Last Hours

Resolute

My arm's still bleeding. Zombie bites never seem to fully heal. I've bandaged it as much as I can, but I'll probably die of blood loss before the infection sets in fully. It doesn't matter. I know my time is short, but I'll make it count.

During my years in the wasteland that was once a living and vibrant world, I've found many concentrations of zombies. A friend of mine, Jake, called them nests, places where the undead seemed to gather in greater numbers. We never did find out why. It doesn't matter. Jake died this year, or was it the one before? I don't remember. I've lost so many, and the days have hopelessly blurred together in my mind.

Gave the rest of my supplies and gear to the small band of survivors I joined up with outside Phoenix. They'll have more use for it than I will. The pain in my arm is just a dull throbbing now, but the numbness seems to be spreading, working its way down into my fingers and up across my shoulder. By the rate of its progression, I should have an hour or two left, more than enough time to make a difference.

I'm heading toward one of the nests. When I get there, I'll kill every zombie I can find. They won't fight back because they don't attack their own, and I've seen them ignore the infected. To be certain I'll never turn those I care about, I've strapped a bomb to my chest with a timer. I reset the timer every fifteen minutes or so. When the infection spreads to the point I lose the presence of mind to reset it again, I'll die knowing I will never harm a living soul.

I'm going to die. There isn't any other way to look at it. If my mission is successful, fewer zombies will be left in this world, including me. A victory of a sort.

Feeling satisfied, I reset my timer, chamber a round in my rifle, and make sure my sword is strapped securely to my back. With hope for the friends I leave behind, I march forward into the zombie horde to do my final work and make the world safer for the survivors of humanity.