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The way you see war has changed. For some it was hell on earth, for some it was paradise. No longer it is a gunfire erupting and men like animals lined up to die at the face of bursting horror and soaring bullets. It is a volcano that erupted, of greed and deception, which all money in the world have bought. As it bursted out all the way to the surface, it is a disease that was soaring, enveloping your legs and tying your hands you would beg to cut off. No longer it were the fools stacked against one another for slaughter in the field of dreams for a better future, pawns tricked to fight for a lie, benefitting the dictators that got you leashed in a conflict, the true enemy of which is unseen as it hides underground with a bottle of whiskey and a madam under it’s wing, while people outside are burning each other’s skin. This time it was a cunning theater, in front of your eyes coming into it’s play. The fools in muzzles were bowing before a king they’ve given a crown to, only to be enslaved by fear mongering among those, possessed by electric entities grabbing your hand from the window of television or the brainwashing voices from your favorite radio stations, men held at a gunpoint under their testicles while women were booby-trapped with explosives. A ring of fire has kept it’s promise as it narrowed all around the world contracting the forces above, vaporizing belief with it’s providence. In modern times, the war was invisible, a war you couldn’t see, but from the tips to your toes could feel the boiling tension of. There was never a peacetime, in the world where the order out of chaos ruled. It was only a matter of time before another casual drink would turn into your last one with the bitter taste of betrayal. One country would no longer show it’s destructive intentions against a country, instead, a war is now fought from the shadow. One day - right under your nose they have stolen your nose and you couldn’t smell a dead rat. Second day - they have deafened your ears, no scratching claws behind the doors were heard. Third day – they have blinded your eyes with ignorance and lies. You couldn’t see what’s been crawling in the dark. Fourth day – your mouth was muzzled and all you said was muffled. You weren’t able to question and scream. That’s when four horsemen of the apocalypse have marched in. They were swinging swords, while untamed animals with hanging muzzles kept running at them with their fists. This was a place, where a dreamer would love to move in. Knocking and holding his breath he has asked: «May I come in?». On a brochure, in the land, where the grass was pictured greener only the spikes were sharper and the teeth was rubbing harder. With his eyes closed, like a vegetable he fell on a cutting board ready to go for consumption. He was ready to wake up, but it was not a dream. When his head was slammed and his legs were torn, he fell on a sidewalk as he has become a food court for everybody coming along. It was an open season for fresh flesh and young blood. All they wanted was to taste fried eggs with ketchup and juice, but stayed for an even bigger treat, moaning in joy. Eggs they were slowly licking were small, but nourish, while an apple juice was sprinkling all over the floor. A ketchup they were spreading was sugary and the sausage was satisfyingly long. Everybody stayed for a tasty western breakfast with a bowl of tomato and a soft bone. They ate their fill and were given what they craved, as they parted ways, vomiting out guts for long days. Young man was crawling to find someone else’s bone too. What has the world come to?

A pack of wolves on the dark and gloomy street were fighting for a crawling piece of meat they could not share. Then, the vultures have gathered at the dead body and scared the wolves off with their scream, swooping down to devour. But the horses were swift, wickedly charging in and their cavalry was passing in, as the rain was pouring in. The vultures were frightened, his essence washed away letting the body decay. No body survives forever, but the torch will continue it’s passing. Mosquito in the sky was watching them like an eye, with it’s magnifying glass and a proboscis cigar. With it’s needle it was cutting their way, leading the runners astray. Their main line was cut and it’s spits landed wide. Be afraid of the night, as their path will be flooded hard.

The world is run by traders that get to decide who loses and wins. The dirt they’re watering the root down with breeds more whitebeams. The oaks keep whispering into ears, as they grow in number, serving as products in places, that are free for them to stay in. As their size grows, the narrative pushes further in, breaking the wild web they were kept in. Those, that own the block own nothing and those, that keep their hands above the game board set pawns and set their kings, moving them as they see fit. You don’t pick a role, they pick a role for you, as you watch the history you cannot influence play out. Hold the line or don’t – there’s a bust in front. The population was conditioned when the game came into a stop. The bigger the wall you build – the deeper the grave you dig.

Until an iceberg hits your head – you will not understand it’s depth. Under an iceberg there were strings of connections taking you to the wildest attractions. In these jungles, lizards like wizards will pull you in deluding you from within. What will be left is a shape of opinions you haven’t made. They love it when you lose control, but look above you all. One such abomination is right in front of your eye. His tie, like the tongue was as long as a snake, he was ready to perform the ritualistic play, he was also ready to conjure the public. With his stick he was playing in front of his audience, blissing their eyes with eternal ignorance, his lipstick screamed like dynamite and so the clothes he was wearing that were all pink. In front of the camera he would show the gestures on his hands, the symbols to ensnare your trust and behind him the charming background to embalm the relaxed minds with pleasure. Will you trap the rabbit down the hole and will you do and think what they want? Tear off his rose-tinted glasses and wear off your own and lead the minds of others alongside with you to the path of individuality.

