Purgatory Of The Living

This was a story I wrote in my spare time in Android Notes, so please... Be gentle. (Italics mean internal dialogue and bold means external dialogue so be prepared for some "slap-dash" writing)

PROLOGUE

Where am I? I hope this is Mitcham still... Seriously, brain, where the fuck am I? It's 21hrs:23mins:43secs, another  37minutes and this area becomes a dark zone.

I am dragged from my thoughts when a voice calls out in the darkness. "Oi, mate. You got any spare change?" Yes but I'm not giving it to you. I turn around and see 3 figures, dressed in black hoodies and dark jeans. God! I hope you want the cash to buy a belt because those jeans are practically around your ankles. "Sorry "mate" but I'm Hrmm, what's a chav word for poor? Skint!" The leader of the, motley crew of, scumbags steps forward, in what he probably thinks is a menacing lean. "You focking lier. I know who you are, mate." From his pronunciation of the, very simple, word fucking I must assume he is of Liverpudlian decent, and judging by his attire I can safely say he was one of the first to break into Footlocker when the government collapsed. "Oh yeah? who am I?"

The figure steps out of the darkness... Well... I'm fucked. I know that slim face, that jagged birthmark on his eye, that fluorescent ginger hair. "You're, that cunt, Damien Walters."He sneered. "Do you know my name? You should, DW..." Your brother broke my arm, in 19 places. "Sorry, no idea." I hesitantly reply. I can't move... "Well let me remind ya..." He says, as he walks up to me. Why can't I move? "That is quite alright, I'm sure it will come to me..." I force myself to reply. Every inch of me is trying to think of a way out. Brain... Why can't I move? "Please I insist..." He is smiling, now. "Franklin Mars! Your name is Franklin Mars" I reluctantly shout. "Too late, Damie boy." He quickly grabs my arm and forces it behind my back. Fuck me! Why can't I move?

CRACK!

"ARGH! WHY CAN'T I MOVE?!" I scream at the top of my lungs, waking up in a cold sweat. Just a dream, a really bad dream...

CHAPTER 1: THAT'S NOT YOUR NAME

I realise that my hand is tightly gripping my baseball bat, which I set down on the windowsill. I look around my room, to make sure everything is in order. Alright, time to tick some boxes... Door, intact. Wardrobe, empty. Laptop, running. Camera, charging. Mysterious lemniscate-shaped bloodstain on my mirror, check. I almost give myself whiplash, doing a double take. Brain... Why is there blood on my mirror? As I move closer to the cracked reflection, I notice that the blood has drawn onto the glass with an item. Hrmm, pen or finger? Finger. Pens leave smoother strokes, this has small, warped, indents. Like a smudged fingerprint! Okay, now to whom does this blood belong? I reach for my small magnifying glass, on the small dresser attached to the mirror. The red blood cells have broken down already and the misshapen white blood cells means this the blood of an infected... Okay... That doesn't mean anything, considering everyone in Limbo is infected... Confused I run to my laptop, to check last night's security tape. I see nobody but myself. I'm tossing and turning, twitching and shaking... Everything is normal here, that means it was Annette. I check the camera outside my door. It has the view of the entire hallway up to my door... She only leaves her room once, to get a sandwich from the kitchen. Hey! That's my sandwich! No, DW! Stay focused! If it isn't me or Anne, that means...

I am forced from my thoughts when I hear two voices approaching the house, one female. Annette's. One male. Who is this, I recognise this voice...

What's all this all then? I rush downstairs