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                  The Screams Of The Few.                  
                     -by Feather-Howl-                     
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                         Prologue                          
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Prologue
“Shit!” Mike shouted.
The forest is good for cover, but these things are everywhere! He thought. He had been running for what seemed like forever. This forging mission had gone terribly wrong and now he was outnumbered and couldn’t risk a shot, more would come for sure.
Even so, the moans were getting louder, closer.
“Woa!” Mike exclaimed as he hurtled towards the ground. A large tree branch had caught his foot and he landed on his hands and knees. To top it off, he had received a small gash in his leg by a part of the branch.
Mike roared in a mixture of pain and frustration. An injury like this isn’t lethal, but what happens next, more so. He stood up, adrenaline acting as a powerful painkiller as he ignored the wound and started running again.
That was when it happened. That was the day it started. That morning was the day that his good friend said he would start traveling. NO! Keep your head in present day! Focus! Mike told himself and continued running. Now after three miles the main road came into view, soon after he saw his house on the right. He ran right past it, formulating a plan.
He ran another half mile down into the abandoned town and stopped at a small corner store.
I’ve got about a minute until that starving flesh pit spots me, better do this quick.
In just over thirty seconds he heard intense moaning and at forty seconds he saw his first mass of rotten fleshers. Many of which lacked an arm or leg, some lacked all but one extremity and were crawling. Others had an open chest, it was truly a sight to remember. Then hit the smell. Mike had to fight his uneasy urge and lost, grasping his stomach as he threw up.
Now the horde was only thirty feet away. Mike turned and kicked the glass doors in and entered the corner store. He howled in pain again, realizing his leg was soaked in warm, dark blood and fell to the ground again. The horde was hungry and he was weak. The smell of blood and rotting flesh filled the store. A small pin clinked on the floor.
“Frag out.” Mike said in a quiet tone. He closed his eyes and pressed both hands against his ears just as a deafening blast of sound and intense light exploded from behind the herd of death, causing most to turn around in search of its source. The heard slowly separated into two smaller ones, half took the bait and half didn’t care. Wasting no time, Mike broke through the window leading away from the distracted portion of the mob and – leaving behind the rest of the mob in the store – ran back to his house, unlocked the door, fetched a medical kit and proceeded to clean his blood soaked leg.