There's nothing like a good apocalypse to make your already crappy life even crappier.
Honey Boulevard knows this well.
Admittedly, she's had a much better life than most. She grew up with money in large Manor House. She never had to work for a th...
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•Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes•
When it started there was still coverage. Things like cell phones and cable television were still around and actually working. I remember the panic: the rush of everyone contacting their loved ones, calling people close to them just to tell them how important they were. They were all so afraid the opportunity would disappear, that their last words to their mothers or fathers or spouses or children or friends would be something about missing Sunday dinner or not having the funds to pay the rent next week.
So afraid of not saying the right thing. So afraid of not saying anything at all.
The news covered a range of stories. There was one about the city, which mostly consisted of politicians bickering over the best course of action. Whether they'd strictly quarantine Atlanta or set up medic stations around the city to check citizens for infection. A reporter up in Washington disclosed to the country that the White House was being going under lockdown immediately. The president and his family were in a bunker somewhere. The reporter laid it on rather thick when she started with the so long as the president is still with us there'shope spiel. As if singing the national anthem and thanking god for the survival of our president was at the forefront of every Americans' mind.
The first time I saw one of the Infected I was curled up on the couch, a blanket pulled tight around my legs, a glass of Walmart's finest red wine in one hand and the TV remote in the other. The TV wasn't up loud — Bonnie was sleeping just down the hall — but even the low volume didn't give me room to be distracted by anything else around me. My eyes were glued to screen as I watched news cameras focus on a middle aged man stumbling up the street. To be honest I don't think a higher volume would have mattered because I tuned out whatever narration the reporters came up with. I heard nothing but my heart pounding in my ears as I took in the man's full appearance. So much blood coated his neck you couldn't see what the wound actually was. His skin was a sickly pale grey and his bloodshot eyes were almost sunken, dark circles residing underneath. The man's clothes hung off his frame as if they were three sizes too big for him and he lumbered towards the camera looking as though he had no idea where — or who — he was. The closer he got, the more horrifying he seemed and the more it became clear that he wasn't himself. His pupils were blown wide, his teeth grinding and his lips curling into a snarl. The news feed cut out just as the man threw his arms towards the camera as if trying to grab something. I didn't move for hours after, completely unable to comprehend what I'd seen. My wine, and everything but the sickening feeling in my stomach, forgotten.
In the beginning there was only a few: random people, they said, trying to take bites out of other people in the street. They said it was a new brand of plague. They said it was a fresh batch of rabies gone wrong. They said the CDC were investigating, that they were sending the infected to their main building to come up with a vaccine.
