The day death died, I stood beside a dirt road. Behind me lay crumpled heaps of metal. Reminders of a technology that no longer served a purpose.
The day that death died, I looked across a field of wheat and saw the animals fall to the ground. Over taken with a sickness that knew no bounds, even the flies would not invade their space.
The day that death died, I prayed to the heavens. I asked for an answer. I sought out safety. I wanted death.
But death had died.
I walked down the dirt road with nothing but memories to keep me company. A shot gun held in my hands, ready to shoot whatever noise or movement that grabbed my attention. I was beyond waiting to see what emerged from behind the tree. What made the bushes shake. Too many times it was nothing more than the dead that death had released from its grip. I'd shoot at anything. I was done with asking questions.
The day that death died, I learned that I could survive anything. As I walked the desolate dirt road with the stench of decay floating in the air, I pushed back the memory of the dead feeding on my family. I removed the sight of my friends running for their lives, only to head into an ambush by the corpses that craved them, from my mind. The tears had long dried by the time the sun fell from the sky. Pain turned to energy which propelled my legs to walk, or run, into the unknown.
The day that death died saw the end of mankind in a matter of hours. Whoever is left have remained indoors. Windows are boarded up. No charity is given. Trespassers are shot on sight. The old murder the young. The weak are shooting the strong.