As hard as it is for me to do this, I believe it's the right thing to do. I know you've never payed any attention to the media or the news, but I have. I've seen the pictures, and I know that this is real. I'm heading to the coast, they said it was safe there. Kyle is coming with me, he's all I've got, and I can't let anything happen to him. I'm sorry, I truly am, but I knew if I told you about this you'd never let me go. I love you.
I could tell by the handwriting that she wrote this in a hurry. I'm not surprised, given how worried she'd gotten about all this. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd been just as worried, if not more, about everything. I had a plan to get out of here, but now she'd gone and screwed it up. She must've packed while I slept. This seemed I should cry in this kind of situation, but it just didn't feel right. I've never been one to show weakness. I stood up from the bed, and rested the note back on the nightstand. I always knew something like this would happen, something that would drive me away from this place I called home.
I pulled on a pair of jeans laying on the floor, a black T-shirt (also on the floor), and my tennis shoes. I knew I'd have everything I'd need, just not here. I grabbed my car keys, and was about to set out the door when I had an afterthought. I walked back into the bedroom, and opened up the drawer in my nightstand next to the bed. I pulled out a small black box, a safe. A gun safe to be specific.
I put in the combination. 04, 19, 07, the day I met Jessi, and the safe popped open. What was inside could quite possibly be considered the badass motherfucker of all firearms. The Colt .45. I'd gotten this baby for my 18th birthday, from my grandpa. Shining silver, a solid pearl grip, inscribed with the words "Do or die, Semper Fi." It was an old saying my grandpa used whenever he told his war stories from World War II. Apparently, he'd won it in a in a pool to see how long it would take for their Sargent to get a "Dear John," letter. From what he'd told us, he'd wracked up a body count of 23 Japs using this gun. I could tell he counted, because he'd marked the handle for every single one. Like I said, the badass motherfucker of all firearms.
I kept it loaded, and kept three other magazines in the case just for an emergency. Like now, for instance. I put the extra mags in my side pocket, slid one into the Colt, and took a deep breath. Here we go. I pulled my car keys off the rack, opened the front door, and stepped out. I gagged. The putrid smell of human remains blanketed the hallway, and I could see smears of blood all over the walls. But it's was dry blood, which signaled that it had been there for a few days. I figured that this meant whatever made those marks was dead or gone. The whole building was surprisingly quiet, until I heard the moaning. I rounded the corner on the stairs to the bottom floor, and there were four of them, sitting there, feasting on some poor guy. He was my neighbor. We'd shared a six pack once or twice, and I'd remembered that. I was suddenly angry, angry at the world, angry at myself, angry at my slowness to react to the impending apocalypse that was sweeping across the globe.
I could've been dead before I could've done anything about any of this, and that made me seeth with rage.
"Hey!" I called, the undead moved their attention from their dinner to me. My first round caught one in the forehead, and he fell. The other three immediately charged, scrambling up the stairs to get at me. I pulled back, and retreated several paces back down the hallway. Confined space, I thought to myself, brilliant idea idiot. I may have had an easier shot in the cramped hallway, but I was also limited on routes of escape. I'm sure the first round had attracted attention of infected outside the building, but I needed to get rid of the other three to get to my car. I fired twice more, two rounds catching the leader of the pack in the chest. He fell, yet the other two continued towards me. I fired, again and again, the bullets tearing into my opponents, and they fell on top of each other, their faces contorted in hunger and pain. I continued down the stairs, but a quiet moaning stopped me. I looked in the direction it was coming from, and I saw my neighbor begin to stir. His eyes opened, and they widened, looking at me as if I was a steak platter.
"Sorry," I said to him, "But I've got shit to do." I placed the gun to his forehead, and pulled the trigger.
Click. Empty mag. Oh, shit.