At Apocalypse End

Whoever said zombies' bite is the most dangerous thing about them never survived the apocalypse, Jason mused. Then again, not many had.

He glanced across the hall of the concrete parking garage where he crouched. Incessant moans of the undead hordes drifted eerily up the cracked ramparts of the structure from somewhere below. The noises came in perpetually random choruses of drawling cries, creeping through his ears to waged war against this sanity. Every breath, scrape, shuffle, and moan was like a metal file dragging across his brain until he was left crouching with his calloused hands clasped around his ears.

A new sound - the repetition of steps - approached him.

Jason looked up gratefully. "Alice. You're back."

A short girl frowned down at him, which struck him as odd since she was in no shape to show concern for anyone but herself. Her long brown hair was drawn back in a narrow ponytail caked with dirt and blood plastering the hair together. Grime covered her face like a mask except for a narrow strip of pale skin stitched with scars and glistening with sweat. Two green eyes clouded with exhaustion stared down in a half-blank, half-concerned gaze.

She moved her hand to rest on a black leather strap that hung around her waist. Two pistol holsters - one torn half-open - hung from her belt besides several packets of additional ammunition that clinked with every step. Her green tank-top hung loosely from her narrow shoulders, but a similar strap as her belt wrapped diagonally from her shoulders where a long hunting dagger hung.

"You look like hell, mate," she murmured with a small smile.

"Yeah, well, the end of the world tends to do that to you."

She hung her head. "You can say that again."

The moans and scraping far below them filled the empty gap for a moment.

"So do we have an exit strategy?" he finally asked.

Alice nodded. "Yep, the walkers are coming up the C-9 rramp right now. We've got maybe another half hour before we're in a crit situation."

"You mean more critical than being surrounded by an undead population of hellish demons focused on spilling our brains from our heads in the last standing fortified structure in the city."

"Right," she grinned halfheartedly, "besides that. I say we take the explosives and blast the crud out of 'em. Then we high-tale it out of here and show them what it means to be alive."

"Nice," he chuckled dryly. "And what does that actually equate to?"

She sighed. "We plant the charges on the underside of the C-9 ramp. Then we detonate them and rappel down the concrete, blowing their faces off as necessary."

"Cool. Let's go." Jason stooped to retrieve a battered canvass satchel and dented shotgun from the garage floor. "Lead the way."

Alice nodded and led him back down the shadowy halls of the parking structure. Their footsteps barely echoed above the drawling cries of the zombie mobs in sorrowful tributes of loneliness.

They finally turned the corner to look down the ramp extending into the lower floors. A long black path curved downward beside a battered metal sign that read 'C-9' in peeling red paint.

A single grey figure shuffled up the cracked concrete road. Discolored clothes hung in tattered scraps from the monstrous form's shriveled body. Its feet slowly lifted and dropped in uneven, scraping steps that further tore the shredded skin on what was left of its feet.

Alice drew a pistol from her belt and pointed it toward the monster. "You want to plant the charges?" she asked, lightly pulling the trigger.

BANG.