the_tentacle

He stared down at the city streets, looking at the wreckage. Smashed cars, discarded belongings and the scattered remains of people torn apart by roving hoards of undead predators, whose only instinct was the pursuit of living flesh. A blind hunger to fill the empty void at the core of their vacant existence. From 20 floors up he watched detached, like a depraved spectator, still in shock from the sudden turn of events when the dead started to arise and hunt the living. Staying in the city had been a mistake, but pure disbelief kept him from joining the paniced deserters who clogged the highways for a chance at life in less populated places. By the third day the highways were barely moving and the dead began to pick families from there vehicles, ripping babies out of the arms of hysterical mothers, relentlessly pursueing those who fled on foot, no need for rest. They devoured tens of thousands on those roads. A highway of death and carnage. So he watched from above, occassionally seeing stealthy gangs of survivors creeping through the wreckage on their way go to another place they could hide out for one more night. He heated the glass pipe with a small butane torch, watching the meth bubble up until he pulled it's smoke into his lungs and savored the rush that had kept him awake for the last two days. At first it's focus and energy was welcome, a chemical distraction that made the horror he witnessed seem like a distant nightmare, where he watched from afar as he avoided danger and tried to survive. But now, after 2 days, total panic had set in. Post traumatic stress, non stop adrenaline production and exhaustion had combined with the amphetamines sleepless mania. Now he alternated between psychotic animal and catatonic victim. His heart beat so fast that just getting up to walk across the room caused a heavy pounding from inside his chest. Although his temporary sanctuary seemed safe enough for now, he could not bring himself to lay down the pipe and crash. His mind flashed from one scene of terror to another. He couldn't decide whether to jerk off or to kill himself. He was afraid of leaving the office he had made his hideout. He feared other survivors as much as the zombies. He craved the presence of other people almost as much as prolonging his life, but paranoia had taken hold and communication seemed impossible at the moment. He found himself hiding from the last group of survivors, terrified they may find his hideout, like their eyes could see through him and lay naked his own primal fear and shame. He laughed at his reflection in the glass. At the morbid irony that he wore a Cannibal Corpse hoody and his that his body was covered with ghastly tattoos inspired by horror movies and death metal he had so long been obsessed with. And now here he was, living in a real live apocalypse, surrounded by blood and gore, possessed by nothing but fear, pursued by the dead. Sure was a hell of alot more fucked up then he ever would have imagined. Inside his head he heard the grinding guitars and growling vocals of his favorite bands. He couldn't make it stop no matter how hard he tried. What a perfect soundtrack for his immanent demise.