𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 || ᴅ. ᴅɪxᴏɴ

1

Sarah's pale feet smack harshly against the cold pavement of the parking garage. The sound echos behind her, and she skids to a stop by her old, battered Ford F-150. She drops her keys, cursing as she picks them up and fumbles to fit them in the lock. A strangled yell reverberates down the line of cars, and she frantically unlocks the door as she finds the correct key. She slams the door shut, lockin it just as a bloody fist slams against her window. She screams. "You broke my nose you little bitch!!" The man yells. His hand bangs on the glass again, and she quickly wipes her nose before attempting to shove her key in the ignition. The keys fall again, and she hurriedly grabs them, sitting up. She tries to start her car calmly, before realizing the man had not yelled at her a second time. Then a hand grabs a handful of her hair through the back window.

"Let me go you dickwad!" she yelps. The man brings her head back into the glass, and she grimaces. With a swift motion of her foot, she presses down on the accelerator as she throws the car in reverse. The man stumbles, pulling her hair as he tries to remain upright. She winces, making a wide angle as she whips around, the man stumbling over the side of the truck. Even over the roar of the engine she hears the crack of his head as he hits the asphalt. She tears out of the parking garage, onto the streets of outer Atlanta.

When she returns, the man's body is gone, and only a trail of blood leading to under a nearby car remains. She makes a wide berth around the car, her bare feet once again pattering through the silence. She enters the stairwell, going one floor up and down the hall, where her apartment door lies open. She shuts the door behind her as she stumbles to the couch, the realization of what she did finally setting in. She rubs her shaking hands over her sweaty face, before dropping them to her lap.

"Oh my God. I've killed my boyfriend." she whispers, biting her lip and turning on the TV for some background noise. She moves to lay down, but pauses, turning up the volume from a semi-peaceful murmur to a frantic chatter.

"They are asking that you stay inside. The CDC says they know whats going on. But we all know that's bullshit." The woman onscreen is no older than Sarah, maybe her early to mid thirties. Her black hair is matted with oil and grime, her face is smeared with soot, and her purple blazer and skirt are shredded, her feet bare. In one hand she holds her microphone, the other a small, sharp pole. Sarah leans forward, watching as the young news anchor swings the pole at a man who approaches her, and she swiftly impales the man's eye. Sarah's throat closes, and she quickly suppresses the urge to vomit. The camera shakes, then drops, the lens pointing at a young man with brown hair who has a woman on top of him. At first glance, Sarah thinks the woman is kissing him, until he lets out a garbled scream and the woman's head rears up, a chunk of the man's throat between her teeth.

"Diego!" the cry comes from behind the camera. The woman appears, picking up the camera and racing for the news van. She hops in, balancing the camera on the dashboard before speeding away from the carnage behind her.

"This is what Atlanta looks like! The inner city is going to fall if we don't get help soon. Go for the head! Don't get bit! And remember-" The woman's voice cuts off as she swerves to avoid a man in the street, and she crashes into a wall, the camera catching every second of her flying though the windshield and smashing face first into the bricks. A swarm of the things descend upon her and Sarah watches them rip into her before a foot knocks the camera to the floor of the van.

Sarah turns the TV off, running her hands through her hair as she stands up. "Ok Sarah. Think." She rifles through a drawer, yanking out a map and taking the cap off a pen with her teeth. She circles three things, and three things only. She grabs her boots, pulling them on and throwing on her cargo jacket over her thin t-shirt. She quickly throws half the contents of her underwear drawer in the bag from her military days, adding some jeans, tank tops, t-shirts and turtlenecks. On top she drops her badge and ID, then slips her bayonet on her belt.

Her first stop involves taking a baseball bat from a nearby corpse and burying it in one of the creatures skulls. She gags at the squelch that seemingly blares across the empty lot, pulling the wood free. Her hands grip tighter as she walks up the steps, pulling open the door of the Ace Hardware. The checkout desk is empty, the small fan on the counter attempting (and failing) to fend off the crushing Georgia heat. Sarah steps over an overturned rack, mentally cursing as the toe of her cowboy boot sends a small wrench sliding across the floor. She waits, heart in her throat, for the telltale groan of one of the things. Her breathing slowly returns to normal as she quickly approaches the back of the store, grabbing small things and shoving them in her large backpack. Just the essentials,  she reminds herself, dropping a multitool on top of her clothes, followed two rolls of duct tape and a pack of matches. She quickly zips up the bag, slinging it over her shoulder. A quick glance to her left, and she laughs dryly, picking up the large axe hanging on the wall, among other yard tools. 

"Oh yeah." she chuckles, sliding it through a small sheath on her backpack. She adjusts her flashlight, the small beam catching dust motes as she she forces open the door of the connecting garage. The body that slumps at her feet is larger, the beard and lower face recognizable even though from the sinuses up is blown to hell and beyond. She sighs sadly, grabbing the .30-30 from the man's meaty hand and turning the safety on before shoving it down the back of her pants. She lowers her jacket over it, frowning at the body. 

"Oh Louie. Ye' deserved so much better man." she says, closing the door and grabbing a gas can, which she identifies as around half full after a quick shake. She pulls up the garage door, exiting through it and dropping the gas can in the back of her truck. After scanning the garage, she grabs a toolbox, sliding it in next to the gas can, then grabs the ancient looking hunting rifle from over the desk.

"Damn. Looks older than grandpa Samuel." she mutters, referencing the ornery, 93 year old veteran who always seemed to have a reason to have a drink, special occasion or not. She swings her bag around, pushing it to the passenger side of her truck and putting the rifle on the floor by it. She rifles through the desk drawer, grabbing two boxes of shells, one full one for the rifle and a half full one for the .30-30. She bites her lip at the small amount, a mere 45 count in total. She hides them away under her seat, scanning the room one last time before lowering the heavy metal door.

Fifteen minutes later, her feet connect with the pavement as she lowers herself from her truck, the creaky, rusty metal door slamming shut even as she tries to do so gently. She grimaces, ducking into the building and gagging. The smell of smoke fills, her lungs, and she knows she only has minutes before what she seeks is lost to the fire. She scurries to the back of the store, crawling over the counter and searching through the prescriptions, worriedly biting her lip and grunting in frustration. She glares at the floor, before ducking into the storage room. She grins triumphantly, grabbing a bag and pushing the entire shelf's worth of product into her bag. She bends down, her hand clenching around the box. She brings it up to her eyes, the familiar label that haunted her childhood flashing in front of her.

Albuterol Sulfate: Contains One Inhaler