Incomplete Solutions

There was a young man hiding behind a dumpster in a quiet city street. Most of his exposed skin was bruised or cut, but he wasn't verbally complaining about it, just sitting there holding his head in his hands. Down the street he could hear the sounds of the raiders gunshots getting closer.

~the dull crack of a rifle~ closer

and

~the sharper retort of a small caliber pistol~ closer

The young man was below average weight and size, his gun was just a prop to trick idiots. All he had was his hatchet, and all that was useful for was firewood and zed heads. they would drop him like a sack of potatoes the second he showed his head. All of the real weapons had been taken by his friends when they went to radio the military evacuation group that had moved in.

But it was never coming. They were never coming. Because, they were all fucking dead. Pretty soon, he'd be too. The zombies, the fucking zombies... every day... every night... masking his scent... hiding, making allies, being betrayed and starting over, all that experience and hard work was about to meet an abrupt end at the hands of mother fucking raiders.

The young man didn't pray. He'd given up all traditional gods five years ago when he watched his mother get ripped apart. Now, all he did was sit and wait. He couldn't run, the raiders had driven him towards the old evacuation center, zombie central. There was no where to go but over that wall, and he could hear the screams of rage driven by rotting diaphragms of walking corpses from where he was sitting. Better a bullet than that.

That is, if they used a bullet on him. Some of they guys had joked about... doing things to him while they sliced his friend's throats.

The young man drove a breathe through his system. Those weren't the first friends to meet a violent end right in front of him, and they wouldn't be the last. All he had to do was keep it together, and get the fuck out of this situations somehow. All he had to do was live to make new friends!

N-new friends... fucking idiots. Why did he even make friends? All they ever did was get themselves killed, a-all of them.

They were all FUCKING DEAD! WHY!? WHY did all of HIS friends have to die? Why not the rapist assholes? Why not the fucking zombies behind the wall? Why his friends?! w- The boy coughed back a sob of rage. he'd had it together just a second ago, all he had to do was re-find his inner calm, and to get the fuck out.

"hey"

The young man froze, the voice sending chills down his back. Where had-

~click~

"Looks like we've found our runner Earl." No! no No NO! I had to get out of this alive! I couldn't get taken like this! I ... the hatchet! They were in the alley with me! I could get behind the dumpster, take one with me, perhaps get the second.

Did I mention that I was that young man? Thinking in third person keeps the trauma unreal at times. Going nuts here would have you eaten, shot, or raped within an hour. I'd seen it. That lucky bastard just got the bullet.

I went for it, diving behind the dumpster, pack in hadn. "Heh, he thinks he's cute."

"He is cute Dave, that's why you wanted to fuck his ass." I heard one slap the other. They sounded like brothers. Inbred hillbilly brothers to be exact.

"Shut up Earl... Fuck, pass me a can." Huh?

"I thought you wanted him alive?" What?!

I turned in horror as a small can covered in tape, nails, and glass bounced right next to me.

"They are easier to fuck dead." Shit.

I dropped the sheet of metal, my thoughts already racing. I could feel blood dripping down his arms, but everything else seemed to work. They must think I'm dead, or they would have attacked before the shock passed. That meant I could ambush these assholes. It would be easy. Just stay quiet and play dead right up until they turned the corner of my dumpster. Any second now... any-

I saw the scruffy beard before anything else. Even in the apocalypse, facial hair taunted me. Just because I could never grow a beard, even when I seemed the last man left alive, all the girls decided to fuck each other instead... except Amy.

I set that thought aside for later. Right now, there was a redneck staring at me in shock, and only one chance to end that fuckers miserable shit life. I took it, lashing out with the hatchet before the redneck son of a bitch could react, felling the fucker in one swipe, reaching for the gun with one hand and pulling my hatchet back with the other. Either I'd shoot the next fucker, manage to somehow get him within swinging range, or die. Those were the three options now.

I pushed the prick with a gaping slash in his neck backwards, hoping to catch the fucker's brother with the body. Even as I did so, I was pushing forward, struggling to pull the gun free, preparing to swing.

I got stupidly lucky, the second asshole was trying to catch his brother like he was just falling. The realization that his brother was bleeding to death in his arms seemed to not even connect in his eyes. He was dead moments after he and the body hit the ground. There life's drained out on the cold metal ground.

I wiped away tears as I cleaned my axe. It looked like I would-

THE FUCK?!

I stared at the small sign reading "touch me" that had just appeared before my very eyes. Where had that fucking come from? Was this a trap by friends of the idiots he had just killed?

"I can take you from this hell hole, to someplace safe." I stared at the now TALKING SIGN in front of him. Maybe I had died, and this was some fucked up way Grim Reaper's way of breaking it softly...

Hell... why not?