Warning- This story contains some gore/censored swearing, those easily offended should venture no further. Any feedback would be great.
His sleep was uneasy, his nightmares were vivid and his body was drenched in sweat. The bitter cold of the winter frost did nothing to cool him down; he was sick, very sick. It had probably come from drinking from that river a few days before, it hadn't looked clean, but he had become so thirsty by that point that he hadn't cared. He would have drunk irradiated p*** if he had been offered it.
He coughed in his sleep, his chest burned whenever he did, but he couldn't stop. He had never been sick like this, he was no doctor, but whatever it was he knew it was bad. A particularly painful cough woke him from his slumber; he coughed again, and again. He covered his mouth and clenched his other hand into a fist, causing his nails to bite into the flesh; he didn't even notice. He remained there, curled up into a ball coughing his lungs out for what seemed like forever until finally it stopped. Sweat dripped from his face as he gasped for breath, his chest felt like it was on fire. His hand felt wet, in the dim moonlight he could see that it was stained a dark crimson, he had been coughing up blood.
"S***..." He muttered to himself, it was the first time he had spoken aloud in weeks. His voice had an unfamiliar, gravelly tone that made him cringe.
He pulled himself to his feet, shaking as he did so. His whole body ached, as if he had just taken a severe beating. A bolt of pain tore through his left leg as he put weight on it, causing him to fall back to the ground. He grunted in pain as he gently rubbed his ankle, the crude bandages he had made were coming apart. He wasn't sure how the bandages were supposed to help, but people in movies always used torn clothes to bandage themselves whenever they were hurt, so that's he did. He got to his feet again, resting on a battered crutch he had found several weeks earlier, he had planned originally to use it as a last resort weapon, but he had since developed a more traditional need for it. He was able to maintain his balance this time and made his way through the trees, towards the small town nearby.
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He moved slowly and carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. His bag was hung over his right shoulder, it weighed almost nothing, the thing was practically empty. He had been forced to seek out new supplies to remedy that. In his right hand he held a pistol that he had taken from the body of a cop. He only had three bullets left and was a poor shot, but it was better than nothing. He could see the outskirts of the town through the thicket, it was very small and had a population of perhaps less than a hundred people before the outbreak. It was more likely than not that the place was emptied of life by now, like a grim memorial of the world that once was.
Regardless of the odds, he took his time. He had survived this long, so he liked to think, because he was careful. He was wrong in this belief however, he had survived this long out of simple luck, and luck can only save a man for so long.
He crept around the first building, keeping his head low and listening for any sounds of movement. The town was a very standard, simple country town. A collection of rustic houses, a small grocery store and a decrepit gas station made it indistinguishable from countless other towns around the country. Some of the houses had windows boarded up from the inside; several of them had burned down, but those weren't the ones that bothered him. A small house directly across from him had once had boarded up windows, but the boards had been torn away and flung to the ground. The front door had been smashed aside, probably by several assailants, and was covered in blood. A rotting body lay just outside the door, the corpses' face had been destroyed by a shotgun blast, whoever had been in there had gone down fighting.
He made his way towards the grocery store, praying that that was still something in there worth taking. As he made his way through the empty street his eyes kept turning back towards the blood-soaked house, he felt drawn to it, as if it was calling him. He shook it off and made his way to the grocery store. The place was empty, both of people and supplies; it had been picked clean, most likely by people who were now dead. He methodically looked up and down every single isle, and there was nothing of any use. Had he been in desperate need of toilet cleaner than he would have been pleased, but he wasn't. He tried not to be too upset but he couldn't help himself, there wouldn't be another town for miles and with his leg it could take him weeks to reach it.
He shuffled out of the store, his bag still weightless, mocking him. The town remained still and silent as he had his way past the blood soaked house. He stopped outside the door, unable to stop himself peering in. All of his experience told him that going inside was a bad idea, but he stepped over the corpse outside and entered anyway. Afterall, he reasoned with himself, there could be supplies inside. There was more blood inside, the place was soaked in it, more than one person had died in here yet there were no bodies.
The place stank, it smelled like rotten flesh and s***, yet as he looked around he still couldn't see anything. They must have left already, probably in search of surviving humans. He wasn't sure if the things were really human or not, but he had seen enough of them to know that it didn't matter, if they got him that was it. Game over.
He didn't get the chance to explore much of the house. He heard a creak upstairs and froze. He remained absolutely still and listened for any further sounds, after what seemed like an eternity he began backing out of the house. He was paying any attention to his crutch; he was so focussed on listening for any sounds up the stairs. His crutch slid on the carpet and he fell to the ground, crying out in pain and surprise. Less than a second later his scream was met by a second scream from up the stairs, and another, and another from somewhere behind him in the town.
The pain in his ankle was worse than anything he had ever experienced, even worse than when he snapped it. His leg felt like he was on fire, yet he forced himself to ignore the pain, adrenaline was flowing through his body and his instincts took over.
He tried to force himself to his feet as frantic footsteps tore down the stairs. He shakily raised his pistol as the shape bolted towards him and pulled the trigger as rapidly as he could. The first shot flew wide, blowing a small hole into the wall. The second was closer, hitting it in the shoulder, slowing it down for a crucial moment. The third bullet was a direct hit to the creature's skull and it fell limply to the ground.
He backed quickly out of the house, abandoning his now useless pistol and trying to get back to his feet. Another one of the creatures tore down the stairs and in seconds it was on top of him, he managed to force it back using his crutch and rolled into the street. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several more of them coming towards him, one of them was small, just a child. The creature in the house leapt to it's feet, moving with unnatural agility as it screamed again. It was that scream that had haunted his dreams, and he had not heard it so close for what seemed like forever. The creature threw itself onto him, pinning him to the ground and tearing a chunk of flesh from his chest.
He screamed as he desperately tried to throw the creature off. He had lost his crutch at some point; it was most probably still in the doorway. The other two creatures threw themselves onto him, one biting his wrist, the other tearing into his throat. He stopped struggling; his hands fell limply to the ground as the creatures ate their fill.