Glowing in the dark like a red revolutionary star, a creator of a medicine it will once taste, valve wasn't born yesterday, turtles under the sun were. They were born on a clearing in the field in a basket, full of ambition with their hidden veins vibrating in excitement of a world they’d step into, pulse emitting passion that drove them. Innocent turtles stayed back to back, slowly but surely moving up the hills to their dreams that would once come true, an idea that has set the dream to build a fort, unshaken by winds for a century where the lights of well-being may stay lit forever, and so stayed their path. Looking for a place to realize the goal they’ve stumbled upon a river covered in layers of steam providing warmth and comfort to the fish, that has once been extracted from pirate jars on the ships sailing to the edge of the world over the moon, the horns of which reached out over the horizon disturbing a tight beauty sleep. The source of a released steam led back to valve. On the other side of the river, turtles were staring and standing stale as a rock while a transparent light bridge came their way with a soothing dust visible on it’s surface, colliding your feet with would reverberate into a powerful, yet relaxing harmony, stimulating your feet and leaving you with delight. They walked on it diligently as if water was holding them down to the land where the iron was still hot, where the nectarines have energized the mind as it was not yet tranquilized, where the spirit of cooperation persisted, as they were not obstructed by the beard thickets. With great anticipation and outstretched arms they have awaited them. Making the way on a glass ceiling, raindrops like insects were sliding left and right on the path to a future valley paralysed in time for it’s frozen table of a lifetime. As the sun was moving forward through a portal and was standing still above their heads – it dissolved the rain and has calmed the raging waves. High-stepping past the borderline to the settlement where the legacy is carved out strong and has left a golden scar entrenching them in immense fear and indecision - the fat hamster sat on the sublime throne, kept drinking his chicken soup and the ravens split each in their corners were monitoring their work dipping the feathered wings into a bowl of ink writing their slip-ups down precisely to caw and peck on their heads. Not even they were safe from pressure. With the claws, the turtles climbed onto the pedestal one by one and they have raised their eyes upon the crowned king and for them he has climbed down. He has put the pink lush snacks into their hands and has gently clenched their toes as he whispered: "What you have sown – you will eventually reap." and they have let their light shine before the others. An old valve they were under served as their shell and as home they lived daily lives in. Even a large chicken under a rock with bulging eyes was briefly observing their handiwork through binoculars that year, understanding the conjuction he grappled a star with the spurs aborting a potential deadlock to find the other starts to rock on. Swinging on a swing throughout the years has stripped his feathers leaving him a lonely capon. A salesman motivated a hungry buyer to take two, cut in half, overpriced, expired and long devoid of it’s nutritional properties, making a desperate customer eat the same food for a decade, leaving them with a sour taste in the mouth. That, however, is a story for another time to keep in check. Years have passed, many have lost their touch as they sailed away through the fog with the crows on their shoulders. A change has happened and the document is in file. The valve’s steel grew rusty, the hamster got as lazy as ever, some of the fish was baited out by free food and was treated like a product. For many years turtles kept on craving for rye fields and freedom. Time to tear off their shells from rust is long overdue. They’ve packed their baggage once again, thought they could do better and then, with much desire, through the new roads of hardships they went, day by day closer to what they hoped to achieve. The success did not seem to be out of the reach, or so they thought, making a wrong turn a long way back, stepping out, hitting their heads down the long hills of failure, dragging it all with them. They were rolling down the slope of dreams painfully absorbing the nails along the way and at their destination they fell right to the legs of two brutes - smiling wolf brothers in unironed black suits. They have had a proposition. Wolves have offered them money and places to settle in with all the tools they might need, but all with a strict rule of obedience to their wolfish plans. Intimidated naive turtles have sold their giblets, unable to foresee the forthcoming deficiency happily accepted the pact. The side effects of head concussions have also started to show and even their teeth became sharper in greed. They will be back for blood of what they have sown and for your own money. They’ll have their meal, they haven’t had enough and from there they have evolved, piggybacking on virtues of the past.

