This new world was very scary, very scary indeed. It wasn't death around every corner, it was worse - living death around every corner. People were living to survive and surviving to live. One of those survivors was Greg Mumble.
The streets were he used to live were filled with destruction and horror. The streets weren't swarmed but were sparsely littered with zombies. A wealthy lad, Greg had been trained to fly Kestrel and play polo, not kill of the living dead. Even he was surprised he had lasted this long.
Greg hid behind an overturned car, its blazing fire reduced to an ember due to rain. The infected rarely visited this road, they had already gotten every morsal of life. Greg decided he needed safety. It was a no-brainer of course, but he needed it now. Not just safety, but food, water and ammo. His father's pistol was down to two bullets, two bullets he wished the cherish.
'It's now or never' he thought to himself as he lunged his weedy body over the car and scampered across the road quickly, but not so quickly that he drew attention to himself. For dead people, the infected sure were good at finding people. People like Greg's parents.
Greg arrived at a department store. The windows were all glazed and a few lights were visible. Someone was there. Someone who could help. I tried opening the front doors...locked. I rattled, banged and smashed until someone came to my aid. A beefy, dark haired boy. He shouted barely audible commands through the thick glass before all the colour drained from his face. He mouthed one word, one word I was far too familiar with.