"I'M SORRY."
"I'M SO SORRY."
THESE WORDS WERE SOME OF THE LAST THAT I HEARD FROM MY FATHER. HE JUST SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM. SCARED. ALONE. INFECTED.
HE NEVER TOLD ME WHO INFECTED HIM. THEN AGAIN, HE NEVER HAD THE TIME. HE DIED ON THE SOFA A FEW MINUTES LATER. HE WAS GONE. MY MOTHER CRIED. SO DID I. I DIDN'T KNOW HOW HE DIED. I WAS ONLY 3. MY MOTHER GRABBED THE PISTOL AND SHOT HIM. BLOOD SPATTERED ON HER FACE. THEN, WE RAN TO THE CAR.
NOW, I AM A SURVIVOR, LIVING IN THE REFUGEE CAMPS TO THE EAST. THE INFECTED'S INCESSANT MOANS ARE LITERALLY A PSYCHOLOGICAL WEAPON. THE THOUGHT OF THEM BREAKING THROUGH THE GATE IS STILL IN THE BACK OF MY MIND.
I DON'T KNOW HOW LONGER I CAN TAKE THIS.
I HOPE YOU FARE BETTER.
-BRANDON
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