Warning: This story is rated mature for a reason. Many reasons, in fact. There will be much violence, blood, and gore, and cannibalism and suicide are prevalent in the plot. You've been warned!

"...Advised to stay indoors and keep all windows and doors secured. It is of vital importance that you find a safe, defensible area and stay there until authorities have the city back under control. Do not, I repeat, do not leave your house once it is secure. Authorities have stated-"

Click.

A trembling hand lowered the remote back to the couch as he stared at the television with blank eyes. After several long, unblinking moments, his gaze shifted to the clock and noted the time: 5:34. His father had been gone for four hours and four minutes. Listening to the droning, endlessly repeating message that was on all local television stations was doing nothing to help his anxiety over the situation. They were supposed to stay indoors. Wasn't that the point they had been stressing all along? His father had listened, two weeks ago, when the first message went out; he quit his job, took James out of school, and they began safeguarding the house. James hadn't caught a glimpse of the outside since that first message, and the television showed nothing of the outside world, just that same, painfully repetitive message. 'Panic control', his father had called it. The government didn't want them to know what was happening out there.

So, James had no idea. And he never should have had to found out. They had boarded up the windows and the door, stocked up on guns and ammo, bought loads of nonperishable food­ they should have been safe. They should have been able to ride through the crisis in the comfort and safety of their small, easily defensible apartment. But they had made one crippling mistake.

In all the rush to get indoors and defend against whatever was out there, everyone was so eager to get guns. James and his father had a closet full of weapons and ammunition, but they had forgotten the most important survival necessity of all - water. They had been stupid, had underestimated the situation; it should have been over quickly. They had enough water to last a few weeks, but that was it. The small family was caught by surprise when, all of a sudden, the faucets around the house stopped producing the water. It had been two full weeks, and there was neither change in the situation, nor any sign at all when it would end. It was obvious they needed more water, and now had no way to get it.

Going outside was the only way. So, armed to the teeth, James' father had left the house to raid some water supply, allowing them to hold out longer. On the way he would, as he put it, 'survey the situation.' Meanwhile, James was supposed to stay indoors, stay safe.

He glanced at the clock: four hours, six minutes.

He wearily rose to his feet and began pacing the small stretch of ground between the walls of their apartment, the same place he had already paced many times that day. He touched each wall three times and was midway across the floor when there was a sudden and unexpected thump against the door. He froze, one foot raised, and turned towards the boarded-up entrance. Another loud knock, another pause, and then two quick thuds in succession. It was his father.

He practically flew to the door and ripped off the wooden boards covering the frame, undid all four locks, and opened it ready to throw his arms around his father. But as soon as he registered the sight that awaited him, he stopped.

It was his father alright, with a backpack so full it was nearly bursting over one shoulder and a gun slung over the other. His eyes were crazed, wild, and senseless as a madman. A torn piece of his own shirt was wrapped around his head, already soaked through and dripping from a head wound he couldn't see. The man had one hand on his gun, ready, and from that James could see an entire finger missing and another half gone.

"What happened?" He asked, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper. His burly father strode past without appearing to hear, staring onwards with that same insane look. James quickly shut the door and replaced the boards there, listening to his father put down his gun and backpack, two loud and hasty thumps, and then begin rummaging around in the arsenal their closet held. By the time he nailed on the final board and turned around, the older man was sitting at the kitchen table, hollow eyes locked on the two pistols he had placed on the surface before him.

"Are we leaving?" James asked, trying to keep his voice calm. His father slowly moved his head from one side to the other, his movements almost mechanical in appearance.

"Come here." He commanded eventually, gesturing towards an empty seat next to him. James obeyed immediately, falling into the chair and watching his father warily. "Take a gun." Compliance, no questions asked. His father raised his gaze from the table, resting his mangled hand there and giving his son a look that begged him to understand.

"You haven't seen what it's like out there," his voice spoke horrors. "There are people... They... They should be dead. Missing legs, missing jaws, ridden with bullet holes, but they keep walking. They don't even feel it, James. All they want..." He raised the hand and turned it slowly, assessing his missing fingers. "...is flesh."

"Are you telling me a person did that to you?" James asked; he didn't understand, or else, his brain just refused to accept it.

"Not a person. Not anymore, at least." Leaving the answer at that, his father used his good hand to take the second gun, and raised it, to James' horror, up to his own head. "This is the only way, James, and I'm sorry. But it's for the better. There's no hope left for any of us."

Confusion marked James' face, but still, he didn't raise any questions. All of his life, obedience had been the most stressed lesson of all. He had been raised, taught, and programmed to always listen to his father. His father was always right; his father was all he had. Steeling himself, James pressed the gun to his temple, locking his frightened eyes on his father's crazed ones.

"That's my boy." His voice was getting more and more unrecognizable and distant, but his grip on the gun did not relax at all. "On three."

"One." James closed his eyes and pulled back the safety.

"Two." Sucked in a deep breath and held it.

"Three!" James hesitated. His father didn't.