To start at the beginning, please refer to The Start of a Zombie Apocalypse.
Jacob tied the ends of the bedsheets together into a makeshift rucksack for carrying whatever supplies he might be able to scrounge, and he yawned, rubbing tired eyes. Molly’s words had haunted him throughout the night. I wish you could hold me now and tell me everything is going to be okay. He gathered the folded rucksack and looked through the windows. The streets were doused in morning light, hopeful perhaps, were it not for the flesh-eaters that still crowded the reddened concrete. Everything wasn’t going to be okay.
He paced back and forth, repeatedly emptying and reloading the bullet cartridge from his gun’s stock and checking his pocket for the room keycard, all to delay his departure. The risks were too grave. How would he succeed where so many had failed? Breathing hard, Jacob eyed the kitchen sink and reminded himself that death was a guarantee if he stayed. Only if he left was there a chance of survival, however small. He whispered a prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. Fuck the truth. He needed allies more than ever, and maybe somewhere, somehow, someone was listening. Continue reading