to anyone reading:

i'm stuck with three other people in the back of a grocery store directly across from — a mall, i think. we've barred ourselves into an office as best we can, but i'm down to my last mag and my last few bullets, and i'm not pulling a john wayne on a bet of a few bullets vs a small handful of whatever's out there.

basically, i'm not seeing a way out of this, and i'd, we'd, appreciate some help. soon. really soon. probably now.

this door isn't going to hold forever.

You weren't real, the pamphlets read, but now you are.

Hours later, those words cling like a disease to the back of Arthur's mind. He tries to shake them, tries to forget because he knows when he's being fucked with, but with every step he takes through this god forsaken city, he remembers. He remembers crumpling the pamphlets in his hand, and the five minutes he'd watched of himself on an outdated television before he'd broken the remote in his desperate attempt to flip the power off.

You weren't real, but now you are, and Arthur can only laugh at the situation he's gotten himself into as he stands there in the heart of the city, borrowed phone in his hand with the city map pulled onto the screen. He has no idea where he's going, or what he's looking for; he just knows he needs to go somewhere, needs to keep walking because if he stops for a second, he's going to start thinking again, and christ, thinking is the last thing he wants to do right now.

He's right across from the park, wedged between a prison and what looks to be a dead end alleyway. The prison's not looking real homey, so Arthur turns away from it and walks one step, two, three . . . and then he stops.

Around the corner, on the street that separates the park from the west end of the city, Arthur hears footsteps. Or—a step, and then the slow drag of a limb across the ground, step, drag, step, drag, step, drag.

He goes cold, reaches for his Glock—

—and is swept from behind, his ankle buckling as he crashes to the ground, Glock scattering across the dirt a few feet away from where he lands. Arthur ends up with his face in the dirt and the gravel, elbow flying back into the half-decayed face of the man—thing, zombie, whatever—pinning him down, clawing at his clothes, his hair. His elbow connects, and he feels bone and tissue and muscle give way, stunning the creature long enough to give Arthur a few seconds to twist around onto his back, drawing a hard knee into his belly.

His arm extends, reaching, reaching, and when his fingers close around the grip of his Glock, Arthur thinks, fuck, and then he thinks, fuck, fumbling with the weight of the gun for a few horrifying seconds before he rights it in his hand.

The man's mouth closes around the barrel of his gun, yellowed teeth gnashing the polymer frame wildly.

Arthur thinks fuck and pulls the trigger.