I Survived An Apocalypse, And Now Killing Is Second Nature To Me
I had no memory of life before the undead attacked. To them, that meant I was dangerous.
“Looking good, Addison.“
“Shut the fuck up.”
“What? It’s weird seeing you without leaves or knots or bugs in your hair. I like it.”
“Well, I liked you better when you looked more like a werewolf than a wittle boy.”
He cupped his clean-shaven chin, giving me the finger with his free hand. Even though he was on the opposite side of the pavement, I could still see his smirk.
“Get back to work,” I called out. “This town isn’t going to rebuild itself.”
“Yeah, yeah. Because the ice cream shop I’m working on will make everything better. I swear, I’m—“
That’s when it happened. A truck swung out from a side road, dipped onto the sidewalk, and rolled right over him, crushing his torso with its massive wheels. Blood smeared the street like bird shit, but the truck didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Like the driver did it on purpose.
The asshole probably did.
Kids like us, the ones under twenty, were born into the apocalypse. Running and hiding and stabbing our way to survival was all we knew. The society we were trying to create, one with gyms and offices and ice cream shops, was foreign to us.
