I should feel lucky.
Lucky to have survived this long. Many people didn't, their bodies littering the streets, torn open, ripped apart by people they might have known once. Many of them now walked, lifeless and hungry, among the constant, blooming beauty that sprang from the blood-stained ground. Earth has never failed to amaze me. I can't believe I'm about to leave it.
Their disgusting, rotting faces press up against the windows of the little house, smearing blood with their hands and mouths. I grip my machine gun more tightly, feeling my shotgun press into my back as I stay as close to the wall as possible. The two guns at my hips are suddenly lighter than ever, and they bring a new promise. I defiantly watch the dead roar and gurgle, scratching at the window panes with dirty fingernails. A smirk crosses my face.
I raise the gun, my finger tight on the trigger. Their bodies bang against the old, weathered wooden door. It squeaks and protests, and I know it's about to give. The lock holds fast, though, and the carcasses of the people that once were roar and moan, longing for my flesh.
With a knot in my throat, I aim the gun, trying not to think of Ryan and Jane and the others. Ryan's face swims in front of my eyes as the door begins to splinter. I blink and he's gone, and some part of me begs him to come back, wills my feet to turn me around and carry me far, far away. But that part of me withers away and dies, and suddenly, I'm a rock, I'm an island. I don't move. I'm not affected by the remorse living deep inside me. A resonant crack echoes from the door and around the long room. The zombies roar triumphantly and I brace myself. The deadbolt breaks through the doorframe and they pour in, some getting trampled by the onslaught. I fire with sober accuracy into the waves, and when the gun runs out of rounds I throw it into the crowd and whip out my shotgun.
Corpse after corpse falls, silenced forever. When each of my guns slowly run out of bullets, I'm left with my handgun in my back pocket. I take the decorative sword from the wall above the couch and start slashing.
When the window breaks, I'm covered in the blood of the walking dead. Tears are already streaking down my face as my last hope of survival is dashed. I whip the sword into the onslaught, taking a few heads in its wake. I pull out my handgun and start firing. By now I'm sobbing. And when the handgun makes a weak clicking instead of the strong clap of bullets, I smile and throw it aside, ignoring my tears. And I wait.