The Remnants

The smell of rustic blood is heavy in the air and the high-pitch ringing in my ears is finally starting to fade. The 9mm and knife in my hands is held with an iron grip, making my knuckles look deathly pale white in the room.

I strain my ears to listen for any movements, since the light from the reflection of the moon is still not enough to see clearly. My heart is pumping madly with adrenaline, coursing through my veins.

The sound of footsteps stop directly before the doorway that I am facing. The gun in my hands were brought up and aimed at the door. Slowly, I took a deep breath to calm my heartbeat. After all, a steady pair of hands has a much better outcome after a shooting.

Another shot out of hundreds to come was released and another body with a bullet hole to the head, drops to the ground dead. A pair of lifeless eyes stare into my body and what is left of my corrupted soul. I release a shaky breath that I had not realise I have been holding before.

I glanced outside through the broken dirty window, and see about a dozen more people with red coloured clothing and shaved heads heading towards my general location. All of them are carrying a piece of weapon in their hands. From a nailed baseball bat all the way to a modified M4.

I count the remaining rounds that I have on me and I chambered the slide. I held onto the knife and gun like it is the only life-line I have. All I could do is try to hold on as long as I can and pray for my friends. 'It's going to be a long night,' and I was already moving for my next plan.

This is what we do now in this forsaken world. We kill, we rob, we steal and we scavenge. Rarely, and it is a very slim chance, where we show mercy upon each other.

My name is Jonathan Mark Thatcher and we are among what is left of this world. We are The Remnants.