Friday - September 17

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A blanket of darkness writhes in the west as dawn breaks in Atlanta. The rising Sun bursts from underneath the Earth's bosom, only to adorn its rays upon silence generated by the malady that has inflicted itself upon the Earth, along with the enforcement of global Martial Law. The absence of humanity demonstrates an eerie silence that death has dealt, which has not been witnessed since the beginning of time, but expresses a revelation of a possible future that Earth may soon encounter. The only sound heard in the silence is military vehicles crunching the snowdrift streets underneath their wheels.

As the Sun continues to rise, shining brightly over the city, billowy, ominous clouds eventually engulf the brightness, proving that the veil of death continues to hover maliciously, consuming life as it slinks through the open streets that were once filled with the drudgery of humanity, now filled with the stench of rotting corpses. So many corpses lie amongst each other, like leaves fallen from their branches, unaware of their final resting place.

A child's shout can be heard from blocks away, as they call out someone's name. The sound of scavenger's footsteps scampering on crunchy snow snatches anything that may be edible in order to survive. Death doesn't care what noise it delivers, its only concern is that it delivers its purpose: death.

As more of the living begins to emerge from their burrows, they carefully avoid those who have fallen into death's snare, and carefully, but quickly, tend to their needs for the day. As many seek the minimal supplies to survive for the next twenty-four hours, they're becoming insatiably discouraged as stores post signs stating that they are either "Out of food and water", or "Everything is gone." While only a handful of stores remain open, they are unsure of how long, and also, as to when new supplies might be delivered. It's day five, and food and water are diminishing quickly.

At Wyler's, a small crowd gathers around the stores monitor to read the death toll.

"Oh, my God!" cries out a woman.

"It's never going to end!" says a man.

"Well, I guess we all deserve this shit," says a middle-aged man, wearing an old moth-eaten Army coat.

"What do you mean we all deserve this shit?" asks a young man, who's chewing on a piece of bark he managed to peel from a tree. "Who the hell are you to say we deserve this shit?"

The middle-aged man looks upon the young man and obviously sees that death is clearly knocking on his door. He replies, "Nothing, man. I'm tired and hungry, and just like you, need help, before I too succumb to this plague."

The young man continues chewing on the bark and mutters "asshole" to the middle-aged man as he walks away.

The middle-aged man watches the young man slowly meander his way through the dwindling crowd. Seeing that he alone stands before the monitor, he reads the number being displayed at the bottom of the screen: five billion. He closes his eyes, hacks up some spit, deposits it on the sidewalk, and says, "Yep, we deserve this shit," and nonchalantly strolls away.

Twenty-five miles southeast of Atlanta, though, a small group is hidden from the world, hoping that they'll discover an answer to end this horrendous outbreak.

"Damn it, Gerald! Why can't we just stop this as easily as we started it?" asks Victor Parks, as he sips his hot cup of coffee.

"Victor, you know damn well as I do that Raymond was the only one who knew how to decelerate this thing. I can't believe he decided it was time for Raymond to check out," Gerald replies.

"That's because Raymond lost his balls along the way," says Charles Stevens, as he barges in on their conversation.

Victor and Gerald look disgustingly at Stevens and ignore him.

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