My hair, pulled into a tight ponytail, flowed with the wind. As did the smell of death and rotting flesh. My shirt, short sleeves with a tank top underneath, had gotten ripped by the deteriorating hands of the walking dead. My pants, that were tucked into my 80's styled boots, so they wouldn't get in the way, wore pistols. A revolver sat in each of my victorian styled gloves.
Screams sounded all around me. Those deathly screams used to haunt me. But now I know not to be afraid. They smell the feeling that screeches from your gut. The feeling that makes your heart race. I know this no more.
Putrid smelling arms reached for my feet and I aimed for the heads of each limb of rotting flesh. But the arms had won. I was pulled into the ocean of bodies and my guns floated away from my reach.
I am left with one question. What am I going to do?