People all around the world have woken up to a dirt spoiled apple. The start of what’s to come was startling. Riots kept on going and the cops were already dispatched to bash the heads of the disgruntled civilians, that vomited blood right onto the ground, both from their broken teeth and food rejection. Steel tear gas grenades and hard riot shields smashed right against their skulls. Barricades were set to split the blocks and iron bars were placed over the doors of residential buildings. The breakout has shattered webs and broken fangs. People were caught in the alleyways and were thrown into vans by the scruff of their neck. A repulsive itching pale skylight and the smell of corpses came from the yard. In their darkened rooms they have pulled the blinds down, as large flies, fresh off their blood meal kept hitting and smearing on the windows. Central heating was off and layers of cold autumn wind stressed your legs, as it held you compelled to stay under a blanket, with your eyes closed, pushing away the unwanted problems with your feet. Things were not looking out one bit.
The net went black. The signal is out. The recorded videos of hanging bodies and rotting corpses to laugh at no one was able to share online, and no one would, having one head down at the kitchen table. The main line of social engineering was cut. Everybody knew what it was, but nobody wanted to think that way. Bloggers, men of the sheeple have lost their goldmine above the pajama people. They were making a living off whining were forced to keep their nose down and are history. At this point, no longer will they be able to rush into their rooms, lock the door, set the camera and ramble the poorly formed afterthoughts in a repeated circle, dragging young and fragile minds each to their own agenda, like a cult of personality, stealing right for word from an average viewer, burying it deep down in the comment sections where an even angrier war reimbursed. Agree or don’t agree – the word has already been said and spread. Now, when these times came at each one’s hand, they found themselves curled up in a corner, holding on their plushy teddy bear and pissing themselves. From hands, in which there is power, the golden age of the internet is declared to be over.
Run-down streets are all filled with piles of rubbish, dirt, roads covered with shards of broken glass of hassles the city endured. Once noisy suburbs have deadened down quiet, throttled with their eyes squinted. Ruins of hopes crushed are now blocking the pathway through the city, leaving a dreary alternative to roll down into the hungry underground rat hole to dig through just to get up to the main track again. Worn-out dark alleyways living on a low pulse with drunken hairy tramps showing their touch for self-expression - a spray can in their hand and a dismal wall of thought to heedlessly paint on until their shaky feet drop.
In it’s heart, it is a nauseous industrial city with rusty mazes of hot factory pipes and poppling toxic chemicals, of greedy origin. A city, locked in drowsy shackles of constant work migraine, stress and large doses of coffee, pressuring the heart rate. A place for many worms, rats and insects ready to bite each other out. At night, lazy streets were already submerged in smog, bringing uneasy dreams through open windows while halting breathing, polluting the city with sickening hazes. Constant factory emissions have had thumbs up people’s lungs and kept on pushing their nerves, bringing all kinds of chemicals to the bottom of their bodies just waiting to be activated. Ones outside the city, up in the hills have cut themselves a sweet slack of cake. It was a calm, safe place from the blind drunkards. Air was alive, they had gardens planted with vegetables, peaches and apples growing outside on the trees, roses strictly set in between the roads, that’s where they were all walking, driving and living. The velvet season was soon doomed to be over. With all the news going around, they have sealed their houses and have put up big and red "Beware" signs all over. Whether it was their dog, cannibals or angry wives to be aware of, everyone had to keep their nose in check as to what’s out there. A loving mother has stepped into the room of her boy, sitting without the internet in boredom, hugging him tightly, with the unnerving words spoken: "Hard times have come for you, darling. I hope we’ve been good parents", teardropping on the carpet and falling under his knees. And that’s when it all started.
Four figurants arguably lucky to be alive have found themselves on a rooftop, wetting their hair in cold. They have seen it all after being involved with the deluded changes outside. A will to live has suppressed all fear they might have had and now they would do anything to find a safe place to live out their lives brought to misery. Behind all the jokes, it was all a stress reaction factor, a saddened comprehension of the current bleak reality. And they were still advancing through. Some of them with no true skill of war, through shaking, pain in arms and shock, tried to do their best. America, after all the crimes was all prepared to witness yet another war of their own yet again and there were guns laying everywhere. Pick one of your choice, ammo will never run low in the lands of crazies. There is ammo of the right type in the piles anywhere. First aid kits, conveniently, came in four packs. Snacks, chips, chocolates, cola, anything an overweight American would like, are stacked full inside the drawers of the safehouses. Whether you want to die of diabetes or push through to the rescue is all up to you. Don’t expect it to come in knocking, asking you to jump into their rescue bag. Just like anywhere, there are rules to follow if survival is in your priority and rules you see on the safehouse walls are certainly not one of them. Scavenge for resources you can use in action, keep your eyes peeled and act fast. Don’t hesitate to shoot on sight, stealth, with such population is out of the question. Move fast and at times, slow down if necessary. If other survivors give you trouble and helping them is something you do not see fit, leave them behind. It is an apocalypse and everyone is got to do everything to survive. And on that note, they went on shooting Whiskey-Delta.
A helicopter pilot was already getting snotty. It was the last night he had to fly out on to a patrol, looking for any survivors, just in case. A last few circles around the city and off he goes, he thought. Stopping in narrow streets is risky, so he flew all around broadcasting the same message. The survivors kept chilling, regaining their energy, as they heard it’s rotor noise they had quickly arranged a plan and have set it clear – there is no time to waste. In a hurry, they are grabbing all the necessary equipment, Bill is sticking his cigar in between the lips and marches along with others to a hospital right in the middle of the city, open, but yet stranded. The first trial challenging them was the apartments where people ran out of food and started eating each other. Many people ran in there and got stuck amidst the overcrowded cannibals as a result. No children there, apparently, they were eaten first, while hiding under a blanket in fear. Now they get their organs flying around into the sink and microwaves, while their blood spills over the wallpaper from the shotgun blasts. Loads of smoke is coming out of guns upon constant fire, shells leave massive dents in walls as they pass through the linoleum. Horrifying convulsions and disgusting belching are continuously irritating the eardrums, groans, unpredictable coughs making them shudder is something they’re getting used to. By morning, when the survivors made scarce, families would gather among the table on high floors of the apartments and would greet each other with a sheer smile, preparing for a new breakfast – a storm of missiles crashing through windows and setting skin on fire.

Old relics are the remnants of the past and some of them you would not speak kindly of. Build a park monument soon to be forgotten, but the human’s faults you cannot check off. These are the true monuments. A poor worker woken up by a frowning old housewife’s grumbling, packed up his checkered bag carrier and off he went for another full day at the factory and for another week of back pain, to survive from pay to pay and to drop dead for the youth, the bathroom dwellers taking selfies. Men with a sledgehammer women have no love for anymore, they’re not wealthy and steeped in long-hour work. No one to listen to them gibbering and squirting out drool, asking for money to go out shopping. They don’t have much, they’re broken down. A fat slob cow shouting for spanking is the thing they get in a world with no justice. Out there, the power is printing money, laughing at you, throwing bones to the frightened dogs. Keep your eyes open for the signs and the warnings.

And in trucks they stored provisions, by that time raiders got them broken open and cleared. Under such circumstances, someone like them would be considered a regular threat, that is, if not for the mutations mob underwent in a short period. On their motorcycles they have left grannies robbed and crippled, now it’s them strangled and put under the saddle. There is no running away, only moving forward. It’s not from the silly documentaries of the peacemakers and rulers the survivors have learned of these outrageous atrocities that lurk the shadows, it’s on their burning skin, a lesson of one night never forgotten. And it hasn’t ended.

