Micah never seemed to let go of his revolves nowadays, at least one of the pair always in his hands. You could understand why, of course — the zombie apocalypse would put paranoia into anyone.

But he was being too paranoid nowadays. Nowadays he hardly, if ever, slept; bags heavy under his bloodshot eyes. His hair was matting, skin dirty. He was rotting in his own skin just like those undead bastards roaming the land outside — the only difference being that he was still living.

Micah was sitting at the front door, now. Glancing out of the window every few seconds, finger resting tensely over his gun’s trigger. He didn't even seem to notice when you’d pulled up a chair beside him and sat down.