I hardly noticed the burnt toast smell. Lost in my own little world, I was singing along to a silly song and slathering peanut butter on the toast.
The morning sun streamed through my kitchen window, painting everything in a deceptively peaceful glow. But then I looked out the window, and everything changed.
Chaos.
That's the only word for it. People were sprinting, screaming, clawing. One woman was on the ground, a man eating her arm. My stomach lurched. This wasn't a bad dream. This was… something else.
Suddenly, a loud emergency alert went off, breaking the silence. It was a shocking sound. A worried voice then started talking on the radio, "...highly contagious… avoid contact… reports of… aggressive behavior… shelter in place…"
Shelter in place? Too late for that.
I grabbed my backpack, shoved in a water bottle, a half-eaten bag of chips, and the dented Smith & Wesson my father left me. Ten bullets nestled in the box. Ten. That's all I had. It felt pathetic.
The world outside had become a grotesque parody of a busy street. Cars were smashed, buildings were on fire, and the air reeked of burning flesh and pure sadness. The groans – God, the groans – were the worst. A chorus of the damned.
I ran. I ran until my lungs burned, dodging the lurching figures with vacant eyes and blood-stained mouths. Then, I tripped.
I braced for the teeth, the tearing flesh, but it never came.
A hand yanked me up. I saw it belonged to a soldier. He was a towering figure, solid as a brick wall, and his expression was so severe it could sour anything. An assault rifle hung strapped across his chest.
"Get up! Move! Now!" He barked, shoving me behind a toppled bus. "Name's Rodriguez. You got a name, or are you just gonna stand there and scream?"
"Julia," I choked out, my voice trembling.
"Alright, Julia. Stick with me. We're heading to the old fire station. Heard there might be others. And hopefully, some damn ammo."
The fire station was a fortress… of sorts. Sandbags were piled high, windows were boarded up, but the place was overrun with the walking dead.
Rodriguez cut through the crowd, firing with cold precision. Each bullet silenced a groan, yet the sounds seemed to echo in his head. He was a machine, but his gaze was haunted.
Inside, maybe a dozen survivors huddled together. A few had weapons, mostly pipes and bats. One small boy, maybe seven or eight, holding a worn-out teddy bear, he had a blank expression in his eyes. He didn't even flinch at the gunfire. His name was Ron.
Days blurred into a desperate routine. We scavenged for food, boarded up windows, and took turns on watch. Each day, the group attacking them got larger and more desperate for food. The constant smell of death was now a normal part of their lives.
One evening, Rodriguez showed me how to use my gun. "You gotta aim for the head, Julia. One shot, one kill. Don't waste 'em."
Easy for him to say. He had an army-grade rifle. I had ten bullets and a prayer.
The first bullet was for a woman, desperate and sobbing, clawing at the fire station door. She begged us to let her in, but we could see the bite mark on her arm. Rodriguez couldn't bring himself to do it. I had to. It was quick, but the image of her pleading face is burned into my memory.
One bullet, one prayer for her soul.
The second was for a neighbor, Mr. Dallas, the grumpy old man who always yelled at me for parking on his lawn. He moved slowly down the street, his hand dangling at an unnatural angle.
Two bullets, one prayer for his peace.
The third was for a young couple, locked in a disturbing embrace, like a dance of death. They were lost to whatever had taken them; their eyes were blank and empty.
Three bullets, one prayer for their oblivion.
Days went on like that. The survivors were reaching their breaking point. People were arguing more and more, and they started to feel like there was no hope left.
Rodriguez kept saying, "We gotta hold on. We gotta survive." But for what?
Ron, the little boy, started to follow us around like a shadow. He didn't say a word, just watched with those unnervingly blank eyes. He reminded me of my little brother, before… before all this.
One night, we were scavenging in an abandoned grocery store. The shelves were stripped bare, but in the back, we found a locked storeroom. Inside, a motherload of canned goods. Enough to last us weeks.
As we were loading up, I heard a sound. A soft gurgle. I turned to see Ron, standing over Rodriguez with a rusty pipe wrench. Blood bloomed on Rodriguez's head.
"Ron, no!" I screamed, but it was too late. The boy raised the wrench again.
I didn't think. I just reacted.
Four... Five... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine.
Six bullets ripped through Ron, ending his life. The silence that followed was deafening.
I knelt beside Rodriguez, blood pooling around him. He looked up. I saw pain in his eyes, but also that he understood. "He… he was bitten," he whispered, pointing the cut on Ron's leg.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, tears streaming down my face.
"Didn't want to… scare you," he rasped. Then, with a final effort, he reached up and grabbed my hand. "Survive, Julia. Survive."
And then he was gone.
I sat there for a long time, surrounded by cans of food, with the boy's lifeless body, and a dead man's last wish. My tenth bullet was still in the chamber.
I looked at Ron's lifeless eyes; I thought about what Rodriguez did for me and everyone else. I thought about myself too if how long can I survive.
I stood up, grabbed the canned goods, and walked out of the grocery store. I walked until I found a solitary place. A place far from everyone else. And as I was all alone, I prayed.
I prayed for Rodriguez, for Ron, for the woman at the door, for everyone who had died. I prayed for forgiveness. For strength. For a reason to keep going. But most of all, I prayed for the courage to use my tenthbullet.
And as I did, I heard the groans in the distance.