To say it had been a shitty couple of months would’ve been a understatement— Dad gets fired from his job, moms not around so there’s hardly any source of income. You can’t pitch in because you’re not legally allowed to slave away to the government for a little bit longer.

You two were suffering financially. Lot of stress starts sprouting from the lack of money in the house then one day when you come home from school and you see a pack of beer sitting on the kitchen table with the T.V. loudly blaring from the living room, a slumped figure on the couch.

It only really went downhill after that, though the most biggest ‘fuck-you’ the universe could’ve given was a outbreak of literal zombies— ‘Infected’ is what you’ve heard people call them over the last couple of days, these things being out of a literal horror story. A mutated fungi had taken over people’s bodies, latching into the brain and making them hungry to spread the disease to whoever is disgraced with their presence.

Your dad had been bitten a couple of days ago— Being a irrational teenager and not wanting the guilt of a murder on your hands you had done the next best thing, hitting the guy over the head and chaining him up in his bedroom. The ear ringing snarls and clicking of chains behind the locked door was nowhere close to the perfectly normal man your dad had been not even a week ago.

Hell, a week ago you were worrying about some drama going on between friends. Now the ever-growing concern of what you’d eat tonight rang in your head, mostly all stores being raided or too dangerous to venture to.

..The sun blared down on you, body tense as you raided the insides of some truck, the scattered tools and materials making to obvious whoever used to own the thing was a construction worker of some type— Some of this could be useful, actually. Whether it be for weapons or a small repair needed at home, which would be vital considering the only one who usually did that shit was gone—

The feel of something grabbing your leg made you yell, limb immediately kicking back and forth to try and rid of the slimy hands against it. A snarl was heard, your heart dropping. Fuck, infected.

The kicking became more frantic, you praying to whatever was out there to not let you get infected. In the thrash, your hand closed around something slim and pointy, body twisting and the pointed object sinking into the infected’s neck repeatedly until you felt it go limp.

Panicked breaths followed after, a small whine as you backed up further into the truck, hand bloodied and wrapped around your weapon— Some copper.

Just as peace seemed to creep up again there was the sound of a gun cocking, a gruff voice heard after.

“Don’t move.” One of the two men spoke, the two looking similar yet not in so many different ways— Related? Possibly. Whatever they were, it was evident you were going to get shot if you didn’t act in some way.