The news was not announced as such. Whisper to whisper, unverified rumors saved the lives of those who fled. Television and radio warned that the war had turned ill. The enemy's lines had advanced further, swallowing even Ryan's hometown in their unstoppable rage.
But this was not the case. And so the people of Goldsdale knew that the refugees who would not speak of the terrors they had witnessed were not the victims of war. The government coverup had kept the illusion for many weeks, but now Ryan knew better. He listened and watched.
Slowly, the rumors faded one by one, giving the citizens of the small town an ever-decreasing pool of possible explanations. Like some demonic, twisted game of roulette, Goldsdale teens placed bets on which of the choices was true.
Ryan won his bet. The people of Goldsdale only had fifteen minutes warning to grab their guns and say their last goodbyes before the horde reached the city. Old geezers took their walkers out of the nursing home cried on the shoulders of their grandchildren. The traffic jam reached a complete impasse. People boarded their houses, and many a rifle muzzle peeked out gaps in the plywood. The town prepared for resistance on an individual level; there were no large buildings to collectively fortify. The looming juggernaut crept closer until it swallowed the whole place. Within three days not a live human resided in Goldsdale.
Ryan did not jump to his car, as so many others who were infected while still seeing the glimmer of escape beyond the next intersection. He did not join his father and older brother in fortifying their home. Instead, he grabbed his rifle out of the gun safe, gathered some gear, and ran.
Ryan did not jump over stationary automobiles in the clogged streets of Goldsdale. He did not follow the mass exodus, and this is why his cowardice awarded him survival when the fright of most awarded them only an undignified undeath. The mountains and forests beckoned Ryan. He knew the geography of the land, and so put barrier after barrier between himself and his pursuers. He doubled back, cut through rivers, dropped into gorges and crested hills, hiding his trail and effectively escaped the undead.
After three days of flight, Ryan slowed his pace and crept through the brush, seeking game. Throughout the months that followed, as cities were emptied and populations swallowed by the unsatiatable hunger of the infection, Ryan Rand lived a life of solitude. His diet was high in protein and low in starches, and so he suffered from cramps. He lost weight. And so it was that on this day Ryan sat on the cold hill, peering through the spotting scope at the fortified city, defended by a few survivors, facing enormous odds against the undead below.
Ryan ached for human contact. His last words had been many months ago, when he had, between innumerable sobs, cried "I'm sorry!" to his family as he deserted them. Although the people in the city would likely die, he could assist them with his rifle. If any of the horde charged him, it would be a simple matter to give them the slip and peer through his scope from another location. When the fighting ended, and the horde moved onward, Ryan planned to salvage much from the wreckage of the fortress.
Edited by Ravnin IV, 17 October 2008 - 04:52 PM.
