The World We Live In | 𝚃. 𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙾 ♤

Chapter 28

Troy and Cristine stood side by side, their chests heaving from the adrenaline-fueled exertion of the night's events. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the hushed whisper of the chilly wind was a haunting reminder of the undead that had once lurked nearby. During the cleanup, they moved in synchronized harmony, their movements fluid and purposeful. They cleaned their weapons with water bottles and wiped away the grime that clung to their skin.

"That was short work," Troy said while wiping his blood-splattered face with a damp cloth before looking up at the inter corpses of the infected. The surroundings painted a violent picture. His eyes slowly drifted to the fallen dead, their contorted forms painting a chilling tableau of the horror they faced at their hand. The dirt and gore underfoot marked the battleground where they had fought, a chaotic dance against the undead. Troy's lips curled into a half-smile and chuckled, "I remember the first time I killed one of these." His gaze fixed on the lifeless forms of the infected that now littered the ground. Troy's voice was filled with bizarre fascination and eerie nostalgia. "I never thought that I would witness the evolutionary threshold of mankind when the end came. My family and I were prepared for the end, but we'd never expected it to be like this."

Cristine's eyes rolled, an expression she had perfected whenever Troy's peculiar fascination with the dead uprooted out of the blue. She focused on her weapon as she meticulously wiped away the grime. Cristine still didn't fully understand his obsession, but she had learned to accept it as just another quirk of Troy. Cristine pointed at his head. "Remember that most of the theories are the work of my amazing brains, nature boy."

Troy chuckled, the sound a strange mixture of amusement and something deeper, something that hinted at the darker corners of his mind. Still, he wouldn't give her all the credit. "True, but I got far when you weren't there to bump heads. You can't blame a guy for trying to understand the beauty of evolution, can you?" Troy made a final movement with his right arm, and the last visceral remains were discarded from his machete on the dirt.

Cristine shook her head, a soft sound escaping her lips. "Beauty is not a word I'd use to describe all of this," she gestured at the gruesome scene around them. "But I suppose we each have ways of coping with the madness."

Troy's gaze remained fixed on the corpses before them, his expression shifting. "It's more than just coping—this is Darwinism in action before our very eyes, Cristine."

Cristine snorted and rolled her eyes. "You would have had a field trip when the lab discovered we were all infected. It was like the professors discovered Pandora's box." She mused a faraway look in her eyes at the memory— a life of what felt like a lifetime ago.

Troy's attention shifted from the dead to Cristine; a genuine interest lit up his features. "They never knew what caused it or why?"

Cristine shook her head before looking back at him and pulled up her shoulders. "Like I said, we'll likely never know. Best to come to terms with that."

It was quiet and stretched out like the fading embers of a fire, its tendrils wrapping around Troy and Cristine in a gentle embrace. The shadows, cast by the dim light of distant stars, played upon the landscape like fleeting memories. The hushed rustling of leaves was a soft reminder of nature's persistent heartbeat, a rhythm that persisted even in the wake of destruction.

Troy's gaze remained fixed on the ground, myriad thoughts passing through his mind like wisps of smoke. The tension in his shoulders spoke of his burden, the weight of a world forever altered by forces beyond their comprehension. After a while, Troy raised his head and looked into the distance, his expression an enigmatic mask that betrayed none of the thoughts spiraling into the depths of his mind. He ran his tongue along his lips as he allowed everything to sink. The news of his father's passing was accepted calmly and could only be described as eerie. Troy's fingers, once methodically cleaning his weapon, now gripped it with a subtle force that hinted at a storm raging within him. Troy's mind, usually sharp and analytical, navigated through fragments of memories that he had buried. Flashes of a violent childhood, marked by neglect and abuse, flickered before his eyes like haunting specters. Troy remembered the isolation of being pulled out of school, the echoing halls of an empty home with people living there— of a drunken mother and equally intoxicated father who ultimately hated each other's guts—parents who hated his guts, too.