What Was, What Is And What Could Have Been

ONE

I've killed thirty seven people.

Each and every one of them received a quick death: a bullet to the head. I never miss, ever. I am precise, cold and calculating but I am not forgiving. My friends might have told you otherwise but they're probably all dead now... or worse. For their sakes, I hope they're dead. At least that way their suffering will have been short lived. That way, they won't have to live in endless purgatory, wandering the world as a lifeless, mindless creature.

Sometimes, I like to reminisce about the past. I stop to think about what life was like before the fall, back when girls could be girls and boys could be boys and the biggest problem I had was getting my homework handed in on time. Those were the days. Simple yet complicated, quite yet constantly noisy, pure bliss.

But those days are long gone.

Today, I'm sitting on an old, worn mattress in an abandoned motel room. Tomorrow, I might be somewhere else entirely, there's no way to know. These days, you have to be constantly on the move if you want to survive and when you do stop, they have to be small, hard to find places with multiple exits. But these places are never home. They are simply means to an end, places to be when you aren't running. Which is why the plaster is crumbling from the damp infected walls and the air smells musty like a retirement home and the window is smashed leaving only a few, jagged pieces of glass to stick out from its old worn frame. I am here because I have to be, not because I want to be. Sure, it was probably nice enough in its time but today it is a shell of its former self. Now, it merely serves as a reminder of what was, what is and what could have been.

The sooner we leave the better.

Shepherd says it's a good location. Easy to defend, big enough and far away from the city centre: the largest swarming point in 100 miles. And I'd have to agree. The motel is on the outskirts of town, next to the airport. It was built about 30 years ago, for people who'd arrived on a late night flight and needed somewhere to sleep for a few hours. It's reasonably sized, reasonably clean and used to be reasonably priced. But we got our room for free. That tends to happen when something's abandoned. The price plummets.

"Hey."

I open my eyes, Shepherd's voice brings me out of my thoughts and back to the present.

"Hey." I reply. He's sat on the bed opposite, cradling a shotgun and staring at me with his ocean blue eyes. He looks weary and I wonder if he struggles with sleeping like I do. How can your body shut down when it's in constant danger of being attacked? And then I wonder if this danger is why he's started talking.

"I think we've got a problem," he informs me, jerking his head towards the window and confirming my suspicions.

Following his gesture, I stand up. The floorboards creak so I slow down and walk gingerly towards the window. I make sure to place my feet down lightly and spread my weight out as much as I can. If there really is trouble then we want the best chance possible to get out undetected, regardless if it's a group of infected or a streak patrol.

Once close enough, I gaze out through the knife shaped shards and survey the area. The motel forms a U shape with its highest tips touching the road and a car park in the middle. Our room is on the right block towards the road, giving us the quickest escape route possible. Another advantage is that it allows us to see all of the car park as well as the other blocks, which are perfectly silent and safe.

The parking lot, on the other hand, is a problem.

Of course, there aren't many cars in it anymore. Most people fled the country when news of the outbreak hit the TV's. Not that it did them a lot of good in the long run. The whole world got affected, not just America. In most likelihood, the people that left this motel on that fateful night one year ago are probably dead. Like my friends, like their friends, like your friends: dead. One among hundreds, among thousands, among millions: dead.