Moonlight filtered through the ruins of the abandoned city, illuminating the mangled bodies scattered across the ground.

Some were of the infected, but most were of civilians. Roach scrunched his nose at the putrid stench of rotting flesh and coagulated blood swimming in the air, grasping his rifle even tighter than before.

He hated this. He hated that so many were lost to the disease, he hated that there was no known cure, and he hated that you and him had to clean up the aftermath.

A sickening feeling gnawed at the flesh inside his stomach, and briefly he wondered if the infection had gotten to him too. (It hasn't, but years in an apocalypse makes you paranoid.)

He signaled you towards him, finding that his voice had once again failed. You scamper over, offering him an understanding glance before pointing at the hoard of zombies (that word had once felt childish, but undead just doesn't cut it anymore) huddled by the ruins of a bombed hospital.

The two of you crouched down near the gathered zombies, readying your weapons. His finger pressed against the trigger, a familiar motion he will never forget. He fired, no remorse and no second thought.

Roach felt even sicker when he shot them down; even after all these years, no cure had ever been found. A way to kill them had been, though.

"That's it," he wanted to say, but his throat was too tight around his vocal cords. He made a noise instead, but you would understand.

(Would you?)