The Dead & Dying

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Damn, but those bastards can put a hurtin’ on ya. Fucking things tore out a chunk of my side before I managed to pop a couple rounds in their heads and now I can’t stop bleeding for the life of me. Doesn’t seem to matter how much pressure I apply: these old t-shirts just keep soaking up the blood like drought-cracked earth hungry for rain.

Hurts like Hell, too. Imagine something rips a hole in your flesh about the size of a dinner plate. Then imagine tiny shards of broken glass get sprinkled around inside the wound before having rubbing alcohol splashed all about the gash. On top of all that, there’s this damn throbbing. Like there’s some sort of giant heart below all that torn meat and tissue, pounding as if it could somehow break free and plop right on out of my body.

Course, I know what this means. I’ve seen it happen enough there’s no doubt in my mind how all this is gonna end. The only thing that keeps me guessing is how much longer I’ve got: twenty minutes? A day? Never seen anyone last more than a couple of nights, no matter how hard they fight. Sooner or later those chills are gonna set in and then there’s gonna be a few moments where the pain just melts away. My body will be dead before my brain even knows what happened and for that brief bit of time I’ll be stuck somewhere between life and whatever happens once you’ve turned.

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