|sent from: London, UK. destination: Los Angeles, California, USA|
He hoped he would’ve had more time before the monsters found him.
After the initial outbreak and attacks he’d found refuge in this place in the mountains with a small group of fellow survivors. Packed with food and other supplies, they figured they could see things through, till better times, or until the monsters were defeated by a common human disease, or water. Wasn’t that how these stories were supposed to end?
They were banging on the roof now, looking for a way in. The petrol long exhausted, cars sat in the car park, rusting. Slowly the survivors had dwindled in numbers, until here he was, the lone hero. Who’d have thought that the virus they’d released, that first attacked the spleen, exploited the body’s immune system, would have left him unaffected, given that he’d lost his years ago? He didn’t want to think about it – he had survivor guilt on top of the Catholic one, and now it was about making it all worth something, and that meant staying alive. For himself, and for whoever else was still out there, fighting the same fight.
A creak on the boards above.
They were inside now. Here we go, he thought.