wilderness.

Gazing upon the ruins in the city, The brunette's legs dangled from the rooftop with a frown tugging her lips. Her heart ached for her demise, yet her hope denied all wishes her heart longed for. How tempting the offer shined to her by the silver bat that had been wrapped in duck tape. The goal of the bat was for the enemy to stick to the duck tape while she took it upon herself to use her dagger and stab it in the head, digging it into the brain whilst ignoring the deafening shriek of a plea. Though the duck tape was highly impractical and childish, the mocha-eyed child would beg to differ with that statement.