When you stare into their eyes, you see the spotlights, bright and white, spot on. First tests on the curious castrated animals captured, pulled together in steel yokes, have shown to be concerning, even back then. Persistent sleepless torments kept them sluggish and tired out of their breath. Eyedroppers were used on their innocent eyes, plain rage in their eyelids twitching was seen in a mere few minutes after the intravenous injection. Their furless, shaved off skin turned pale and eyes lost all of it’s individual color. Had it be someone else conducting the experiment, it would cease on that very point. The right ruthless maniacs were cleared for tests and more reason to expand the research turned up. By that time, a batch of vans with people stored and headed for the camps were bought off by the highest bidder, as they changed routes on the intersections to the trainstations by order, transporting them to virus labs in the woods. A cold welcome was to be expected. White chamber, clean uniform clothes with no shoes and drizzling floor awaited them. They anticipated a rescue, but a sudden green gas in their chambers had crushed their hopes of it being a movie. New, fascinating mutations had to be discovered and they were.

The special infected survivors have already seen. In the helicopter, it was enough time for them to make jokes about fat people, vomit stuck in between the teeth with the awkward Zoey’s jokes "Does anybody have a toothpaste?", "The hunter could certainly use some" and the like. To them they have all labeled names. That racket, however, was not the reason the pilot begged to be shot in the head, the survivors, all four, conveniently are all carriers. Poor pilot has made a bad call. Right on his phone line with the family he dropped it, in inaudible growls getting shot, enough to bring his wife to tears and the kids screaming for his dad.

New mutation, each iteration more frightening and complicated than the ones before, reactions in their bodies causing an awful plague to synthesize with their forthcoming modifications granting them unique abilities, yet to be seen by any higher-ups of the shadow government institution and their bunker dwarfs hiding in outposts. Only the ones staying alive long enough in sleepless city environments were aware of that, that is, until it hit half the country, too late to make a judgement call. As serious as it was getting, new methods to acquaint the population were introduced, short movies and presentations were registered for educational purposes, spreading fear-porn, causing death simply by their own thoughts. In private chats, dorks were laughing at what has been shown to them, jokingly distorting the pictures of special infected in photoshop, while calling each other the Boomer. Just when you thought modern humor could not get any more deranged. Leaving much to imagination as to who these special infected were one could come up with the assumptions.

A well-tailored pimp, a whimp behind a coat jacket has arrived on a limousine, parked beside a sidewalk, opened a tinted windshield with a dirty smirk, unzipped his pants and waved his hands and let all the rent girls in. One last girl galloping, stumbled and fell in her high-heels, as the car drove away fast, leaving a distant echo behind. Couldn’t be worse off waiting for a new client, she thought. A pimply-plumpy gas-station worker in a white-tank top spitting, sneezing where be, arrived in an old falling apart supreme-diesel, opened the door, looked at her louringly and asked if a sweaty worker like him could have a good time. "Ofcourse, handsome." she said unwillingly and with a sour disgust on her tongue. Had to make the money somehow. And when she made a seat on his layers of fat he drove to a secluded spot, slow and sloppy, almost crashing and killing someone multiple times. In his car it was hot and the smell was deadly wild. The car parked in an alley right under a stream of pipe water, he grabbed her by the shoulder, taking the belt on his jeans off. "Man, this good ol’ bastard was hurtin’ crazy these couple days, maybe you can fix this." he said sighing, as he introduced his HPV meatlug buried in bubbles, scaring the lady off, as she attempted to bust the door open despairingly, but it didn’t budge. When her jaw dropped open in such trouble, he knew she was ready to work. By force, he grabbed her hair, dunked it and made her suffer. A few minutes in, her mascara was running and each lap was more disgusting than another. At last, she couldn’t take much more abuse and vomited right on it. He wasn’t happy about it bludgeoning her head against the window. With her broken jaw she looked at him and spit out a toxic acid into his eyes. Convulsing, he opened the door, she fell suffocating in green goo from her throat, unable to speak, squealing as a result. Her organism was filled with the toxic waste inside out, with bubbles exploding, developing it from the stomach. Laying on the ground, she looked at her ring, which served as a reminder of who she used and betrayed, for the remaining moments before the instincts took over.

All the way in New Mexico, there lived a lonely farmer in a shack, still a cowboy to the head. "Yeehaw" he yelled, slotting through a tomato with his one and only fang. Strapping his denim overalls, picking a pitchfork up, while holding crop in mouth. The shiner around his eye still hurts after the yesterday’s titty-fiddling with the other half-naked men he’s used to work with, a creep they’ve called him, moving further away as possible. He loved picking things up, touching it, breaking them apart. This time alone, pitching hay another day, he took breaks from time to time, leaning on a farm fence, watching children play and run to school, giving them a dirty look.

"Sweet little boys." he thought, clattering.

"I’d sure love takin’ some of them boys with me to the basement. Ho-ho-ho, I’ll eat chilly with a little willy!" psychotically whispering it over and over. All of a sudden, uninvited guests came from the back of the fence, pulling his straps.

"Naughty pranksters!" he shouted. A bunch of hooligans with red noses they were.

"Are you willing to become my red-nosed deer companions, dear boys?", grinning he asked.

"Ha-ha, nah, you out of touch old lassie. This isn’t why we are here." the bandit boy, their leader, reached out for his bag.

"Why you calling me that, boy? I’ll take that untied English mouth of yours and mount it on a toy!" all tense in frustration he is.

"Oh, we love toys, but not of that kind. See, we’ve got a present for you, fresh off our bakery. I reckoned you was hungry, with the work and all." as he taken out the hot bread in the cellophane, handing it over.

"Well, c’mon now, hope you don’t play tricks on me, or I catch you, scroll you around real nice. Ah, smells like these skeletons when they had meat on em’, same warmth and much energy… I was lickin’ and bitin’, once more, I was lickin’ and bitin’, woowee."

One of the boys from the back of the pack started questioning, whispering to the leader’s ear:

"Why are we talking to that degenerate, say again? I thought we were gonna rob the fool."

