The Dead

The football players were dead. They had died some time ago. However, that didn't stop them from lurching around the field, bouncing into one another like maggoty bumper cars.

Patsy watched them from the relative safety of the announcer's booth.  The wooden structure still had intact doors and functional locks, and Patsy hadn't met a deader yet who could manage stairs.

Most of the football players were still wearing their uniforms. The bright high school colors were faded and soiled. The helmets and padding would make getting to their vulnerable brains difficult.  Bullets would do the job but she was out and, as far as she knew, there weren't any bullets left in all of Littleville. God knew she'd scavenged enough houses to know.

There might have still been ammo at the military base, but she wasn't going anywhere near that place. It was sealed up, tight as a drum. The military had closed ranks when it became obvious they weren't going to be able to get a handle on things. At the end, they'd started firing on anyone who approached the base's fortified gates. Patsy had seen them blow a news helicopter out of the sky with some kind of missile.

By then, Patsy had been on her own. She'd lost her family and didn't have anyone to look out for but herself.  She'd barricaded herself in the attic of an abandoned garage, managing to survive while the world collapsed around her.

There had been radio broadcasts for a while, so Patsy knew that things were bad all over. The military had closed ranks, looking out for their own. Fuck the civilians. Fuck the politicians. There'd been unconfirmed reports that the Secret Service had executed the President and Vice-President, because they'd been partly responsible for causing the Uprising.  Part of some ridiculous plan to hold onto power by causing a national emergency.

Patsy wasn't sure she believed it, but she wouldn't have put it beyond them. Politicians were generally shitty people, only interested in looking out for themselves.

Ironically, Patsy had to admit that it was that kind of mindset that had kept her alive. She looked out for herself and no one else.

It wasn't always easy. She'd seen a car break down, near her safe house. Watched as the deaders swarmed the vehicle, tore the occupants apart. The screams had lasted longer than Patsy would have thought.

The worst part was that the deaths didn't bother her that much. The deaders were just acting on a basic instinct to hunt and feed. They weren't malicious.  The living didn't have any such excuse.

She didn't have any such excuse.

Patsy accepted that, just like she accepted the fact that no one would come to help her escape this wooden shack. She was on her own. She'd have to rescue herself, and she would do whatever she had to, to stay alive, no matter how awful.

Fuck everyone else.  She'd stay alive, even if it cost her, her soul.