Hello gentle readers, I have two things to share with you today.
First of all, HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I sincerely hope that you and yours are having a great day and have good things to be thankful for.
Secondly, I am no longer on Twitter. I haven't actually posted anything relevant on Twitter in some time, and in light of the direction that it seems to be heading, I have decided to leave. If I switch to another social media platform, I will notify everyone via this blog.
You may now return to your turkey and apple pie. :)
The dead lady watches the live girl get her heart
broken. Tears slide down the girl's
cheeks as she texts angrily on her phone. The dead lady would brush the tears
away if she could, but all she can do is watch.
She knows this isn't the end of the girl's world, although
it probably feels that way to the girl.
She wishes she could communicate it to the girl, but the girl is a psychic
dullard.
The dead lady would tell her there are better things to
come.
But all the dead lady can do is watch and empathize.
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.
