Extreme

2. It's A Man's World

Dean suddenly felt a light tap on his shoulder, taking him out from his thoughts.

"Hey, what you got there?" A friend of his, Ollie Sterling, asked him, pointing at the rifle he was holding beside him. He had silver hair, easily mistaken as elderly white hair and light blue eyes.

"Just a stick to poke the folks with," Dean joked, watching the others join along.

"More like a Marlin 336, I believe," Said a man who stood beside Ollie, named Kevin Trunk. "That's a nice one."

Kevin was an expert in most weaponry and machinery. He had light brown hair and hazel green eyes, wearing simple clothing of a grey jumper and black trousers and blue glasses.

An old friend of his, Patrick Winter, then came up to him, holding onto a crossbow in front of him. Quick and effective, he would describe its use. Better then the old, spiked baseball bat he had started off with.

In his old age, he sure didn't want to continue swinging at the undead until his arms would get sore and maybe drop off.

"How's it been?" He asked him. "Haven't seen you around for a bit."

"Been pretty shitty," Dean answered, laughing a little. He always laughed to hide away his pain, which he just then noticed.

"Busty still up to trouble?" Patrick guessed, chuckling.

Busty is Dean's Doberman Pinscher. A black and dark brown dog he has had ever since he was only a young boy. Surprisingly, the little fella had lived through it all.

As feisty as he may appear, he is a gentle and playful angle.

A few days ago, as Dean was working on getting his car up and running on the roads, Busty entered into his garage. With his tail wagging in the air, he barked loudly to catch his attention.

As Dean was about to take a break and give Busty the attention he thought he had come for, he stopped mid motion, staring at what he was carrying in his mouth.

A bloody hand.

Whether it was human or zombie, he couldn't tell. And who's hand, he may never know.

But that wasn't the case.

"Na, just been feeling a bit down, I guess," He admitted, scratching his neck as he looked down, not meeting any other's eyes.

Patrick sympathised, also gazing down. In a moment, there was a silence. Not a word. Not a gaze. Only the past meeting them face to face.

Patrick then brightened, looking around at the people that walked past, happy and healthy. "Life may seem hard, but it's getting easier. We will soon be free from the all. Live the life we always wanted, the future finally clear and near," He told them, his poetry obsession kicking in.

"Right," Jason West agreed, a middle aged man with the hair of rusty ginger and eyes of a burning storm. He was a tough man with a beard, his structure and behaviour imitating to most.

He wasn't really Dean's favourite of the group. More like a stranger than a friend.

Kevin and Ollie thought on Patrick's words, nodding their heads. They gave him a pat on the back, thankyou for his motivating words. Even though it was small and short, they still appreciated it nevertheless.

In tough times, everyone is in dire need of support in every way possible.

However, Dean didn't agree.

He continued to stare down at the concrete ground, lost in thought. He was thinking of the times he was screaming. Running. Crying. Bleeding.

Dying.