Chapter 1:
Clark Rogers expected a lot of things from life, from people, and from himself. As a seventeen-year-old, he was self-aware enough to know that he was in that phase where he was both considered an adult and a teenager.
Though that would depend on who you ask.
If you asked someone who lived their entire life in the cities, the average of the poll would be that he was a kid.
If you asked a rancher or a farmer, you'd be considered a grown ass man and would be expected to work like one as well.
Heck, he'd seen videos of eight, nine, and ten-year-olds in a war-torn country, where they were more mature and smarter than him. And seeing that, he would only feel shame for some of the tantrums that he had thrown in the past as a 15-year-old.
A few weeks ago, he still had those expectations and would occasionally throw some tantrums. But far less than two years ago. But now, today?
He was one of those children in war.
A war against the undead.
If someone had come up with the undead setting a couple of years ago, Clark would bet that the genre would explode in popularity. And also better prepare the world for the apocalypse.
An apocalypse that ravaged the world, destroying and collapsing the United States and other countries' societies. No one really knew how it started, and frankly, Clark didn't care.
Because right now, he was simply sitting in front of a man as he rambled off, trying his best to memorize the man's features and his life.
John Walker. In his forties, he had a wife who divorced him a couple of years ago, which led to him losing most things in his life and his kids. Five kids. He had sold his home and just wandered the country, basically, a homeless man.
Reaching New York, the state, he met a kind woman, and well, his life changed once more for the better. He settled with her, found a good job, forgot the job, and lived well. John Walker got his second wife pregnant. He decided to come back to Atlanta to visit a friend, and then proceeded to lose his pregnant wife.
She got bitten by a crazy- ghouls, Clark calls them, and then she turned a day later.
And just to make sure John Walker gets broken further in this collapsed world, his ghoul wife gave birth to their baby. A ghoul baby. And then he got bitten and somehow found himself in this abandoned house that Clark Roger wanted to loot.
"That's rough." Because that's the only thing Clark could tell the sobbing man.
"Heh-" A chuckle, well, he got a laugh out of him, so depression is pushed back just a little, "What about you?"
"Hm? Where do I even start?" Clark sighed, settling into the couch, a metal pipe resting next to him and a pistol, a Glock on his lap. "From-" a few bloody coughs, another sign that he was running out of time, maybe half an hour, "from wherever you are comfortable with."
"Hm-" He searched his pocket and threw his napkin at the man, who caught it and wiped his bloody mouth exhaustively. "Well, I finished high school early and got accepted into Concordia University." Clark started with a nostalgic look on his face.
"Damn."
"Yeah, parents were incredibly proud as well." He nodded, a smile on his face, but John winced.
"You lose them?" Because there was no better way to say it. The word lose, in this context, was the most gentle thing that could be used. And John, seeing the smile wiped off the kid's face, nodded.
"Yeah, got caught in traffic and one of those… Things just dived through our windshield…"
No one talked for a moment, as John kept coughing before finally stopping. More blood seemed to escape from his mouth, slowly turning dark. Almost black.
"Well, they turned into one of those things pretty fast, maybe two minutes tops?" Clark continued, tightening his hold on his weapon, "I had to put them down myself, you know." He muttered as John Walker wheezed, another cough, and blood was now black.
"Clark…" He whispered; there was no more strength in him. "Sorry… kid…"
"Yeah… me too." The boy replied, walking up to the man, the barrel pointing at John's head-
-and pulled the trigger.
The sound was loud. Defeaningly loud. It always was. Clark didn't think he'd ever get used to it, no matter how many times he'd done it.
Either to defend himself from bandits or to kill the ghouls.
He stood there for a moment. Just a moment. Because that's all he allowed himself anymore.
John Walker. Forties. Five kids he never got to see again. A second chance that got eaten alive before it even started.
Clark memorized his face one last time, then looked away.
He might only remember him for a week or two at most. But he would try. He'd keep his humanity with him, for as long as needed.
The line drawn on sand might allow him to do things that would normally disgust him, but at least he had a line.
Morals and philosophy aside for now, he needed to start organizing his loot in his backpack. There wasn't any food left. Fruits and veggies had already rotted, and other things, such as rice, beans, heck, even flour, no such thing was left behind.
Luckily, there were still salt, pepper, and other spices that were left behind, so he took them and put them in his hiking backpack and then ran upstairs.
The master bedroom had a window that looked out over the backyard, and Clark stood there for a second, scanning. Three ghouls down by the fence line, trying to phase through the fence in that stupid way they did when there was something to chase.
Atlanta was getting worse. He'd noticed it over the past week. He spotted a couple from the neighbors' side jogging and slowly climbing the fence, making him shiver. The herds were moving, consolidating somehow, like water finding the lowest point. He needed to move, too.
The question was where.
He'd heard a broadcast. Weak signal, staticky, but consistent. same message looping every few hours on the emergency band. Something about a camp. Survivors. Safety in numbers, all that.
Clark had learned pretty fast that safety in numbers was also just a bigger target.
But he was seventeen and alone and running low on everything, and John Walker's face was already joining a long list of faces he carried around with him like extra weight.
[You have three golden tickets.]
Oh, and did he mention going crazy?
He slung his pack over his shoulder, ignoring the mental text, and headed back downstairs.
He paused in the doorway of the living room.
"Bye, John."
Then he stepped out into the gray Atlanta morning and didn't look back.