Imagine ploughing through the hoards of the undead only to run out of gas. They surround you and one asks you to step out of your vehicle with your hands up. It is wearing the tattered remnants of an officer's uniform and is managing to told a gun in its steadily decaying hands.
Though their faces are little more than a rotten ball with a mouth, they all seem angry. A few are clutching others, wailing out lists of names. Soon they all join in, each crying out for someone they lost... to you and your mindless slaughter.
Not once did you stop to consider that they might still be conscious beings, the same beings you grew up with, fell in love with and you turned on them when they became inhuman to you. Perhaps you aren't the first to do this, you certainly aren't the last but here, in your home town you are the sole human survivor.
However justice is always in the hands of the majority and you, Sir, are not one of them.
They debate for days, maybe weeks. Time is hard to keep track of when you find yourself slowly starving in a starch-white hospital room. The first sterile place you've seen in months. For all you know it's the only sterile place left.
Maybe you'll die before they can kill you, if they plan to. Maybe they don't want you to live the afterlife as they are, letting you die naturally in this particular room means the chances of you coming back are slim to none. There's not a trace of anything potentially contagious in here, you've checked everywhere - even the small ceiling vent.
They left your parents guarding you. The only undead you couldn't bring yourself to kill on sight. They refuse to talk to you but you know they can still talk, its just that you're as dead to them as they are in person. Somehow that hurts more than seeing them slowly rot outside the door.
The glass between you feels like miles.
You wonder who will drop first.
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