It was a summer of love at Little Brook, a quiet village full of normal people, a town where nothing bad happens. But it is different tonight for Jack as his boyfriend Michael had just disappeared at the stroke of midnight.
From bad to worse, a zom...
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Seven months before the Outbreak.
The snow powdered the streets of Faircomb. It veiled its asphalt with a flawless coat of fur. In one of its rustic brick houses, the Christmas decorations were for once set all over it. Inside, the rattle of the fireplace and the sizzle of the lurid rainbow lights were the unique sounds to be heard. Around a table, Jack brushed his blond hair. He avoided the gaze of the older man sat in front of him. The latter leaned forward with his elbows still on the snowman themed cloth. Between the two of them, Michael shifted his stare, as he tapped his fingers on the table with a smile. Finally, as Michael rubbed Jack's right hand with tenderness, the silence was broken.
"Hmm, dad. Well, "Jack sighed. "I-I am... gay," Jack said with a small voice, his gaze feeble.
Michael turned his attention to Jack's father. The latter jutted his chin, as sweat dropped on his son's forehead. Suddenly, a burst of laughter erupted from him as he hugged Jack.
"I thought you would never tell me!" he shouted with a relieved tone.
Michael watched the scene. He had on the innocent smile of a baby crocodile.
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One month after the Outbreak.
In a dark alley, Michael shook his left leg. He tried to get rid of the sticky intestine part on his shoe. With groans, he rubbed it on a nearby wall. It squished and left a red trail on it. Satisfied, he stripped himself of his clothes and dropped his backpack on the ground. Out of it, he grabbed a bottle of water and poured it all over him. Then, he picked a syringe out and injected himself with the dark crimson liquid. Soon, the black veins on him disappeared with his mutated appendages. It veneered him to a healthier complexion.
His slitted eyes caught his reflection in a window, and looked at his lean and fawn-tinted body. After he walked closer to it, he scrutinized his face and washed it with a towel. Before the virus struck the town, he was used to conceal and retouch his appearance with makeup, to peel one skin to another for his audience. Even if no blood remained on his feminine features, he continued to admire his face. He smiled before he grabbed clothes out of his bag, the ones he wore before he left the hospital. The stage, the curtain, the act. Michael knew how to adapt to the costume he wore.
