A State of Survival

Sarge I

This day's definitely been the most ordinary one yet, Joe thought as he strolled down the barren streets of Oxnard, still gripping his M4 carbine near his chest. His white T-shirt, dirtied with mud and blood, was soaking with sweat, and his bulky brown trousers weren't feeling any more comfortable. Just two weeks prior up in Vegas, he had found himself trapped within his previous base by over a hundred infected, and had only survived by forcing them all to clump into a narrow hallway and slaughter them to a man. Or corpse, he assumed the term should go.
Another time, all the way back when the apocalypse just began over two months ago, Joe almost had his head caved in when a stampede of people trampled over him and each other as they ran from a massive surge of infected charging at them.
Just three days ago, he had just barely escaped a skirmish with a group of hostile survivors, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets and using his newly crafted pipe bomb to deter them without bloodshed.

But today, as he walked through the abandoned streets of Oxnard, it seemed like an entirely different world from what he had experienced the past two months. The sun's rays cast a gentle warmth on his face in the sunrise, and the cool breeze soughed through the deserted alleyways. There was an ethereal peace that had settled over the town. It was as if the world wanted a small break from the chaos and calamity that accompanied the post-apocalyptic world. Joe hadn't seen such eerie beauty in a long time, and the discharged veteran couldn't help but be lost in momentary admiration.
He sat down by the cracking sidewalk, examining the numerous roadblocks placed by police and military forces; the warning signs, and the barbed wire that surrounded the place to keep infected in and civilians out. All were abandoned as the undead inevitably overran the place.

And yet, despite Joe knowing that Oxnard had been home to more than 200,000 people pre-outbreak and that evacuating all of them to a military or GigaCorp safehouse was about as likely as him getting reenlisted into the military after getting dishonorably discharged for smuggling, the place was completely devoid of any life. There was no sign of survivors as far as he could see (which wasn't very far at all given the sheer number of houses blocking his vision), but no infected either. Despite this, there were no signs of military equipment lying around. Someone had to have come here to take it.
As Joe sat there, taking in the surreal tranquility of the moment, he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the now ghost town of Oxnard. It was a stark contrast to the chaos he had been through these past few months. Yet, despite that, it still felt the same in many ways.

Joe had been through risk before when he had served the Marines in Afghanistan and Iraq. He had known plenty of misery when he had been detained for bootlegging and got dishonorably discharged, all in a vain attempt to save his beautiful yet seriously ill daughter Sarah. When he saw her with her lovely little pixie cut of black hair, and those gorgeous sea-green eyes piercing into his brown, anything was worth it. She was his entire world, and he had failed to save her from the shadow that was leukemia. Instead, he had found himself in a desk job as a travel agent, without his wife, daughter, or anyone that cared about him. The employees there gave him the nickname "Sarge," as if he wasn't miserable enough in the present already. He had destroyed his life years before the apocalypse broke out, and he now lived in a world where he was the only one looking out for himself. Joe remembered all of those zombie apocalypse movies he had watched as a kid, lone heroes mowing down wave after wave of brainless corpses with a mighty orchestral score in the background. He didn't remember a single movie that had shown the main characters feel the ice-cold despair of an emptiness that came along with being alone.

He stood up, deciding to continue exploring the empty streets. Even if the place looked deserted, Joe wasn't giving up hope that there was someone else. Someone out there in town, rummaging for the limited supplies of the barren wasteland. There was always at least a small group of survivors in large towns or cities like Oxnard. He kept his guard up, remaining cautious despite the apparent calmness. He had learned the hard way that danger could lurk around any corner, even in the most unexpected places. The disgraced sergeant glanced around a neighborhood corner, listening for even the smallest sounds. Nothing. He checked behind three more houses up the road, still hearing no signs of sentient or infected life.
As he cautiously moved forward, a sudden noise caught Joe's attention. It was faint, almost imperceptible at first, but it grew louder with each step he took. At first, he dismissed it as the wind playing tricks on his ears, but as the sound intensified, he could not ignore it any longer.
Footsteps. Light, cautious footsteps that could only be heard in short moments, as if the thing they belonged to was checking something, but still footsteps nonetheless. As he listened more intently, he seemed to pick up a slight panting sound; the breaths sounded way too short and tight for it to be human. Most likely a dog. If it was a canine, the other footsteps he had followed before were probably linked to a human. Joe knew a dog would be attacking the infected, not walking beside them. He had seen that many times in Western California. Still...