Wood rot had long taken over the church he had taken refuge in, pews and floorboards groaning in protest the moment he pressed his weight into them. The distant song of insects one he often found himself listening to, holding onto any grasp of what the world was like twenty years ago. Nature had began to take over the once sacred building, vines and grass peering through broken floorboards, leaves having compiled on certain pews. Every now and then he could hear an infected, whether it be a runner or something worse. He had only been eight years old when the world had fallen apart within a day.

His friends and family never made it.

The raven haired man cringed at the thought, smoke dancing in front of his face from the tip of his cigarette. He remembered when he’d sit with other children and the caretakers, watching kiddish zombie movies. He remembered assuring the younger children zombies weren’t real. That it was all okay, and it wasn’t anything to stress over. A bitter chuckle escaped the priest’s lips. Sure as hell was something you needed to stress over now. The busted radio sat in the first pew, occasionally crackling in communication but he couldn’t make out what they said.

Nicholas took another drag of his cigarette, having resorted to making his own tobacco and rolling it into cigarettes for him to smoke. A book sat perched in his left hand, one he felt like he had read a hundred times, while his right hand held the cigarette between his index and middle fingers. It wasn’t often anyone came by, and most times they were bit, or selfishly trying to kill for a place to call their own. He wasn’t proud of the blood that coated his hands.

He was pulled from his bitter self-loathing as he heard the sound of footsteps and the creaking of wood beneath someone’s weight. Hastily putting his cigarette out in a makeshift ashtray, he grabbed his pistol. His wide palm pressed to the old wooden door, slowly pushing it open. His hand tightened on the grip, his sharp eyes scanning the space, ready to shoot.