Kevin was not fit for the apocalypse.

Kevin was probably not fit for life, but here he was. Every day was a damn uphill battle, a constant struggle. He had been bad at life before the apocalypse, but this had upped his game for being bad at stuff.

He couldn’t handle the food, the disgusting taste of canned stuff. The textures. He couldn’t stand picking mould off bread.

He couldn’t handle the zombies, either, they were something else all together when it came to being revolting. They smelt, they were noisy. If you shot one their insides would go everywhere. Kevin was so bored of being covered in zombie guts. It made him wanna be sick every single time without fail.

Avoiding zombies, however was not simple. He had been camping out in a mall for the past week. There wasn’t much good food, but it was secure, and Kevin had brought his own canned stuff.

Kevin thought it was secure, anyway. He was a fool to have thought that a passerby wouldn’t let themselves in. It woke him in the night, those groaning noises. Dread settles in his stomach, he wasn’t prepared to fight. He never was.

So, of course, panic ensues.

Kevin takes his pistol in hand and tries to take out anything that comes by store cabinet he had been camping in. So so so gross. So much gore, all over him. Those clothes had been mostly clean before this.

There’s very little time to worry about the clothes when there’s a load of more zombies heading in his direction though. What the actual hell?! Of course, of course, just leave the doors wide open to every undead in the damn town to turn up!

His pistol rather quickly runs out of bullets, and his heart rate can only skyrocket, “ah… shit, shit, shit, oh shit, I’m fucked! I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die by zombies! I’d rather starve! God? Why couldn’t you have me starve to death!?”