"Now’s not the time, Billy. Wait till he gets a taste, he’ll be lying a beaten old knacker, coughing the blood up… That will buy us some time, we sneak in, all the food, sweet candies, cash will be waiting for us inside, you’ll see. But don’t tell nothing to your mother, we’re friends, remember?"

"Boys, mind if I take a bite right here, right now? Only what you bethink in that heads of yours, can’t figure." confused, in suspicion he asked.

"Now’s better?" one of the boys gets his face slapped for looking too suspicious.

"Hmm…a-anyways. Haven’t eaten in a while." He bit into it and chewed.

The first bite was too slimy for an ordinary bread, full of liquid from the inside. Feeling soiled lungs clogged, he got shocked, seeing what looked to be tumors inside of bread. In fury he has clenched his fist as his arteries hardened, wasted no time to squash the kid, making the others plummet. Screaming like cow he ran, living a life of a loose animal far away to his madness.

A man of much confidence, in his bachelor hut, a blind eye for fashion in the baggy clothes. A cold character of a certain kind he was, sturdy, calculated and hard-headed, minding no rest. A kind that would sit on a wooden chair at times, admiring his lovely hunting rifle, when the food is gone, taking the big bad boy into the line of action, anticipating a chance to put it to good use, fill in the stomach, giving it cooking near a stove. He would con his back, not one to sell the rare trophies, but to keep it in his chest. Not the money he was after, but the rush, the hankering to freedom, just a roam of dream while in the woods that he would not have to pay taxes any longer. A life of a hermit, he too, lived. A wolf bit his leg once, he shook it off and kept on walking. Each hunt was a wild ride to the edge of death and he stayed right above it, on the trees branches picking the wolves off like a predator with the sharp scent. He would jump from one tree to the other, fall in mud and dig through it with his teeth. For a long game he survived like that. Lightning stroke the tree once, he fell right along with it, confronting a bear face to face under the fire light of a tree, burnt from the inside. This is not how his hunt would end, he knew, so he stood tall and calm, staring into the eyes of a bear, aware he might die there and then. Hasn’t lost his concentration, opened the mouth and scared him off with the last stage of tooth decay, making him run back to his lair. A trusty compass led the hunter back home. There, about to put down the rifle, from the window, in the dark, his eye catched white glowing eyeballs, bright and alarming, hauntingly moving in his direction, then to the main door of the house. The hunter leaned against the door fast and has heard a quiet, short groan of his guard dog dying. Rushed outside kicking the door down, no time to use keys and ran following the blood trail and wet drooling. To where the trail ends he looked, it was a big rock and behind it a naked man feasting on the paws of the dog, he took along with him, swallowing his fur and vomiting it back out, screaming «More!» each time. With the concerned eyes he turned his sight on the hunter, winking, as he shouted:

"You! The clothes!" in rage. The leftovers of his jeans and shirt were clearly torn on his open body.

The white-eyed infected psychopaths surrounded him and he pointed: "Them! They’ve made me. They’re same, you’re not!".

Hunter has put his hand on the heart of his own. His skin was not pale, generating a lively energy, to them he was different, hasn’t lost his ability to talk, could choose the clothes to wear and decide. They couldn’t and that filled their minds with wrath, as they’ve cut through his body, taken his heart and eaten it, making him succumb to the infection. To them he was different, irrational, therefore they’ve changed him. Changed, however, he still lived alone, heartlessly clawing through the bodies to get his heart back.

A troublesome teenager, the tallest among the whole school class has just turned 18. He picked up an ugly green jacket he was rubbing his nose on. Mother held her son dear, grabbed his hand when he was out of his room, asked:

"Son, where are you running of to? And the celebration with your parents?"

"Nowhere, Ma, just some old accomplices that need to be dealt with."

"Oh, you and your riddles, have you even thought about your mother, how much it would crush my heart, snatch my nerves? From an in-house misbehavior to a street criminal, is this how you picture yourself? Now you walk up to your Dad, tell him of who causes what trouble and get back to your room, he’ll speak to them. What is it with you, on what level would our family sink in scale? Such pig."

"What did you just call me? And you are a maddened rat, running around the house everywhere, get in the way with that stupid dishrag in my room. I don’t care about your ravings, move out of the way."

Her face turned red and she started crying: "But I am your mother, I can… These hands, these hands right here nurtured you, you ungrateful pig. Don’t you ever talk to me again. Just don’t come near me, go out. Out! But first come over here, let me squeeze these pimples of yours out, coming out like this is inappropriate."

"No! I’ve had enough of this, don’t touch my face, you’re pissing me off."

"And then you’ll come to me if you need help again. Yeah, we know that story. You’re still small and for us you always will be. Get lost and screw yourself out for now." He walked out and slammed the door shut.

"What a troubling boy i’ve raised. Hope he dies like a sick dog on these streets. But I love him so much."

At that he marched towards the arranged meeting, carelessly splashing around the rain puddles, getting his jeans dirty for his mother to wash at home. When he got to an abandoned construction site, thugs approached him, the main one coming from the middle is a black man in a red jacket with a hood, him he didn’t know:

"So you’ve come… Thought you didn’t have the guts. This isn’t just a school prom you’re in, this class, these fools right here might have been a little harsh on you in the past. Thing is, I’ve got a little something for you, at my expense, to make amends. There’s that thing you at your age should try. Well… I have it right here." he pulled out a cigarette.

"Just try it and check if you’re deemed worthy of a pack. You’re a big one now, ain’t you?"

"Right I am, give it to me, I just can’t wait to taste an adult life. And to put it in my mouth, man!"

"Whoa, easy now, don’t get off the chain, buddy, you’re still gonna to have to earn it. Show us you’re capable."

