When I realized the extent and deadliness of the walker invasion, that Something woke up. An overwhelming urge to survive followed by a cold, calculating and utterly efficient presence crashed into my mind like a block of steel. I let it take the wheel. The mind-numbing fear didn't disappear, but the Survivor - the steel in me - dismissed it. Fear was irrelevant. Facts mattered.
Data flashed through my mind faster than I could keep up. Did I have any cuts deep enough to be serious? No. Did I have so many small cuts that blood-loss would be a concern? No. Was I infected?
Infected? I hadn't even considered that. The Survivor must know something my conscious mind doesn't.
A quick glance at the blood around the dead walker showed me that I hadn't stepped in its blood. Good. It didn't appear that I had gotten any of its blood in the cuts on my arms and chest. Nothing to do about it now, anyway. Next step.
Was my current location defensible? Glass walls. Nowhere to properly barricade myself. No. I had to leave for a safer location ASAP. That meant travelling clothes. Taking care not to step in any blood, the Survivor led me to the master bedroom where I'd left my bag of clothes. Next step.
The walker's primary means of attack had been its bite, so my clothes needed to be strong. Jeans, a t-shirt and a thick hoodie would have to do for now. The closet produced a pair of expensive hiking boots and an old but sturdy trench coat. I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed out of the room. Next step.
Defending myself. There was sure to be many more walkers out there, so I needed to get hold of a weapon before I could go anywhere. I grabbed a cleaver from the kitchen, and weighed it in my hand. It was heavy enough, and I had no doubts that it could pierce a skull, but getting that close to a walker was risky. It would certainly serve as a last resort, but I needed something bigger. Something heavy enough to knock a walker down, but light enough to transport easily.
Christ. Moose. What had happened to him? Was he even still alive? What about my friends? My family?
After making sure that there were no walkers in the garden, I made my way to a stack of gardening tools Moose had left standing against the shed. A pair of shears, a broom, a saw... and a mean-looking spade. Perfect. I took a few practice swings with it. Perfect length. Perfect weight. A perfect row of wicked-looking teeth cut into the end of the blade. And it made a very satisfying metallic sound when I slid my hand along its edge.
Oh yes. This would do nicely.
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