Escape -Third in the Run. Series

Chapter 1

After a while, people stop caring. You're just a memory, an enemy that needs to be killed. You are a tool, an object used for other's work, and one that needs to be disposed of. You can hate yourself, but they don't care. Just an action holding a knife, an expendable object to do the dirty work. You don't get to have feelings when you're working. You don't get to have feelings when you're not working. You don't deserve feelings. You are a tool, and no one cares about a tool so long as it does its job.

But no one wants a broken tool.

I am a broken tool.

We all are.

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Adam's POV

I needed to move.

I needed to move, to do something, anything.

So I paced.

Up and down the small clearing, kicking aside underbrush until a path was cleared. Then I paced up and down the path, stomping so my boots would leave deep implants in the mud and eventually stirring up a sticky mess that made walking steadily impossible.

I glared at my muddy boots, wishing they could just clean themselves, and sighed. It was still bright out. That meant there was plenty of time for me to clean up before the others were back, and also before it started getting dark out.

Settling down with a stick and a few leaves, I resigned myself to the task I had created for myself.

When I finally looked up, the sun was well on it's way to dipping below the horizon. Burning streaks of color painted the sky, reds and yellows blazing up and mixing with blues that reflected across the tree tops I could see below me, creating an ocean of multicolored leaves.

In the mix of the colored ocean, a brilliant contrast, I saw dark figures criss-crossing out from under the shade and back under it once more. One raised their hand at me, and I waved back. Moments later, Felix's face appeared over the crest of the hill, all bright red cheeks and messy hair. I snorted at the sight of him as he walked over.

"Dude," I flicked a stray leaf that was clinging to his shirt, "I would guess that nature is more dangerous than zombies from the state of you. Trouble with the terrain, much?"

"You try walking 8 miles in one day, 4 with two heavy packages to carry!" He protested. He lowered his voice as the others, who had fallen behind, struggled up into the clearing. "There was hardly an issue with getting them. Seriously, we expected at least some resistance, and there was nothing." I raised an eyebrow at him and glanced at the group.

"Nothing? They were just, what, lying there?" I asked. He nodded solemnly.

"Nothing. Lots of them piled up along the edge of the city, the hardest part was tracking them down. Didn't burn them, didn't bury them, nothing. No, they left them out as zombie chow. How disgusting is that?" He muttered.

I could practically see it. All those people who had died in the fight with the Cavets, tossed carelessly aside or used as a barricade against zombies. Piles of bodies decomposing. Some probably still had their eyes open, staring blankly at zombies as they were eaten, Jesus, I probably could recognize most of them-

I took a moment to stare at a tree behind Felix and swallow the vomit rising in my throat. When I felt like my heart rate was somewhat normal again, I allowed myself to join the conversation once more. Felix had turned to watch the others, mouth drawn in a thin line as he did so.

"They seemed like good guys," he mused. "I didn't really know all that great, but they seemed good." I nodded.

"Yeah, they were. You would have liked them, if you had gotten to know them more." I replied. We both stood there silently, watching as Ian and Ryan adjusted the two blanket bundles that contained the bodies of Quentin and Ty. We had built a decent pyre before they left this morning, so they were laying on a decent heap of sticks and surrounded by a circle of stones. After a few more seconds of readjusting, Ian straightened up and backed away from the pile. Mitch produced a box of matches from his pocket and turned them over in his hand.

"I don't think I can do it," he whispered as Felix and I joined the circle around the pyre. "I don't want to do it," his voice cracked.

From my position behind the pyre, I could see that one of the blankets had loosened slightly around the top and a mop of messy brown air was just visible in it. I swallowed hard and looked away. Olivia had tears streaming down her face and was clutching Jerome's hand like a lifeline. Mitch sucked in a deep breath and struck one of the matches against the side of the box. He squeezed his eyes shut and lit the rest of the box on fire, then dropped it.

It wasn't like in the movies, where a flame catches instantly and grows to be huge. It took a few agonizing minutes for the flames to grow to a decent size, and we had to throw more sticks onto it. We had to throw sticks onto the bodies of our friends.

I felt it when I lost control, the tears slipping down my face in a constant stream. It was when the blankets started to blacken and shrivel up. My vision blurred from tears but I forced myself to stay silent, respectful, just like everyone else was desperately trying to be.

It was when a spark landed on the bit of hair I could see and lit it ablaze that I sobbed.