Warehouse ~ A Michael Clifford/ Zombie Apocalypse Fan-Fiction

Zombies Can't Pull Triggers.

Avery Rae:     The setting sun casts shadows across the pavement as I cross what was once Michigan Avenue.  My movements are brisk and silent as I walk on the balls of my feet, chasing daylight. I've been walking towards the outskirts of Chicago for hours and if I don't find a secure place to sleep before dark, I'll have to spend the night running. A cool breeze eases the exhaustion as summer makes its transition into autum. I gave up hope of keeping track of the date, but I know it has to be late August or early September. 

     Could it really only have been 6 months since this all happened? Since silence has become the norm? My pack weighs me down and fatigue sets in as I think of my bed back home. I stop walking as the crushing feeling takes over. There is no home. I shudder as tears prick my eyes, but shake it off as I continue to move. My bag isn't too heavy, considering all I have in it are the things I had with me that day...and some things I've stolen. But is it really stealing when the person who owns it is a rotting pile of meat?

     I take a mental inventory as I head towards a strip of seemingly empty buildings and distribution warehouses. I brought with me 3 shirts, a black tank top, a pair of running shoes. 2 pistols (plus the one in my hand) with 6 boxes of ammo (one box missing 4 bullets). 2 pairs of jeans, a pair of basketball shorts, and some sweats. And then some canned food.

     Not too heavy at all, but it seems to weigh more the farther I go. I approach the nearest warehouse, looking up as it stretches out before me. Wind makes the metal fencing creak and moan in the breeze. I take a deep breath before crouching down low and ducking under the partially open garage door. Immediately, I pop up, pressing my back against the cold cement wall, loaded pistol pointed in front of me. The light dances with the shadows across chains hanging from the ceiling,  over random sheets of metal and cardboard boxes.

      The tip of my gun sweeps the large space, leaving no corner unchecked. I lower it slightly as I jog forward silently, ducking through a doorway on the other side. I repeat my sweep in this new, larger space.  The room is at least 30 yards square, cement floors and walls taking up the dark expanse. I stick to the wall,  back pressed up against the cool stone. I feel my black tank top ride up my back, exposing the skin to the cold wall. Boxes and boxes of unknown product fill the middle of the room. My gut tells me to stick to the wall as I eye the potential food sources. There are too many doors in this room for my liking; too many places for the undead to jump me, or perhaps just a crazed human, looking to take whatever I own.

      I slide along the wall, stomach growling as I make my way to the other end of the room.  The doors on my side of the room lead to outside, being a possible escape route. The doors on the other side of the room, however, have darkened windows, leading further into the abandoned warehouse. Do I try to look through the boxes, risking letting my guard down? Or do I keep forward, searching the rest of the building? A single door at the end of the room leads to a staircase, which leads to the roof. Another possible escape.

     This is what life consists of, nowadays. Possible escape routes, split decisions, and the anxiety of not making it to another day of escaping and decision making. Sometimes I question why I spend day after day running, when there is no real life to continue living. What am I trying to save? What am I chasing? The ultimate goal is to stay alive, but for what? I always dreamed of going to college with my best friend, getting a degree, and starting a family. As far as I'm concerned,  my best friend is dead and gone. There is no education in this life, except learning what keeps you alive, as opposed to what will get you murdered. I would kill myself with my favorite pistol rather than even think of starting a family in this world.  Everything I ever dreamed of was torn away from me and now I'm left fighting for a life that means nothing. What? Do I make it just to say I survived? Then continue living, hating every second in this world that's been torn to shreds by it's careless inhabitants?