The zombie game

chapter 8

It was night when Joe awoke again. He was scared. He felt for his leg, which had been cut. He only felt dried blood that had somewhat encased his leg. He could no longer move it. He just laid there in complete darkness, wondering if he would ever get better, wondering what the world had deserved to be apart of this. He crawled forward. His leg was no longer in pain, but he felt as if he were wearing a cast, the dried blood so heavy against his wound. He crawled forward along the floor. He had to get back outside, had to look for someone, anyone, who could assist him and help him in any way. But he knew that everyone was gone—that they had either been killed by the soldiers, by the zombies, or captured by the military and locked in FEMA camps. He crawled to the window and slowly hoisted himself onto the windowsill, looking out the window, and seeing an occasional zombie traipsing along the abandoned streets. Joe suddenly was looking at what the way of life of this world had now become; people fighting and killing each other for useless goods, looting, martial law being declared on the streets in every major city in the United States stripping everyone of their rights, as well as the sick people, the zombies, that were now ruling the cities, killing and stripping human flesh.

He sat back down and started to cry. His family had been killed—his entire damn family—and he was all alone in this world. Sure he had hated his parents from the beginning, but when he had seen their dead and bloody bodies, he couldn't quite fathom what had happened to him. He kept remembering the bodies of his parents slumped over, fresh blood soaking their throats, and then his memories drifted to not that long ago, when he had fought a whole horde of zombies that had killed most of the soldiers in the base.

Tears were streaming down his sullen face. He was aching all over and smeared in dirt. Dried blood encrusted his leg like a cast. All hope seemed lost to him. Why am I even still living? He thought. He looked at the body of the man he had killed. And he just sat there, quite quiet and sullen. He was going to get out of here soon he knew—

Suddenly he heard a noise coming from downstairs. He clambered up and grabbed his gun. He heard silent breathing and footsteps along the wood floor, but so far he hadn't seen anybody, nor did he have any sort of thought that this man might be dangerous. But you never really know. He stayed crouching at the foot of the stairs, and as he the man approached, he refrained from pouncing since he didn't know who it might be and whether or not the person—whoever he was—might be a danger. A face came into view and he aimed his machine gun at the man. The man was unarmed, probably in his thirites, with stubble dotting his chin and ripped and torn clothes. It became clear to Joe that this man had been in a struggle with someone or something and he had escaped something, presumably one of the FEMA camps, which Joe hadn't seen, but he had heard of, and he had no clue how someone could eve escape one of those places without being found and shot.

“Who are you?” demanded Joe. He pulled the hammer back on his machine gun and waited.

“I am a friend...” said the man, his hands up in the air. “Please—don't shoot. I was only looking for a place to stay.”

“How am I supposed to know you are a friend?” asked Joe.

“Because,” replied the man, “if I wasn't a friend, you would've been dead by now. My name is Ken.” He raised his hand in a gesture of kindness. Joe looked at him uneasily.

“I don't know who you are and whether to trust you. Show me all the things you have in your pockets, and then may I will trust you.” Ken rummaged through his pockets, taking out a few things that weren't harmful. Then he stopped.

“That's all I have,” he said.

“You don't have any weapons?” asked Joe.

“No.”