He took a cigarette, inhaled poison into his lungs and coughed uncontrollably: «I think I’m dying» he said in a hard breath.

"Well that’s the thing, ain’t it? That’s the thing. But there’s a catch. Say you smoke two-pack right here, right now and it’s all yours to keep. Sounds manageable?"

"Aye *cough* yeah."

"Ha-ha, look at him! He can’t smoke for a diddly-squat, he won’t last." a kid from the pack mocked him.

He inhaled once again, children kept on laughing and at the final, he was out of the breath completely, fell on the ground and could barely breathe, inhaling and exhaling without stopping.

"Alright, I think he’s done for, go get him boys!" They wiped their feet on him, fed him grass, pissed him all over and collectively thrown him into a rubbish dump.

At night he climbed out, got home near dead, confused, his mother looked at him: "Son, you shmuck for brain! Again you got involved with some bad company."

He pushed his mother aside, fell on bed like a statue, putting his mother to fear and tears as she stood over him, checking his face: "What happened to you, my boy? Have you even thought about us with the father, what will happen to me? You don’t love me at all, do you? If you loved me, you wouldn’t have been such a scum. Stop flopping your feet around, let me wear off your socks. What happened to your legs? Your skin is like dough. I’ll go get something, you stay here."

Five minutes later she came back, checked his face once again and asked: "Do you love me? Kiss me, tell me that you do." The only answer she received was his tongue penetrating through her body. He coughed out and filled her with large potions of toxic smoke, making her skin black and in short seconds completely exploding her body. Died bound by love, just as she wanted.

An overweight American was sitting in his narrow trailer, sweating his pants and watching television, switching channels one after the other with the TV remote control. Using his fat skin as a plate he was snapping through fish sticks occasionally dropping them in his undershirt, or at times in his underwear.

"Margaret, go get me something to eat or get that last fish stick stuck in between my balls. Don’t forget to use your mouth to lick it off."

Overcooked fast food paired with soft drinks, chips, snacks all splattered in mayonnaise and at last, at the end of the day a tiny yoghurt cup – his diet or what he called. After listening to music that got his mind working, he went to sleep and the next day he forgot what he has been listening to. He called his wife over to sit on the couch, the spot where he spilled his cola, put his arm around her shoulder, as he tickled her ear with the moustache, whispering with the tongue out:

"Could you massage my belly button, my special butterball girl?"

"What a hunk of burning love you are, Fred."

"My hunk chunk is burning, alright."

They’ve sat at the face of TV light in pitch-black dark night, scrolling through channels, blocking away a single thought of doing an exercise that the television caused, making them think about their complexes, waving the flies off. At some point the TV feed got suddenly interrupted by a terrifying national emergency, broadcasting a message to stock up as much food as possible, to run home or to the nearest shelter and board up the windows, doors or to block them with the available furniture. Halfway through the broadcast a sudden sharp blast noise came from outside the window and the sparks of electricity crumbled from the wires above the trailer. TV lost it’s signal, no transmission was received. «That’s a shame» he said saddened. A fat man hasn’t lost his vigilance, barely squeezed in his jeans and shirt as he jumped on the scooter and drove to the nearest gas station to question what this is all about. Some of the electrical grids fell right on the road and were blocking the way. Forced to drive through the woods, he got scared to shivers by what looked to be the red predator eyes creeping from behind the bushes. Frightened he fell on ground and proceeded to check what’s keeping it’s eyes on him, quickly pushed the bushes aside and to his surprise, it were the rear lights of the empty car in a rollover. Not far a woman was crying, sitting on a stump, using her own hair for crying. He was taught to never hit a lady, but then remembered, he was taught more things and one of them is to not become fat. Easy to lose a standard or a will to live when you do not perceive and let the memories fade away next morning, you’re out of the life’s rhythm when you don’t keep your head in check. Which was the reason why he hit her, getting his belly ripped open. The holes around his stomach were replaced with bubbles, so were the pimples he was always forgetting to pop. Now it’s him that would pop by a bullet. All at the cost of his one eye and sanity, people infectiously lost.

During a World War II, a war fought for something that always benefits, and always will until the days are gone, the psychopaths on a striped sun lounger in summer with their heads on the radio, relatively young man at the time, stranded from his squad, far away from home and the kids, was lost deep behind the enemy lines. Alone he pushed through many hazards with the dynamite crate in his hands and when he ran towards the house with no light to take a rest, there and then his final run caught up with him. When he cautiously checked the window and put down the crate, he was slow enough to get grabbed by his arms and legs from the inside, taking a beating. They’ve taken him in for interrogation and broke his many ribs. He spilled a ton of blood, but they needed information. Refused to talk he was threatened that he’ll cooperate, whether he wants it or not:

"Do you know what we do to the disobedient? Take him in to the Doctor’s house, make him regret." he spoke on his own language.

Taken in to the iron facility, reminiscent of the old gulags, with his naked toes he felt wet floors, so cold, to the point he was shaking in fear. Locked inside an old, dark cell he only heard screams coming from corridors and the echoing elderly voice trying to make them calm, speaking to them as if they’re his pets. They were the lab rats. With a notebook, a man in a white robe was writing his characteristics up, accompanied by two soldiers who taken him in.

"A young man, I see. Don’t worry, we’ll make a good boy out of you yet. Kid like you should survive well."

It turned out, they were experimenting with radiation, an attempt to make supersoldiers out of their captives. He was tied to a wheeled stretcher in the cabinet, the one with a strange hole in the middle.

"We are just about to start a procedure. Now don’t move your head, I have a little ukolchik for your neck, or how you at your country call it. Ha-ha."

