I'm exhausted. My arms are dead weight, lead bars dangling from my shoulder sockets. The fire axe at the end of them is quickly losing it's edge, but it still makes a head a canoe in one swing. Even if I could form a real sentence my throat feels like I drank battery acid from all the screaming, but I can't stop. Because they won't stop.
We got trapped in this warehouse and they found us with ease, I want to lie down, let the dark come and take me, but I keep pushing. Even with the bullet wound that Tommy's dumb ass gave me in the side. I hope he didn't hit anything vital. My legs can barely move, but I keep walking, backwards, towards what we hope is an exit. Something soft beneath my feet threatens to make me slip, but I catch myself and swing again, painting whatever is near it with brains and blood. What an idiot I am. I can't help myself and I look down. Geoff was barely seventeen, already under mountains of stress after watching his kid sister and parents go the way they did, but he decided to check himself out of all of this. His baby blue eyes were still open and staring at nothing despite the top of his skull being thoroughly turned into mush by the last shell in his shotgun.
I had to remind myself to move. Another hard and ragged scrape down my forearm was a nice attention grabber. I swung again, knocking the one with the wandering hand into several others behind him. I should be dead. I should just let go. But I can't. Every time I see one of them a rage that I ain't never felt before bursts out of me like a bomb of energy, pushing me to the depths I didn't think I could reach. I hear chain-link fence behind me, a lock and such rattle. They'd found the exit. Then I heard curse words, arguing. The exit was locked. I had the heaviest tool out of all of us so I gave up my little stand off and turned and ran to the others. I ain't never ran from a fight in my life, but I ain't never had to fight like this, neither. I screamed for them to move out the way as I swung, broke the lock and the damn security chain in one swing.
Only had enough time to push open the two bars to let one of us squeeze through at a time. First Denna, then Mickey, I followed, and Suzanne brought up the rear. Chaffed me up good through the shirt I had on, but I made it. I turned back to pull Suzanne through and she screamed. Dozens of rotten hands had her, already ripping into her pretty face, tearing at her thin body, pulling out chunks of her blonde hair. She was gone. I tried not to think as I looked away and ran, even with as many of those things as there were, she screamed for quite a while. Wish I could've helped her. I joined the other two left, those things, the walking dead, hot on our trail. I said a small prayer for the couple we lost, but we had to keep moving.
It's a strange sensation feeling your own blood run out of you like the way it's running out of me. You get cold, like the kind of cold that they ain't invented a jacket for, yet. Then you get tired. Like I am now. My eyes are barely staying open, but they're open. Then your breathing gets hard. Like you've been running all day. But to be fair to the lost blood: I HAVE been running all day. But we were close to our little place and I'd be able to rest. Doc Sully'd be able to fix me up. He calls me "Jersey Shore Boy" cause of where I'm from, but I ain't no model. And I ain't no TV star. Thinking helps keep the tired away, for now, but the thing that's keeping up is anger. We'd failed to get the supplies we'd needed.
Our door swings open and we make it in. I hit the ground, trying to catch my breath, trying to make the world stop spinning, then I hear all the questions. I don't care right now. I just want Doc to tell me it's okay to sleep for a week. I hope the guy and the gal we'd sent to the other hospital made it okay.
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