Barely Alive (#JustWriteIt #SuperCharged)

Chapter 2 - Dawson Jackson

"Open your eyes. What do you see? Blackness or light? Open your eyes because right now, the darkness is trying to engulf you."

*Ten years earlier; Start of the apocalypse*

"Good six-year old boys would be asleep by now," Dawson's eighteen year old cousin stated to the angry six year old in front of him.

Dawson Jackson had straight, golden blonde hair. His eyes were forest green.

"Nice eighteen year old cousins would let me stay awake," Dawson pouted.

His cousin stood up snarling and pulled the tablet from his younger cousin's hands.

"I guess I'm a pretty bad cousin in that case. Your mother left me in charge of you while your parents are out having fun then coming home to make more Dawsons. Go. To. Bed," his eighteen year old cousin growled.

"You're such a big meanie pants, Kevin!" Dawson yelled.

The eighteen year old seemed unfazed by his cousin's yelling. He pulled out his phone and sat on the couch.

"Why don't you have to go to bed?" Dawson asked.

"Because I'm three times older than you. Get your butt to bed," Kevin yelled.

At this time, Dawson didn't realize Kevin was actually saving his life. He stomped off to his room and slammed the door. He crawled into his bed and pulled the covers up over his head.

Meanwhile, Kevin in the living room put in his earbuds to watch some videos without disturbing Dawson. Before he could hit start, he heard a pounding at the door.

"Who could be here this late? I swear to God, if it's Girl Scouts-"

He cut himself off when he heard the door break down.

"Okay. Definitely not Girl Scouts," he said, his voice laced with fear.

He immediately walked over to the door to the hallway. He pulled it shut and locked it. He could handle whoever was there but he didn't want them laying a hand on Dawson.

"Who's there?" Kevin yelled.

No voice replied. He grabbed a machete off the wall. No normal family would have weapons lining their walls but Dawson's family were collectors. Kevin, with slow footsteps, walked towards the sound.

"Who. Is. There?" he repeated, sounding much more firm and confident.

He felt something touch his back and he turned as quickly as possible. He saw the rotting, grey flesh of a zombie. He swung the machete and sliced the zombie in half vertically. He took a few deep breaths before a thought came to him.

"Zombies attack in hordes," he said to himself.

He turned around to see a large group of zombies stumbling towards him.

"For Dawson," he muttered.

He charged into the horde and started smashing heads and slicing them open with the machete in his hands. He reached the door when he fell pain on his arm. He looked down to see he missed a zombie and it was gnawing on his wrist. He kicked it back and crushed its skull.

"Oh crap. I'm screwed. I'm going to turn. I'm going to be the one to hurt Dawson," he said in a panicked tone. "Time to put those years of track to use."

He dropped the machete and ran outside. He sprinted for probably a good mile before he collapsed from exhaustion and from the virus. He clawed at the grass under his hands. It was his time.

*The next morning*

Dawson lazily rolled around in his bed. After rubbing the crust from sleep from his eyes, he sat up. The house was quiet. Too quiet for a typical morning in the Jackson house. Dawson kicked his feet off of his bed and shuffled across the floor to the door. He went to grab the handle but recoiled because of the static shock he got. He reached for the handle just getting a small shock instead. He stepped into the hallway and noticed the hallway door was shut. That was also out of the norm for his house. Dawson slowly approached the door and unlocked it from his side.