It was a butorphanol injection to moderate pain. Under the radiation goo, he was stretching the young man’s upper back, breaking the organs. The experiment was yet another failure, not killing, but leaving his body deformed. In anger the Doctor stabbed his right shoulder, called the guards in and ordered to dispose of the trash. For days he couldn’t move on their junkyard, catching insects and rats to eat while on the stomach, drinking an occasional rain. Eventually the rescue has finally come, his allies taken him in to a truck after liberating the city. Sent to a hospital, the news weren’t good, he might spend all his life a disabled person. They would have a hard time killing the parasites in his body, let alone keeping him alive. After his situation was understood, he received many medals that meant nothing to him, it will never bring his life back. His body demanded constant medicine at all times. He wasn’t sure what was the most painful, the twisted experiment that got his life ruined or spending decades on a hospital bed, seeing a light of day shining only from the window. Over the time he even forgot how the nature looked. The only thing he hasn’t forgot is his family. His parents, wife and kids visited him each week, bringing kind words and something good to eat. When his parents died, they would never fill that cold spot inside him. Each year his children growing kept bringing tears to his eyes and each time they left the room he went into hysterics crying in pillow. Many years later, some children parted ways to other cities for work and never visited him ever since. Only one, too an old man visited him, barely getting a permission get through due to a pandemic. Nobody wanted to keep the war veteran on the lounger anymore, some doctors even discussed if they should kill the hero, but only one nurse was still kind. He looked at the man, haven’t recognized him at first, but then opened the mouth and froze:

"How fast the time flies." he barely spelled with the jaw open.

"Indeed, it does. Some kind of new war has started. A different kind of war, but the massacre is all the same."

"Only you’ve been loyal to me, son. I know, I’ve seen it on the news. But what about you, how is your life? Mine is long gone, every time I look back, there’s nothing beside me but one long torment, the screams, the screams, they never get out of my head. I don’t know what I would have done without you, had I not met that girl."

His son sighed uneasy: "Family life is hard. Here I should give the children advice, here the wife turns on me, the bastard, if I say something stupid. You know, the usual."

"Yes, and I never tasted that, mired in war."

"Tell me, what is your biggest wish, aside from being able to live the normal life again."

"I always wanted to ride one of these horses."

"That so. Don’t be upset, I’m sure you’ll realize that dream eventually. For now, get that box of chocolates."

They chatted for about half an hour until an old man was alarmed by a distress call, something bad happened at the house, he was forced to leave the heart-to-heart dialogue and take care of it:

"Be seeing you, father. All well."

"Just run, I’m sure it’s more important than me, we can always talk on the phone."

A nurse has overhead it and to lighten a mood sat on the chair to caress him, she always does after a family member leaves the room, so he would not feel lonely. Poured him juice to go along with the sweets, fluffed his pillow. She knew the whole hospital department hasn’t cared a bit, they always wondered when will he finally die, they would not have to touch him again. She turned on a kind cartoon as a stress reliever to play on a background and left the room with the words:

"Remember, always keep your smile."

As she walked out, the draft slammed the door, his blood pressure went up and he started shaking in stroke, dropping the glass on the floor. He kept smiling and laughing seeing a cute horse on the cartoon running, trying to reach it, take it with his uncut nails transforming into claws. He jumped on the TV with full force, breaking it and jumped out of the window to find something to ride on. When the doctors pried the door and got in, all they’ve seen was the teddy bear on his place soaking in piss.

Venturing deeper in south your heart grew under a high pressure and was about to explode. It was getting hypertense around these parts. Compact, abandoned houses appeared on the horizon, burnt down by small-time, riff-raff gangs. Pre-infection doorways, blocked off by wooden planks. But just blocks away, out of the blue, neon-littered streets popped up and the heart changed. These were the charming little towns, struggling in poverty and heroine addiction, with many at their death beds rolling eyes under an intense overdose. In the cities with little demand to live, unemployed and homeless dived down into their cardboard boxes to go out onto the fantasy journey wandering through the stars until they pass away. Historic places are there, to rip the money off of people. No one to brag about the virtues of the past, there is a current to worry about. It was dangerous, the streets ruled unregulated. Walking alone at night would get you kidnapped or cut into little pieces, with the bloodhounds searching for you at the morning. And there, at a striking contrast, you found places lovingly decorated with string fairy lights and fringe foil curtains. There was another side to the coin.

The city was into something, no other truly was. The streets were uncrowded, only with a rare glimpse you would spot anybody passing by, to shops and places. Old-fashioned light fixtures stood there, fusing it’s narrow roads and sidewalks. The clothes people were wearing are one of a kind, devoted to their own grasp for taste. Hard as a nut fanatics with an electric guitar and a headband, vigorous rock-n-roll enthusiasts strapped in leather pants and jackets, diehard teens with long hairs shredding their guitar solo. Ladylove, leisurely sipping champagne from a flute, moments later, crown corks flew in air and the rolling drunk lover has already immersed her shoes in alcohol. Not far, a humble pair gently dined with the classical music, admiring shimmering eyes of one another. As some nearby biker was strolling around, his shaved egghead got singlehandedly smacked into the jukebox, it switched to hard metal and the folk next table started launching chairs and using bodies to knock down bottles.

Neon raves persisted indoors, but the slurs and hysteric half-drunk laughs reached alleys outdoors, even so, their mood was upbeat and lighthearted. At night, loud parties were thrown all around the neighborhood, footsteps and dancing in the upper floors with their large speakers and sound systems pushed at it’s maximum volume. Noise-cancelling headphones is a necessity if you’re the sleepy type, as this is the city that never sleeps. Prominent karaoke clubs swelling their glands, competing jazz clubs long past it’s age was yet to set the stage. Clients with rifles harnessed on their backs and bartenders keeping their guns drawn holstered. With an infection breathing down their neck, barricaded behind the bars they were playing billiards, smashing balls into their holes. Everyone was having a good time in an obscene, yet bitter taste of the multicolored jamboree sparking under emotions off the scale. Locking themselves in the bar, some were sleeping rough right there, on a billiards table, while a paranoid meth head wreck, recalling movies he has recently watched, painted walls with quotes and references, sleeping with his stubble omitted into a tin of paint. Provoking the ones inside with his bubbling snore, they’ve grabbed him by his knees and arms as they’ve shoved a billiard ball into his mouth to keep him shut. Gasping for breath he has spit it out with full force against a lightbulb, as it fell on to a spilled hillbilly’s gasoline, causing fire and like a food falling on the plate, drawing everyone out stumbling off the staircases to the flesh hungry streets. Atleast they died swiftly to the hitting records new song.

Only yesterday one would go out barefooted to the balcony, knock back strong coffee and observe the crack of dawn and it’s gravy mixed with creamy clouds, listen to the saxophones playing jazz funeral, brass bands marching along the empty roads, still fulfilling their designation. Locals sat there, on the balconies with the balloons festively tethered, waving goodbyes to the coffins of their loved ones. First, there was one coffin, the next day there already were many, mournings each morning getting more and more frequent as the days passed on. With each day, neighbor’s faces you used to seeing decreased in numbers and the face of what’s left for dead grew tragic. In these last days, it’s your relatives you’d be waving for, next all that’s left is the children screaming as they lose their breadwinner, at last, your cats and dogs crying from the windows in bitterest tears.

The military and it’s alliance are at their desperate measures. By then, their camps were overrun and the fishermen were caught off water and led to the city blocks separated like jail cells, just thrown there to die at a gunpoint. Stripped to the waist, lined up in a row barefoot for a quick roll call they were grabbed by skin and forced into tents for vaccination one by one. A grumpy old man, supporting the military all his life got the respect crushed with his jaw by a gun’s buttstock. Those, resisting these methods were dragged by their knees for a quick reminder right around the corner – raging corpses on a leash latched on to railings in the name of science. Parents rushed into the quarantine zones to find their children only to burn like a steak by the jet fire. A fear mongering has shown to be their true face, but not for long. Soon, the snipers were smoked by the tongues off the watchtowers, the crowd turned and the situation got out of their control. Commander of the operation chatting on the radio with the station, unsure as to whether should they drop off tanks, he giggled and ordered hundreds of jets dispatched just so he could watch the world burn and laugh at it. Not as smooth as first thought, he got his brain splattered on the chunks of ground thrown his way. At that charming time, the survivors have arrived with their pants dried up and squeezed.

The death toll is off the charts. At the wall of pressure, people paid their lives to lie down inside the coffins or get cremated when their tail was tucked. Parents preferred their babies kicking sterilized and the newborns put to sleep. No right or wrong, especially when you know what’s coming. From the black helicopters silently moving above ground, they rained down the corpses on the junkyards that were nowhere left to bury and the rats chewing them up overflowed the houses to spread the disease, from every hole gnawing you at your sleep. Insects were too, more horrifying and aggressive at that time. Neighbours upstairs were moaning in sleepless pain or singing babies their last lullaby. There was something in the air in this grim weather. Bright flashes came dropping from the sky, as many people have reported. They’ve finally started seeing what’s above their heads. Mothers coming to pick their children up from kindergartens hours later found themselves naked on the factories, craving for sugar, by then, kids were locked together in rooms for their own safety, not knowing what happened to their parents. One of the kids started coughing and when kid’s face started to turn red, the skin peeled off, teacher hugged him, bloody stains were left on her hands, from there, with their fragile immunity, they were in for one gross meal in a matter of minutes. Villagers lived in paranoia, fell for fairytales and killed all their animals, piling them up along with the dead bodies. Anyone would end up on the end of their fork if showing atleast one symptom. Many were taken away at night, set on fire and thrown behind a barbed wire by tribal folk. At any day’s daylight, the ones in the field would observe hundreds of silhouettes far distance, running to their direction, making them flee, spill the coffee, drop everything and run for their lives. There was never a safe place, unless surrounded by water, making inexperienced men starve. The kindness, as people knew it was lost, in these last days people’s faces were stern, when walking on the streets, truly kind people were mocked or had their noses broken. They understand nothing but brute force or acts of anger and once again, they have shown it. At that time smile was nothing more but a result of dirty jokes or gloating at someone’s misfortunes. At south, the Mississippi river has soon dried up, people were dropping pockets all around, women were abused in trains as everybody watched in inaction.

Who’s plan was it and where does it all lead back to? Some conflicts are way past the negotiation. Defeated at one place, they’ll find another target to recoup on, sinking the teeth into the fruit of revenge. The usage of law enforcement has suddenly decreased, unrealistically small fewer squads were sent into the very flames of action, battles they’re not expected to come back from. Not always the law enforcement can respond to threats in time, especially if it’s them tipped off, with the alcohol, getting laid at home. The shadows are bigger than the small teams of volunteers, pressed on hard. Any minor oversight leads to a colossal failure they will be forced to take the full responsibility for, via the microphones or bosses if they run off alive, saving their weapon. The Riverside is the epicenter, result of which is of a bad teamwork or simply the bullets refusing to hit the target, disappearing in thin air. Who knows what kind of sorcery was working on such operations. What’s known is that it was a complete flop, leading to a massive cover up. The population, back then was not told a single word, all after the masked people’s activities worldwide, the blown up caches leading up to the big one. The trees were glowing and it was not a flu. How little does one life cost?

You can never kill all the zombies, no matter how hard you try. Can’t fight all wars at once either.